This Heavenly Life -- Messy, Loud, Always Worthwhile

Bigger Picture Moments: Eating Bon-Bons

2012-03-08T09:57:00.000-06:00

There are a few specific times in my day that can, if I feel inclined to make them, be used solely for laziness.

For instance, when Lauren is away to preschool, Landon's morning nap is the most glorious stretch of silence -- perfect for doing nothing. To shatter the quiet with clanging dishes in the sink or shoving around in the laundry room would ruin the effect, and I do love to hoard silence. It's such a rare, perfect thing.

So yesterday, I hoarded. While Landon slept for two and a half hours, I burrowed into the couch. A blanket was tucked around me, forbidding me from escape. There was a pillow on my lap, propping up my novel. I'm convinced that my body completely shut down in this time, only expelling enough energy to turn a page or allow my eyes to focus.

It was wonderful.

But then, Landon woke up: he nursed; we retrieved Lauren from school; she went to her room to play quietly; Landon napped again; I ate lunch and checked email, and then looked around myself.

My house was a disaster. I had plans to make some french bread for dinner later but there was no counter space on which to knead dough. I went into my bedroom to find my shoes and saw instead three loads of laundry I'd meant to fold.

The grumpies overcame me. Instead of using my morning hours to knock out some nastiness around this place, I'd done NOTHING. And when Mia came home from school, Landon would be mostly awake for the afternoon and I'd have my hands so full of chores that I'd have almost no time to play. To do art projects with the girls. To experience my kids.

No, while they ran around outside in the soft and perfect, warm afternoon, I'd be stuck inside, sulking. Slamming things around in the kitchen with clumsy speed, hoping to have dinner ready before bedtime.

I was mad at my hoarded free-time. I know it's not socially cool (something I've never claimed to be anyway) to announce that me-time is selfish, but that's exactly how I felt yesterday.

By the time Justin and I went to bed, I had gotten almost nothing done. It was as if I'd literally sat around all day eating bon-bons and watching soap operas: the banal stereotype of stay-at-home moms. That was me.

I lamented. "I'm so mad at myself," I told Justin. He sat on the edge of the bed where I was crumpled in a heap at the foot. "There was so much I needed to do today, and I just...skipped it all. You know what I did? I read. That's all. For over two hours -- enough time to clean the whole house -- I read my book. Ugh! Why am I so lazy?!"

He raised his eyebrows at my whining. "Well...I mean...just put the book down next time?"

I rolled my eyes. "But the thing is, I WANT to read. I LOVE to read. I'm ADDICTED to reading."

He shrugged. Stepped over some dirty laundry on the floor. Kissed my head on the way to brush his teeth.

Later, we lay in bed. Our lamps made the bed -- our hands, our faces -- warm and golden. My feet were tucked under his calves and we both had books open on our tummies. I closed the paperback cover, flipped the book over and glared at it.

"Finished?" he asked without looking up from his reading.

I sighed. "Yep. It's over now."

"See?" He turned to face me. "And you said you didn't get anything done today." A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

I laughed; that tease of a smile filled me with promise.

Anyway, no bon-bons for me today. Lauren and I are going to make banana bread. I'm going to enlist her help to sort the laundry. I'll let her play in the bubbles in the kitchen sink. When Mia gets home, we'll read another few chapters of A Little Princess.

There are things to be done. And motivation, too; a commodity.

Let it be written: I will feel happy with this day at its end. Then, I might search my shelves for a new book with which to reward myself. Bon-bons before bed never hurt anyone.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Undercover Mother today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Failure

2012-03-06T09:22:00.000-06:00

I once folded a pile of clean towels.

Promptly, which was strange. They usually sit in a heap on some unsuspecting surface -- couch; bed; bassinet -- until the surface is needed for a replacing load of darks or delicates. But not this pile; it was folded while the towels still clung greedily to the dryer's warmth.

And the way I fold towels is something to behold. It takes a certain class of perfectionist to make sure no two blue towels are together, but that the growing tower of mismatched towels are in a sort of succession of color. Blue, yellow, purple, white, blue, yellow, purple...

I'm very particular. It's quite necessary. I haven't figured out why, yet, but still.

So this stack of warm, clean towels were folded. On our love seat. (Because if towels don't say love...) Then, I did what any right-minded girl would do with such a stack. I left them there. Later in the afternoon, they were toppled during the daily seating-area-as-trampoline match-up: the preschooler in this corner, the kindergartner in this corner.

Blame was placed. Help was demanded. Towels were fixed.

I carried half of the stack to the front bathroom along with an assortment of fine washcloths. The other half languished, cold and rumpled, in their regurgitated stack. On the coffee table. (Because if towels don't say kick your feet up...)

The sun set. The sun rose. Twice. (Then once more.)

The stack was in the way of a coloring sheet and plate of strawberries on the coffee table, and the linen closet was, perhaps, a few too many steps in the wrong direction. So the stack was relocated, again. To the back of the couch. (Because if towels don't remind you of a stylish, knit throw on the sofa's rear...)

And as I sit here typing, the towels rebuke me. They are growing flat with helplessness. Any fluff of promise has departed along with my assertion of good housekeeping skills.

If it weren't for the satisfaction of a nicely distributed color assortment (blue, yellow, blue, beige), I'd consider throwing the lot of them back into the dryer for another chance at perfection.

As it is, I'll probably shuffle them to the ottoman. That's at least seven steps closer to the linen closet.

I certainly won't make any promises, though; I once folded a pile of clean towels, but the rest is up to fate.

Some Freshness

2012-03-05T09:41:00.001-06:00

Oh, you guys! Have you SEEN?! There's a new interior design around This Heavenly Life, and I'm SO happy to open the curtains and let the light pour in!

I've been needing something new for...oh...a couple of YEARS, and I finally gave up the hope of ever learning how to do it myself. Something about the likelihood of me unleashing terror upon my blog's face which would then spill over into massively destructive code-warp over the internet as a whole...well it made me skittish. No, I don't see myself as the center of the universe to be able to inflict such far-reaching damage. But I DO have melodramatic tendencies. They can be quite paralyzing, actually.

BUT! There was a rescuer for my drama:

I'd like to thank Dorian Speed of Convolare Design for cleaning up around here and giving me some clean, bright space in which to dream up unlikely scenarios and emo-drivel. I wanted more writing space, less frill around the edges, and several unknown -- yet picky -- elements that I couldn't really put into words. So probably, I was a JOY of a client, I'm sure.

Dorian has been beyond patient with my back-and-forthness, and mostly just...you know...my hero.

So, thank you, Dorian! You took words like 'clean, simple, and open' and interpreted them into something I'm in love with.

I now LIKE to look at my blog, and that's an enjoyable feeling. So not only am I navel-gazing, I'm gazing at my navel-gazing. With love. A convolution of narcissism.

I hope you like it! We're still ironing out a few particulars, but it's here!

Now I need to go make some hot tea or something. To soothe my smile-sore cheeks, you know.

What do you think?!

A Family of Spring Cleaners

2012-03-04T10:06:00.000-06:00

Maybe it’s the lonely, irrelevant Santa statue that’s beenperched on our TV stand since December. Maybe it’s the overflow of toys that came from an abundant holidayseason. Maybe it’s my brain waking upafter a winter’s worth of new-baby-distraction.

Whatever the inspiration, I’m telling you: our house is inneed of spring cleaning.

When our family keeps goingand doing without looking too closelyat our surroundings, glaring clutter becomes part of the landscape. Somehow, an ancient pile of junk lookscompletely appropriate, because it’s been there too long for any of us toremember what the space is supposed to look like.

Yes, we need to buckle down and clean-up before spring.

Only, the prospect of a weekend – a day, an hour – devotedto nothing but cleaning and organization fills me with doubt. How can we possibly get anything worthwhileaccomplished with three small children around? Their playing, I imagine, will automatically undo any progress towards afresh, clean house.

Unless I embrace their energy and enlist their help to getthe job done.

Very small children can actually be helpful with chores andcleaning, especially when the whole family is on board. Here’s my plan for making use of the kids andtheir growing abilities as we approach spring cleaning together. Maybe these easy ideas will help your familydo the same.

We’ll make it playful. There will certainly be upbeat musicinvolved, as we dance our way through the chores. Daddy’s socks on kindergarten-sized feetwould make perfect dust-mops, and the background beats of our favorite musicwill keep us all motivated. We’ll alsoadd a little bit of friendly competition to keep the tasks entertaining. Think, ‘Daddy and the preschooler againstMommy and the kindergartner in the battle of the sorted laundry.’

We’ll assign jobsthat work with each child’s strengths. One girl is very particular about things being just right, so she’ll be asked to carefully sweep every bit offloor debris into a small masking-taped square on the kitchen laminate. She’ll have a child-sized broom to facilitateindependence. Another girl is especiallyenthusiastic about making faces in the mirror, so she’ll be given avinegar-soaked rag and asked to wash all the mirrors.

The day will includebreaks for the kids with no-messactivities like movies or coloring pages. This will allow mom and dad time to tackle more labor-intensive work withoutworrying about new messes cropping up.

We’ll modify chores thatare typically out of their skill set. Our preschooler, for example, is too small to push the heavy vacuumaround, but she can definitely run the hand-held attachment over the couchcushions without much difficulty.

We’ll expectdistractions from our own tasks. Ihave a bad habit of not being at my most gracious when my focus isinterrupted. So if I’m in the middle ofsorting through a closet full of toddler clothes and a little one disturbs myflow, I’ll take a deep breath and show her how she can help.

When the kids are included in our spring cleaning, my hopeis that we’ll be able to get some work done while also learning the merits ofteamwork. Something I’ve realized whilecontemplating the state of our sloth is that if a thing is worth doing, it’sworth showing your children how to do, too.

[Originally published here.]

In the Land of BFFs

2012-03-02T09:37:00.000-06:00

Every day, Lauren asks Mia to play dress-up-dresses. Her dramatic flair and love of everything magical are only satisfied by putting on something with shimmer or sparkle or ruffle, and she satisfies those needs daily. Singing and dancing and prancing. She is super willing to play by herself, as she so often does, but oh! -- the addition of a big sister seems to make her heart beat wildly.

Only, Mia's heart doesn't beat to the same rhythm lately. She's more about drawing or running or riding her scooter around the street with the little boy next door. Dress-up-dresses are just not in the lineup of Mia's favorite things to do with a few spare minutes of playtime. I blame kindergarten.

So yesterday when Lauren made her daily request for dress-ups, I sort of cringed inside. Mia's learned to say no politely, but sweet little Lauren is still heartbroken with each negative answer. To be fair to Mia, heartbroken is a common place for Lauren to go. She's just so tender-souled. Silly and wild, but so very tender.

Despite the likelihood (great) of being turned down (again), Lauren presented her plea once more.

"Hey, Mia! Do you wanna play dress-up-dresses with me?!"

"Sure." Mia, with her silvery-blue eyes and big kid pastimes, was casual. She simply said sure.

Lauren was beyond her sweet-hearted-self, and I spun around from the kitchen sink to witness the episode more closely. Lauren froze with bent knees and arms akimbo. Then she jumped for joy. "Oh, MIA!! You're going to play dress-up-dresses!!"

Next thing I knew, she had flung herself into Mia's arms, hugging and dancing around the kitchen. They giggled until they were breathless and fell to the floor, a heap of sisters.

Mia caught her breath first -- "Lauren! You are my very BEST friend!"

And that was the exact moment I melted into a puddle and seeped into the floorboards and under the house and became one with the earth: the beautiful, magnificent, nurturing earth.

It kind of kills me how sweet my girls are.

Bigger Picture Moments: Mean Girls Revisited

2012-03-01T01:20:00.000-06:00

My mom and I had a winding, long conversation about Mean Girls the other day. While she knew some of the stories I told, she hadn't been privy to all of them, and I could see the hurt on her face as we talked. She felt like she'd let me down. Like her reassurance and advice and consider the source, honey and this too, shall pass were all insignificant in the face of such adolescent heartbreak.

I tried to explain: it wasn't something she could have fixed for me. It was just, simply, the way life unfolds for some people. And I suspect that some bit of cruel unfolding happens for more of us than not. This is how humans operate, by and large, historically and emotionally: we need to feel bigger, better, and more important, which leads us, invariably, to crush those smaller than us under our heels as we stand taller. We use each other to make ourselves feel more important.

It is mind-blowingly easy to see now that the mean girls in my past had been used by someone bigger than themselves to augment status or self-importance. Maybe an older sibling was hateful to them. Maybe a trusted adult. Maybe a group of self-conscious peers. Whatever: they were made to feel small at some point and the only way they could, in their immaturity, find to grow stronger again was to repeat the cycle.

Even I did it. Knowing how badly it hurt to be hurt, I reciprocated in kind when I found someone who would fit easily under my heel. I remember one sweet, slow girl...I'm too ashamed to spell it all out right now, but it happened. Something I said made her face fall. I can still see, exactly, the confusion when she creased her brow. It was a first and a last for me, but I can never take it back.

I didn't have to explain to my mom how the meanness felt. She knew already. She was a junior high student once, too. But more than that mere common denominator, she also had to wear a full-body cast for scoliosis. She gets it. Like I said, I don't believe many of us were immune to cruelty.

But what I tried to show her was that all of her words, her assurance and promises of character, they made a difference.

I might not have said the same thing when I was twelve. I might have said, Thanks mom, but those words won't help the blaze recede from my face when a room full of 7th graders is laughing at me.

Because her words weren't meant to make the meanness stop. They were meant to bolster and enliven me over seasons and stages and years. I doubt that even she knew her words were meant for the long-term. (But maybe she did; she IS very wise.) Her words did something better than solve the hurt-feelings problem at-hand.

They burrowed deep into a secret shell and blossomed into truth that burned like fire in my self. An unnoticed fire, a smolder, perhaps, but fire at any rate.

The words -- the fire -- kept me.

Though I was embarrassed about it, I still played the violin in the orchestra because I loved it. Though I understood my habit of talking too much at awkward moments to be condemning, I didn't shut myself up because I had to speak. Though I realized some of my friends would never catapult me into the cool crowd, I didn't abandon ship because they were my friends.

What I mean is that my mom's words built themselves up like a shield around the person I was about to become. Protecting me so I wouldn't forget who I was and what I loved about myself.

And today, I know who I am. I am good. I am worthwhile. I am easily embarrassed. I am compassionate. I am awkward. I am loved. The mean girls didn't get the best of me, though I was sure at the time that they had. Due in great measure to what my mother told me about myself and my worth, I believe I got the best of me in the end.

I don't know what the mean girls got, if anything. I kind of feel sorry for them.

So my daughters will enter this world of cruelty. It's going to happen. I fear it. I won't know how to make it better. I will speak words of encouragement and worth (and probably anger at the meanness of others) and it may fall on deaf, devastated ears.

But....

my words will burrow deep, blossoming someday into truth that burns like fire in their hearts.

I'm no angel. I just play one with crayons.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us here today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

Ready or Not

2012-02-29T11:14:00.000-06:00

Last spring, if you remember me saying so, was the most beautiful season I had ever seen. So many perfect days shaking off the cold grip of winter. Clear blue skies, moist green grass, forested hills blushing with life...it was stunning. I felt like maybe I'd never actually seen spring before.

Ever since having kids, though, I have been seeing spring more clearly -- appreciating it better. It probably has some complicated psychological underpinnings: I need to know for certain that new life blossoms into beauty, rather than focusing on the downturn at the end of the season's cycles, no matter how lovely. There's an emo-connection between the springtime of my children's lives and the springtime of the earth tilting on its axis. Spring means hope.

But it's becoming twisted up in my mind, now. Oh, I love spring and I'm so ready to welcome it back with open arms this year, but at the last second, I draw those arms back to my chest and wrap myself up. I curl away protectively.

Spring is practically here -- February has had an extra day slipped into her stack of dull days this year, but the Leap day can't hold off the inevitable. Sunrise creeps through the curtains earlier, sunset lingers later, and the days are being stretched out along the edges. Unfurling, I guess.

But in my city, in my corner of the world, in my backyard, spring means storms. I've never feared them, rather embraced the quick-lived excitement of some thunder and lightning.

When I was a little girl, I'd sit on my grandparents' front porch, watching the sky over the field as a storm blew in. Grandpa or Grandma or an entire family would stand, hands in pockets, eyes eager, and watch the storm. It was expected. It was something in which to revel. We'd only go back inside when the rain started blowing in sideways under the porch's roof. I've loved storms for years. Their dark intensity, their blustery noise...

Only, it's changed for me now. I hope not irrevocably, and I hope not dramatically. But you can't live through the massive destruction of a tornado like Joplin saw last spring and not come away with some new reservations. I can't, at least.

And last night, before spring had even technically arrived, a storm threatened. Facebook was alight with people announcing their intentions to stay with friends or family who had storm shelters. Prayers were shared. Nerves were re-strung, tighter than before. And where I would have gone to bed happily, expecting to hear some wind and rain and thunder in the middle of the night, I could not sleep.

I listened to the meteorologist's calm voice talking us through the fear. Expect winds gusts of 80 miles per hour; golf-ball, and even baseball sized hail are not out of the question, so stay away from windows. A large, dangerous tornado has been spotted two counties away, but Joplin is still only under a tornado watch...

His voice droned, but I held tightly to every word.

Outside, the wind was being whipped to a frenzy. Some unseen conductor with raised arms was directing it furiously, I was sure. It howled and slammed against our house's walls. The roof beams groaned against it. The windows shuddered. The electricity flickered with warnings: a light-morse-code, spelling get ready. And that was all before the actual storm was upon us.

Once the rain came, everything was louder, more frightening. It blew in sheets, buffeted and forced by gusts. Small hail pebbled overhead. Lightning and thunder punctuated the bursts of air -- the conductor building his overture into a terror of light and sound.

And then it was over. It was past us.

I unclenched my hands painfully. There were angry red-crescents where my fingernails had dug into my palms, and my shoulders were bunched with tension.

Yes, spring is unfurling. I will try to do the same.

*Update: while Joplin was spared, Branson, Missouri was not. Spring is here, indeed.

A Gentling Kiss

2012-02-28T08:19:00.003-06:00

She raced out of the bathroom and I tried to keep up. I pulled my hands from under the cold running water, jerking them upwards at too quick an angle.

The metal lip of the faucet caught my thumb just above the knuckle. All I wanted was to plunge the wound back under the water, rinse away the sharp stabbing ache, and watch the water turn pink around the drain. But she was fast. She was about to slam her bedroom door, and I'd just gotten the baby to sleep.

I clenched a dusky purple towel in my fist, and lunged after her: the joyful noisemaker. I eased us into her bedroom, gentling the door into its frame. I told her things.

Keep quiet things.

Naptime things.

Mommy's going to rest things.

We hugged and kissed, and her eyes landed on my towel before I backed away. Because she asked -- ever curious, with her eyebrows folded into concern -- I showed her the small cut shaped like a flat whisk bent on scrambling the creases of my thumb. Red-feathered lines of blood had seeped into my dry skin.

And I was about to tell her how it had happened. The question was clear in her eyes, blue and deep. Instead, I searched my thoughts for quick words to convey the smallness of this wound. Fast rebuttals of the need for a band-aid or an ice pack -- those things which spell relief for a preschooler -- because mommy really did need rest. Not a prolonged pre-nap examination of a minor scrape by a little girl who would find any weakness to exploit as a means of NOT napping.

She grabbed my wrist in creamy white, though marker-stained, hands. I began to pull away; naptime: not fix-mama-time.

But the pressure of her round fingers made me pause. She pulled my hand to her face, stared at the pink scar with intensive care for half a breath, and rested a kiss on my knuckle. I could barely feel it through the sting of the tiny cut.

Although somehow, when I left the room -- gentling the door closed once more, tiptoeing past the baby's room -- the pressure of the kiss still clung to my skin.

It pulsed there all afternoon. Slowing me down long enough to notice the particular sweetness of this girl and her comfortable innocence.

With Listening Ears

2012-02-26T10:06:00.001-06:00

She stands as still as her excitement will allow, dancingfrom foot to foot, swinging arms and hands in punctuation of her ever-fasterflow of words. She is three-years-old,and she has a story to tell. Her eyeswiden and narrow as she makes important points. In her exuberance, she trips over every third word, making the storynearly impossible to follow.

Something about a house made out of rainbows and a queen witha green cape…maybe.

It may be a difficult story to follow, but it is easy toread her enthusiasm in the telling. Hercreativity and joy. Her willingness tospeak and desire to be heard.

If I turn my head away for a moment, she notices. She repeats her last sentence, so importantit is to her that I be fully invested in the story. If I interject a question, she takes her timeto answer at length. If I ask her to getto the point, she’ll surely be confounded; the telling IS the point.

So I listen, often because it makes me happy to do so, butalso because she is talking to me. And therewill come a day when she won’t have the same free-spirited attitude towardsconversation with her mother.

It can sometimes be challenging to listen to a young child’sthoughts in truly attentive ways. Theyhave so much to say – so many questions about the world and their place in it –that their constancy of words can be either hilarious or grating, depending onthe circumstances of our own day.

But we have to remember that we’re setting the stage rightnow for our relationships with our children as they grow. Every time we choose not to take their spokenthoughts or stories seriously, we are making a small but lastingimpression. And when we reply withsarcasm to an honest fear, doubt, or revelation of the heart, we’re teachingour kids something that they’ll never forget: their feelings are worthy oflittle more than being made into jokes.

To show our children that we regard their thoughtful honestyas inconsequential is to show them how to create distance from theirparents. None of us wants to beconfronted with the reality that our own lack of interest in hearing what ourlittle ones have to say has helped create a teenager who doesn’t trust hisparents with his thoughts.

Just as there are endless ways to demonstrate our desire tonot be bothered by a child’s stories or questions, there are plenty of ways toshow our respect and interest. Ways thatwill foster a relationship that can hopefully weather the teenage years ofindependence and rebelliousness without losing the ability to communicate.

No matter the age of the child, we must hold eye contactwhile they are speaking, acknowledging the importance of what they have tosay. We must be active in theconversation, asking questions when warranted and giving feedback asneeded. We must listen without judgmentand hear without bias. We must taketheir words seriously, refraining from sarcastic comments and devaluingstatements.

Our kids can tell when we are present in the conversation, andthey will know when to seek more willing ears to burden with their thoughts. Which is when we’ll wish we’d taken theirjuvenile attempts at conversation more seriously.

So I’ll continue to listen to my three-year-old’s ramblingstories. And I’ll encourage her to neverlet them reach their end.

Do you ever struggle to maintain interest with constant conversation from little ones? Do you have older kids who can prove my theory that if they're listened to with respect as children, they'll be willing to keep talking as teenagers? How do YOU keep the lines of communication open?

[Originally published here.]

InstaFriday

2012-02-24T10:16:00.001-06:00

InstaOne: I know, in my strict-mother heart of hearts (that place which is so rarely heeded), that I should put a stop to this. But Lauren just likes to chill in the baby's carseat, and it makes me smile. Interpret my subconscious yearnings as you will, but this baby girl IS TOO still my baby.

InstaTwo: Mia waits at the crosswalk like a bull waits in the pen, usually. The crossing guard always stands RIGHT there, ready to block Mia from dancing forward inattentively. Because those cars zoom past at ultrasonic speeds, man. I love the matching red stop sign and backpack in this one. Like the flag that waves to tempt the bull...

InstaThree: This boy squeals and I'm sure he's yelling to the world of his unbounded love for his mama. I mean, I'm SURE of it. What else would he have to say so loudly, after all? Besides get that phone outta my face, lady! PICK. ME. UP!

InstaFour: We've had what can only be described as THE PERFECT false-spring here this week. Daffodils have begun to bloom in the sunny warmth and we get to walk to school to retrieve our kindergartner instead of driving through a frigid circle-pick-up. There is no end to Lauren's joy at a sunshine-filled walk. And she loves to push the stroller. I say 'loves to', but what I really mean is 'demands the right to'. There is no middle ground here.

InstaFive: For BPCaptures, our Wednesday inspire-a-photo challenge at Bigger Picture Blogs, the prompt this week was Sacrifice. And on Ash Wednesday, all I could think about was the cross. This was the only part of St. Mary's Catholic Church in Joplin that was left completely unharmed by the tornado. It was strong against the wind. Now, everything around it has been demolished, but the cross, she stands. It catches every eye as it's the only eye-catcher in that area anymore. But also because: Jesus is there.

Do you have photos stuck in your phone that you need to share with the world? Share them at Life Rearranged today!

Bigger Picture Moments: Love as a Sound

2012-02-23T13:40:00.003-06:00

A blueberry candle sputtered near the sink: pik, pap, pik. Every time my wet hands traveled over its flame, moisture dripped into the wax or onto the wick. I placed slippery clean dishes on a towel to dry: clank, clink.

In the oven, red-skinned potatoes and cloves of garlic roasted in a drizzle of olive oil: poppa-hiss. Steam wafted from beneath the tilted lid of a pan of brown-sugared carrots: shuuuushhhh.

Lauren sat splay-legged on the floor, building a tower of play-doh cans: thunk. thunk. My phone was at her side. She'd rather listen to downloaded music than play any game-apps, and she chooses well:

In the night, the stormy night, she'll close her eyes
In the night, the stormy night, away she flies
And dreams of Para-paradise
Para-paradise, Para-paradise....

She sang the words under her breath, high and sweet: para-para-dots, para-para-dots.

Landon was stretched on his tummy on a crazy-colored quilt. The clanging, hissing, thunking, singing wasn't enough. He needed to squeal, long and wild: yeeek! hiiiiyeeey! His left leg bent and kicked, bent and kicked, and so he rocked, squealing while nobody watched.

In deep concentration at the kitchen table, Mia colored a picture, crayons grating against paper: shicka-shicka-shick. Her mouth twisted with each curve of color -- lips guiding hands. One foot kicked a rhythm on the wooden chair rung: thwop. thwop. thwop.

Hands drowning in soapy water, listening, I turned to look at my life.

This could be para-para-paradise
para-para-paradise
para-para-
Paradise...

All of it put together -- the comfort, the growing, the music, the routine --

it sounded like love.

In case you want to hear the song, too:

This month for Bigger Picture Moments, we're encouraging you to explore the beauty and simplicity of LOVE. Let the Valentine's hearts and rosy colors cloud your words as you share your moments -- a memory, a confession, a proposal, a feeling -- and link up. Melissa is hosting today; please head over to share your moment and read others!

A Bright Spot

2012-02-22T10:04:00.002-06:00

I crane my neck around the interior of the car, searching for Mia as I exit. The day is bright and unreasonably warm for February; sunlight blinds me with shafts of white. I squint against it and raise my arm, laying a strip of shadow over my eyes.

But Mia is not here.

Lauren has bounded up the front steps already, Landon is in my arms, the wind is blowing, and I am impatient.

Turning back to make sure Lauren isn't dashing away towards the steeper steps, I think of course she won't; she's a bit afraid of those steps. I think what a sweet little thing she is growing to be. So tender and helpful. So willful and smart. So lovely, there, as the sun rests on the curve of her impossibly soft cheek.

Inside the car, I check the front seats: sometimes Mia hides. But she is not there. I call her name and wait...

And Landon gurgles at me, smiling like I've just told the most entertaining joke. I look down, nuzzle his neck and marvel: this is the most darling baby in the world. I could stare at him for hours and not become bored with the beauty there.

But where is Mia? Is she ducking under the back seat? I shift my body to one side, and the white sunlight at my back is cut off behind my movement. The light no longer glares, and there, in the warmth left over, sits Mia. Right where she always was.

"Oh! You've been there the whole time?!"

"Could you really not see me, mama?"

"I couldn't! The light was too bright, and you got lost in it. Your bright spot hid you for a minute!"

She laughs and jumps out of the car, long legs at sharp angles with long arms, long hair, long years.

I cannot breath, suddenly. Time is constricting around me -- around us -- like roots around succulent earth: taking everything, changing it, and leaving nothing untouched.

She is a bright spot, hiding in plain sight.

Mean Girls

2012-02-20T11:37:00.001-06:00

1990
The school bus smells like old rubber and smoky oil. It is thick and damp inside, warmed by the elementary school bodies and their competing voices, while outside, the sky is gray and close. Beads of mist have gathered into drops of water; they cling together on the far side of the windows.

I am eight years old.

Inexplicably, a fifth grade girl has chosen to sit beside me. I am snugged up against the glass, watching the drops of water trek backwards from the force of the bus's forward motion. She sits with her legs in the middle aisle, laughing with friends.

I accidentally look her direction at the same time she looks mine. She smiles, and although I know it is false, I can't help but smile back. Maybe? I think. Maybe she is nice?

But, no. "I like your sweater vest," she says. Her smile has turned to mockery.

I clutch the hem of the vest, looking down quickly at its patterns. Chevrons and hearts, pink and white and yellow and blue.

Then, there is a fist in my stomach. I curl around it, gasping.

The older girl laughs as she withdraws. Tears sting my eyes.

------------

1993
*ring, ring*

"Hello?"

"Hi, is Sarah there?"

"This is her..."

"Oh, hi! This is Allie. I was just talking to some friends about going shopping, and we were wondering if you wanted to come. We'll be shopping for jeans, and my mom always just gives me her credit card."

"Allie? Allie R.? You want me to go shopping?"

"Sure. I mean, if you can. Or if you even need jeans. How many pairs of jeans do you have?"

"Well...I don't know. I mean..."

"How many pairs of Z Cavaricci Jeans do you have?"

"...I don't have any Z Cavaricci's."

"Oh. How many pairs of Pepe Jeans do you have?"

"None."

"Huh. How many pairs of Calvin Klein Jeans do you have?"

"I don't have any."

"And how many pairs of Guess Jeans do you have?"

*click*

------------

1995
My brother and I are walking into school together. He stops by a crowd of friends and I hang back, waiting. I blend into the wall, dig in my backpack purposefully.

A girl with shiny black hair moves to stand closer to him. She is a cheerleader, her skin smooth and golden brown, her eyes glittery black. He talks to her for a minute; she laughs. He tosses his fist over his shoulder, pointing one thumb in my direction before glancing at me. She follows his action and catches my eye.

I smile, hopefully. What a beautiful girl -- talking to MY brother!

She narrows her eyes critically, then speaks to him without turning away. Without even pretending to lower her voice.

"You're so much better looking than she is." Her black hair grazes her shoulders in a curtain of silk as she looks back towards her friendly crowd.

My pale face blazes with heat, and I slink desperately to the nearest hallway.

------------

This is what frightens me about having daughters. These are only a bare (and even mild) few of the memories that still cling to my insides, threatening to return me to low places. It's only with age and time and love that I no longer believe the words and actions as truth -- but my daughters have yet to gain age and time and love enough to withstand such things. It's all coming.

I worry about mean girls. Do you?

Read This Right Now, or I'll Never Talk to You Again

2012-02-19T10:26:00.000-06:00

A new habit has sunken in lately and found a foothold in mykindergartner’s tiny arsenal of comebacks: whenever something isn’t going herway, she lays out a quick threat.

For instance, recently she was indignant about not beingallowed to play outside after dark. Shestomped and negotiated, none too successfully. When she finally understood that I wasn’t going to back down from mydecision, she mastered a ferocious scowl before issuing her thoughts.

“Fine. I’m nevergoing to talk to you, EVER again.” Completely untenable as a threat, and immediately disproven. “And I WON’T let you play with ANY of mytoys.” She marched away, full ofimportance and anger.

Mostly, we just address the rudeness and let her discoverthat threats aren’t getting her anywhere. But the daily spout of angry warnings are wearing on our patience.

I’ve wondered where this streak of threatening words havecome from, and vowed to find a way to remove the warnings from herrepertoire. Certainly they point tolarger issues: control and entitlement among other things.

But the real eye-opener came when I heard her habit comingfrom my own mouth. She’d decided not topick up after herself, so I looked her straight in the eye and said, “If youdon’t pick up your things when you’re done with them, I’m going to take themALL out to the trash.”

I felt confident that my own ultimatum would be swiftlyfollowed. Surely she wouldn’t make mefollow through on my threat – the consequences were too high. She wouldn’t take that chance.

Except, she did. Further refusals forced me to either follow through or back down.

You can probably guess what I did. My ultimatum was worthless because I wasn’tactually willing to act on it. Instead,I backtracked and came up with a consequence I could live with. Something much less frightening, but simplerto uphold. Either she cleaned upwithout delay, or she would help me with a further list of chores. It was her choice.

Seeing her threats played out in my own voice had made mepause. It seemed very likely that Imyself was helping her grow into this habit of demands and threats.

When parents let irritation override logic, it can betempting to force compliance through threats. But threats are tricky to use because of their inherent requirementsupon the parent: they force us to come up with consecutively higher consequences,not all of which we’re actually willing to implement. And if our kids understand that we don’t meanwhat we say, we become trivial. Not onlythat, but the habit of using threats – fear – as a motivator for our kids willput us at odds with them in every instance of disagreement. Instead of finding ways to let naturalconsequences rule, we get caught up in contriving new and betterpunishments. And punishments sow resentment,distrust, and disconnect.

Since discovering my own tendency to use insupportablethreats, I’m trying to learn new ways of thinking about obedience. To let it be about choices and naturalconsequences rather than demands and threatening penalties.

I don’t want the relationship between my kids and me to beone of constant upstaging – who can require the most from the other – but oneof trust and respect and guidance.

And if I REALLY want my daughter to stop using threats whenthings don’t go her way, teaching by example is a good place to start.

[Originally published here.]

Bye Bye, Baby Curls

2012-02-18T10:25:00.000-06:00

When Lauren was barely over two years old, there was one small section of golden brown hair that hung just below the nape of her neck. A stray curl. It stood out in stark relief against the rest of her shorter, silky lengths. Silly and unruly.

I was fixated on it, constantly sweeping it one way or the other, blending it in. Or I was twirling it around two fingers, watching it fall into a springy bounce.

But one day in a flash of what I can only describe as misplaced obsession, I saw that single curl hanging down so out of place, and I cut it off. I finished brushing her hair, satisfied that it was even along the bottom now, and she ran off into the other room.

Her curl sat alone on the bathroom counter. Whatever had come over me suddenly cleared -- a thoughtless fog lifted -- and I stood motionless. Her baby curl.

Oh, I cried. Shook my head. Wondered what had possessed me. Cursed my need for straight, even rows and perfect stacks. There had been no temperance before the cut, no consideration of whether or not I actually wanted the curl to be gone forever...I simply saw a low spot and evened it out.

So that was her very first haircut. And you might remember her second-first haircut. The one where she became curious about how much hair she could cut off before her unassuming mother opened the bedroom door.

But this: this is her third-first haircut. The real deal. Salon styled and mother-approved (at last!).

--Lauren, do you like your new haircut?

--Yes! I just CAN'T stop looking in the mirror!

Neither can I, baby. Neither can I.

Bigger Picture Moment: Conversion

2012-02-16T10:17:00.000-06:00

I voiced my honest fears to a dear friend, and showed a good bit of pretense to the rest of the world. I'm so excited to be having a baby boy! I would say. I'd hold up our newest blue onesie and crow with adoration. Rub my belly with pride.

But inside. In the place where I keep my truth -- a silty pearl resting hidden under gritty shells -- I panicked.

I stood one afternoon looking out over a sun-drenched back yard through windows that radiated heat. Family was all around me and we'd just found out that the sweet baby nestled under my heart would be -- already was, in fact -- a boy. There were hearty congratulations and squeals of joy. But I stood alone once it all settled down, my arms wrapped around my ribs, my smile hard and still. I almost couldn't breathe through the stress of the masquerade.

Just me and my fear and the radiating windows, watching kids play in the late-spring sun.

My pearl of truth was terrified. How could I possibly be a mother to a boy? Do I even like boys? All I know are girls... Protected on the outside by my false cheeriness, I quaked. Little fault lines raced along the mineral surface over my truth. It's shameful to admit, I know. But it was there, for several days -- weeks? -- as I struggled to come to terms with my doubt.

And do people ever talk about this? The world-shatter of news that is at once welcome and fearsome?

------------

But when he smiles -- when he gurgles, when he yawns, when he sighs -- I go warm and slow with love. I stare with my jaws slack and my lips round with awe. This baby, this perfect boy, is mine.

Ours, rather. I claimed sole ownership of the doubt and fear, but we all claim his sweetness. It's so overflowing that if I saved it all for myself, I'd surely burst.

I don't discount the quakes and shivers from before. But I can't quite grasp, anymore, what I was so worried about. Only acknowledge that my feelings were real, if fraught with unnecessary drama.

There was nothing to fear; he is only a sweet baby boy. At the same time, he is more than a baby boy.

He is my baby boy. Such a small, life-changing distinction.

I feel like I've arrived.

This month for Bigger Picture Moments, we're encouraging you to explore the beauty and simplicity of LOVE. Let the Valentine's hearts and rosy colors cloud your words as you share your moments -- a memory, a confession, a proposal, a feeling -- and link up. Jade is hosting today; please head over to share your moment and read others!

A Demonstration on the Differences Between Boys and Girls

2012-02-15T09:25:00.000-06:00

Mia is standing on the front sidewalk, ready to ride off into the almost-sunset on her pink and white scooter. She's quite a good scooter-er, now. Speedy and fearless with her hair flying backwards, a super-hero cape of many strands. The boy from two houses down is on his new bike. He is her neighborhood playmate, and a sweet, energetic boy.

Their conversation is definitely worthy of eavesdropped attention, but I make myself known, instead. (This time.) I park myself on the top step and listen to the way Mia's voice changes from dependent and questioning towards confident and knowing. She holds her own with this second-grader. I marvel at her assurance. Was I ever so outgoing with kids at that age? I must have been -- I did have friends and I remember being wildly silly -- but the overwhelming feeling I get when remembering childhood is one of personal insecurity.

But Mia, she is strong and tall and straight. The boy, I fancy, is in love. How could he not be? (Probably all kinds of ways, but when I see my girl, I fall in love, myself. She is exquisite. Even on this day, with tangled hair and a mouth stained red from too much Valentine's candy.)

He is telling her about his bike -- a truly wonderful story of generosity and hope: bikes were donated to every child who used to attend a now-demolished, tornado-destroyed elementary school. I smile and shake my head. The outpouring of gifts and time and love our community has seen is powerful to behold. And we behold so much of it, every day.

He talks about his old scooters, his Valentine's Day party, his long-ago trip to the hospital for the flu. Somewhere in the middle of medicine and overnight nurses, his eyes light on our pumpkin. You remember, right? The pumpkin I talked about doing away with a month ago? The one that's been sitting on our front stoop since before Halloween?

That pumpkin.

Feel free to imagine its state of decay, because I'm not sharing a current photo. Perhaps the shame from our laziness is a deterrent.. Anyway, you're welcome. It's not a pretty sight, with its orange faded to a putrid, foggy yellow on top, just where a few slight snowfalls have dampened its crown. It's begun to cave-in like the lip of a too-wide volcano.

"What do you think of our pumpkin?" I ask. There is a twinkle in my eye. If I'd asked this question to my daughters, which I have, the response I'd receive, and have received, would be a mixture of dramatic, downturned faces and belligerent declarations of disgust. Super fun to watch.

But this boy. He is not a girl.

He stares at the lump of softening, pulpy matter, eyes wide with appreciation, and then...

"Can I shoot it?"

I am left completely speechless at the pure, unabashed boy-ness of his response.

I feel a great and pressing urge to brush up on my boy-survival skills now, if you'll excuse me.

Note: Said boy later proceeded to carry the rotting pumpkin to the woods beside our house as a valiant favor. How should I thank him? Fresh cookies? A round of BBs for his gun*? Free access to all future rotting organic matter?

*I have no idea if he does, in fact, own a pumpkin-slaying weapon. Maybe he wanted to shoot it with a light-saber.**

**Do light sabers shoot?

NoteII: See above reference to brushing up on boy-survival skills. I need help.

In Love

2012-02-14T13:01:00.000-06:00

If we sat in a candle-lit dining room, surrounded by the hush of lovers' whispered hopes and dreams, looking across a too-small tabletop into the face of our future, we didn't yet know it.

We were so young -- not even a ring on my finger yet -- and so deep in it. You walked out of a room and I physically felt your absence: the air was heavier; I was heavier. You touched my neck and my skin caught fire. You laughed and I marveled at the richness of a perfectly common sound.

If we showed up on doorsteps with roses and chocolates in our hands, stepping out into a night that was meant to celebrate love, we didn't understand it. Not how far it could reach.

We were so encapsulated. Muffled within our own reflected gazes. We never knew.

If we played music in our first tiny-roomed apartment, and used our wedding china for the very first time, filled it with culinary romance, and talked about where life -- love -- would take us, we still didn't understand.

It was all so fledgling. So unripened.

Because now, we are here. With depth and experience and truth and love; oh, love. And if here is so good, so fulfilling and breathtaking and better than any February 14th from the past twelve years, where will we be in another dozen?

When does the growing stop?

I will make the answer:

Never.

Justin's Hey Girl

2012-02-13T09:00:00.000-06:00

Because tomorrow is Valentine's Day.

And because I laugh for hours (hours) at the Ryan Gosling jokes.

And because my husband is super hot.

(SUPER. HOT.)

And because today is a snow day and these photos have a little bit to do with snow.

I have decided to share a bit of bloggy fun, Hey Girl style.

That is, Justin style.

It's my early Valentine's Day present to you all, my dearest friends....

After I made these the other day, I quickly posted them to Facebook because instant gratification makes me happy. My handsome Justin kind of gets the Ryan Gosling jokes, and better still, he plays along.

See Exhibit 1. My Bigger Picture Captures photo of last week, where the prompt was 'Sweet'. I happened to knock over a BRAND NEW strawberry milkshake, and snapped a quick photo. See what happened next?

My friend Brook gets it. I think Justin gets it. (I don't think most of my Facebook friends get it.) I hope you get it! Because Valentine's Day Eve deserves some laughs!

Planning for Sick Days

2012-02-12T09:34:00.002-06:00

We’ve all been through it: a child home, sick, while thework of our days grinds to a halt. Butno matter how often it happens, I always find myself reinventing the wheel ofcaretaking. I wonder about how best to keepthem comfortable while they recuperate; decide on the most beneficial ratio ofcartoons to sleep; discover ways to tempt them into eating as they mend.

Every child is different, and every sickness is different,but there are some relative constants, too. First, there is an expectation of discomfort. Second, there is an expectation ofhealing. It’s what happens in betweenthose two parameters that keep me worried. I’ve tried, though, to come up with some general reminders on which Ican fall back when my caretaking doubts surface through the haze of fevers andskipped meals. Here’s what I try to dofor my kids when they are sick:

Skip the rules. One of my greatest confusions when a child issick is whether or not I should allow more movies and cartoons than usual. I fear the repercussions, worrying thatthey’ll become used to the mind-numb and be crabby when we return to our usual,lower-volume viewing. But after severalbouts of sickness, I’ve made up my mind: we will watch. For hours, if it makes them forget theirdiscomfort. The kids may end up fallingasleep anyway, at which point I can sneak them off to their beds. But sticking to normal rules in sick-time ispointless for our family. I remindmyself to be flexible.

Skip the food. For as many years as I’ve begged and bribedand cajoled food into my sometimes-picky children’s mouths, it’s feltcompletely unnatural – harmful, even – to NOT try to get them to eat. But when they’re sick, it’s alright. As long as they’re uninterested in food, it’sokay to forget about it for a day or so. After that, we’ll try to tempt them with small bits of easy food to seeif it perks them up. Toast is always ourfirst offering, with applesauce following soon after. As long as they’re sleeping and healing, foodjust isn’t a top priority. I remindmyself to be patient.

Skip the boredom. When a nasty bug keeps a child home, it canbe easy to fall into misery-inducing boredom. There’s no reason why, if my little one is able to whine and wander, wecan’t also do something active. Make atummy-pleasing treat. Do a relaxing,quiet craft. Take a fresh-air walk. Lying around is important and worthwhile upto a certain point, but our brains and bodies thrive on stimulation, too. I remind myself to be creative.

Skip the plans. As soon as I have a day completely filled withplans and errands, one of the kids inevitably gets sick. There is no POSSIBLE way I can drop all of myplans, I think rebelliously. But wipingthe day clean of obligation is often just what my family needs to get back ontrack. I’m convinced that snuggles arejust as important as rest while a child is sick. Cuddling may not remove the germs any sooner,but moments of care teach our kids about compassion and priorities. I remind myself to be close.

It’s good to have these thoughts in reserve, because wherethere are kids, there will be sick days. And for this worried mama, nothing feels better than beingprepared.

[Originally published here.]

How does your family adapt for sick days? Snuggle everyone in bed? Call in Grandparental reinforcements? Adopt an ice-cream only diet? Share!

Celebrating Parents: Celebrating Joy

2012-02-10T11:12:00.002-06:00

The beautiful and talented Emily at Keeping Time, is a bit fed up with all of the dissenting arguments surrounding parenthood. We're bombarded with articles and information about exactly how or how not to raise kids, when what we should be focusing on is our own families and how well we're thriving. To wash away the bad taste of so many irritating ultimatums -- so many assertions that we're probably NOT doing this parenting thing correctly -- Emily is Celebrating Parents today. Check it out.

And find ways to affirm the parenting skills you're proud of today. You're chock full of wonderful ways to raise your children!

------------

If I wanted to, I could easily write a list of all the ways I'm not doing motherhood right. And there are days -- those gray and purple-bruised days; the swallowed-tears days -- that I could let the flow of supposed hardship wash over me with its filmy weight. In fact, I have done that.

All it takes is one lost temper, which begets another harsh word, which morphs into an hour-long scowl, which builds into a gripping pain at the base of my skull...

Which rushes out of my being and towards my kids. Covering their brightness with my cast-off inadequacies.

I have done that.

But I know it about myself, and I know the cascade of consequences that easily builds when I allow a bad day to have its way with me.

So this -- my shining hope, in which I am becoming well-pleased -- is what I do instead.

I choose joy.

I choose to acknowledge the nugget of irritation, and change it into something else, something workable. I work the frustration down from a pulsing, flickering bulb behind my eyes, let it fall into a thread of light through my neck and arms, let it swirl into a disk of color in my palms.

With my eyes cleared of irritation, and my hands full of possibility, I can see better how to help. I can stay calm and make a plan.

But are a million ways I choose joy every day.

By singing a clean-up song while helping Lauren put away all of the toys she emptied from the shelf.

By smiling into Mia's face as she stumbles over a new word -- so....sloooooowly -- while reading.

By noticing the trash has been taken out.

By accepting the exuberance behind a too-forceful hug on a baby brother.

By affirming an emotion.

By refusing to let another person's anger steal my joy.

By laughing at the wrong moment, invalidating my own lecture.

By seeing the worry in her eyes as she knows she's done something wrong, and letting my reaction soften to include compassion.

By respecting the limitations of a toddler's knowledge and self-control.

Choosing joy also means that I choose to acknowledge the good bits, the bits that float and dance, instead of focusing on the bits that crumble and fall. My day is filled with both. I know which bits I prefer to dwell on.

------------

Buckling Lauren into her carseat, I see that she's run the battery down on my phone by listening to her favorite songs before school. A thin, red line is all that's left in the corner of the screen. We are late. I want to call Justin, to thank him for filling my tank with gas, but I won't be able to until I get home again. The music Lauren's been dancing to is still whispering from her lips:

Don't you blink, you might miss it
See we got a chance to just love it, or leave it
You find it and keep it
Cause it ain't every day you get a chance to say:

Oh! This is how it starts, lightning strikes the heart
Goes off like a gun, brighter than the sun.
Oh! It could be the stars, falling from the sky,
Shining like they want, brighter than the sun.

I kiss those whispering lips before she can stop me from interrupting her singing.

"I love you brighter than the sun," I tell her. She smiles as big as her cheeks will allow, pulls me to her face, and kisses me again. Her hands pull my hair in searing tugs, tangling and yanking. But I choose not to notice the roughness of her grip, the pain of the pull.

Giggling now, she says "I love YOU brighter than the sun!"

Some days, it's so easy to choose the joy.

Bigger Picture Moment: Holding Hands

2012-02-09T13:33:00.000-06:00

"Look at this, Sarah: he keeps pushing his hand into mine. He's starting to know how to touch things."

Oh, that's adorable! Hold on, let me grab my camera.

"Did you ever think...what was it?...almost 12 years ago?...when we met, that one day we'd have all these babies? Or that it would be so LOUD?"

Or that we'd love them so much? *click* Hold still! *click*

"Daddy! I want my hand on your hand, too!"

Alright, climb on up here. Mama, take him for a minute?

"C'mere, sweet baby. Now you have to hold very still, okay, Lauren?" *click* "Perfect! Come see!"

Hey, what are you guys doing in here? Hey, what's that...HEY! Take my picture, too! See how long my fingers are?!

"They're long just like mama's, Mia. So very pretty." *click*

Mama, hold YOUR hand up, too. And...but who can take a picture?

"Here, Mia: hold it in this hand....good...now get a little closer...like that. And when you're ready, push this silver button. Right. Okay, ready?"

*click* I did it! Daddy, I know how to use MAMA'S camera!

"You did great, baby."

Now can we look at all of them again?

"Everyone hop on Daddy's lap."

LauREN! You're on my hair! Scoot...scoot!

"I AM SCOOTING!"

Now, see? Here we all are.

This month for Bigger Picture Moments, we're encouraging you to explore the beauty and simplicity of LOVE. Let the Valentine's hearts and rosy colors cloud your words as you share your moments -- a memory, a confession, a proposal, a feeling -- and link up. Hyacynth is hosting today; please head over to share your moment and read others from friends as we live intentionally through February!

Fresh Lemon Crinkle Cookies

2012-02-08T20:22:00.002-06:00

To celebrate Sweet Week at Bigger Picture Blogs, here's a comprehensive look at what I love in a cookie:

Tenderness.
Chewiness.
Warmth.
Sweetness.

The problem is, so many times I happen across the perfect-looking recipe with promises of soft bites and chewy bits, only to OVER-bake the final product. It's such a bad habit of mine that my husband is forever teasing me about the brown bottoms of my cookies. He eats them anyway, because they're still delicious -- just often disappointingly crispy.

So this time, with THIS recipe, I vowed to plant myself before the oven and willfully under bake the life out of some cookies. Perfection ensued.

If you're a crunchy-cookie-lover, I must ask you to avert your eyes. Or, better yet, I must ask you to make these cookies anyway. They might convert you. They're so delicate and light in flavor, which makes me wonder how they can possibly be so overwhelmingly delicious. And the chewy-factor is outrageous.

Lemon and cookie-lovers, enjoy!

Lemon Crinkle Cookies

1/2 cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg
1 tsp fresh lemon zest
1 T fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp baking powder
1/8 tsp baking soda
1 1/2 cups white flour
1/2 cup powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 350, and prepare baking sheets with parchment or a light coating of cooking spray.

In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar just until the sugar is mostly incorporated. Add the vanilla, egg, lemon zest, and lemon juice, mixing well. Add dry ingredients except powdered sugar and mix just until combined and smooth.

Refrigerate dough (at least 1 hour) for easier handling, then form into 1-inch balls to be rolled in a plate covered in the powdered sugar. Place on baking sheets, about two inches apart. Bake for 9 to 11 minutes, or just until the cookies have lost their glossy tops -- the bottoms should not be brown at all. Cool before eating. And then eat them all. Every. Last. One.

Now be honest: do you have a crispy-cookie, or a chewy-cookie kind of sweet tooth? I promise to hide my confusion if you answer crispy. Better yet, I promise to try your favorite crispy cookie recipe, so DO SHARE!

A Day in This Heavenly Life

2012-02-06T09:45:00.000-06:00

I'm so excited to be participating in Simply Rebekah's Day in the Life project! Her instructions were to take one photo for every hour of the day, and share our daily lives in small, captured bursts of time. I had an incredibly hard time taking only one photo per hour once I got started. This was so much fun, reminding me of all the tiny, insignificant, yet beautiful bits of life in my day.

I hope you'll go see what the other participants have shared! And I hope you'll show me a day in YOUR life!

7:00AM - Justin does breakfast while I sleep in. He's the best thing in the world. And he's mine.

8:00 AM - Landon's awake, and the first order of business is a diaper change, of course. This little guy is usually ALL smiles on the changing table. Sadly, the large, black contraption snapping photos caught his smile and turned it into a tight-lip of concentration.

9:00AM - I finally have time for breakfast while Lauren catches up on Sesame Street and Landon is back down for a nap. This is my favorite. I'm old-lady-chic.

10:00AM - Oh, the chores. Our dishwasher runs every day, sometimes twice. It's obscene. Also, I go barefoot. A lot. Also obscene.

11:00AM - Lauren empties a bag of fuzzballs (technical name) to separate them into colored categories. Pretty! Plus, they entertain her while I nurse Landon in the bedroom. Imagine my expression as I enter the room to see a floor covered in balls. Life is fun.

12:00PM - Lunch. This time, I'm little-kid-chic. I genuinely love peanut butter and strawberry jelly, especially when it's on soft, homemade bread. Lauren has the same, but she prefers store-bought wheat for her sandwiches. I can't for the life of me understand...

1:00PM - The Blessed Naptime. It is sacred. Don't disturb me while I'm reading young adult dystopian novels...

2:45PM - The elementary school pick-up line. Thankfully, it moves quickly while we wait to see our Mia.

3:30PM - The weather was positively spring-like, so scooters NEEDED to come out and play.

4:30PM - Also, we aerated the garden...sometimes with nothing more than our dirty little fingers. There was lots of hand scrubbing to be seen next. And would you LOOK at those dirty jeans?! So much for NOT washing clothes after each wearing to decrease my daily allotment of laundry.

5:00PM - Leftovers for dinner! Minestrone and fresh-grated parmesan with more homemade bread.

5:30PM - Dinner of another sort. This boy is a dream-come-true to snuggle with. Only he likes to talk more than he likes to nurse, so our sessions are surprisingly quick.

6:30PM - The nightly wrestling match. It builds character (and a readiness for bedtime, post-haste).

7:30PM - If you never did, you should. These things are fun, and fun is good. Dr. Seuss is a rediscovered favorite for this kindergartner. She loves being able to read so much of it herself.

8:00PM - We're tiiiiired, yo. (Again with the fascinating black contraption, mom?)

9:00PM - ~~Computer hog~~ Justin is working on a paper for school. It's a good thing he's cute. And smart. But I miss the internet.

10:30PM - The chores are neverending. I love waking up to a clean kitchen, though, so it's not too irritating.

11:55PM - Howza bout a little shut-eye? Yessssss.....if only I wouldn't stay up so late reading, the midnight wakings might be less of an adventure in sleepwalking. But I'll sleep for at least an hour before Landon makes a peep. It'll be my own fault if I'm cranky tomorrow, although I'm usually surprisingly chipper these days. It's all the baby smiles. They're fuel.

That was my day! How does it compare to yours? Do you wear shoes more than I do? And how do you discipline yourself to STOP reading/writing/social-internetting in order to get a good night's sleep?

Peanut Butter Magic

2012-02-05T10:25:00.001-06:00

In case you missed it, Tuesday of last week was NationalPeanut Butter Day. Besides wondering whois in charge of imbuing obscure holidays with respectability, thisall-important day made me very happy.

My family has the impressive ability to be sustained bypeanut butter alone. There are days thatsee us eating it – in some capacity – at all three meals: with apples atbreakfast, on sandwiches and celery for lunch, on waffles or pancakes at abreakfast-for-dinner meal. And that’snot even counting the snacks. So to findthat there’s an entire day dedicated to the celebration of peanut butter doesn’tseem as odd as I’d first imagined. Anythingwith such versatility and nutritive benefits SHOULD be cheered andbeloved.

Besides being delicious enough to tempt even a picky toddlerinto eating, peanut butter has enough fiber and protein to keep kids (andparents) full long past the time when a less-wholesome snack would leave themhungry. Plus, although peanut butter hasmore calories than some other snack options, the fat within is of the goodkind: bad-cholesterol lowering and good-cholesterol raising.

So there’s no need to worry if you missed the excitingcelebration of National Peanut Butter Day; the food can stand up to an entireyear of celebration. Here are somedelicious, fun, and crafty ways to incorporate more peanut butter into yourlives:

Make apple sandwiches: cut thick rounds of cored apples intoflat slices. Smear one apple slice withpeanut butter, sprinkle with raisins, drizzle with honey, and top with anotherapple slice.

Make a savory sauce: whisk 5 Tablespoons peanut butter with3 Tablespoons warm water, 2.5 Tablespoons rice vinegar, 1.5 Tablespoons soysauce, and 3 Tablespoons sugar until smooth. Refrigerate the sauce for a few hours to blend the flavors. When ready to use, thin the sauce with a fewmore sprinkles of water if needed. Useon hot noodles with chopped scallions, peanuts, and roast chicken for an easyweeknight meal.

Make edible play-doh: combine 1 Cup peanut butter with ½ Cuphoney and 2 Cups powdered sugar. Stirand knead until smooth. Store dough inan airtight container. You don’t have to eat it, but the idea that you can eat it would be fun for little ones.

Make dessert: skewer halved bananas onto popsiclesticks. Freeze for several hours untilfirm. Microwave equal parts peanutbutter and chocolate chips, stirring every 30 seconds until smooth. Dip banana halves in melted mixture. Freeze bananas again on waxed paper untilcoating is solid.

Make a bird-feeder: tie a long string around the tip of apinecone. Coat the pinecone with peanutbutter and cover with bird seeds. Hangup outside for birds to enjoy.

Make your own blend: Fill a food processor or blender withone cup of shelled peanuts. Pulse untilpeanuts are creamy. Add one to twotablespoons of cooking oil while pulsing again to reach the desiredconsistency. Store in an airtightcontainer and use within a couple of days.

And of course, there are thousands of ways to incorporatepeanut butter into baked goods and treats. Tell yourself you’re celebrating a food worthy of national recognition,and consume without regret.

If things become desperate on a lonely, boring day, itwouldn’t be unheard of to suggest peanut butter as a finger-paintingmedium. Especially since many kids –mine included – end up with smeared fingers during their peanut buttercelebrations, anyway. Consider it foodart.

And enjoy it to the fullest.

[Originally published here.]

Have you ever tried any of these? I haven't done the play-doh or savory sauce, but both are on our to-do list. Any tips?

Bigger Picture Moments: True Love

2012-02-02T10:58:00.002-06:00

It really was the very simplest of moments. Something I'm certain that he doesn't even remember. There have been grander, more deliberate expressions. They spoke love in loud and clearly defined ways, with crisp edges and bold colors.

But this...this was a whisper. It was blurred around the edges.

And I roll it between my heart and my soul so often that now it's positively ragged with remembrance.

But it was so silly.

Listen while I tell you a story about true love.

------------

May, 2008

I shuffled my feet to the bedside. Eased myself onto the cool sheets. Rolled to face the bathroom, and yawned hugely. Baby Lauren was finally asleep and my day had quieted.

At the bathroom sink, draped in the light of soft white bulbs, Justin was getting ready for bed. I watched him through half-closed eyelids, purple seeping into the edges of my vision. So tired. Cold water sang from the faucet like a lullaby. His broad shoulders bent towards the countertop, searching. Finding.

He held up his toothbrush and looked closely at the bristles. Ran his finger over them. Smiled and breathed one near-silent laugh. It was seen more than heard.

"What's funny?" I asked as another yawn overtook my words.

He didn't turn all the way around, just swiveled his head as he unscrewed the cap from the toothpaste. Spoke over his left shoulder towards my stretched-out sleepiness.

"You used my toothbrush again." It wasn't dropped like an accusation; it was offered like an endearment. His lips tilted up in a secret smile. And before I could speak -- defend, deny, describe -- he popped the toothbrush into his mouth and worked up a quick lather.

I was stunned.

I'd used his toothbrush? And not for the first time?

And...

this man who didn't like to eat or drink out of the same dish as anyone else, this man who was afraid of baby spit-up, this man who kissed my forehead instead of my mouth when I was sick...

he didn't care.

Lying there, watching his casual routine, my belly flipped. A soft knot -- smooth and warm -- twisted inside and I fell.

In love, again, with my husband.

------------

It hardly stands up to the scrutiny of being shared. I feel unable explain it well enough to make you understand. It was one of the purest expressions of acceptance and trust and love I've ever experienced. Such a tiny, forgettable thing -- the brushing of teeth -- and it's left a permanent memory etched inside me.

Even now, when I run through the memory, all 12 seconds of it, I cannot pinpoint why. I cannot hold on to the smooth, warm knot of feeling twisting through my heart. It eases past and all I am left with is the sense...

the sense...

that I am loved unconditionally.

Exhausted, forgetful, and loved in spite of it all.

This month for Bigger Picture Moments, we're encouraging you to explore the beauty and simplicity of LOVE. Let the Valentine's hearts and rosy colors cloud your words as you share your moments -- a memory, a confession, a proposal, a feeling -- and link up. Alita is hosting today; please head over to share your moment and read others from friends as we live intentionally through February!

My Life as a Sentence

2012-02-01T11:05:00.002-06:00

Yesterday -- all day long -- I snapped photos. Of breakfast, of playing, of messes, of relaxing, of cleaning, of dinner...I snapped photos. The idea was to capture A Day in The Life of me. Of my normal day, when it starts and when it stops and what happens in the middle.

Simply Rebekah is hosting a link-up of day-in-the-life photo collections at her blog on February 6th, and I was inspired. Doesn't it sound like fun? Capture everything you do on a normal day? Set it down, share it, see others' lives?

And it was fun. I enjoyed the day in such a new way: I saw the beauty in a stack of dirty dishes, oh yes I did. I let Lauren haul out the much-underutilized-of-late craft box, simply to see what colorful things she would produce. I was completely present in the day -- the whole day. I saw it all, top to bottom.

I love this life. It's true and it sounds cliche, but I really do love it. There are days when I wake up and feel joy bursting from my skin in fizzles and sparks of possibility. The contentment washes over me. Lifts me up. Carries me through the mundane. There are other days, too: those that find me disappointed or bored out of my fizzly skin. It's true. It's life.

But yesterday, at the end of the day as I took my last photo before crawling into bed, something else hit me about this life:

It is a giant run-on sentence.

I snuggled into bed near midnight. A little later than usual due to a good book making me lose control of my limits. I stared at the window thinking, I will probably remove myself from this bed at least 5 times before the morning officially comes. This day WON'T actually end as my eyes close.

Because it just keeps repeating. Morning, noon, night, midnight: it's all the same. It rolls over and over -- in this season of babies and little ones, at least -- without pausing to designate THIS day from THAT day. Motherhood is my run-on sentence.

I could feasibly snap photos at 1:34 AM when Landon wakes up, restless. Or at 2:18 AM when Lauren is crying because she needs to go potty. Or at 4:21 AM when Landon needs re-swaddled, his cold fist banging into his confused face. Or at 4:24 AM when I forgot to replace his binkie. Or at 5:49 AM when I crawl into his bedroom and nurse him so he'll stay asleep until I actually deign to begin my day at

7:30 AM.

The days do look different: their verbs and nouns and clauses and subjects shift. The sentence becomes a part of our fabric.

But it doesn't actually have a stopping point.

It turns into a paragraph.

A chapter.

An essay.

All without a definite end. We just keep rolling, catching our breath on commas of rest, dwelling inside parenthesis and descriptors.

It makes me tired.

I love it all more than fire loves air and the ocean loves the moon. But, God help me,

the prospect of a sentence that never ends

makes me tired.

Baby on Aisle Three

2012-01-31T16:11:00.000-06:00

The hardest part about shopping with a baby (one who isn't being worn in a sling) is that at the end, there is no place to put the FOOD in the cart. Still, even though the cashier always looks at me crooked when I attempt to fill 2 square feet of storage space with 4 square feet of groceries, I don't mind.

I like a challenge. And I like to pretend I'm baby-shopping.

I'll take THIS one, please.

What was your day like today? Any cramming of impossible amounts of goods into tiny spaces? Any baby-shopping?

Winter is Beautiful -- Except for the Viruses

2012-01-29T12:39:00.001-06:00

Winter can be such a beautiful season: crisp and bright andstill.

I might complain occasionally of the cold or the cabin-feverbrought on by a snowstorm, but all in all, winter isn’t too high on myhate-list. Of course, mysometimes-fondness for winter isn’t hurt any by the mild season we’ve beenhaving this year.

But for all its beauty, winter has the ability to bring meto my knees. The dry air and lack ofsunshine creates the perfect environment in which sickness thrives. Having small children, I sometimes think ofwinter and its accompanying viruses as a minefield. One we must navigate with stealth and cunningif we are to avoid the worst of the season’s offerings.

Even if your family chooses to vaccinate against the flu,the vaccine isn’t one-hundred percent guaranteed to protect. Plus, there are numerous other viruses makingthe rounds each year, meaning that we must take matters into our own hands asmuch as we are able.

Here are some simple ways to keep winter’s minions fromfelling your house with sickness:

Wash your hands
We’ve allheard this mantra before, and with good reason: it’s scientifically proven toremove the germs that would infect us before they can reach our noses ormouths. If the virus isn’t on yourhands, it’s less likely to take up residence in your body. Wash several times per day with warm waterand regular soap to rid your hands of their ability to spread germs.

Turn and cover
It’s almost asuseless to cough into a hand as it is to cough without covering at all. The germs on a cough-catching palm are easilytransferable to doorknobs, toys, and friends. Teach your kids to turn away and cough into their elbows instead,trapping the germs in an out of reach area.

Fuel up

Feed yourfamily foods that are proven to boost immunity. Load up on onions, garlic, citrus, probiotic yogurts, black tea, bellpeppers, fish, and oats. Eating chickensoup is no joke: the hot, salty broth can thin mucous secretions while the ironand protein in chicken can strengthen blood cells and aid in antibodyproduction. Be sure to supplement withplenty of Vitamin D (ask your doctor for correct dosages) as its componentshelp our bodies fight illness.

Count (healthy) sheep
To be ableto fight off viruses easily, our bodies need to be well-rested. Get your kids to bed at regular or evenslightly early times during the winter months. If a virus has already taken hold, keep little ones home in bed to lettheir bodies heal while keeping their germs contained.

Stay Hydrated
When yourbody – cells, organs, and skin – is well hydrated, it’s harder for viruses totake hold. Moist mucous membranes trapthe germs that would burrow into our system, causing sickness. Drink mostly water – all day long –supplemented by hot tea and a little bit of fruit juice, especially those that arenaturally full of vitamins, like orange juice.

Nothing is afoolproof guarantee against our families getting sick during the dry, coldwinter season, but implementing these practices to stay healthy can onlyimprove our chances.

Which, inturn, has the ability to keep winter just as it should be: beautiful andbright.

[Originally published here.]

What does your family do to avoid winter germs? Share your tips and tricks!

Some Quickety Quick Takes for January

2012-01-27T13:41:00.001-06:00

1. When Landon was born and placed in my arms, he immediately began to nurse. He knew exactly what to do, and he didn't stop for over an hour. An hour of sweet newborn baby suckles. My good friend Jill was there with me and she knew right away that he was going to be my binkie-baby.

I, however, had no idea. Neither of the girls were interested in pacifiers in the least, so it just never occurred to me that Landon would need one. Well, until his second night of life. Even that early on, it seemed clear that he needed more sucking than I was physically able to provide. Plus, he cried if he got even a drop of milk when all he wanted was comfort suckling. Enter: binkie.

Now, I constantly find myself wondering: HOW ON EARTH did I raise two babies from infancy without the benefit of a pacifier? I'm just not sure how we survived! Landon is an easy baby, it's true, but the pacifier holds a special place in my heart for the times when he's not quite as satisfied as usual.

What about you? Did your babies like binkies?

I realized he's binkie-less here...it's something I'm trying to ignore just so you can see a sweet picture!

2. Probably not surprisingly, Landon also found his thumb over the past week. What do you think: should I encourage one over the other? Let him have the binkie at-will, but gently remove his thumb? Let him suck his thumb, and slowly forget about the binkie? Or forget about it all, and just let him enjoy his favorite pastime however he finds it?

3. You know, for the last 8 months or so, I've dutifully IGNORED Pinterest because I simply CANNOT have one more thing distracting me from the laundry I'd rather not do and the writing I'm too intimidated to begin. I've turned up my nose at invites. Vowed eternal abstinence from the Pin-Empire.

Wondered how much fun it could be....

Yesterday, I accidentally (accidentally!!) took a teensy, little, bitty, innocent look at a pin somebody linked to....

and ended up spending 15 minutes scrolling through some nonsense that was increasingly hard to ignore. Such pretty, sparkly, ingenious things there were to see.

So anyway, I fell off of my own poorly constructed anti-Pinterest wagon. Mourn my demise if you care to.

And follow me over there. Let's see if I can get this bad boy figured out.

4. Mia's class celebrated their 100th day of school this week, and I found this in her folder:

What's that in her (rather large) hand? No, not the cane. The BLANKIE. Apparently, she still fully intends to hold onto it (though I doubt it will still be pink as its current color resides somewhere between pale gray and pale Caucasian skin-tone) through graduations and weddings and childbirth and all that.

But I fully understand her compulsion: I had a beloved blankie up until I was a junior-higher at least. Poor thing disintegrated after that. I've never been the same since.

5. I'm okay with her being attached to such an innocent thing as a blankie. I don't mind her being young while she's young, you know? Because I'm getting glimpses of grown-up Mia. Here, for example was thirty seconds or so of dinner conversation the other night:

"Mommy, why do boys have big pee-pees?"

"Uh...that's just how their bodies were made. Because everybody's different, you see." Vague, much?

"Yeah. But mommy?" And here is where I started to break into a cold sweat, worried about the direction of the conversation. "When will the world end?"

What the...? Still cold sweats, but for entirely different reasons.

And then we went on to have a little bitty conversation that blew my socks off in its sweetness. I'll have to tell you about it soon.

6. But look! Happy little girls!

We finally got them into bunk beds, making their small room a little more habitable. In fact, this is where you can find them any hour of the day, pretty much. The top bunk is available for entrance only after you've passed the inspection of the tiny bouncers. If you're not on the list -- no matter how cool you promise to be -- you're not allowed in. Period. You're doomed to the living room while the party rages.

7. So, uh. I need to go check something realquick on Pinterest. I'll be right back. Promise...

Bigger Picture Moment: Positively Filled

2012-01-26T01:00:00.000-06:00

The garage door is open, letting frosty air settle around the mini-van as we leave for school. Lauren drops her backpack by the passenger side, reaches up to the door handle, and tugs backwards. One hand is not enough -- she stretches on tip-toe now and grabs the handle with the other hand as well.

I can feel the smooth handle cold in her grasp as if it were in my own. She grimaces. She yanks. She arches and pulls. And nothing happens. The latch is too firm for her to open without help.

But, as is her habit of late, I know she'll refuse help or at least become very angry when I attempt to help. So I wait patiently. And with my own hand dipped into my purse, I push the automatic button on the key fob.

The door glides open with a soft whoosh of hydraulics. Lauren's face opens up from within. She is positively filled with delight.

------------

Steam billows in great clouds of warmth as Mia sings in the shower, dancing and slipping.

She pauses while I lather a dob of silvery shampoo into her scalp. I tell her, start scrubbing from the top to the bottom, and don't forget any chunks of hair. She reaches up, dancing again, and scrubs one small bit of hair, directly on the top-center of her head. I squint at her bare attempt. With four hands, we manage to make each strand and lock slippery with soap.

We repeat the facade. I instruct, she attempts, I cleanse, she dances. As the water turns from comfortably warm to bracingly cool, I force one last rinse-off. She steps from the shower into my towel-clad arms. I chuff and rub her skin dry as she chatters her teeth behind purplish lips.

She smiles as broadly at her grown-up ability to shower. She swells with dignity and dances towards the bedroom and warm pajamas. She is positively filled with delight.

------------

Landon's bedroom is almost completely dark. A tiny green light in the corner shows me where the baby monitor lies; a slice of muted white light tries to filch in under the door frame; the digital clock glows red on a top shelf.

I shift Landon's sleeping head from my left elbow to my right palm. He is swaddled and compact; he probably won't even register my motion in his perfect sleeping package. I've done an awesome swaddle, I think.

What's more, I've done an awesome bedtime. I rocked him until his eyes became heavy, I walked him until his breathing became deep, and now, I think, I'm within reach of the goal.

I step over to the crib, nestle him into his favorite position on the flannel sheet, prop his binkie in place with his swaddled fists, and back away. Slowly. I don't want a popped ankle or stubbed toe to undo my perfect bedtime success.

On the other side of the closed door, I sigh in relief. My pride at a bedtime well-done overflows. I am positively filled with delight.

------------

And yet, none of us has really done anything on our own. We each had help or luck or blessings to see us through. We are each imperfect in our assumptions of triumph.

But our joy isn't dampened by that knowledge. Instead, it is completed by that knowledge.

It's okay to be filled with delight, however softly our attempts fall into the category of success.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us here today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

To Inspire and Create

2012-01-25T20:07:00.000-06:00

I don't know why I haven't mentioned this yet, because it's really put some fun into the bleak winter days around here. Want to banish the bleak at your place, too? Good! Then follow me!

Each week over at Bigger Picture Blogs, we're doing a little bit of creative inspiration for your day. Every Wednesday, there'll be a prompt -- a word or thought -- that we hope you'll use to inspire and create through photography!

Here are some of the photos I've captured for the project since we've begun:

It's so much fun to go through the day trying to find ways to make the prompt come to life in a photo!

I'm using Instagram, but if you use Flickr, Facebook, or just good ol' blogging, that's perfect too. The idea is to inspire creation, not demand compliance, so do what you like! Check out the prompt each week and see what's going on on the Bigger Picture Blogs Facebook page to see everybody else's entries.

I hope you'll play along!

It's National Peanut Butter Day!

2012-01-24T12:59:00.001-06:00

And you know what that means, right?

We celebrate! Because here at Heavenly House, peanut butter is a food group unto itself. Nay -- scratch that -- peanut butter is THE MOST IMPORTANT food group.

We snack on peanut butter spoons (something that should be marketed by street vendors and deli counters -- they'd be rich) and nibble on peanut butter sandwiches and lick peanut butter fingers. Which are closely related to peanut butter spoons but with more drool. We serve it with apples, carrots, celery, bananas, toast, waffles, pancakes...in short, I feed my kids peanut butter whenever they darn-well please, for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. They love the stuff.

And I love it, too. It's packed with tummy-filling protein and fiber, plus the fat in natural peanut butter is of the truly healthy kind.

So to pay homage to this blessed, gooey substance, Lauren and I made a special recipe today that we'd love to share with you!

I was first introduced to these cookies when my dear friend Katie brought a batch over after Landon was born. They kept me nourished for days before I could stay awake long enough to eat anything more complicated. These are filling enough to stand in for a quick breakfast as you're heading out the door or make for one seriously stout afternoon snack. They're hearty and healthy and delicious; I hope you like them as much as I do!

Peanut Oat Breakfast Cookies
Makes approx. 9 cookies

1-2 overripe bananas, mashed (about 1 cup)
1/2 C chunky peanut butter
1/2 C honey
1 tsp vanilla
1 C rolled oats
1/2 C whole wheat flour
1/4 C dry milk powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 C raisins (optional)

Thoroughly combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Drop by 1/4 cupfuls, 2 inches apart, onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. Slightly flatten each cookie (they won't spread much). Bake at 350 for 12 to 14 minutes or until golden.

Let me know what you think if you try the recipe! And tell me: what's the most strangely satisfying way YOUR family eats peanut butter?

Stewed Potatoes + Enchiladas = Addiction

2012-01-23T08:50:00.000-06:00

There are certain scents that have floated into the love-crevices of my brain and made themselves at home. Things like my husband's armpit, for a perfectly normal example. Or the place where his neck meets his jaw. Or where his shoulder meets his neck. All of those scents are slightly different and hugely wonderful.

Then there's my mom. She exudes a cloud of sweetness that is so imperceptibly right -- powdery and subtle -- and which will always smell like comfort.

And my daughters...oh. The silken patches beneath their ears. The quarter-sized circle where Lauren's hairline part meets her forehead. Mia's heavy hair, swinging as she runs past.

Now there's Landon. All three months and 11 days of his life have seen me inhaling so vigorously that I fear I may suck a tiny bit of his essence into my soul with each breath. There will be nothing left of the poor boy by the time he's walking.

You know, now it occurs to me --

babies are born smelling SO amazing, right? There's just something about a baby, and I don't mean the scent of the lotion or shampoo or powder they're usually accompanied by. It's just a baby smell, you know? But they lose it. It vanishes by the time they're toddlers. Maybe preschoolers if you're lucky.

And now I know why. Mothers inhale it. There's a finite amount of eau de enfant surrounding each new baby.

(Woe to you if you try to steal my supply...)

Only, with Landon, there are some caveats. Not to me; I think he smells perfect. Amazingly, intoxicatingly perfect.

Mia and Lauren, though? They sort of disagree.

Oh, they think he's the sweetest, cutest, darling-est boy in the world, it's true. But for some reason -- perhaps because we only bathe him when we remember (which is sort of a rare occurrence) -- Mia has designated his particular scent to be that of stewed potatoes.

STEWED POTATOES.

I know. I mean, what even are stewed potatoes, and how would my daughter know what they smell like? I'm certain I've never 'stewed' potatoes. Boiled, fried, baked, roasted...sure. Still, none of those savory potatoes suggest 'Landon' to me.

Even worse, is the smell of his hands. Again, not to me. The fact is, though, that he's only just now starting to un-clench his little fists. They've gotten...soggy. Damp. Three months of damp. Justin tells me they smell like sour, sweaty toes.

Lauren tells me they smell like enchiladas.

ENCHILADAS.

I'm adrift in a sea of people who don't understand the nuanced perfection of the scent of my baby.

Still.

I guess he should have regular baths. No amount of soap can cover eau de enfant completely, after all. I'll still be able to get my fix.

Let There Be Sleep

2012-01-22T09:38:00.000-06:00

I know a few things about babies and sleep. And if I can wake myself up enough toremember them, they come in quite handy.

Basically, I know this: it’s rough. Getting a baby to sleep so you can log a fewhours of personal rest seems to be one of the greatest challenges ofnew-parenthood.

With my first child, I was so obsessed with creating theperfect atmospheres and routines for sleep that I became obnoxious andirritable and all-around miserable. Because here’s the other thing I know about babies and sleep:

It’s mostly uncontrollable.

I’d say that the best thing to do when faced with an infantwho won’t sleep is to embrace the wild-eyed pandemonium and know that it willpass with time. But since I’m too impatientto accept such advice myself, I can’t condone it. The sentiment is true, yes, but in practice,it’s not so much helpful as hopeful.

Instead, over my years of (slightly) fanatical focus onsleep and how to glean as much of it as possible, I’ve narrowed the essentialsdown to a few steps. And even if all ofthese practices are only marginally useful in helping an infant learn to sleeppeacefully, I at least feel good about doing something – anything – to keep ourfamily rested.

For us, it starts early: right after delivery. In order to avoid the fearsome fate of a babywho has his days and nights backwards, we choose to room-in. The lights and activity of a hospital nurseryare vital for those infants who need such care, but most healthy babies only needto be near their parents. And gettinginto a habit of dark, quiet nights can’t begin too soon.

Once home, we immediately pretend there’s a bedtime. It’s undeniable that infants need around theclock feeding and care, so instilling a bedtime seems silly at first. But remember, it’s easier to start a habitthan to change one.

If your newborn is used to heading out to the living room –with a flashing television or glowing computer screen – for his midnightfeedings, he might learn that nights are no different than days. He’ll be ready for action at all hours. Instead, do nighttime feedings and diaperchanges with a minimum of lights. As hardas it can be when you’re in the glow of admiring a new infant, aim for littleinteraction in the overnight hours. Savethe cooing, tickling, and talking for first thing in the morning.

Although it gets said often, creating a nighttime routine isno cliché. Babies make connections whenevents repeatedly occur in the same way. First comes a diaper change, then lotion, pajamas, lullabies, a feeding,and finally, sleep. Use whatever methodsyou’re comfortable with, with the knowledge that the way you begin is howyou’ll probably have to continue. If thebaby gets used to a pacifier, swaddle, and rocking before he can fall asleep,he’ll probably require the same bit each night.

When it comes to daytime sleep, my understanding becomesfuzzier. Errands and appointments andsiblings add levels of complication that can make naps very hard to comeby. This is frustrating because all ofthe experts promise that a well-rested napper will also be a good nighttimesleeper.

It becomes a chicken/egg scenario. Instead of pondering such mind-traps, may Iinstead suggest this:

Follow your instincts. If you have any left after all the sleeplessness, they have to be worthsomething.

[Originally published here.]

Photo Phriday

2012-01-20T09:08:00.000-06:00

It's the light

the sparkle

the shine.

It's on her hands.

But it's concentrated in her heart.

Her soul.

Her smile.

She shines.

And if I let her hold on to me

with those hands

and that soul,

maybe

I can shine, too.

Bigger Picture Moments: Tilt/Shift

2012-01-19T12:53:00.001-06:00

For our local newspaper this week, I wrote an article all about babies and how to get them to sleep better from the get-go. It was full of what I hope will be helpful advice for anyone who happens to read it. I felt good about it.

Which is probably why the universe decided that I was getting too uppity and should be leveled down a few notches from my high-sleeping-horse.

Last night was a horrible night, baby-sleep wise.

At 11PM, sweet Landon woke up hungry, so I fed him. No big thing. It's the usual.

At 1AM, darling Landon woke up whimpering so I popped his binky back in. Sorta unusual. After he nurses around 11, he's usually comfortably out for the rest of the night.

At 2:30AM, precious Landon started seriously crying. I rearranged his swaddle, found his lost binkie, rolled him back to his back, and felt...wetness. Poor buddy had had a diaper explosion all over his jammies and blankets and bed. 15 minutes later, he was snug and clean and warm. And asleep.

At 4:30AM, angelic Landon SCREAMED hysterically into a silent night. I ran to his side to find him already asleep again.

At 6:00AM, happy Landon was gnawing on his fist, so I fed him. No big thing. Again, it's the usual.

But taken as a whole, it felt like the night that would never end.

Today, my usually smiley boy is a little...

off.

Kind of like his mama. I've been fretting and worrying about what this could mean. Could he be sick? Could I have eaten something that's upset his tummy? Could he be falling away from being a super-easy-without-really-trying sleeper? In short, I've been going crazy, and all because of ONE fitful night.

It's taken me most of the day to remember that babies are unpredictable.

As much fun as it is to admit that Landon is a gloriously easy sleeper, it's also imperative that I don't forget the unpredictable part. The part that tells me not to get too comfortable with any one habit because {BOOM} it will change.

Tilt. Shift.

And if I'm not careful, I'll be left thinking that we're doing something wrong when life takes a tilt/shift.

Landon is perfectly normal. He sleeps well sometimes, he gets fussy sometimes, he smiles sometimes, and he forges new routines sometimes.

Always, though, he will change. And if I truly meant what I said yesterday -- that I'm excited to watch my babies grow and blossom into something new each day --

then I need to remember the tilt/shift.

So maybe I won't fall flat on my face when it happens again.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Melissa's place today. Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

On Growing, Understanding, and Seeing. So: On Children.

2012-01-18T08:28:00.000-06:00

It's strange: with the girls, I was always SO aware of the time passing and their babyhoods rushing past without pause. I was sad about it. I tried to gather that time to me in thin strands that, together, would be strong enough to HOLD STILL.

But now, with this third baby, it's different. I'm not mourning his superfast growth (because it IS superfast) as much as I am appreciating it. I'm actually excited about it. Suddenly, or probably NOT suddenly -- it's simply a lesson the girls' lives have taught me so far -- I can see ahead to what he might become. The little boy he'll be. The personality he'll develop.

Now, I can't see exactly. I'd be either rich or insane or both if that were a true capability.

I mean that I can see the possibility he holds nestled in his little fists, his tree-frogged legs, his squeals and smiles. Whereas before, I only noticed now with my babies.

I feel like my eyes have been opened. And not only for Landon: it's happening with the girls, too. I'm aware of their maturity in ways that are exciting and pleasant, rather than terrifying.

Growing is good.

It's full of wonder.

It's a grand mystery what my children will become, and I'm feeling incredibly lucky to be along for the ride. To watch them SHOW themselves to the world.

There is so much possibility cradled within each tiny soul. And forgive me:

I'm only beginning to understand.

What's in an Age?

2012-01-17T08:54:00.000-06:00

As far as kitchens go, ours wasn’t a shining example ofperfection.

Every counter-top was filled with the detritus of what hadbeen intended as a simple dessert recipe for the kids and me to preparetogether. Along the way, flour had beensprinkled over the floor, bowls had tumbled from the cupboards, and eggshellshad been crushed down the side of a cabinet.

My older daughter stood diligently before the oven window,charting the slow progress of the goodies. She was the single peaceful inhabitant of the space; my younger daughterwas throwing a fit in the middle of the kitchen floor.

It had begun so innocently: fun in the kitchen withmama. Sweets on the horizon. Memories in the making.

But we had veered off-course almost from the beginning. My six-year-old had the process down withoutneeding too much assistance, but her three-year-old sister was a differentstory. She added ingredients withoutregard for measurements or timing, and frequently attempted to sneak bites ofour raw creation. She leaned her hairinto the mixing bowl on more than one occasion and became angry mid-recipe whenI suggested a helpful barrette.

Altogether, this hadn’t been our most successful baking foray. I leaned against the refrigerator, taking inthe scene before me, wondering why this had been such an unusually frustratingexperience. We do things in the kitchenoften. Why the sudden difficulty?

It came to me as my preschooler ran off to her bedroom witha burst of renewed anger: she’s a three-year-old. She is brilliant and beautiful and sweet (ofcourse), but the fact remains that she is prone to the same traps as mostthree-year-olds, while her big sister has (mostly) begun moving past thosetraps.

Somehow, when I throw bothgirls into the mix, I suddenly assume that they each know the same things. That the younger child will behave exactly asthe older child, simply because they’re so close in age. Twenty-seven months isn’t an insignificantage difference, but when they both spend so much time playing with the sametoys and enjoying the same games, I forget. I see them as a matched pair, and I approach them as such.

I give a simply worded instruction that a Kindergartner willeasily interpret while a preschooler may either disregard my words ormisunderstand them. She might knowexactly what I mean, but her ‘what-if’ button becomes impossible to ignore andshe charges ahead without thinking through her actions.

But just because they are so closely linked in my minddoesn’t mean that they should be treated exactly the same in eachsituation. The little sister is stilltrying to learn things that the big sister has long since mastered. They view life differently. My preschooler isn’t as able to reign in herimpulses as her big sister is, and she doesn’t see why it’s evenimportant.

Because she still has learning to do. The lessons are only available to her on adaily basis, and I can’t forget that she still needs instruction just becauseI’ve already finished teaching a particular lesson once before.

It seems like something no parent would ever take forgranted. Something that should stare usstraight in the face each time we glimpse the darling faces of ourchildren.

But I try to allow myself some leeway around those simpleexpectations. Because it turns out thatI, too, am a work in progress.

[Originally published here.]

I Think it's Time...

2012-01-13T09:44:00.000-06:00

to banish the pumpkin to the forest, don't you?

(Also -- I have a sudden craving for a frozen pumpkin milkshake. Or a slushy. Or a pie. Yes -- frozen pie...)

What are you dreaming about on this January Friday?

Bigger Picture Moments: Life is Like a Box of Jello

2012-01-12T09:28:00.001-06:00

At the store, I hastily bought ingredients for some unknown decadence.

Flour
Brown Sugar
Eggs
Butter
Cinnamon
Vanilla
Cream
Dark Chocolate

And then at home, I searched. I wanted the perfect recipe. Something that says eat me, you fool, because I'm so delicious that you'll die a thousand deaths in a split second and then be reborn JUST for the express purpose of taking another bite.

That's what I wanted.

As I clicked through pages of possibilities (Foodgawker, I love you), the absolute clarity of the situation sidled up next to me -- as if it were my dearest companion -- and whispered into my ear

you don't have time for this.

And my stinking clarity was right. I didn't have time. I don't have time. There's too much ELSE going on right now. Obligations of the most rewarding nature, to be sure, but still.

Listen. I'm a baker.

I can cook almost anything, and I can do it fairly competently, but baking is my heart's one true love. (Baking and reading, actually. Those two tasks could fill my days with pleasure of such an otherworldly quality that I'm sure I'd reach nirvana if left to my own devices.) Just now, though, I haven't baked much of anything.

It's a greedy wish: who needs to bake, after all? I don't need to. I merely want to.

But instead, I've made Jello.

That's right.

And you know what?

Jello is JUST right for our family at this point in time: Silly, Easy, Sweet, and Simple.

When life hands you Jello, make Jigglers. That's my new motto.

At least until I can get my hands back into the flour canister.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Lenae's place (in Azerbaijan!) today.Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Little More and She Would Have Been a Pixie For Real

2012-01-10T09:07:00.000-06:00

This business of bedroom sharing has led to an abundance of stuff all shoved into one small space. Toy bins are double parked and shelves are overflowed. The closet is a nightmare.

But the girls seem to love their shared space, so we persist. Well, okay: they actually have no choice. It's either bedroom sharing or one girl moves into the bathroom. Which I understand will happen anyway upon adolescence, so we'll forestall it as long as we can.

So the bedroom is crazy. And on days like the one in question -- a day that will live in infamy -- when Lauren is having a 'nap' alone while her sister is at Kindergarten, she seems to make a bigger mess than both girls would do together. I imagine her to be compensating for her sister's non-presence with a bit of toy-overkill.

This day, I opened the door to 'wake her up' and was met by the single WORST mess I've encountered at this point in my motherhood. Granted, nothing was oozing or bubbling or bleeding...but the toys. They blocked the door's swing so I could only peek inside helplessly.

Immediately, I saw that my sweet darling Lauren was trying to hide something. She sat crouched over a small object in the midst of the rubble, eyes wary, an excuse ready on her pretty lips. So I shoved in, worried about the stress on the door's hinges from my super-mom strength (hee), to discover the object of her secrecy.

And that's when I realized that the mess was the least of our problems.

For there, in her perfectly formed and innocently soft hand was a pair of red-handled, preschool scissors.

It's true. She cannot be trusted with scissors. Not that I allowed her to have them in the first place, only I wish I knew when and how she'd snuck them into her ~~lair~~ bedroom.

And I'll tell you the sad, sad truth:

It was ALL I could to to keep a straight face while explaining the consequences of her illegal activity.

My mouth simply would not stay stern.

This one...

This one is going to keep me on my toes.

And I love her to little bitty bits.

Now, tell me: should we go with bangs? Or a super short and sassy bob? Because we lost our time machine in all the mess of the bedroom, so there ain't no goin' back...

Resolutions!

2012-01-08T08:36:00.000-06:00

Even though the New Year is already a few days old, I’m justnow getting around to making my resolutions. (It’s a good thing one of them isn’t ‘be more punctual’; I’d failmiserably.) Many of my personal goalsare those that could easily be shared among any parent of young kids.

These resolutions aren’t groundbreaking, by any means. In fact, their promises are so simple and universalas to be essential ingredients in every child’s life. So feel free to join me as we begin anotheryear as parents, resolving to be the very best we can be for our children.

This year, I resolve to:

Accept my children without qualifications, not trying tochange their inherent personalities to better fit my desires.

Say ‘I love you’ every single day without fail, never takingfor granted that they know how loved they are.

Set aside a designated amount of time to spend interactingwith each child, each day.

Show respect for my children’s thoughts, fears, and concernsby listening without judgment.

Ask questions that will draw my children into conversation,and be completely present in those conversations.

Not discount the youthful joy my children have for simplethings.

Allow my children’s independence to flourish by letting themtry new and difficult things, whether or not I think they’ll enjoy or excel atthe experience.

Follow through with logical disciplinary strategies.

Lavish my children with physical affection every day.

Remember to speak praise for a job well done instead of onlyfocusing on my children’s mistakes.

Allow my children to make mistakes without becoming overlyangry, knowing that mistakes can lead to lessons learned.

Never forget that little eyes are watching my attitudes aswell as my actions.

Read with my children every day.

Encourage dreams and creativity by outwardly acknowledgingmy own dreams and creative pursuits.

Get close to my children at the very moments that I amhaving the most difficulty connecting with them.

Look beyond my children’s negative reactions to the deepercauses of those reactions.

And perhaps most important of all, find a way to keep thechildren snug in their beds past sunrise on weekend mornings. Because if all else fails, restful sleepmight still redeem us.

What did I leave out? What actions do you think more parents should resolve to take in the coming year?

[Originally published here.]

My (Not-So-Blind) Psyche

2012-01-06T08:05:00.000-06:00

In the dream, I'm half-blinded with fuzzy vision. I stumble from room to room or from person to person, searching for help with my sight. Pastels and floating lights cloud my path, like tinted cotton balls packed around my eyeballs.

And there is always some urgency. Some necessary reason that my sight MUST be restored soon, or else...

There might be a storm approaching, with wind whipping and raindrops lashing. There might be a consuming fire, and I can smell the acrid smoke, like a fire of its own, burning inside my lungs. More usually, it's not so dire: the kids want breakfast or I'm late for an appointment. Sometimes, I'm at an appointment. An imaginary work meeting or important presentation.

So to remedy my blindness, my cotton-packed failure to see, I race to the nearest mirror and open my contact case. There, I sigh with relief. Help is on the way, in the form of a tiny, gellish disk.

Except, in the dream, the contacts are not tiny. They're huge and unwieldy. They fold over in my palms, flopping uselessly. They might be the size of quarters. Sometimes they're the size of saucers. As the dream proceeds and I become more helpless trying to wrap the slippery disk around and behind my sightless eyes, the contacts expand. They take both hands to hold. They bear the thickness of a slice of provolone cheese, but translucent. Blue-tinged.

And I despair. Haven't I always known how to do this one simple task? I've been putting contacts in for years -- without incident.

But I never seem to notice that the reason I can't do it this time -- the reason it's impossible -- is because the circumstances have changed. The objects of my necessity are overwhelmingly impossible to bring within my control.

I wake up either irritated or terrified. Rubbing my eyes to wipe away the reminder of fuzziness that still threatens me. I turn on the bathroom light, blinking away the stabbing darts of brightness, and open my real contacts.

I breath out gratefully. The contacts are tiny. Dime-sized and razor-thin. I know I can handle these babies. I place them in my eyes, wondering how I could ever not understand why a dish-sized contact wouldn't fit under my eyelids.

I walk out of the bedroom, and I confront the day, ready to tackle the known tasks that lay before me.

But I'm suddenly worried that I won't recognize a circumstance requiring something more of me than I have to give.

Hoping that I won't wear myself out trying to fit a frisbee into the space designed for a mere sequin.

YOUR Favorite Moments from 2011

2012-01-05T09:09:00.001-06:00

Today is the day we usually pour out our hearts at Bigger Picture Blogs and share the moments that have helped us glimpse a bit of the most important things in life. The joys and frustrations and worries and realizations and exhalations that make life life.

But instead of writing something new today, we'd like for you to head over to Bigger Picture Blogs and link up with your own favorite Bigger Picture post from 2011. Something you wrote that has continued to resonate or that you wish more people had gotten a chance to read.

My own favorite post will be up over there later this week -- so far we've already shared Hyacynth's and Melissa's -- but in the meantime, I want to read yours!

So go on -- tell us:

What was your favorite Bigger Picture Moment from 2011? Please link it up so we can rediscover your moment!

And thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who's become a part of the Bigger Picture Community for sharing your lives with us this year. I'm so ready to see what 2012 has in store for all of us, together.

Understimulation for the Win

2012-01-04T09:09:00.000-06:00

Picture it if you dare: a fussy baby who will not beconsoled. The baby is healthy andcomfortable if perhaps a bit tired, but nevertheless, she will not stop crying.

She’s been rocked and jiggled and danced. Lullabies have been sung, positions have beenchanged, and blinking toys have been dangled. Each new distraction or change in motion comes with the certainty that this is what the baby wants. Surely enough repetition or diversion willcalm the baby down, right?

But still, nothing works.

It’s a frightening scenario.

Especially if you can remember it happening to your ownbaby, the thought of inconsolability has the power to bring many parents to acowering huddle. The helplessness we’reconfronted with is overwhelming.

Being in this particular phase of parenting right now, withan infant of my own, I’ve been frequently reminded of the confusion that oftenassaults the parents of a crying baby. ButI’ve also been reminded of one helpful way to get them feeling better quickly.

And it’s nothing even remotely complicated.

It is simply this: leave the baby alone.

Very often, babies are assumed to only be in want of adistraction if fussiness occurs, when what they might actually need is lessstimulation. Their ability to focus onnoise and light and attention is not endless. In fact, most very small babies can only be comfortably exposed to activityin short bursts of time. Theirdeveloping brains, eye muscles, and sleep systems are more easily overwhelmedand irritated than we realize.

If all other options are covered – the baby is warm, dry,full, and rested – try laying her down on her own for a few minutes. The stillness and lack of commotion might bejust what she needs to relax.

And as true as this is for infants, it’s become clear as myolder children have grown that over-stimulation is a common enough terror toany age group. Consider thetantrum-throwing toddler after a vacation day full of sightseeing and entertainment:he’s been exposed to so much awesomeness that he can’t quite bring himself tocalm down. Or consider the melting-downpreschooler after a loud, hyper, bouncy-house birthday party: she’s been givengiant doses of attention and noise and motion and she isn’t in control of herbrain’s need for down time.

Also, consider yourself after a holiday weekend full oftravel and laughter and obligations: you’ve been going, going, going. You’re exhausted, and the first person totrigger your frustration might live to regret it.

Over-stimulation is present for all of us. The only cure – for adults, teenagers,toddlers, and infants – is downtime. Quiet, calm, slow, downtime. Itmight not be a nap, and it might not be completely alone, but the ability to beun-messed-with for a period of time provides many of us with some amount ofrestoration.

Next time your baby (or your teenager or your grumpy auntSherry) is fussing at nothing in general, instead of swinging a blinking toy intheir direction, try leaving them alone. Offer them a lack of stimulation, and see what happens.

You may realize that you’ve discovered a secret baby-taming tacticthat will assist you in your parenting navigation through many years ofconfusion.

[Originally published here.]

My 365 Photo Experiment: Concluded

2012-01-01T22:33:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time, I received a camera for Christmas. It was an intelligent beast in my incapable hands, confounding me at every turn. Still, I was besotted with its clarity of focus and impressively hefty weight. So I snapped some photos. I felt the limitations of my ignorance. And I resolved to get better.

Now, one year later, I am no better but perhaps even more besotted. After my year-long experiment with photo blogging, I have this to say: God Bless memories. I started out wanting to improve my skill and knowledge of photography, and ended up recording the priceless moments of (almost) an entire year in the life of This Heavenly Family.

It shows the gaps in memory when I chose sleep over photography after the birth of our newest family member. It shows a mostly nonexistent November because all of our photos became lodged within our old, broken computer, never to be seen again. (Or at least until we procure a new flash drive or external hard drive with which to escort the month of November onto our new computer.)

Most importantly, it shows our life unfolding. And I've realized that I simply cannot give up my photo blog after only one year of recording.

So, yes: this is the conclusion of 2011's photography experiment.

But, no: it's not the end. Because this is January First, 2012. And there are more memories waiting.

These were some of Justin's and my favorites from the year. Enjoy!

January

Because every frozen winter day needs a bathing suit plus rain boots and a pair of binoculars.

February

Because when snow is piled up to your thighs, you must plow through it, right?

March

Because when you manage to focus on a flower that outshines the hands in which it rests, that's a pretty spectacular flower.

April

Because this was the most beautiful spring in recent memory.

May

Because life flies by; shove your bare foot into the wind every chance you get.

June

Because when you pose under a bridge, everything is a bit more glamorous.

July

Because running and smiling go together.

August

Because when it's so hot, the swimming pool is the only acceptable destination.

September

Because this much color should never be restricted to terra firma.

October

Because when life emerges from your body, it's pretty much the most momentous thing. Ever.

November

Because babies need to be photographed upside down and right side up and backward and forward and every other way imaginable.

December

Because the holidays make us a little bit prone to decorating ourselves.

Now, go: start YOUR photography journey in 2012! Let it be about memories or skill or practice -- just DO it. If for no other reason than because looking back on your year in twelve months will make you laugh and cry and dream. All good things. Happy 2012, my friends!

Recipes

2012-01-01T14:16:00.000-06:00

Savories
7 Quick Meals
Chicken and Black Bean Salsa
Chicken Noodle Soup
Coconut Chicken
Parmesan Tilapia
Zuni Roast Chicken

Sweets
Berry Berry Deep Dish Pie
Buttercream Frosting (THL's Favorite)
Chocolate Chip Cookies (THL's Favorite)
Chocolate Chocolate Chunk Muffins
Floating Peach Cobbler
Fresh Lemon Crinkle Cookies
Peanut Butter Crunch Balls
Peanut Oat Breakfast Cookies

Favorites

2012-01-01T13:46:00.000-06:00

These are some of my all-time favorite posts, and what This Heavenly Life is all about. A little bit of silliness, a little bit of thoughtfulness, and a whole lotta love.

An Interview with Justin
He's Scandinavian, I'm Argumentative
Let the Blushing Begin
Like a River
Melodrama Suits Us
Ruby Red is for Love
Snapshot: Lunchtime
Thankful for the Pause
The Donut Shop of my Dreams
The Locksmith
The Toothpaste Gospel

If you have a favorite post you think should be included here, let me know!

Creative Writing

2012-01-01T13:07:00.000-06:00

Sometimes there are other voices in my head, and they beg to be released. Sometimes I let them out. Here is what happens, then:

Short Fiction
Drizzle
Fluid
Full Bodied
Heavy Metal
Lost amid the snow
Multi-layered
Smooth
The Picnic

Poetry
Frost
Ode
The Abyss
Toddler
Underneath the Mistletoe

It's Kind of Like a Predator, Only More Infuriating

2011-12-30T10:29:00.001-06:00

The apple corer lay in a glistening puddle of juice on the kitchen counter. Bits of pulpy, crushed apple poked from its center, and a few blackish-brown seeds tumbled into the puddle.

Mia and Lauren sat crunching on apple halves. While I cleaned the kitchen -- a task that is never actually complete around here -- they talked. About birthday parties and pajamas and stories. Then, before I could get the apple's remnants wiped away, Mia piled all of the seeds into a group. She held them in her palm, poking at them.

"Mom, what's inside an apple seed?"

I hate it when she asks questions I don't know how to answer. Which happens on a daily basis.

"Hmm. I think it must be all of the ingredients that are needed to grow an apple tree." There. Hope that sounds detailed enough to be believable but simple enough to not confuse me later if the questions continue.

She walked around for a few minutes, seeds in hand. Little bits of promised fruit. Her favorite fruit.

"You know what?" She'd come to a stop before the door to the hallway, her head tilted with a plan. "We need to plant these and have our OWN apple trees! We'll wait until it's a hot, hot summer day, and then dig a few holes, and plant the seeds. Doesn't that sound like a good idea?!"

"It does!" I got an improbable image of a tiny orchard popping up in our back yard. Dropping warm apples on our September lawn in a few (like a few dozen) years.

"Yeah!" she continued. "But we'll have to be very careful to do it only in the summer, when no animals are out looking for food. We'll dig them in niiiiiice and deep. That way, no creditors will find them."

I was genuinely puzzled.

Until I realized how closely creditors rhymes with predators.

Then I nodded, imbuing each bob of my head with the wisdom of a sage. Of course we'd be careful of the creditors.

We all know how much they'd love to steal our hard-won apples.

Bigger Picture Moment: Here Goes My Heart

2011-12-29T10:06:00.001-06:00

11:38 PM

We are wrapped in an incomplete darkness, soft and warm. The thinnest sliver of white light is slicing from the closet door. Landon is heavy in the cradle of my arms while he sleeps through a midnight feeding, slow and deliberate, if not fully aware.

From the hallway, the low hum of the heater keeps the night from falling into silence -- the constancy of air rushing through vents and rumbling through coils.

We are in a cocoon of a nighttime moment.

My head tips back onto the pink upholstered chair, and I close my eyes, thinking.

It seems like nobody is reading my blog lately. Barely any comments -- but I can't complain about that because I haven't been reading many blogs either. Rarely leaving comments of my own. And I feel like I'm trying to write for an audience. I don't want to write for an audience. It stunts my natural flow. I want to write for myself. To record our lives. To tell stories. To enjoy the creation. But even if I don't want the purpose of my writing to be for an audience, I still -- honestly -- thrive on the feedback. Sigh.

I guess I know the reason for the lack of feedback. The lack of connection. I'm not doing much with blogging. I'm sitting stale. I'm too enmeshed in other areas to focus much attention on writing. I'm reading novels. I'm watching movies at night. I'm trying to make this Christmas break fun for the kids. I'm trying to soak up every moment with my baby. Before he's not a baby anymore.

What's that saying? 'Wherever your efforts go, There, too, goes your heart?' 'Where your time goes, there goes your heart?'

Whatever the specifics are, that's where I am right now. My time is going in different directions. It's okay. I'll find forward motion again, enough for blogging and living all at once. But here goes my heart...

I look down at my sweet boy's eyelashes, resting on his round cheeks. His fist clenched around the neckline of my tank top. His legs bunched up between my hip and the chair's arms.
Here goes my heart. Here is where my current efforts must lie. Here, and with the big girls sleeping in the next room, sprawled across their beds and tangled in their blankets.

Here, and in the living room, with my husband. With his arm wrapped around my shoulders as we sink into the couch after an exhausting bed time routine. Here, and lying in bed, talking long past the time we should be asleep. Laughing at the antics of our children. Wondering about the future. Planning.

And my writing is still whispering around the edges of my effort; it will always be there. Sometimes more dormant than others. Never gone, always wished for. Sometimes usurped. And the other issues -- the more selfish, pride-gratifying issues of readership and comments and everything else -- can be dealt with later.

My heart doesn't have the extra strength to go there right now. For now, it will be here: rocking a baby and tickling a preschooler and dreaming with a kindergartner and kissing a husband. And that is the perfect amount of enough.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Hyacynth's place today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

The Christmas That Was

2011-12-27T21:18:00.000-06:00

Oh, the noise, noise, Noise, NOISE!

Just kidding. We actually had a fantastic Christmas, with only a (great big) bit of craziness. The usual amount, for us.

But the fun! That was above average.

Have a look-see:

And then we broke for Christmas Tea and waffles. Seriously. There was time for that because I refused to go batty over the mountains of gift wrap littering our living space. Tea calmed me right down.

And then we stared at the pretty baby. Something every holiday celebration could use a little extra of, in my completely unbiased opinion.

Still, there was more. More presents, more family, more crazy....

And...

more pretty baby.

It was a fantastic day. Blessings flew around all over the place.

We caught them in our hearts (and on our memory disks).

Hope your Christmas was wonderful, friends!

A Holiday Exclamation from Mia

2011-12-23T09:56:00.000-06:00

*sigh*

Great gracious.

I do apologize that you've had to witness

such craziness around here.

But rest assured...

I'm here to keep things normal.

I'm here to be angelic.

I'm here...

to open presents.

And if everyone around me

is driven wild by Christmas,

I'll just have to remind them...

to be cool.

Just. Be. Cool.

And have a VERY Merry Christmas!

Bigger Picture Moment: Sticky, but Perfect

2011-12-22T00:01:00.009-06:00

The overnight rain had finally dripped and blustered its way into a watery horizon when I woke up yesterday morning. Sunlight glanced in around the edges of dusty window shades, promising brightness and joy.
Mostly, the sun's predictions were correct; the day was wonderful. The first day of Christmas break, with all of my kids home at the same time, without schedules or commitments or the need to remove our pajamas until lunch time. In fact, the only reason we ventured out at all was for a fun play date. Nothing marred the day's happiness.

But the sun's foresight hadn't reached all the way into the evening.

Justin's forced absence for work meetings left me floundering. It was only for a few hours, but wouldn't you agree that bedtime is the most inopportune time to be tackling children alone? The baby wouldn't nap for his last burst of sleepiness, instead opting to cry for a few weary hours. The girls opted to make a pallet on their bedroom floor and celebrate Christmas vacation with a camp-out. I opted to let them. Despite strict instructions to not bother me while I put Landon to bed, they wrestled and argued and tattled and fussed while I tried to console the baby in the next room.
And while Landon was crying and not nursing himself to sleep because he's developed a recent aversion to comfort nursing of any sort, I wondered:

What would happen if one day, I could suddenly see all that lay before me of the day's possibilities? What if I saw all the frustrations mounting into piles of categorized stress? How would I have the strength to push myself headlong into the maelstrom of swirling wildness that is my family? Would it be possible to embrace the parts that would send me shivering and fearful into a corner, until I was certain that someone -- anyone -- would arrive to help me get through the rough patches?

What would I do, or change, if I knew beforehand that someone would come thisclose to falling on the baby as he lay on the kitchen rug before dinner? What would I feel if I was guaranteed an evening of crying and arguing? How would I cope with the promise of milk spraying into my angry infant's face as he works through whatever nursing issues are plaguing us?

And I don't know the answer.

Or maybe I do: I wouldn't do anything differently. (Well, I would probably move the baby out of the middle of the busy kitchen floor.) Because if I were allowed to see all the wildness that was bounding in my direction, I know what else I'd see.

In the magic mirror or gazing ball or sepulchral premonition of my warning, there would also have been proof of happiness. So, not so sepulchral after all.

I would see Mia asking her little sister to tell her a bedtime story. (Because Lauren's stories are, beyond compare, the most imaginative, nonsensically entertaining things you'll ever hear.) I would see the lit-up faces of two little girls who'd just been granted permission for a camp-out. I would see my sweet baby boy almost laughing in the middle of a giant grin. I would see exhaustion kick in long enough for him to gaze at me with relief as he finally understood that a latch and a suckle were good things to strive for. I would see a mom inhaling the moments and the expressions and the sights of the family she loves.

It's all intertwined in an imperfect braid of life. Strands are tangled and fallen and sometimes too slippery-beautiful for their own good, but the braid -- at the center of its woven heart -- is glorious. Shining and strong and glorious.
So no matter what the sun promises or how I interpret the day's forecast, I know this:

It will be beautiful.

And probably a bit sticky.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us here today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Holiday Exclamation from Lauren

2011-12-21T09:18:00.000-06:00

Yo, yo, yo!

It's gettin' crazy up in here!

Mom's playin' Christmas carols

like, WOW!

I mean, I love a good Santa song

but...

when Mom starts dancing

well...

things get all WHACKED OUT!!

So I figure

if you can't beat 'em

JOIN 'EM.

Merry Christmas!

A Holilday Exclamation from Landon

2011-12-20T09:10:00.000-06:00

Oh, snap!

It's almost Christmas,

and Mom has yet to bake anything...

wrap anything...

or decorate anything!

(Except the tree, I mean.)

Could it be?

That she is using all of her veritable mom-perfection

to cuddle

and snuggle

and laugh

and coo...

with ME?!

Yup.

Pro'lly so.

Merry Christmas, ya'll.

Peace on earth and...

Peace out!

Danielle's Birth Story

2011-12-19T09:27:00.003-06:00

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life. Danielle of Sugar and Snails shares her story today and -- as usual for sweet Danielle -- it's beautifully told. Be sure to make her feel welcome and then hop over to her blog to get to know her better. You'll be so glad you did.

I had my first baby in a hospital.

The labor was 36 hours long and in my humble opinion, it was arduous and harrowing.

My baby girl was healthy. I was healthy. By most accounts it was a successful birth, if not entirely perfect.

Two years later, I was expecting our second child and my husband, Nick, and I decided we wanted things to be more relaxed and peaceful than they had been at our daughter’s birth. We chose a free-standing birth center with a midwife instead of a hospital in an effort to improve our odds of having a natural delivery in a tranquil setting.

We had a plan and a place; now it was all about timing – waiting for our baby’s birthday to arrive.

The following is the story of how the timing part got in the way of our best-laid plans and how I learned a new way to measure my own success at delivering a baby.

Here is my birth story:

It was a Saturday evening in late May and summer in north Florida was just starting to kick into high gear. Nick had left that morning for one final business trip to Dallas before our baby’s due date in three weeks.
I had settled our then 2-year-old, Liliana, into her bed and curled up on the couch to rest.

I scooted the old white T-shirt of Nick’s that I was wearing over my belly to reveal the tiny elbows and knees rolling under my tightly stretched skin. I laughed at the prenatal gymnastics going on in there and got to thinking about how soon this baby would be in my arms. Then, realizing how tired I was, I decided to head to bed.

A few hours later, I woke up in a puddle of warm fluid.

For a good five minutes I lay in bed, vacillating between shock and denial at the labor-prompting development that had just happened. When I just couldn’t ignore the discomfort anymore, I rolled out of bed, grabbed a towel and called our midwife to ask if this slow, continual leak could be something else – not real labor.

She said no, this was indeed the real deal and that I needed to get my husband home pronto. That was bad news, for sure, but it was the next part of the conversation that was the hardest for me to come to terms with.

My midwife told me that if I delivered within the next 48 hours, I would still only be 36 weeks pregnant, which isn’t actually considered full-term. She was not allowed to deliver pre-term babies at the birth center, so I would have to have our baby at a hospital -- the type of birth I had so hoped to avoid.

I tried not to panic while I called Nick and started thinking up a new plan.

I packed a bag and made a list of friends to call in the morning to arrange for care for Liliana and a back-up labor coach should Nick not make it home in time.

The hours ticked away slowly as I tried to rest and not freak out.

By mid-morning, my contractions still eluded me, which was a blessing until Nick came home. Then, I would have done anything to feel those comforting, familiar pains of early labor. At this point, the longer we waited for labor to begin, the greater the risk of infection to our baby without the protection of amniotic fluid.

Nick and I ferried Liliana to a friend’s house that evening, and we went out to dinner. I ate spicy food and walked and walked. Still no contractions. By 6 the next morning – day two of our situation -- I felt like we needed some help.

We had to go to a hospital.

It was Memorial Day, so the labor-and-delivery floor was pretty quiet – no scheduled inductions or C-sections on account of the holiday.

We filled out reams of paperwork, and then a nurse led me to a triage room, where I was coerced into removing my favorite Counting Crows concert T-shirt in order to don a hospital gown.

This was really happening now.

The doctor who was in charge of my care introduced herself and she seemed competent and caring. She also had some good news for us. Since I was already five centimeters dilated, a little Pitocin would jumpstart some contractions and the baby would be out in no time.

Soon there were needles in my arm, antibiotics and artificial hormones pulsing through my veins and two bulky heart-rate monitors strapped uncomfortably around my mid-section. I couldn’t see how I was supposed to have a natural delivery under these circumstances. I wasn’t allowed to get up or to eat and I was discouraged from moving at all, so as not to disrupt the heart-rate monitor feeds.

Tears pooled in my eyes as I stared at white hospital walls and waited for the contractions.

Then, there was Nick.

While the nurses settled me into the delivery room, he had run to the car to grab the portable CD player and my favorite pillow. He even smuggled in a granola bar for me when the nurses weren’t looking.

It had seemed to me that no one else was thinking of my comfort, but Nick was.

In the next few hours, the contractions finally started and I felt the real work of labor taking hold. It was welcome pain. Within an hour, though, the Pitocin-spiked contractions reached a new level. They sent a hot, searing pain to the core of my body, the intensity of which I had never felt before.

In a desperate attempt to gain some control over my body’s reaction to the pain, I found Nick’s eyes again and he reminded me that those intense contractions meant that we would meet our new son or daughter any minute now.
I started to moan and yell and twist, and my body started to do on its own what I wasn’t capable of telling it to do.
When I realized what was happening, all I could say was: Push. Push. PUSH!

In an instant the doctor and nurses were around me, animated and loud. The lights seemed so bright and I didn’t want to be on my back for another second, but I couldn’t gather enough words to tell anyone that, so I just continued to push.

I pushed from my soul, from my toenails and from the very depths of my being once, twice, maybe a third time, and at last, our baby emerged.

He was a perfect, 5-pound squalling baby boy with spiky hair and fuzzy, bird-like limbs.

When the nurses placed my son in my arms and with my husband at our side, the hospital and all of its cords, lights and beeping noises drifted far away from us.

Here was Calvin Ray and he was perfect.

I nursed him. I swaddled him and kissed him. I touched his dark hair and held him close. I was in awe of the beautiful thing that had emerged from this ugly situation.

The doctor congratulated me and remarked at how well I had handled the pain. She told me I had made it look so easy and that Nick and I should teach classes on how to do that.

I hadn’t felt like it was easy. I hadn’t felt comfortable with anything that had happened to me that day. I had wanted it to be so different. But when I heard the doctor tell me how it looked from the outside, I realized why it had seemed so effortless: I had been forced to relinquish my control and something greater had taken over.

The pain and the momentum of the labor forced my strong will to get out of the way, and to let my body do its work.

Our children don’t know it, but they’re always teaching us things. My tiny Calvin showed me that some of our most treasured moments happen in the midst of messed up circumstances.

His entry into the world taught me that sometimes I need to let go and that doesn’t mean everything is going to fall apart on us. There’s something bigger holding us up all the time.

I also think whatever happens to us in childbirth tells a story about how we might handle adversity as parents. I hope Calvin’s birth story has prompted me to step out of the way when what I have planned just isn’t working for us.

I also hope that it will remind me to let Calvin be who he’s supposed to be, because I’m certain it’s a whole lot more remarkable than anything Nick and I could design on our own.

The Most Important Thing

2011-12-18T10:50:00.000-06:00

“What’s the most important thing humans need to have to be alive?”

My kindergartner’s eyes twinkled across the dinner table as she anticipated stumping me with some newfound knowledge. Since beginning school, she’s taken a know-it-all thrill in relaying her newest educational conquests each day.

“Did you know that baby bats…” she’ll begin. “And the quarter has Washington’s picture…” she reminds me. Quite often, she relays something I’d either forgotten or never knew in the first place. (Bats, by the way, are fascinating creatures.)

There are also times she offers a scrap of information with such joy, I can’t bear telling the truth: I already knew that. I figure that even if I’m being somewhat disingenuous, she’s reinforcing her education by teaching others what she learned that day. And she’s adding to her excitement over what she might learn next.

But part of me (probably the know-it-all part which she has, indeed, inherited from me) wants to stump her once in a while. I want to be the one to bring scraps of awesome information on which she can sharpen her mind.

Since my daughter is usually skeptical of any knowledge I might presume to assert, I find myself trying overly hard to convince her of my intelligence. If we’re talking about an upcoming event, I try to work in a discussion about the event’s topic – something fascinating, of course. Or I’ll insert a sneaky lesson into every instance of conversation. If she asks for a story, I’ll do my darndest to make it address a current issue we’re working to resolve at home, like sharing or compassion.

While she does love learning something new, she almost never sits still long enough to hear my pretentious story when all she wanted was a bit of imaginary entertainment.

So much for bringing an awesome scrap of information, eh? Now, if I’d invite her to add bits of creativity and excitement to the story, then we might be getting somewhere.

As it is, I’ve had to train myself to not be quite so intentional. I don’t mean as a parent in general; I wholeheartedly believe that it’s my job to think ahead about how I should be parenting my children. But at least in these moments of excited discussion, I need to take her lead. Let her be intentional. Let her be interesting.

When she asks a question about what’s necessary to sustain life, that’s probably not the time to wax philosophically about how much the human race depends upon peace and love in order to thrive. It’s probably not the time to list, in decreasing order of importance, all the parts of our world that keep us alive: water, food, shelter, medicine, oxygen, etc. And it’s definitely not the time to show just how intelligent I, as her mother, can be.

I have nothing to prove.

Except, perhaps, just how much I love the second-hand experience of her joyful learning. So as she sat across the table from me, waiting for my answer and expecting to tell me something of which I was sure to be uninformed, I tossed aside any moral lesson I might’ve wished to impart.

Instead, I guessed an answer, as she so desired. And I guessed wrong.

“No, mom!” she crowed with good humor. “Humans need AIR to BREATHE! That’s the MOST important thing!”

And, schooled in the way to interact with her in these moments, I smiled. It was the simplest answer all along.

[Originally published here.]

On Serving Her Majesty, Queen Mia, a Royal Breakfast

2011-12-17T09:27:00.000-06:00

HMQM: Oatmeal! I want oatmeal for breakfast!

Me: Good choice! Do you want it white or brown? (Royal code for 'made with milk or water'.)

HMQM: White! And I want it to be three inches of sweet, okay? If it's only ONE inch, just add a cup of brown sugar. Then, if it's only TWO inches, add another cup. Then when it's THREE inches, it will be sweet enough for me to eat it.

Me: ...okay...

HMQM: And I would like some fresh, cold, ice water and I want to have breakfast in the living room so I can watch my Barbie Christmas movie.

Me: ...bowing...scurrying to complete my task...wondering how to measure inches of sweetness...

Bigger Picture Moment: The Double-Edged Blade

2011-12-15T11:55:00.000-06:00

At the EXACT same time that Landon and I were using the hospital for a small and unpleasant vacation, Lauren was at home.
Being terribly sick.

Her cheeks both held bright, red splotches of color and her lips were vibrant in their heat. Glassy-eyed, she slept and threw-up and cried and stared into space for three days. She didn't eat. By the time I came home late Friday night, she'd lost weight and gained new purple bruises under her eyes. Sad, tired eyes.

It's nothing we haven't been through before -- probably nothing you haven't been through before, either. Sickness with little kids is inevitable and common. And even though we usually know our children will come out okay on the other side of the germ-bridge, there's always that little doubt, clawing for permanence in our minds: what if?

Now that I have three children, our life is more crazy than ever. (It doesn't have to be: I'm just not very adept at creating calm, peaceful settings. Much as I wish I were...) But very little has ever affected me as much as having two very sick children needing me at the same time, while my oldest was turning six-years-old without fanfare because of all the sickness surrounding her family. And not being able to attend to all of my children's needs tore me apart. It felt like a punishment: in order to care for THIS child, you must forsake THIS one. An impossible choice.

But it wasn't impossible, and, thankfully, it wasn't even a choice.

Because I'm surrounded by help.

On the days I feel overwhelmed, it's probably because I've forgotten my help. My foundations of support. My network of love.

Lucky for us, they show themselves when I need them most, even if my eyes were closed to their presence. They dull the double-edged blade of my inability to be everywhere at once, doing everything at the same time.

They are my capable husband, taking days off of work to care for his daughter. They are my parents and mother-in-law, bringing supplies and making sure my one healthy child wasn't without love on her birthday. They are my friends, sitting with me in the hospital so I wouldn't be alone after Justin had to go home, and calling to offer any (any) assistance that would make this all pass by more smoothly.

They are my Lord, receiving the burden of my prayers on strong shoulders as gracefully and lovingly as a mother.

My precious children are all fine now: Landon is without his rattly cough; Lauren's cool, pale cheeks have returned.

And what's more, I've been renewed with hope. Because I'm not alone, and I never will be. My double-edged blade can become dull and pocked with gouges. It can crack and shiver with the weight of another blow. It can become stuck and mired in circumstances that require more power than it has to give.

Because I am not alone.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us today at Melissa's place! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Cough, Mingled with a Melody

2011-12-13T08:29:00.001-06:00

I've got one for you:

What do you call an unwelcome visitor in the midst of the busiest season of the year?

Pneumonia. In a two month old baby.

------------

The hospital room contained three noises: the rattle and choke of Landon's mucousy lungs as he tried to fall asleep in my arms, the intermittent pump of his IV, and the rasp of the rocking chair's rear upswing as we rocked.

Justin slumped in a deep chair across the room from us, closing his eyes against the morning's stress. If I had to guess what he was seeing behind his eyelids, I'd say it was a combination of the doctor's face as she urged us to go to the hospital and the way Landon looked so helpless on the exam table as nurses tried to take urine and blood samples and start an IV.

His veins were entirely too small for anything like success to happen, and after six needle pokes in five locations on his tender limbs, the nurse finally got a line started on his head. For 45 minutes in the exam room, Landon lay on his back while they extracted the necessary bodily fluids to diagnose his condition. His eyes -- crying with real tears -- almost never left their lock on my own. I knew exactly what he was saying to me as I watched the nurses' progress.

Pick me up, mama. Please, hold me. Make this stop.

And I would have. Except I was desperate to know what was causing my sweet boy such distress. Days of choking coughs followed by fevers and inconsolable crying. He was pale. He wouldn't nurse. He wouldn't relax. He barely slept. He just cried, in an exhausted, inevitable way.

So we went to the hospital, and settled in for a nice, December visit. The chest x-ray showed pneumonia.

------------

I couldn't stand the silence of those three noises. They were an orchestra of sadness and worry. So I started singing a lullaby to help ease Landon into restfulness.

Lightly row, lightly row

o'er the flashing waves we go.

Smoothly glide, smoothly glide

On the silent tide.

Let the wind and waters be

mingled with a melody.

Sing and float, sing and float

in our little boat.

He slept and rattled, while across the room, Justin fell asleep to the lullaby as well. Eventually, my sweet baby boy nursed and smiled. Overnight, he pinkened up again.

And we went home, late the next night. Tired and thankful. The lullaby feels like a talisman now -- I sing it against the sickness and against the winter and against the worry. It soothes us all.

Lucy's Birth Story

2011-12-12T08:24:00.001-06:00

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life. Today, I'm proud to have Lucy the Valiant tell us her story -- in true Lucy-style. Make SURE you visit her blog and poke around in her archives. She's magic, Lucy is. Magic.

Okay, so, my birth story! Brace yourselves! It’s kind of…gross. At the time, I was so mortified by parts of this story that I could barely bring myself to post it on MY OWN blog. And now, here I am a year later, happily guest posting it for even MORE people to read! Time really must heal all wounds, even mortification!

Ahem.

(Please remember, you guys, this story is Not Cute. This is no gauzy, romantic birthing experience, the memory of which will be retold and cherished for generations. In fact, it gets kind of seriously gross, and I would much rather forget parts of it entirely, FOREVER)

I think I subconsciously expected this birth to be exactly like the last one, only quicker and less dramatic. Which would kind of make it an ideal birth, but that didn't really occur to me.

At first, though, it was a lot better. Instead of being stuck in pre-labor for over a week, I went to the midwife, had my membranes stripped, walked vigorously for an hour (and managed to get a huge, hideously painful blister on the pad of my foot) and then went home with every expectation of going promptly into labor sometime over the weekend. My favorite midwife told me to call her whenever my labor started, even though she wasn't on call, and I had a back-up appointment for Tuesday to start labor if it hadn't yet.

And there was NO WAY that I wasn't going to go into labor before Tuesday!

Except for, absolutely nothing happened, all weekend. Sigh.

So bright and early on Tuesday morning, I got up and vacuumed all the floors and finished up various obsessive cleaning/organizing projects. Then we took Ariel to my sister's house, and picked up my mama and Kanga, and made the drive to the birth center.

We waited around for an hour or so, making jokes and being silly, while they cleaned up from an earlier birth. Then the midwife broke my water the rest of the way, and sent me off to do various labor-starting activities. Nipple stimulation and vigorous walking, primarily. But not at the same time, because THAT would be awkward! My contractions finally started up, but they weren't too intense, and the most discomfort that I had from walking around the little park next to the birth center was due to the fact that it was stinkin' hot outside, and I was wearing my Shape-Ups and my calves were killing me.

I walked for forty-five minutes, and then went in for a popsicle and a shower. It is official, I LOVE showers when in labor. Detach the shower head, rest on the little bench in there, and go off into a little pain-management place in your head. This is where I like to labor.

I don't know how long I was in there, but eventually I wandered out and the midwife went ahead and checked me. I think I had gone from two centimeters to three and a half, and she went ahead and gave me something off-label to bring the contractions on stronger. I had to lay down for an hour with that stuff, and so I labored in bed, which isn't really my favorite, but wasn't too bad just then. The contractions got a lot stronger, and Joey went from occupying himself with sudoku to coaching me through them. He was amazingly comforting, and I still felt very peaceful and confident.

After the hour was up, I got up and sat on the birthing ball for a while, but it was too unwieldy to really help. So I got back in the shower.

The great irony is that right around this point, I was managing my contractions really well, and as I stared at my reflection through the steam in the bathroom, I felt truly beautiful. Graceful and powerful and primeval. Like something out of a painting, a Birth Warrior. I very much doubt that for the rest of my life, I will ever feel that beautiful and strong again.

You can see where this is going?

(A hint: Not down paths of primeval grace, that's for sure.)

I got out of the shower after a while because I was feeling overheated, and I was very sure that I had made a lot of progress, centimeters-wise, and I wanted to be checked.

I was a four, which isn't really that much progress, is it?

This is when I started to get discouraged, because I had felt like I was going through a lot of intense contractions, but obviously they weren't intense enough, and obviously I had a long way to go. Also, I felt horrible... overheated and dizzy and tired. The midwife suggested that I needed an IV for fluids, which I declined. She also told me to go walk some more, which nearly broke my heart.

It was July. In Texas. At the hottest part of the afternoon. And I already felt overheated. Blech.

Adding insult to injury, the assistant who came out to walk with us was the one person who insisted on talking to me or other people while I was having contractions. Everyone else understood that this was NOT okay to do, that I wanted silence to focus on relaxing, but this lady kept right on chatting, telling me to "blow it out like a birthday candle" and telling Joey to walk me through visualizations of places that we had been together.

Um, not so much.

But I outsmarted them! After a few minutes of this treatment, I threw up all over my shoes.

So after that, I got to go back inside. I demanded some water, and refused an IV, and I'm not really sure where I labored for the next little while. It was starting to get seriously Rough.

And when the midwife checked me again and I was STILL a FOUR... I was pretty sure that I would just die. Since I couldn't be trusted to go outside and walk, and anyway, it was storming by then, the midwife gave me another dose of whatever medication it was.

And I promptly threw that up, and continued to heave. Dry heaving WHILE contracting is a miserable experience, is all I have to say. I lost all my focus and discipline and Bradley training for a while there. Instead I just kind of writhed on the bed and cried and clutched at Joey.

The midwife insisted that I take the IV, and she gave me fluids and an anti-nausea medicine. As soon as the bag emptied, I was shaking uncontrollably from the cold fluids, and I went BACK to the shower to warm up.

I also completely stopped speaking to anyone, and would only nod or shake my head. I'm pretty sure that I stopped even thinking in words, if that makes any sense. I was so tired and wilted-feeling already, and the anti-nausea medicine made me drowsy on top of that. So I sat firmly on the bench in the shower and ran the shower head around and around my belly in circles. In between contractions I actually fell asleep, and during contractions I was able to manage the pain again, focusing it all downward into the bench. I stopped crying and moaning, and barely made a sound at all, just drifted in and out. There was always someone in the room with me, usually Joey, but they could have been a million miles away for all I knew.

After about an hour, I came back to myself enough to worry that if I stayed in the shower any longer, I would start to get overheated again. I stepped out, and asked to be checked again, and I was dilated to... an EIGHT. That is four centimeters in an HOUR. Everyone congratulated me and I nodded briefly. The midwife wanted me to go empty my bladder, and I discovered that sitting upright on the toilet was nearly as good as sitting on the bench in the shower, only without the risk of passing out from too much hot water. So they tucked a pillow behind my back, and I sat there a few minutes, focusing the pain downwards again, which really did help, and not talking to anyone.

And then. I realized that I needed to...poop.

Probably you already know that when you're in labor, and you start pushing, some poop comes out. I was aware of this fact last time, and I really had hoped that I would be so busy pushing a baby out that I wouldn't even NOTICE if I was so unfortunate as to poop in front of God and everybody. That wasn't the case last time, and I always felt embarrassed about it. (Little did I know!) So when I felt that urge this time, I thought, fine. I'm already on the toilet, I'm going to be fully dilated soon, how great would it be if I could just get the poo out of the way decently without anyone seeing?

So I went with it. And promptly started screaming and gripping onto the bars next to the toilet with all my might. The midwife heard me and ran back down the stairs, and suddenly everyone was in my face. Hardly the private elimination that I had been hoping for!

And then they started trying to pull me off the toilet, but met with little success because of how tightly I was clinging to those bars.

"Really, I'm fine!" I gasped, "I just am pooping!"

"No honey," Someone said, "You're pushing!"

"No I PROMISE, I'm just pooping, I can FEEL it!"

"Lucy, you don't want to have this baby on the toilet, you need to come over to the bed now."

"Yeah, but just let me finish this first, okay? I am POOPING HERE!"

"Well, come and poop on the bed, then." Said the imperturbable midwife.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I shrieked, but to no avail, they hauled me off the toilet and to the bed. And out came Nessie's head.

Now, I distinctly remembered what pushing was like from last time. The midwife checks you, and tells you that you are fully dilated and may begin pushing. You wait for the next contraction, and then push when you are told to. You do this enough times, and voila! A baby comes out!

This was so far from that nice, predictable experience that I could not register it as the same thing at all. I was so upset that I completely LOST my head. All I could think of was fighting everything that was going on, because it all felt so out of control. I clamped my legs together, and it took Joey on one side, and about four people on the other, pulling my knees apart (I still have bruises on one leg) so that the midwife could deliver the rest of the baby, which took literally no time at all.

I calmed down once they put her on my stomach, and after I stopped cooing at the baby, I said, "WHAT the HECK was THAT?" to the room at large.

After that, everything was amazingly smooth sailing. You know, apart from the soul-crushing humiliation that I had been screaming about poop while my daughter was entering the world, and that I had physically fought everyone, and that I had lost my head so completely, and that you KNOW I am going down in birth center history as the Girl Who Wouldn't Get Off The Toilet To Have Her Baby... things like that.

It's seriously so embarrassing.

But we were all in great shape physically, and Nessie carried on the theme of the evening by covering both of us in meconium. We both had baths and got checked over (and I DID NOT TEAR ONE BIT, HALLELUJA!) and everyone ate some delicious take-out, and then we signed a waiver to go home early. And we picked up Ariel, even though it was midnight, because I couldn't stand for her to spend the night away from me, and we went home to be a family of four.

The End.

Now, admit it, you TOTALLY feel better about yourself after reading that, don't you? It's okay, I understand.

Chapter Books vs. Picture Books

2011-12-11T10:37:00.000-06:00

I remember sitting by a snow-blown window on Christmas break with a chapter book in my small hands, reading for hours. I remember treasuring the stories so much that I couldn’t imagine any greater joy than reading.

Now, a couple of decades later, nothing much has changed. I would still rather read a book than do almost anything else, except perhaps, share this love of reading with my kids. I’ve been so excited for my daughters to grow old enough that we could snuggle together with classic children’s literature that I’ve possessed an almost single-minded pursuit of novels.

I’ve made lists of stories to read-aloud together, in the hopes that the enjoyed experience would fuel their own literary pursuits. Little House on the Prairie, Peter Pan, The Indian in the Cupboard, Wizard of Oz, The Borrowers; the books I want to share with them are countless and wonderful.

Over the past year or so, we’ve begun making our way through a few of them, with varying levels of success. My six-year-old loved Peter Pan and Little House on the Prairie, but was a little flummoxed by Alice in Wonderland. (And who isn’t, really?) But in all of my enthusiasm, I may have jumped in just a little too quickly.

There have been times when I’d look over at the supposed-listener, only to find her playing with a toy instead of paying any attention to the story. Or, if she was listening intently, we had to stop a dozen times per page to clarify issues or words or motives. Those aren’t bad reasons to interrupt the reading, but they did tell me that maybe that particular book was a little beyond our comprehension level.

And the frustrating truth of busy lives: chapter books take time that we have to purposefully carve into our days. If we happened to miss a few days, it became harder and harder for my kindergartner to retain interest.

Sadly, we’ve slowly retreated from chapter books. Not entirely; we still attempt them, and we’ll choose them more and more as the kids grow. I know my kids will eventually be better able to digest the longer, more involved books. But my zealous love of the mighty chapter isn’t the most important part of our family story times.

As we’ve started choosing some of our old favorite picture books again, we’ve discovered hidden treasures. Not only can we read as a family, without the three-year-old becoming bored by the pictureless novels, but we can read in bulk. The variety keeps our kids interested, and isn’t that the point? To plant a love of stories in our kids that will carry them through to a love of reading? So we choose the books for younger children without feeling like we’re dropping the literary ball. These stories are just as helpful, if not more-so in some ways.

Since we have an early reader now, she’s able to look at the picture books and begin to actually read them. She knows many of them by heart and the pictures help give her clues for the more complicated words. She gains confidence with these simple books, sharpening her reader’s brain with practice and enthusiasm.

And I get to sit back and marvel at things like the passage of time and the wonder of learning and the joy of childhood.

We’re not abandoning picture books for chapter books, or vice versa. We’re embracing them all as vital parts of our reading adventure, and appreciating their treasures.

[Originally published here.]

'Twas the Write Before Christmas: Day 2

2011-12-06T22:06:00.000-06:00

...Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel...

Cruel it may be, yet lovely -

Whispers of crystal and ice.

Feathered,

frozen,

fragile;

fragmented with gleaming light.

It is a damp breath exhaling -

cold silence trembling down.

Caressing,

covering,

crispening;

ruining green into brown.

Need an outlet for your creativity this Christmas? Inspiration that may channel your unshared gifts into fruition? Join us at Bigger Picture Blogs this week for 'Twas the Write Before Christmas, and spread your gifts! Be inspired, take a break from the busyness, and give life to your ideas....we can't wait to see what you come up with!

Londa's Birth Story

2011-12-05T09:12:00.001-06:00

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life. Today's story comes from Londa at The Sneaky Mommy, where she writes about all things wonderful: her sweet family, faith, simple tips and tricks, and DELICIOUS-looking recipes that always make me want to go bake something immediately. Be sure to stop by and say hello!

Awhile back, a young college girl scoffingly said to me, "Why do moms always have to share their birth stories?" I was completely caught off guard by her statement. I couldn't imagine not loving baby stories. I stammered a quick apology if I'd ever offended her with my stories, but her comment continued to linger in my mind.

As I was nursing our new baby a few days later in the company of two other moms, I threw out the question: Why do we always feel so compelled to share our babies' birth stories? One mom quickly threw back: Because it instantly bonds us! That's it! I love to hear and share the stories of babies because it does create an instant bond with other moms! So here we go: let's bond a bit!

Our Little Surprise
Last fall, my husband and I received the biggest surprise ever: we were pregnant with baby number FOUR! I don't exactly remember how I got from our bathroom to my husband in the living room with the positive test waving in my shaky hand. I couldn't utter a single word--it was pure shock! Our other children were four year old twin boys and a seven year old girl--a new baby wasn't exactly in our plans. Yet we couldn't help but be excited! Would it be a boy? a girl? twins?

We dutifully went to all the monthly doctor appointments--always bringing along our other three children. We wanted them to share in this special surprise for our family. We even began hoping for a girl to even the genders in our family, but, to our surprise, this baby would be a boy!

At 37 weeks along, I was really beginning to feel the discomforts of pregnancy. We were all getting more and more excited and antsy to meet our new baby! Just three weeks to go...so we thought! After a fun 4th of July celebration, I just couldn't fall asleep. It seemed there was something going on. I'm pretty sure I made a million trips to the bathroom in the night.

The next morning came and my contractions started to fall into a little rhythm. I called the doctor. Could they see me and just make sure everything was okay? Hesitantly, they scheduled an appointment with the on-call doctor. Surely, I was just overreacting. We still had three weeks to prepare, right? The kids all came along...I was sure I'd be sent home.

My name was called and I corralled our three children into the little exam room. The nurse had me lie on my back and wait for the doctor. Not only was it painful, there was also something else going on...wetness! I was absolutely mortified! When the doctor finally came in, he took one look at me...one look at the puddle...and said, "It looks like you'll be having a baby today! Congratulations!" The kids all cheered and I cried! Having our baby come three weeks early was yet another surprise for which I wasn't prepared.

After throwing together a hospital bag, purchasing Happy Meals for the kids, and notifying both grandmas, we were on our way to the hospital. The contractions were picking up with intensity. I was sure this would be a quick labor!

Once settled at the hospital, our good friend, Audra, took over as my labor nurse. (I can't even tell you how wonderful it was to have a good friend as our nurse!) We speculated how dilated I would be--6, 7, 8? No. Three. Three measly centimeters. It suddenly seemed like the day was going to start dragging on forever. The kids were kissed and whisked away by Grandma. An epidural was put in place and pitocin was started to help get this show on the road. I was ready for a little rest. However, once again, our baby boy had a surprise for us.

Baby's heart rate started dropping during the contractions. Not wanting to take any chances, the doctor was called and we began to hear whispers of a c-section. I was fine with this plan as long as it meant my baby would be safe. Suddenly, the baby's heart rate dropped with a contraction and never bounced back up. This is when things began to really move. Sweet Audra got very close to my face and calmly said, "You're going to need to go in for an emergency c-section. Things are going to get very wild, loud, and fast. You will be fine. Hang on." Yet another surprise with this little guy!

Maddox made his dramatic entrance into the world just seven minutes later! My husband held our baby, and I kissed his sweet little head. It felt like pure velvet. I was overwhelmed with love for our perfect, beautiful little baby.

Back in our room, family flooded in to see our new little guy. Everyone was instantly smitten with his perfect little lips, big dark eyes, soft chubby cheeks, and tiny fingers. He was perfect!

Twelve weeks later...Maddox is as sweet as can be. He is so full of smiles, coos, and giggles! What a perfect surprise!

Keep Calm and Clean On

2011-12-04T14:26:00.000-06:00

Her bedroom looked as if it had had its lid removed and its contents stirred with a spoon. A giant, preschooler-shaped spoon.

Every toy she owned peppered the carpeted landscape and she stood in the middle of it all, staring with worry at my bulging eyes and gaping mouth.

The massive destruction she’d caused made my insides curl up and whimper. Cleaning up the mess would require painful amounts of effort on my part, I was sure. Because this was no random occurrence in our home. This was a repeat performance.

For weeks, my preschooler and I had been in an ongoing battle of wills. She made messes so large that they could reasonably be called disasters, while I stood by dictating the cleanup of each wayward item and she firmly refused every direction. But weeks of fighting had yielded few results other than anger and frustration.

I considered the idea that we simply had too many toys, and while that may be true, it’s also true that I should be able to expect my daughter to learn how to pick up after herself.

I’d tried simple explanations like, “If you put back one toy before you get another one, you’ll have less work to do later.” She had nodded her head as if she understood the wisdom exactly, but at the end of playtime, the room would be in upheaval.

I’d tried confiscating the toys she refused to clean up: she simply did not care. The box I’d allocated for ‘lost toys’ was overflowing and I still ended up being the one to pick them up off the floor. It felt like a step backwards. Like I was cleaning her room for her.

I’d tried watching over her as she played, making sure to remind her about putting away one toy before choosing another, but after several days of this, she still wouldn’t do it without immediate supervision. I had daydreams of following her through her adult life, telling her exactly what to do at each crossroads.

Although the sight of a disastrous bedroom drives a little piece of my brain towards insanity, the situation will only be temporarily solved if I keep resorting to controlling each of her actions while she either plays or cleans. And since my forcing her into it with anger was only making our afternoons miserable, I made the choice to back off.

No, she doesn’t get off the hook for the messes she makes. She is still responsible for her actions just as I am responsible for my reactions. I can choose not to stand over her, becoming more and more frustrated with the mess-making or room-cleaning process.

Instead, after I replaced my bulging eyes into their sockets, I smiled benignly and said, “Wow, it looks like you had a wonderful playtime today! As soon as this is all put back neatly, you can come out and have a snack with us.” Then I turned around and went about my business. Without demands or force or anger.

And two hours later, after much whining and grumpiness on her part, she came out for snack time. Which had turned into dinner time.

With any luck, she’ll learn to understand the wisdom behind not making giant messes in the first place, or start cleaning up peacefully without refusals and tantrums.

Either way, I won’t let her messy room steal my serenity; I need all I can get.

[Originally published here.]

Smileyface

2011-12-02T10:25:00.000-06:00

For all the sweetness of THIS calm face...

THIS one makes me positively giddy.

Landon is the smileyest baby I've ever met. His favorite game to play is to stare into the face of the nearest person, smile exuberantly, and wait for their return smile. This game never gets old.

Which means I'm the smileyest mama this side of the blogosphere.

This is How People Go Crazy

2011-11-29T08:49:00.001-06:00

Step 1: Agree to take a road-trip on a holiday weekend with a 7-week-old baby boy and his two sick sisters. Wait patiently on the morning-of to ascertain that the 5-year-old will be able to travel without (a) vomiting or (b) crying. Hit the road.

Step 2: Be sure to forget 3 out of 4 toothbrushes and mom's deodorant. Remember the snack bag at the expense of proper hygiene.

Step 3: Plan to stop every 55 minutes for either bathroom breaks, bottom-wiggle breaks, baby-nursing breaks, or wrong-turn breaks.

Step 4: Fail to make time adjustments based on gale-force winds and driving rain on the highway. (But be thankful for the loudly lashing raindrops which help the baby sleep for the first half of the drive. They help mask the constant cries from the back seat which holds the world's most lovably impatient sisters.)

Step 5: Let the 5-year-old sleep on the floorboards of the car at a rest stop until her headache goes away. Be worried that you'll never arrive at your destination.

Step 6: Treat the kids to your evil foe: happy meals with zero nutritional redeeming value, and 100% unknown food(ish) substances because you are SURE the Hello Kitty toys will erase the misery of the road-trip. Watch as both kids refuse most of the nasty food. Watch as one kid doesn't even open her Hello Kitty toy. Watch her cry from a returned headache.

Step 7: Enjoy your visit with family. Laugh and hug and converse. Say goodbye too soon.

Step 8: Turn around 27 hours after your journey began, and head home.

Step 9: Wonder what that blinking light on your dashboard is indicative of. Pull out the Nissan owner's manual. Stop at a gas station to check the tire pressure -- use your magical pressure-reading skillz because you don't own a pressure gauge.

Step 10: Repeat step 3.

Step 11: Be pleased when the baby finally nurses for a good, looong stretch of time because the car is otherwise empty (and peacefully quiet); the big kids are playing on the grass beside a gas station with your good-sport of a husband. Leave the gas station after a 30 minute layover.

Step 12: As soon as you hit the highway again, wait for your brain to ooze from your ears when your 3-year-old forces an emergency U-turn to the SAME gas station you just vacated. Clench your jaw because you know she can't help her body's urges.

Step 13: Wait in a line of grumpy women in a 3-stall restroom wherein 2 stalls are made unusable due to lack of toilet paper and one stall is occupied with a long-suffering (and probably embarrassed, poor thing) mother and her young son.

Step 14: Take your turn in the stall (finally).

Step 15: Lose the jaw-clenching contest when your 3-year-old declares she doesn't, after all, have to go number two.

Step 16: March back to the vehicle. Switch drivers.

Step 17: Return to the highway.

Step 18: Remember that it's dinner time.

Step 19: Drive immediately to the nearest mental-health facility and check yourself in. Call grandma to pick up the kids. Tell her they're hungry. And they probably have to go number two.

Step 20: Drool. Care not.

Robin's Birth Story

2011-11-28T09:10:00.001-06:00

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life. I'm so happy to share Robin's birth story today! If you've never met her, you must remedy that now; Robin is an outstanding writer and storyteller, a generous and supportive friend, and the best kind of mother. You NEED Robin in your life -- get started now at her blog, The Not-Ever-Still Life.

I have two daughters followed by a son, so I'm feeling very simpatico with Sarah right now. My oldest is in kindergarten as well, and my second child is three (and three quarters, she'd insist I add), but my baby boy is 19 months old, and the allure of birth stories is something I haven't considered in a while. My boy's birth was my most tense, a dramatic one following freak blizzards and week-long power outages, but I've already written that one before. This is the birth story of my eldest, the story that took me from person to mama.

I had an enviable pregnancy. I know this because my girlfriends mocked me. "Are you sure you're even pregnant?" I had a few symptoms: my breasts were sore. I fell asleep typing, twice. At work. In the middle of a busy office. No biggie. But I never threw up and my ankles didn't swell and my skin looked great and my fine hair grew thick and I never had to wear those beach ball maternity underpants. I just more or less went about my regular life in my low-rise jeans for almost the whole thing.

My blood pressure was low and my weight gain was unremarkable and my body chemistry never went wonky, so I had the 20-week ultrasound to confirm that she existed (she did), and then we measured my belly and laughed at hiccups in my pelvis and bought pink onesies and a new house and our first video camera and assembled a crib and I kept working. I was making my (childless) supervisor nervous, he told me more than once, but I felt fine! I kept working. I kept working and had minimal medical supervision.

At 40 weeks and 5 days, that moment happened - you know the one - the one where the fake contractions and the weird sensations and the warm-up maneuvers prove themselves all to have been just for show, because good grief SOMETHING IS HAPPENING down there and YOU'RE ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY!!??

My moment happened at the gas station. I was a mile from home, and I stopped to get gas. Stopping to get gas was fine. Standing up out of my car to pump it, though -- totally different story.

I stood up and something uncorked, although my water didn't break, but I swear to you some..thing...unattached itself inside. It felt like when you pretend that you know how to use a yoyo so you unleash it once, fine, you feel good about it so you do it again, and that pretty sparkly circle comes right back up to your hand all nice and obedient, and you get cocky and thrust it down with a sparkle in your eye and it drops - thud - straight to the ground and looks up at you; no, GLARES at you - I'm not moving. I like it down here and down here is where I'm staying and if you want me ever to come back up you're going to have to wind me up yourself.

My baby, or my uterus, or the very last ligament that held my center of gravity up at a reasonable height on my not-so-tall body - it pulled a sullen yoyo on me. I knew our daughter was ready to be born.

I got gas and drove home, because that's what you do when you've already driven to the gas station, and I changed into comfy pants and waited for my husband, because even though I knew, I still didn't believe that I knew-knew. My every instinct was screaming "go time!" by my brain was saying second-guess brain things like "but you feel so not-different..."

My internal monologue tends to argue with itself under the calmest of circumstances, and these were not those circumstances.

But that's okay, because my husband did no better! He came home and changed out of his suit and got on the computer and I said something tragically sitcom-cliche-ish like, "honey, it's time to go to the hospital" and he said "okay," and kept typing whatever he was typing. And then I had to say with faux-annoyance, even though I wasn't really annoyed at all, just amused because we're such live-in-our-heads types, both of us, that of course we'd forget to go to the hospital: "BABE."

And then he looked up, finally, and said: "oh. Oh!"

And then I insisted he wait for me while I take a shower.

We went the the hospital eventually, and just like my pregnancy, I had a really uninteresting labor. I did pretty great, I must say. Around 5am the nurses offered to check me again, which you know is just code for seeing how many fingers they can squeeze inside you, and declared that I was there! Ten centimeters! Lookin' good! And then the nurse spoke the fateful words that I will never, ever forget.

If I tell you that on the eve of delivering my first child, a nurse spoke some fateful words, are you imagining "congratulations, you're going to be a mama" or something prosaic like "it's time to push!" or something encouraging like "you can do this?" Maybe that's how it happens sometimes. But in my story, you're imagining wrong.

Instead:

"Hang on. I think I see your baby's butt hole. Don't push. I'm running to get the doctor."

And she ran, and I felt the need to push, and was told not to do that.

So it turned out that in my low-intervention pregnancy, we had had no late-stage ultrasounds, and my skinny baby's scrawny butt felt enough like softish newborn head that no manual check had ever provided that information, either. Suddenly we were concerned about her oxygen levels and her cord placement and five minutes after "I see your baby's butt hole," I was in surgery.

Oh, was that not how I had planned for this birth to happen. But I will tell you this: she was born at 6:01am on the 26th of January, and as the doctor lifted her out of me and we heard her indignant screams, he declared "that's the loudest baby I delivered all month." At the time, we thought he was just congratulating us by way of letting us know that strong screams mean a healthy baby. In time, though, as we looked back at my pregnancy and her birth, we've come to decide that he was neither exaggerating nor speaking reassuringly; rather, she truly is the loudest creature we know, prone to speak her mind, wear her heart on her sleeve and in her vocal cords, and make us remember each and every day that just like when she was born, she will do things HER way at HER pace when SHE is ready. And we should accept her as she is, and love her all the more for it.

And having made us learn that lesson from the get-go, I think she prepared us for parenthood in the most effective way possible.

Dear Sarah,

Truly the world didn't have enough of your flavor of Heavenly yet - thank you for fixing that for us. We're all so happy for you. Also, of all the things I've written online, one of my very favorite pieces is a pep talk at Simple Mom for becoming a third-time mama. I want you to read it because you're going to be so great at being outnumbered. Much love and happiness to your new family of five.

Robin

Practicing Gratitude

2011-11-27T20:20:00.000-06:00

Patience is not my strongest trait.

Compassion, sure. Being routine- oriented, definitely. Helpfulness, hopefully. And I think all of those are valuable parts of my life as a parent. Sadly, I suspect that if a few extra doses of patience were added to my repertoire, I might be unstoppable. A virtual super-mom, with my cape billowing behind me as I zoom from task to task, from loving moment to loving moment.

Instead, I often feel like the evil villain. Scouring the house for reasons to be stressed or irritated. I can spend hours feeling angry that my children won’t stop being wild long enough to listen. I might wallow in doubt for days because I fear that I’m doing everything wrong – can my kids ever turn out right when I’m so plagued by worry?

Someone recently reminded me of a saying that helped snap everything back into focus: It’s impossible to be angry (impatient, worried, frustrated) while giving thanks.

And isn’t that the truth? When gratitude is at the center of our actions, how can we possibly be anything less than calm?

As parents, expressing and showing our gratitude is essential. Our children can approach the world with anxious frustration or with peaceful acceptance, all because of their parents’ attitudes. And parents who are in a habit of thankfulness, either internally or with lots of outward expression, have the ability to influence their children profoundly.

The practice of gratitude can change a stressed-out (impatient, irritable) parent into something else entirely.

And I do believe that gratitude is a practice. After all, thankfulness is sometimes hard to come by. To make it work, we must choose it. We must practice it. Daily and hourly and – sometimes – by the second; it just depends upon the type of day we’re having.

Today, on Thanksgiving, it’s probably easier than it would be on any other random Thursday to practice gratitude.

But how about the regular Thursday that sees a tantrum in the middle of a grocery store? What about the normal day that includes an overturned tub of finger paint on the living room rug? On those days, it can be hard to find anything for which to give thanks.

And our little ones are watching on those days. So we have to dig deep.

Constant gratitude might look like taking deep breaths after being confronted with a toddler dancing on the kitchen table. Instead of panicking and yelling, it’s okay to be thankful for a child who is strong and healthy enough to get into such trouble. It’s okay to be thankful for their energy. And once our fear or anger is under control through the practice of gratitude, it becomes much easier to resolve the issue at hand.

Practiced thankfulness may be choosing to laugh when an entire bookshelf is emptied of its contents instead of barking orders and placing blame. We can be thankful that our kids have plenty of ways to explore within their own home, and opportunities to learn about picking up after themselves.

It may mean making a conscious decision to not be irritated by a preschooler’s begging for attention in all the wrong ways. We can be grateful that our child has a family she can trust to take care of her and love her, even during the most frustrating of behavior.

And when practiced regularly, gratitude can become instinctive, changing our impatient reactions into peaceful results.

Changing us all into thankful super-parents; billowing capes optional.

[Originally published here.]