why i don't need a bigger house

This week finds me making daily trips to the grocery store to replenish my refrigerator and feed work crews, small groups, children, company, lunch dates and friends.

I should keep a running stat on how much cold cereal has been consumed at this house in the last several weeks. . . (wow, do twenty year old guys eat a lot).

What am I learning these days?  I am learning about contentment and creativity. 

My inner American house-glutton constantly desires more. 

Early this year I started praying that God would change our housing situation in order to allow us to minister more effectively. Looking at this thought in black and white words, typed out, it looks like what it is: discontentment cloaked in spiritual needs. 

Cuz see, I wanna have people over and have a little guest suite that they can stay in and stock a fridge in their room. So they're comfortable.   I want their children be able to play in a huge playroom inside when it's raining so that there's relative peace for the adults to talk.  For fellowship.  And definitely I would like a school room so that my kids can learn in a less distracted environment .  For education.

So aren't those valid concerns? 

Well, sort of.

And sort of not.

I watched, a little amazed, as we somehow ended up hosting a small group with thirteen members who do fit into our living room.  The childcare (I was sure this one would stump God) was provided and besides moving some furniture around each week. . . it's really easy to prepare for.

I feel a bit like an observer in my own home watching God work out details that I thought I needed a bigger house to solve.

And this work crew thing.  Some brothers, some friends. . .  sending them all to a hotel was tempting for me.  It's a lot of work.  And laundry.

But then my children would miss moments like these:

It's good, in our fragmented, broken society, to slow down a little, to live a little smaller, to wait our turn to use the restroom, to crowd around a dining room table, to do life with one another.

I know better than to believe that things=happiness, but I live a hypocritical lie when I say that house=hospitality.  It doesn't. 

Hospitality is your heart open to your neighbor, hospitality is an attitude, a generosity, a sharing what I have with you.

**I haven't been able to get Lisa Chan's words on humility and hospitality out of my head. This is a great, quick little listen:  Be inspired to share what you have, no matter how small!

just a little spiderwebbing. . .

Getting to the point in conversations is not a strength for me.

Humbling moment # 256 of the year 2011 was sitting in grief counseling and hearing the great woman working with us turn to Daniel and say, wow. . . she does use a lot of words! I vowed to shut up for good. It lasted about two hours.

I am pretty thankful that I have sisters and girlfriends to share the juicy rambling daily details of life.

One thing I need to be reminded of every single time we go through Love & Respect is how mind boggling this girl-trait of spider webbing is to men.  They want the point of the story first, apparently.  Seems so boring. . .

But Daniel gets so excited when I can whittle down my words and just get to the point.

I love that Dr. Eggerichs points out that given long enough, we can tie all of our anecdotes together;  it is one beautiful story, a picture, a painting in our minds.  This is so clear in my mind, but according to my husband, it comes out in a very confusing manner.

See what you think:



Spiderwebbin' highlights:

Eli screeches if you take something that he wants:  blueberries, his mommy, coffeecake pan into the next room, walking away from the pool. . . so begins his tiny little sin nature. 

Cambria, today:  Dad is leaving for the pire fedartment.  UGH!  I mean fire department. (whispers correct pronunciation under breath about five times to get it right)

Jacob:  Thanks, Mom, for letting us watch Bunza. (Otherwise known as Bonanza.)

Cambria, waxing hypothetical: If someone is not good at tennis, they could just ask Jesus and He could just be the teacher; He'd make them really good at tennis. (We told her the way Jesus would want her to listen to her real teacher and try hard.)

Discovery today:  the kids used my Bath & Body Peach Bellini hand soap for their slip and slide. Die to self, Hayley.  They offered to pay.  I'll probably make them.

Hmm.  I'm thinking none of these little thoughts mesh.  Oh, well.  You can tie it all together and slap the mommy label on it for tonight.

i deleted instagram

Yes, I did.

First of all, let me say what I loved about it.

You know, those moments, when your heart just wants to explode with joy and you wish you'd always remember, like inked fingerprints and footsteps in wet concrete. . . instagram just saves the moment. 

I wanted to eat him up. . . in that lil cowboy hat. . .

so much work. . .the joy was palpable.  last day of school

6:30 am
Cambria brought me breakfast in bed on Mother's Day (with the help of Aunt Elizabeth)
They had Matt Redman's 10,000 reasons playing for me.
I laid in bed and cried for all the joy God has brought back.

small group meeting in our home this summer

he's bald.  hats look good on him.  what can i say?

first tornado warning of the year.  basement camp out

asked Cambria to pack her pj's in her backpack for an overnight at Grandma & Grandpa's
this is what she packed
(note the bug cage)
packing light. . . not so much

And I always have my phone, this appendage that grows off of my arm, that connects me and disconnects me from the world.  So Instagram was always at my fingertips. . . encouraging me to savor the moment, to document, to press my fingers in the ink.

I loved it.

And I am fascinated by it.

It's like a mini microcosm of our own lives, this Instagram phenomenon, this document it generation.

But tell me you haven't done this:

Oh I want to take a picture!

Oh that looks great except for my neighbor's yucky car is in the landscape of my cute baby.

Crop it out.

Reduce the frame.

Reshuffle the baby.

Re-take the picture.

Ahh.

There.

Perfect.

Perfect?


I see a steady stream of these perfect photos, these perfect little snapshots of life, these inkprints of what we choose to show the world of our hearts and homes.

I wonder if we're being a little unfair to each other.

On Monday evenings in June, a bunch of honest friends are reading and discussing this great little read on letting go of the masks that we wear.  As I read, I just keep coming back to this line:

". . .we. . .as women. . .have a responsibility not to create a competitive and hostile environment for [each other]"

Letting Go of Perfect, Amy Spiegel, page 29

And I can't get the Instagram mentality out of my head, this creating of little vignettes, this documenting perfection, this wanting a picture of a sweet child with hands outstretched in the rain.  But her hands aren't stretched right.  here, hold your hands a little higher. And now her face is turned down.  Lift your face up. And now she's frustrated.  Smile like you're having fun!  Suddenly the moment is lost and we're staging life, trying to create perfection out of frustrated children who were indeed having fun five minutes ago. 

Some of this can be easily attributed to my lack of photographic ability and there's nothing wrong with posing for pictures;  but when the very picture meant and designed to be a freezeframe of life becomes something that is prepped and propped then our perception of reality is becoming very skewed.

As I am challenged to create a real environment, to be a safe person, to be honest about the reality that is mine, I'm finding that for me, Instagram is a fake mask too easily ready to wear.

So I deleted the app. 

Ahh, the freedom of being real.

Let us draw near with a true heart. . .and. . .consider how we may motivate one another to love and good deeds. . .[and] encourage one another. from Hebrews 10:22,24,25

on substitutes for life

First of all let me just disclaimer that this is not my normal style of writing and blogging. 

But at this point of my summer if I don't start throwing something up here, there won't be any blog left. 

It's a good thing, I think, this whole blogging/internet connectivity.  There is no longer the feeling of "I'm the only one" because with the vast resources made available by search engines, you can find someone else who shares your joy, your sorrow, your unique circumstances.

This is wonderful when looking for help and answers to needs.

This is not wonderful when you need a hug.

There's no substitute for real life friends.

There are no substitutes for living life. 

For actually licking the ice cream cone.

Catching the lightening bug.

Having friends over to swim.

Kissing newborn fuzzy hair.

Oh but there are substitutes.  I know.  I do the substitutes.  And they're flat.  So much less joy than the hard work of the real thing.

Taking pictures of the kids with their cones. (missing actually eating with them)

Getting the video camera for the first lightning bugs. (missing sharing the joy)

Letting the kids call their friends. (missing the building of a real life relationship)

Scrolling through facebook pictures of the new baby. (missing the  skin, the smell, the drinking it all in)

I don't want to live in the substitute world. 

So we've been pretty busy living in the real one.

It has

messy relationships

pain

friends with endless therapy and Children's Hospital trips

hard work

small groups

van problems

fights about the van problems

spontaneous pizza ordering

park trips

fishing trips

meeting people where they are at

groceries

reading Old Yeller aloud

wonky sleep schedules for the kids = zero sleep for me (okay, I lied.)

(no, I didn't lie.  it FEELS like zero sleep)

Yesterday I carried a scratch piece of paper from my Bible study book over to the trash and scanned as I tossed it; my eyes fell on this line. . . hug your children as often as you feed them, their souls grow on love.

I turned around and immediately met Cambria who was coming to me with some complaint.  I ignored it and picked her up.  She threw her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder.  I was shocked at the urgency and receptivity to my offered hug. *whispers* Mom, I need to spend time with you.

I want to feed their souls.  Not just write about feeding their souls.

In my mind there is this big teeter totter with writing about life on one side and living life on the other.  In my quest for balance, I continue to write because my own need for closure, for sanity, for an outlet drives me on. 

But even as I post this little picture of Jacob's first meal. . . I am mindful of the fact that there was just no substitute for being there.

Five hours of food prep. (whew.  I had no idea it would take him so long.  he meticulously prepared each item.)

That's some strawberry cheesecake mousse that he's preparing. 

Rushing around all flushed and sweaty; everyone shows up at the table.  "You guys are all here already?!" 

two hundred flies that suddenly decided to decsend

goblet shattering at the table

oh but it was real!



Happy Friday to you. . .

Enjoy some real life this weekend!

summer salad time

Menu for the week. . .

Chipotle Chicken Taco Salad & Watermelon & Mangoes

Thai Beef Wraps

Pizza Margherita English Muffin Pizzas (it's good to be flexible)

Jacob cooks

Spinach, Rice & Feta Salad & Grapes

Grilled Corn Salad

Cambria cooks



So I have to explain the JD and Cambria's cooking slots.

Jacob's Menu

This is another brilliant idea that is not original with me. The other night I was listening to my friend Pam explain how she lets her girls plan, shop and prepare an entire meal; they take turns on a weekly basis throughout the summer. 

I loved this idea.  Although I'm not a big fan of little boys doing tons of household chores, learning how to put together a meal is a life skill.  And besides, I pointed out to Jacob, Daniel cooks for his shift frequently.  A nice perk of being the engine driver.  :)

So today they planned their meals.  It was too cute. I was surprised how well their selections meshed and I actually am excited to eat their food!   Cambria couldn't make out her own list, but Jacob did and they went shopping and pushed their own cart. 

I think Cambria is just a little young for the idea, (she needed more coaching) but Jacob owned the whole idea and can't wait to cook his meal. 

At the very least, I think it may give them some appreciation for me!  wink wink

Speaking of appreciation. . .

I am coming off of over a week of vacation and eating out every.single.night and oh. . . it's so fun.

I always come home inspired, though and since I love to cook it's okay that vacation is over.

Plus I had this fun surprise today:

I love peas.  I bought some  sugar snaps at the grocery store today and gritted my teeth when I saw  how expensive they were; but my garden is just not going to win awards any time soon, so into my cart they went.  I was standing at the counter munching on them when my friend Becky knocked on the door bringing me a whole bag  from her mom's farm.

Oh wow, I was so excited.

In early June my mom would always make creamed peas over new potatoes.  We would pick peas out of our garden, shell them into bowls and dig new potatoes up out of the soil  I loved finding those tiny potatoes.  Like buried treasure.  So she would make a cream sauce for the peas and steam the new potatoes and ohhhh it was so yummy.

I ran out to the grocery store again and (the irony of buying this is not lost on me) picked up new potatoes so I could have this tonight:

Thank you thank you Becky!  :)

So what is on your summer menu?

adding ahhhhhhh to the dictionary

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh is the newest word I've added to my texting dictionary.

Over the last month, the word has embodied this emotion: i don't think i can handle one more thing on my plate!

But after a week spent doing stuff like this:

I'm renewed and refreshed and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh has a more stable, relaxed tone. 

As frenetic and crazy as life has become, I'm so happy to be back in our home.  It's where my heart is.

And I keep working on my porch, just so you know.

This is the June edition.

After a writing hiatus of over a month, I have all sorts of stuff to blog about.

why women see beauty in others and not themselves

less than finest hour parenting

love & respect

salad menus

book club

why i don't need a bigger house

& lots of little things like that.

For now, off to buy some Lunchables for Cambria's swim/lunch/pool date.

(I'll probably be back tonight.  Can't believe how much I missed blogging.  See  you at 11 pm.)

porch project & thank you

This week I decided to finally scrape our porch ceiling.  I've been living in denial and ignoring the hanging peels for about five years.

It was time.

I've been working on it in one to two hour increments because that's the way I roll these days.  Or I stay up late and work for a four hour period of time.  Anyway, it's all scraped and primed and ready to go.  Daniel gave me a hand and that's the reason for my progress.

Home improvement thrills me.  Seriously.

Before.  Notice I already have a Pinterest-approved porch ceiling fan.  Just had to remove a bird nest from it. ;)

So I want to go for this look:

rug
boston ferns
(which I've had every summer. . . from Lowe's. . .
because no matter what happens to your plant
if you take the container back to them they will replace it.
My kind of store.)
black planters

color pops
porch swing

real furniture outside
flowers
white white white

I'll keep you updated.

And the kids and I made these tonight:

I have this strange complex of justifying really unhealthy things by adding whole wheat flour.
I present:
Whole Wheat Cinnamon Raisin Pretzels

Really they are just these from Taste of Home.  With w/w flour.

Yum yum.  Lots of easy hands on steps and easy for kids to make.  They loved helping.  :)

A flurry of tornado sightings, sirens, weather alerts and phonecalls sent us all to the basement tonight.  If Daniel is here I never care but alone I want to error on the side of too safe; so down we trucked; toting pillows

and blankets

and water

diapers

wet wipes

flashlights

tennis shoes.

And down there in the basement I look at my little pile of self sufficient items and smile.  Really?  This will keep my babies safe and protected? 

Mmmm. . . no, I know better.  The power of these storms could sweep us away.  But I trust a God bigger.  The awfulness of losing a child has given me a strange confidence and peace when I am faced with fear and worry.

He will carry and He will provide. 

And in the back of my mind I always remember that one of my children is already safe.

We came upstairs and knelt on the couch, leaning to look out the front window at the sheets of rain.  I fought the feeling of frustration at having my evening interrupted, my van-packing derailed and my laundry undone. 

But then I see their little faces and I just want to freeze the moment (which is why I love Instagram right now) and forget the laundry.

So I snuck out to the kitchen and peeked in the sugar cone box (there were three left -  it was a sign) and dug some mint chip ice cream out of the freezer and the three of us ended up having a pretty special time.

Cambria:  "Mom, you're nice." 

(Do I live to hear this?  Yes.  Sometimes, yes.)

I make them little beds (away from the windows) on the living room floor, their flashlights set on the coffee table and let Eli sleep in the big chair. . .

and the laundry gets accomplished.

dishes get washed.

things get packed.

life will happen.


*   *  *

I just want to say thank you for all of the sweet comments you all have left lately. 

I haven't ever blogged to get followers. I deliberately ignore the get a following tips like "respond to every comment!"  However I don't want to seem unappreciative of the time you take to let me know that you're reading.

It is so super encouraging to hear from each one of you.  Each comment leaves me very humbled and very wowed that anyone actually reads.  So thank you.  Thank you so very much.

If you are here reading I hope that you are encouraged to love Jesus and love your family. . . if that is accomplished than I am so grateful to God.

Ok.  I gotta get some zzzzzzzzzzz's.

aerobics & med school priorities

Over a year ago I wrote about our beloved Pastor A and his other half, Pauline . . . how they were meant to be.
Today I read their beautiful granddaughter's perspective on med school, balance, priorities and flexibility. 

Great read, fun blog. . . check it out!

In other news. . .

I took my very first step aerobics class tonight at the suggestion and invitation of my friend Jess.

Oh. Wow.

Number one, I have no rhythm.  When we were youth leaders, I couldn't even clap in the correct places for the choruses, let alone do all the cutesy actions. When Daniel and I dance try to dance I am the total complete klutz.  I can't even dance obnoxiously, like Kevin James in Hitch.  When I tried to reenact that famous scene for Daniel once, he about fell on the floor laughing at my lack of coordination.  (What can I say, I was homeschooled.)

Number two, I have not allowed myself to buy workout clothing until I get rid of the baby weight. It's stubbornly clinging, so I walked into the class of cute, bright, athletic yoga pants and uber cool shoes and I looked like. . . um . . .  gross. I have grass stains and paint on my Adidas running shoes, which are from my running years. . .which predate Jacob, so. . . they're old.

Number three, I didn't know what a horseshoe was, or a basic step, or . . . really anything.  I desperately tried to keep up and it was really fun when I thought no one was watching me.  My friend Jess was sympathetic for the most part, but my dyslexic dance moves were pretty pathetic and she was being quite polite.  If I were watching me I would have been laughing.

Who am I kidding? With wall to wall mirrors, I was watching me. 

And I was also laughing.

This is what I looked like: 

(The middle dude. )

Anyway. . .

happy Monday to you.

first world problems

Saturday.

Breakfast.

Soccer Game.

Picture day.  Comb his hair.  *mentally schedule haircut*

Be early. Pack stroller.  Take coffee.

Home for brunch. *make pancakes, warm syrup, cut oranges, wash strawberries?*

Daniel & his brother Mark work on rental house all afternoon.

I mow the yard.

Prepare supper. *dump chicken and barbecue sauce in crock-pot*

Run errands.

Make rolls with Cambria.

Make Jacob clean up all of the fresh cut grass that was tracked across the living room.

*mentally schedule carpet cleaners*

Daniel and Mark return just as I am about to get in the shower and end my day of craziness.

I wait for Mark to leave, pass the parenting baton to Daniel and head into the bathroom with a book, my phone and  fresh clothing .  Sliding the lock shut on any door is blissfully amazing right now, even it is the bathroom door.

Ahhhhhhhh.  Such a long week of solo parenting.  I am going to let it all unwind and roll off. 

Except that I notice there's toilet paper draped over the toilet seat.

So I clean that up.

Then I realize that new toilet paper isn't existent.  (How hard is it to replace the roll, people?!)

So I replace that.

Head over to wash my hands, but the drain is clogged with all of the bread dough that Cambria washed off of her hands.

So I clean that up, too.

(And normally I would be calling the children back to these messes, but I am on a mission to get into that hot shower.)

Over in the shower. . . . remember all of that fresh cut grass?  Well, it's in the tub now, and it's good to know that it's there, rather than on the carpet. . .

So I clean that up too.

And

then

I turn the hot water on.

Except that it is just a tiny little dribble.

I remember vaguely that Daniel had mentioned adding another inch of water to the pool.

I know a stronger person would have handled this in a different way, but I knew I was alone and no one would hear . . .

So I screamed.  Really loud.  Just let it all out.  And then I stood there in the dribble of water and cried.

Crying like an immature teenager, I think that the logical thing to do here is to go ask Daniel to turn the water off.  I wrap myself in a bath sheet and go bang on the window to the pool area.  He is out there, with his back pack blower blowing all of the grass off of the deck.  Obviously he can't hear me.

So as he comes up to the upper porch with his blower I go to the door.  In my bath sheet.  I wave at him.  He stops in his tracks and turns his blower off.  (Poor guy, I do believe he got the wrong idea.)

I am still in tears.

"I can't go to the bathroom because no one flushes the toilet and I can't wash my hands because the sink is clogged with bread dough and I can't take a shower because there's grass in the drain plug and then when I finally turn the shower on there's not any water because you're filling the pool.  All I want is a hot shower. . .and I'm not mad at anyone. . . I'm just tired. . . and can you please turn the water off?"

I don't know why he thought this little diatribe was so hilarious, but he couldn't stop laughing. 

I did have a hot shower and it really did feel amazing.

Worth crying over?  I don't know.  I think those tears of frustration and stress are going to come out of me somewhere no matter what.  They might as well be in the shower where no one sees.

I tell myself:  First world problem.

Ever heard that? 

It's a sarcastic response to some one's imagined catastrophe. 

I can't fit seven Ferraris in my six car garage.  waaaaah. . . .

First world problems are frustrations and complaints that are only experienced by privileged individuals in wealthy countries. (Definition according to Google.)

First World Problem example

As I travel the mamma road so many of the inconveniences and frustrations are just that. . . inconveniences.

I have forgotten. . . in two short years, I have forgotten the wish for a bad day.  Just a normal bad day.

I remember being down at the riverfront the week after Gabe died.

A young mom locked her keys in her van and it was a warm day;  her baby was crying.  My heart was twisting in two looking at her chubby little dude, sweating in his stroller.  My arms were still physically aching to hold my little man, not able to allow my mind to even grasp the finality of his tiny grave.

And she was furious with herself, swearing and kicking at the concrete pavement, hating the stupidity of small mistakes that add an hour to already busy days.

Daniel and I offered to give her a ride home to get her extra set of keys. Initially, tragedy brings an oddly cleared schedule.  Normally we wouldn't even have time to notice her predicament.  But in the face of unbelievably tortured nights and dragging through the days, giving a stranger a ride was a welcome diversion.

She complained the entire route.  She was so frustrated.  She was having such a bad day.  It was so hot.  Her baby wouldn't stop crying.  It was taking so long.  She was grateful and kind to us, but so angry with herself.

When the situation had been solved (within twenty minutes) she thanked us and drove away.

I remember watching her drive away, looking at Daniel and saying "I would give anything in the world to have that kind of bad day again."

To have a situation that can be solved with thinking and kindness?

To have a problem that can be fixed with some extra effort?

To see a need that just requires extra money?

To be tired at night from taking care of people that I love?

Have I so quickly forgotten?

Grief brings a clarity to life that ease and pleasure does not.  It has a way of slicing through the complexities of our busyness and prioritizing what really matters.

The water issues of a hot shower being slow while we're filling up our pool?

I'm ashamed and amazed that these are the things that put me under.

Ann Voskamp talks about her children fighting over toast in her book One Thousand Gifts;  she speaks of all of the big things that she's learning about God and then what ruins her day is toast.  And it's toast she repeats in the chapter Seeing Through the Glass. 

My friend Phoebe and I have coined this phrase;  it finds its way into those complaining texts as a way of bringing perspective.  this is only toast. . . this being late, this date that didn't turn out quite like we'd hoped, these children who spilled red juice on white shirts. . . 

It's the little things that sink me.

On Wednesday the toast was the elusive AWANA vest.  Cambria had lost hers the week before.  I searched in vain for an hour that I didn't have and she wept and I steamed.  One whole year of Cubbies and on the second to last week we lose the vest.  As if on cue, preparing for awards night, Jacob couldn't find his.  I looked.  He looked.  I prayed.  He prayed.  I was so frustrated.  I told myself. . .this is toast. . .this is not important. . .the scripture hidden in their hearts. . . that's the important part. . .

But I hate the label of frazzled and disorganized and I rebel against the image of the straggling homeschool mom whose children are ill-prepared for life and you know. . . I want to look like I have it all together.  It doesn't matter that I don't. . . I just want to look like it.

(Wow, did I just admit that?)

I want the cupcakes to be frosted just right and the reading to be one level above expected and the baby weight to be gone and the AWANA vests on.  So I searched on. I could feel sweat dripping down my back as I crouched down to search under our bed.  The ridiculousness of the whole thing should have made me laugh, but I marched on, grimly determined to find.the.vest.  If I found Cambria's during the search, that would also be a sweet bonus.

Cambria:  "Wow, I'm stressed."

Me:  "Why are you stressed, Cambria?"

Cambria:  "From all of your mad talking, Mom."

Ahhh.

And I quit.  Right there.  The end.  It doesn't matter. The vests, the toast, the little things. . . they are little things.  They don't really matter. 

Where is my perspective?

Incidentally, (miraculously?)  at 5:30 pm I received a  text from Stirlen's mom that said they had Jacob's vest and and 6:00 pm I received a text from Jett's mom that said they had Cambria's.

So both of my children went to AWANA awards night with their vests.  The mad talking that I did was not only completely wasted, but once again a sober reminder to me that these are the little things. 

The big things. . .

Character

Honesty

Compassion

Children

Hugs

Salvation

Having them to hold

Waking up to their warm little selves

This short time we have them in our home. . .

I cannot spend these short days stressed about vests and hot showers.

These are first world problems.

These are not important problems.

These are not real problems.

And that perspective is both painful and beautiful.

May I not continue to live in forgetfulness.


Why doesn't Cambria have her award?  Because she forgot and left it at church. . . . it's not important. . . it's a little thing!

happily (vs. busily) ever after

Oh let's settle down

little house, little town

start a family

we could be so happy

Oh and we'd have two

a little me and a little you

house filled up with laughter

we'd live happily ever after

Fm Radio, Happily Ever After


It is eleven thirty and I have been up since six-thirty-four.  I crawl into bed beside my man and exhale.

"I don't think I even went to the bathroom today." 

He finds this funny and I don't.

Somewhere in the middle of checking on my baby every twenty minutes and teaching and being patient and not being patient and peanut butter and all that life brings, he draws the short straw and gets what is left, the remainder, the exhausted me who keeps makeup remover wipes on my nightstand for when I'm too tired to go downstairs and wash my face.

I never intended for this to happen.

I learned to live half alive;  songwriter Christina Perri gives voice to the sentiments of almost everyone I know.  I am busy, you are busy, we are busy.  We live half alive.

When did happily ever after become busily ever after?


When did I start talking all day long?  And not to him?

Don't put pencil lead between your teeth.

It's okay that the birds are kissing each other

Pick up your room.

Look for your Awana Bag.

Blow your nose.

Yes I'll pick up Terro.  No, I don't know why we have ants.


And I spell words. To children.  While doing laundry, whispered aside during  phone calls, from the shower, while I'm upstairs and they're down.

I N V I T E D

G O I N G

T H E Y apostrophe R E

Y O U

W I I

C U P C A K E

Spelling, spelling words, all day long.  Sometimes I want to tell them that misspelled words are ok.  I do tell them that.  They are little perfectionists like their daddy and they have to spell it right.

Maybe they'll be English teachers.

How do I only have $20 left in my grocery budget again?  What is wrong with my planning system?  How can these tiny little people eat this much food?

I pick up a book and read while I take care of my baby, and it grips me to the core as I see another grieving mother who lost herself in loss and forgot what really mattered and years later reaps the bitterness and pain.  She could be me.  I don't want her to be me.


"I don't hate you."

"I'm so sorry I failed you, Sarah.  I live with so  much regret.  Not watching Nate more closely, not getting to him before it was too late, losing all those years with you. . . I wish these pharmaceutical companies would make an anti-regret pill."

I take in this sincere wish and study my mother's face- the worry lines, which are really more like worry trenches, dug between her eyebrows an along her forehead, the sorrow in her eyes, regret etched in every feature.  Some future FDA-approved, prescription medication isn't the cure for her pain.  My mother doesn't need another pill in her pillbox.  She needs forgiveness.  My forgiveness.  And although I don't hate you and It wasn't your fault come as ready, honest offerings, I know they're only palliative at best.  "She's not ugly" isn't the same as "she's beautiful," and "he's not stupid" isn't the same as "he's smart."  My mother's cure for a lifetime of regret lies within the words I forgive you, spoken only by me.

Left Neglected, Lisa Genova, ch.25,pg.230

I don't want to live half alive.  Busyness and the lesser details of life can be a tunnel of its own kind, unlike grief and yet like it.  I don't want to look back later, having missed all of the moments that really mattered.  With my children.  With my husband.  With the people that God has placed in my life.

Underneath the makeup remover wipes and Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? on my nightstand is another book that has my current attention:  Social Thinking At Work.  In this book, the authors quote Gary Smalley:  Life is relationships; the rest is just details.  If this is true, then so much of my time is spent on the things of lesser value.

I want to live happily ever after with this guy that I fell in love with long, long ago, so long ago,  when we cuddled on a loveseat and dreamed about the little farm we were going to live on with our little boys that would be sun-tanned and overall-clad.

I want to remember the expansive forgiveness of those years, the buoyant youthful hope and plans, before the grief, before the loss.

I remember buying him a card once, long ago. . . You hold the umbrella, babe, and I'll hold you. 

That was before I knew that sometimes he couldn't hold the umbrella and sometimes I wasn't strong enough to hold him. 

For so long I thought happy ever after would never be an option and we were doomed to survival and Kleenex boxes and weeping and dragging ourselves through the next day, week, month, year. 

Then grief fades and there stands Busyness, ready to move in and take her place as the great Love-stealer, Romance-squasher.
 
For now. . . for this day, this moment, I have this beautiful dream in my grasp, these beautiful children, this amazing man who loves me so much.  It's priorities and putting the capital letters where they belong, on people's names, not events and things.  It's letting some lists go and letting some expectations slide.  It's realizing we're living the ever after and it might not always be happy but we have each other.

I'm declaring war on you, Busyness, I'm declaring war on this great love-stealing scheme.


Let's grow old but not grow up

young at heart is young enough

let's do everything we promised

let's do everything we always wanted

It's a feeling you can't touch

to love someone this much

we'll look back with tears in our eyes

on the best years of our lives

Fm Radio, Happily Ever After

oh, pinterest.

So I am too lazy to type recipes up here anymore. . . I'm just pinning them all over on Pinterest. You can check them out on my "feeding the fam" board. 

But we are eating good over here.

The financial nerd (there is a little) in me wonders if Pinterest will put magazines under?

My favorite time-waster in the whole wide world right now.

Well, that and cuddling Eli.  But cuddling is never a waste of time.

And here's a great quote (from. . . yes. . . Pinterest) to mull over this week:

when your baby sits on the food court floor

So what do you do when your baby manages to slide out of his stroller and is smiling at people from the floor of the food court at the mall while you are ordering Chick-fil-a (unfortunately unaware of the drama unfolding behind you)?

Oh, no. . . that kind of stuff only happens to me.

I still can't figure out exactly what happened.  I must have forgotten to latch his seat belt. I choose to blame malfunctioning seat belt latches. (I should sue Jeep strollers.) All I do know is that two (kind) strangers were picking my baby up when I turned to peek at him mid-order.

Eli thought the whole thing was funny, because all he did was slide out and into a sitting position, with his swaddle still wrapped around him, happily smiling around at all of the Chick-fil-A customers. 

But I didn't think it was funny.  It was one of those moments when I wanted to shout "Hey, I'm actually a good mom, guys!  I take good care of my kids!  Really!  I don't let them watch TV and they have fresh ground wheat in their pancakes and I'm not a bad mom!"

So did you want the 4 piece or 6 piece chicken?

Right, I'm still mid order.  No time to defend myself.

Why do I need to defend myself?

Because women are their own worst critics.

If I had observed another stroller escaping child, my first thought would not have been grace. My first thought would not have been she's probably a good mom. No, it would have been an almost unconscious self righteous I would never let that happen to my baby.

All of the pressure that we pile on others, isn't that really just a cry to prove our own worth and value?  At the very root, a desire to defend myself?  A desire to be recognized for the often thankless job of caring for all of these little people? 

These words, these phone calls, these opinions, these facebook statements. . .

Oh, so you had a C-section. (*eyebrow raise*) 

Oh I'm cloth diapering.

My children are schooled at ____________________ (insert educational pressure point)

Weekly shopping and menu planning! (so organized). And we have a fresh green salad every night at dinner.

Bedtime is at seven-thirty over here!  (organized parents) Bedtime is at ten after tickle fights and reading! (fun parents)

Because we need (desperately) a method that works for us, often jumping on our whole wheat bandwagon is something that, while beneficial for our kids, is pushed upon other moms in an attempt to . . . what?  Get their kids to eat whole wheat?  Really?  Or is it deeper than that?

What if it's an attempt to prove that I'm a good mom because I'm intimidated by your amazing ability to balance your children and husband and life? And I look for something that you don't do so that I can feel better about my mommy-dom.

Ahh, whole wheat.  That's it.  Ya'll eat white bread over there, I knew there was some chink in your organized armor.

*commence monologue on the benefits of whole grains*

And we live this way when our strength could come from being honest about our own weaknesses and learning from the strengths of others.

I'm guilty.

I'm guilty of covering my own inadequacies up with finger pointing and tsk-ing.

I'm guilty of pleading for grace (I'm a good mom!) while passing judgement (and she's not a good mom!)

I'm guilty of masking my insecurities by pointing out yours.

But no mom has it all together.  No one is perfect.  No one mom ever wins the best mom award - - except from her own kids.

What if I took seriously some of these phrases from God's Word and applied them (in no particular order) to motherhood and other moms?

Love. . . does not seek its own.

Love. . .is kind.

Love. . .rejoices in the truth.

Jesus said. . . Come to Me, all you who are weary. . . and I will give you rest.

Serve one another. . .humbly. . . in love.

If you bite and devour one another, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other.

Finding my security in the knowledge that I am a child of God takes away the competition, the proving, the desire to be esteemed and honored.

Finding my fulfillment in doing His will takes away the pressure to follow the frenzy of current good mommy trends.

And when I'm not trying to prove that I'm a good mom, my vision is clarified and I am given the freedom to see what a good mom you are.

Because you would never let your baby sit on the floor of the food court.

*     *     *

*I typed this with no makeup, wet hair, wearing a City Employee sweatshirt on Jacob's couch in his bedroom while telling Cambria piece by piece what to clean in her room. At 10:30 in the morning.  (just being real)

*Inspiration this week: Your Children Want YOU (read it!!)

*More inspiration:  Almond Joy Coffee Creamer.  (buy some!  I even let my kids pour it on their oatmeal)

Happy Friday. . . you're a good mom.

on choosing a cave

After my son visited a restroom solo last week and told me later:

Mom, I really wanted to buy some of those candies they had for sale in there. . . but I thought you wouldn't let me so I didn't. . .

. . .I told my husband that I would be heading to the mountains to look for a suitable cave to raise our babies in.

At one time in my life, I thought parents who chose the cave log cabin extreme sheltering version of parenting were making life hard for themselves and their children.

I don't believe that anymore.

It's easy to choose the cave. 

That's my natural impulse.  Shelter, hide, cover those little eyeballs, don't explain, let's not talk about it.

Easy is making my chicks stay with me at all times;  hard is letting them go tiny bit by tiny bit and then talking and disciplining and guiding through the mistakes that they inevitably make.

Easy is never leaving my house;  hard is taking them out into the cruel cruel outer spheres where I want to hide their eyes from the heartbreak of the world.

Easy is glossing over the tough stuff;  hard is knowing how much to explain to little minds who will quickly form worldviews from the lenses I choose to give them.

You've heard them; the endless views on greenhouse vs. let them go and sheltering vs. pushing out.  I don't have this figured out and I'm stumbling along and seeking the word of God for answers to my questions as I go.

So far all I know is that every choice is hard.

I wanna protect them from everything!

And then I have a yelling match (well, actually I just yell) with their daddy about where to spend Easter. 

Yeah, protection and shelter from sin coming right up here in our happy little home.

We talk this all out, me and my boy and my girl, serious little faces looking at me while I tell them that I was wrong to yell at Daddy and that we still love each other;  that sometimes moms and dads way disagree and there isn't a naptime anymore when we can work this out and sometimes they might hear us disagree. 

Easy:  gloss over and pretend it didn't happen.  Hard:  talk it out and confess my sin and hear them ask tough questions about the neighbor boy's mom and dad who don't live together anymore. I tell them what their daddy and I vowed to do and that we chose marriage and understood that to be a lifelong commitment.

The farther I go the more I think that choosing the cave doesn't prepare them for life.

Oh I need God's grace!

From today:

JD, following long discussion about laughing gas = nitrous:  So does that make you goofy for. . . your whole life?

Note written on white 8 x 11 copier paper, folded over into a card;  the front reads:

it's gonna be a blast to open it.

look inside for some fun

{and of course I open it}

I <3 U, I think you are a relly <-- (e) dodn't know)

good cook!

I cannot belive how good you are as a cook in the house.

Thanks for letting us go to the YMCA ymca YmCa ymca

waat a blast it is.

<3 JD

((P.S. It's true that your a good cook.)



Me:  Do you wanna tell me anything before bed, Jacob?
JD:  You know my soccer coach's girl?  We became friends, like, instantly.  Just by looking at each other.
Me: . . . . What is her name?
JD:  I have no idea.


Oh my Jacob Daniel!  Waat a blast he is!  ;)

 Phone Photo Dump :

some people shouldn't upgrade their phones

I have owned one of those military-grade gunmetal grey cell phones that you can dunk in water and throw across the room (not that I would ever do that) for about . . .forever.

Daniel graciously upgraded my phone in a big way about three weeks ago; I'd requested unlimited texting but I got a lot lot more and it's been getting me into big trouble ever since.

The touch screen is mind boggling.  I moved apps to my home page without even knowing how I did it.  I am so so so not a techie and Jacob deftly sent my first few texts for me.

Then I proceeded to almost send my niece a happy birthday message in which the auto correct changed "miss you" to &#!####.

After that I switched all of my texting to Spanish.  I would type "would" and it would say:  "add 'would' to dictionary?"  (Why was the question in English?  I don't know.  That's why it took me so long to figure out that I'd changed the language to Spanish. Er, Espanol. Si, si.)

During this time, Daniel also got a new phone which he instantly hated and has since returned.  But not before he missed about 47 business phone calls because he couldn't hear the ringer and managed to stand up my brother's family for a dinner date. 

About one week into the tele-honeymoon, I discovered voice texting.  Wow, what an invention.  Press the speaker button, talk, and press send.  I was suddenly in love with my phone.

There have been a few problems with this. 

The first one that comes to mind was when I asked Jacob to do something and he didn't respond.  When pressed, he said "Oh, sorry Mom,  I thought you were voice texting."

Well, then, since I can't "touch text"  it also makes me the butt of my friends' jokes because they get to watch stuff like this. 

Is Loren coming?

I don't know.

Hayley, can you text her?

Me: (trying to type. failing.  give up. hold phone to face and enunciate clearly) "HI  LOOREN.  I HOPE YOU COME BECAUSE ITS ALWAYS MORE FUN IF YOU ARE THERE."

(Friends laugh uproariously because it looks quite weird.)


Voice texting has gotten me into trouble with Daniel, too.

Some of Cambria's little friends were coming to our house and I was originally supposed to pick them up.  I was doing a little clarifying via voice text in the kitchen:

So you are picking Camille up then, not me?

Daniel, from dining room:  "What?  I didn't even know I was supposed to."

Me:  "What, Daniel?"

"I didn't know I was supposed to pick Camille up.  I didn't even know she was coming."

Me:  "You aren't supposed to pick her up.  What are you talking about?!!"

Daniel, a little exasperated.  "Hayley I just heard you clearly say, So you are picking Camille up then, not me."

Ohhhhhhhhh.  Right.  I did say that.  To my phone.


And hopefully. . . this is the last embarrassing texting story for a long long time:

On a gorgeous Wednesday night Deeann and I are charging around the Y outdoor trails and Daniel texts me that I should enjoy my time and the kids are all asleep.

I don't want to voice text because I don't want Deeann to keep making fun of me so I try to text him back "okay."  Or rather "OK."

WHAAAMMMP.

Suddenly I am nearly knocked flat.

By a gangster?

Wildlife?

Another walker?

Nope.


I ran right into a metal bollard.


And I repeat, some people should never upgrade their phones.

written in stone

I think about my littlest man still.
Like. . .

every.

single.

day.

If not every single hour.

Cuz a mamma can't forget her baby I can't erase his little face from my memory.

I don't want to.

He comes up easily in conversation and we smile looking at his pictures. 

We paid for an Easter lily in his memory and I wear his name on a necklace close to my heart.

I tried to let Eli wear some of his clothes. . . I thought maybe it would seem normal and almost cool.  It wasn't.  All I could see was Gabe and his dimples, and I don't want to be superimposing one son upon the other.

We sketched out the words to his gravestone this week.

It will be beautiful and succinct and perfect and terribly wrong.

I'm glad we've waited.

I hated his unmarked grave and yet hated the stone that would make his death so final.

But it's time now.


This week Jacob drew this picture in one of his schoolbooks:

I sucked in my breath when I saw it and snuck a look at his face.

Innocent.

(Probably feeling happy with the muscle tone he gave to his own arms.)

But this was monumental to me because this is the first time he hasn't included Gabe.

So does it take two years for a child to heal and move on?

It's good and it's not good and I've tried to rationalize that this was not his best artwork so maybe he was just being lazy and not wanting to draw one more stick figure.

I didn't say anything.

I decided long ago not to force the children to grieve or heal on anyone's schedule but their own and the reality of our family being what JD's stick summary shows is. . . well . . . reality.

So in light of writing our son's beautiful name in stone and the family of five on the schoolwork sketch, this was a special gift:

{Gabe's tree. . .}

love you, my little man

miss you

like you can't imagine

feel the hole

feel the burn

feel the ache

know that you are happy

whole

walking

running

you don't care that you didn't grow up

(but I do)

still catch my breath

still touch your hair

still see your little self

still wish that you were here

we're going to put this big rock up

where we laid you down

and we will try to summarize your little life

in a few short lines.

I need a lot more space than that.

your life brought me so much joy, my son. .  .

you still bring so much joy.

when I hear this

I know that even though

(in a way)

your star burned down

you

are

singing

blessing

and honor

and glory

forever to our God.

So while we choose what to write in stone

we are so thankful that your days were written in His book

and that our names are written on His hands

(and you, my baby, are written on my heart forever)

I love you, Gabriel James.

Love, Mommy