Call me

 

 

Call me.

With the noise

The baby crying

The argument over putting on his socks

The Bat Cave falling over

“But I can’t find LIGHTENING MCQUEEN”

The fries are burning

“It’s too cold!”

You’re late getting out the door and you’re frazzled

Someone fell asleep on the couch just as it’s time to go

“Did you have an accident?”

Someone yelling

Where’s the milk?

Mamaaaamaamama…

I want to hear all of it 

I cannot do anything from here

I cannot put on socks or clean up the puddle or soothe the crying baby

I cannot even talk to you. I know you can't talk now.

But let me bear silent witness to the mess, to the glorious mess of this family, our family, our lives.

Allow me to bear witness to your struggle and your triumph. 

Call me.

Free Fall!

Some days as a parent I feel like I'm in free fall.
Propelled forward at a great rate of speed,
the weight I'm carrying speeding the momentum of the fall,
and nothing with which to catch myself.
Where and how will we all land?

The other day I glimpsed another parents' ordinary, extra-ordinary moment of free fall.  Walking down a busy sidewalk in Center City on New Years Eve, a couple each carrying a child.  Dad was carrying an older toddler or preschooler, maybe 4 or 5 years old.  As I have some experience with this, I know that your range of vision is limited when you are carrying a heavy child in front of you with both arms... specifically, you can't see where you're stepping.  Dad was in such a predicament, and he missed the curb of the sidewalk.

Free fall.

From where I was standing, I saw dad and child coming straight down, like a tree cut in the forest, no bending, no wavering.  The trajectory showed that the back of the child's head was going to be the first thing in direct contact with the sidewalk. I gasped, and things seemed to go into slow-motion.

Here's what I saw:

Dad never let go.   

Human instinct causes us to put out our hands to catch ourselves when we're falling.  Dad did not put out his hands.  His instinct to hold onto his son was stronger than the instinct for self-preservation.

Dad threw himself in the path of danger.  

Even though I saw it as if in slow-motion, I can't tell you how he did it.  But dad somehow twisted and nearly somersaulted his body in such a way that his son never even touched the sidewalk.  It was as if dad curled around, threw his own body -- his head and shoulder -- at the sidewalk to take the direct impact.  He threw his own head toward the sidewalk.

I have a few free fall situations of my own.  Not sure where the impact will be or where we'll land.  Feeling like I have nothing to grab on to.

Maybe the reason I have nothing to grab onto is because I am holding so tight to something that's important to me.  Am I holding onto my child, not willing to let go in order to brace myself?  Am I holding onto my God, not willing to grasp at some passing theory or assurance?
 
It's time for me to throw myself at the hard parts.  When my son is frustrated because learning a new skill is hard: feel that with him instead of feeling frustrated at him.  The uncertainty of a new approach with feeding: trust my instincts instead following the books out of fear.  The days when I feel like I.Can.Not.Do.Every.Thing: throw myself at what I know is most important (my walk with God, my family relationships), and let the rest "fall" into place.

This is not a resolve to "try harder" and "do better;" I know from experience that this is doomed to fail.  It is throwing myself on the mercy of God, who will always provide a softer landing than a Center City sidewalk:

For he will command his angels concerning you
    to guard you in all your ways;

they will lift you up in their hands,
    so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

Ps 91:11-12

You Sing Over Me

This morning, my son Micah woke up early and curled into my arms as I was getting ready to leave for the day.  His little race car pajamas were still warm from the covers and he was sparkling with delight at being the only one downstairs with me.  I wrapped his little self in my arms and sang him a song.  It went something like this:

You are my Micah.

And I love you.

You are strong, you are wild, you can dance like a star.

You’re my beloved child, and so wonderful you are.

You are my Micah.

And I love you.

I see God’s love in you, you are kind, strong and true.

You are sweet, thoughtful too, and I love the things you do.

You are my Micah.

And I love you.

You can put on your shoes, you can buckle in the car.

You run fast, jump high, I love everything you are.

You are my Micah.

And I love you.

It went on like this for awhile… a random listing of all the things I love about him, all the things he can do, the ways I see God at work in him.  It was pretty tuneless and most often didn’t rhyme or have a good cadence. But it always came back to “My Micah, and I love you.”

My Micah, he absorbed this song like a flower opening to the spring sun… brightness and joy just shone out. Snuggled though he was, I felt him GROW as I held him.  He was being fed by love.  He basked in it.

Have you heard the song that is sung over you?  A song written in words and deeds by one whose love is never changing, never failing, perfect, and abundant.  A song that never ends.

It sounds something like this:

I made you in a secret place; I made you very, very good.

I chose you before I created the world to be mine.

You are my beloved child. 

I watch you at all times; I see you in the dark and in the light; 

you cannot go so far that I cannot see you. 

My angels guard your steps.

I love you so much that I showed the greatest love: laying down my life for you.

I want you to be with me forever.

Nothing, not height or depth or anything in creation can separate you from my love.

See what great love I have for you: I call you my child!
I have great plans for you!  

I am preparing a perfect home for you where we can be together forever. 

I am the Mighty Warrior, with you.  I delight in you. 

 I rejoice over you with singing.

Saying good-bye

Today I find myself saying good-bye.  Grieving the loss of something very good in exchange for something better.  I’m not sad, but I’m aware of the exchange that is about to happen.  Change, even the best changes, require a letting go of something else. 

The change I anticipate is going from a family of four to a family of five.  Five!  I’m so excited to welcome this little girl.  I can’t wait to meet her and for her to meet her daddy.  I get giddy at the thought of introducing her to her brothers.   I’m eager to watch the love and the bonds grow between Daddy and Daughter, between Titus and Sister, between Micah and Baby.  And of course my own falling-in-love-all-over-again experience with her. 

But for today I need to remember and enjoy what it’s like to be a family of four.  To read books with Titus and Micah this evening and realize that the moments of snuggling with one arm for each are numbered.  To load everyone up in the car and realize that one parent for one child is about to end.  To sneak in to kiss sleeping boys and go to my quiet room to sleep all night (sort of maybe) and know that the all night will soon become a series of very broken nights.  To savor the sweetness in my relationship with each of my sons, and to know that it will grow, but change, as a new person joins our family.

I can’t wait to meet her.  But today I’m saying good-bye to our life as it has been.  It has been amazing. 

Bedtime whisperings

The last of the last of the last of the bedtime routine has morphed into some kind of competition over who says “I love you” last.  This has led to hysterical crying on more than one occasion.  Since I do not understand the rules of the competition and how to help everyone “win” at this, I try to change the game.  We’ve been ending the day differently, and often it leads to some quiet talking with each boy as they settle down for the night.  How I love to hear their thoughts as they begin to unpack all the experiences they’ve had in the day!

Last night Titus was apparently thinking about the up-coming trip to Florida for a friend’s wedding.  He asked me about the airplane: “Will Daddy ride on the airplane?”  “Yes, Daddy will ride on the airplane.”  “Will Mama ride on the airplane?” “Yes, Titus, I’ll be on the airplane.”  “Will Micah be on the airplane?” “Yes, Micah too.”  “Will I be on the airplane?” “Yes, you too, Titus.”  “All of the family?” “Yes, all of the family, Titus.”  I am so proud of my son for seeking answers to questions that are clearly causing him anxiety.  He’s asked me about this several times, and each time seems relieved to know that we will ALL be there.

For Micah, last night’s pondering were less clear to me.  “Mama,” he said, “I’m not going to bring any toys to the meeting.”  “Okay, Micah…”  what meeting?  Early this morning he announced that he needed to go tell Titus that he is not going to bring any toys to the meeting.  I'm wondering if Titus understood that more than I did!

You have your hands full!

“You have your hands full.” 

I’ve heard this often in the last three years.  I’ve even said it to other mothers.  It’s not an untrue statement.  Many days, my hands are literally FULL.  I’ve often joked that at least with twins I have one hand for each.  

But this statement often sounds like this:  “SIGH… You have your hands (too) full.”

Recently someone said this to me at least three times in the course of a Sunday morning.  Then she said, “And you have another one coming! (sigh!)”  (how terrible!)  “I guess you’re done after this!”

OUCH.  This stung. 

As if children are a burden.  A season of life to be endured.  Infancy a series of sleepless nights and diaper changes. The toddler years a blur of time-outs and temper tantrums.  School days a gauntlet of homework and social upheaval.  The teenage years a battle of wills and hormonal terrors.  And every additional child simply a prolonging and repetition of these seasons.

May it not be. 

Yes, there are hard days in our home.  We’ve been tired and we’ve snapped at each other and we’ve cried and we cleaned up poop and we’ve wondered when bedtime would come.  We’ve had long nights and longer days.  We’ve “just wanted a break.” 

And then we’re right back in there.  With joyful spinning around the room (“Daddy, the house is tilting”) and new books from the library to delight over, and recitation of favorite Bible verses, and hugs and I-Love-You’s freely given and received.  With prayers over ouchies and forgiveness for hurt feelings and learning new words ("turnstile," "dromedary").  With sunshine on blond heads and digging in the dirt for bugs and painting pictures of dinosaurs and rocketships.  With uncontrollable laughter and smiles that can change the whole day.  

And I can’t wait to open my full hands to another, who will undoubtedly leave my hands more than full (I don’t have three hands).  And will leave my heart overflowing. 

In the still of the night

The middle of the night and early morning have become welcome quiet spaces for me recently.  Somehow I'm learning to relish the 4am wake-up calls from a certain little boy and the pregnancy insomnia that makes me alert at odd hours of the night.  When else do I feel so free from responsibilities and able to read, to pray, to let my mind wander? 

This evening I had some lovely quiet time with my boys, as I helped to ease them into sleep in a place away from home.  They were giddy with the fun of sleeping at Papa and Nana's house and excited about waking up to Daddy coming home tomorrow.  As they went from bouncing to wriggling to fidgeting to stillness, I had a chance to reflect and simply soak up the moment.

It is a good place to be.  Sandwiched on one side by twenty-three days that I faced with anxiety, long days without a parenting partner, broken phone conversations, devotions and verses said without Daddy's help.  Sandwiched on the other side by exhaustion and re-entry to "normal" life, hard conversations about the future, decisions about jobs and budgets and child care. 

But tonight... tonight is good.  I can soak in this moment with my sons and look forward to waking to my husband's return in the morning.   Best of all, I trust in the God who carried us through these twenty-three days, gifted me with this moment of peace and joy, and will walk with us through whatever the coming days hold.