The Happiness Balloon

Scene 1: The service counter at Shoprite, asking for our complimentary balloons.  Micah receives an orange balloon (yay! his favorite!).  Titus receives a green balloon (not his favorite).  He refused to receive it; I tie it next to Micah's orange one.  I leave with one son happy and one son exceedingly disgruntled.  During the lifespan of the green balloon, as it slowing sinks to the floor and gets smaller and smaller, the green balloon is completely ignored and neglected.

Scene 2: One week later, same place.  Micah receives a green balloon.  Titus receives a yellow balloon.  Mama says a prayer for grace. 
Micah: Yay, I call it orange! 
Titus: I call my balloon red!
Smiles and joy all around as we leave the store.

These stories are to introduce you to the philosophy of my new book; look for it in local booksellers near you.  It will be called:

The Happiness Balloon:

Seeing Bliss in Life's Many Disappointments

Chapter One: The Happiness Blanket

Chapter Two: The Happiness Hippopotamus

Chapter Three: The Happiness Truck

Epilogue: Three Steps to Happiness with a Blue Shirt (we're still developing this one)

May all your balloons be orange hippopotami today!

Playgroup is for parents

Today was one of those days.  Do you have them?  One of those If-I-Stay-In-The-House-With-These-Boys-There-Are-Sure-To-Be-Moments-Of-Regret Days.  I woke up feeling worn, failing to get up early enough to either exercise or have a quiet moment before my sons were up and at 'em.  I was distracted by cooking projects in the kitchen... things that could be done during "nap time" but that would be temptingly calling me from the play area back into the kitchen to do "just this little thing."  (If you don't know me, I LOVE to be in my kitchen.)  I felt already impatient with Legos and settling disputes and answering questions and listening to the same CD again. 

Solution?  Playgroup.  

Here's the sad but true fact:

I parent better in public.  

It sounds hypocritical, doesn't it?  Shouldn't I hold myself to the same standard of parenting excellence in the privacy of my home that I can mange others are watching?  Do I not remember that I live under the eye of an all-seeing God, who sees me either at playgroup or at home?  Do I know that He sees my heart? 

Yes. Yes. And yes.

And yet...

There are days when it is better to see and to be seen.  To absorb the energy of "out" and the energy of other young families.  To remove the distractions of my home and kitchen, so that I will sit on the floor for an hour and a half and do whatever my sons want to do.  To be in a place where other mothers are playing with Legos and to follow their models of patience and engagement.

Playgroup is for me.

Not to drink coffee and gossip with the other moms (I'm not that parent), but to force me to be a better parent, if only for the morning. 
 

Beloved

I heard her say: You are a beloved daughter of God.

Beloved

Daughter

Of God

I am not "only" a player in the story of my sons.  

Not best supporting actress to my husband.  

Not an extra on the set of Mountain Street.  

I have a story to live.  God is writing it for me.  I am His beloved.

Higher virtue: Truth or Peace?

If you've ever worked in customer service, you know the expression: "The customer is always right."  Let me put it this way: "The two-year-old is always right."  Here's the catch: I have two of them, and they can't both be right. 

It started as newly verbal one-year-olds, the arguments.  Frequently, in their car seats in the car.  Barely able to form coherent words, much less sentences, they would argue the finer points of the name of a truck, what "M" is for, or on whose side of the car they are sitting (mama's or daddy's).  One son (we'll call him Ham), would argue for the pure joy of provocation.  The other son (let's call him Shem), argued for Truth, Capital T Truth.  It would always end in tears, almost always in screaming.  It was amusing for awhile.  We would eavesdrop from the front seat, amazed at our sons' precocious ability for debate, and occasionally interject somewhat helplessly when the crying became too ferocious. 

However, as reasoning skills advanced, so have the arguments.  Yesterday it was over letters and numbers. 

Shem (gleeful in his knowledge): 1, 2, 3, Yay, 3 is a letter! 

Ham: 3 is a number.

S (agitated): No, 3 is a letter. 

H: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8....

S: No, no, stop saying that!! (crying now) 3 is a letter!

Me (to Matt): Uh, truth or peace?

Matt: Shem, there are letters and there are numbers.  1, 2, 3 are numbers.  A, B, C, D are letters.  Yay, aren't number and letters neat! (OK, probably not quite that cheesy, but you get the idea.)

S: hysterical crying, NO, NO, NO, NO!!

H (singing): A, b, c, d, e, f, g...."

S: total breakdown.

Parents: distraction attempts from the front seat: So, Christmas, who's excited about Christmas?

This scenario is a daily occurrence.  Often now, the argument is not even with his brother, but with me.  Colors, I give room for interpretation.  Truck names, you got it, you probably know them better than me.  But some things?  Some things are just wrong.  Am I doing my job as a parent to say, "Yes, okay, good job" when my son is clearly wrong?  Is this justified in an attempt to keep the peace?  I confess.  I pacify.  I agree, not wanting a full-scale fall-out over the fact that this small red fruit is called a strawberry and not a cherry.  Peace prevails. 

Matt summed it up yesterday, oh so philosophically: You cannot have true peace without truth.

Yes, yes, and okay Shem, that's a letter. 

A Sabbath rest for mamas

My day starts with an alarm clock ringing.  Gotta get that shower before the little people wake up or I'll be behind the curve all day.  Then mix up the pancakes and hurry to their room to change diapers, give morning hugs and kisses, and bring them downstairs to start the day.  Yes, this is my Sabbath rest.  Bathtime can get interesting, and the floor will inevitably need to be swept after the breakfast crumbs settle.  Today we are expecting friends for lunch (yay!), which means a little kitchen prep work while I wash the dishes.  And so on and so forth.

Is this Sabbath rest?  I've tried to practice Sabbath as a rest from the work of the week.  As a student, from studying and reading.  As an employee and wife, from work, cleaning, and grocery shopping.  But as a mama?  Do I take a break from changing diapers, washing sticky hands, reading books?

Clearly the answer is No!

So, where is my rest?

I've had Sundays when I struggled to wash and dress two small ones, braved the cold as I pushed the stroller to church, and hauled car seats up the steps, only to sit in the nursery and do what I would've done at home ... I wondered, isn't Sunday supposed to be restful?

I've had Sundays when I've felt resentful of my children's demands, believing that this was my time to be doing something "spiritual" and self-enriching, and that they were preventing me from knowing this kind of Sabbath rest.

I've had Sundays when I've thought - forget trying - and threw in an unnecessary load of laundry and started dinner for Monday... because what is the point anyway of pretending that Sunday is any different for a mother?

I've had Sundays when my burdens have been surprisingly and undeservedly lifted by a caring husband, by a surprisingly long nap, but a mental shift that can only be credited to the work of the Spirit.  I've had Sundays when I've treasured the long hours to spend with my children without the nagging obligation that I should be finishing (or starting) a chore.  I've had Sundays when friends sitting and talking and playing with my children has brought lightness to my spirit that I would have missed without the privilege of taking a Sabbath rest. 

People, I don't have the answers.  Every Sunday I wonder and I try to work it out.  But if I have learned one thing, it is that our Sabbath rest is not to be a spiritual cover-up for selfishness.  And I need to fight that selfishness every day, Sunday included.

May you experience rest and joy in our Savior on your Sabbath this week.

Night-time visitations

They visit me in the night: the things I failed to do today.
           Put the blueberry plants in pots. (How do I manage to repeatedly overlook this all day only to remember it in the middle of the night?)
           Send a reply to that email from a friend.
           Speak to my son gently instead of snapping when he whined for "mama" yet again.
           Bring the laundry in from the line. (I listen to the rain pouring outside; instead of being lulled to sleep, I fret about clothes that are already wet.

As I doze off briefly, I dream of a beautiful day near the water with my family.  Given a moment alone, I wander off to watch the birds, only to be attacked by some large prehistoric animal that looks like a wild boar, only much bigger.  It rams me in middle of my chest, right where I have pain from a pulled muscle. In the gloom of the night, I feel like maybe it is my heart breaking. 

Baby C

                 I listen.

Expecting it, waiting for it: bum-bum. bum-bum. bum-bum.

Giddy, remembering the first time I heard it from your brothers. It had blown me away.  A moment sealed in my memory.  Today I am more prepared. And I wait for it:

                 bum-bum. bum-bum.

As the wait lengthens, I remember words quickly spoken, last night before going to sleep. 
                 Said too lightly,  never believed.

The silence continues.

I wait.

Finally the pain comes.  I wish for more.  Enough to fill the gaping wound.  Enough to alert the world. 
Silence remains.

They tell me I will see you some day. 
I hear the cliche.  Does it comfort or confuse? 
                  I silence my questions.

Dear one, I'm sorry.
For my fear.
For my ambivalence.
For my silence:
                  Do not think it was shame. 
                  Do not think I did not love you enough to say your name. 

The sun rises. 
Your brothers ask for their morning milk and snuggles.  

And I will speak your name: Baby C