Love Well

Mail Call

2012-05-30T10:43:00.000-05:00

I got a card in the mail yesterday.

In the midst of the grocery store ads that go straight to the recycling, the Family Fun issue with the Fourth of July cover that makes me feel guilty that I haven't even read the Easter edition yet, right next to the bills and the Athleta catalog and my college's alumni magazine.

A card.

It was from a sweet friend who just wanted to bless me (she did) and make me smile (I did).

In fact, I will smile every time I look at it, because you better believe it's going right next to my kitchen window, where the love from that piece of paper will warm me as regularly as the sun.

So. You know what I'm doing today? (Between diaper changes and hiding all the tubes of toothpaste from Kieran and making lunch and playing fairies with Teyla?)

Sending some cards.

They aren't going to be profound and they will probably be a little wordy since paper doesn't have a backspace button and they might not even be legible, since my carpal tunnel rears its head when I try to hold a pen for more than five seconds and turns my hand into a claw.

But I bet the people who pull them out of their mailboxes in a few days will know I love them.

And that's what it's all about.

(I might also send a letter to my Compassion and World Vision kids today. Did you know you can do that online now? So easy.)

Summer's Eve

2012-05-29T09:39:00.003-05:00

Memorial Day isn't the official start to summer. I know this because every time I allude to summer lately, Connor reminds me that "it doesn't start until June 21, Mom."

But it feels like it's here, especially this year, since spring arrived early in Minnesota and summer followed her lead. The lilacs bloomed more than a week ago, and already, the ground is covered in purple flowers. The trees are deep green, the sky bright blue. The frogs sing good night like they know the melody by heart already.

I feel the tension of wanting to GO and DO and ENJOY this beloved season - but maybe after a nap in the sun. Summer is God's rest and His celebration. It is the sun beckoning you out of bed before 6:00 AM (For the love! That is so early for me, people) and a night that ends so gently, it forbids bed sleep until midnight lest you miss the magic.

It may not be summer on the calendar. And the big kids still have two weeks of school to go.

But what does a piece of paper know about living?

They Caught Him

2012-05-20T23:12:00.000-05:00

They caught him.

To be honest, I never thought they would.

I got the phone call on a Wednesday morning in February. A detective told me a police department in a southern suburb of the Twin Cities had arrested a career burglar the day before. In his house, they found hundreds of stolen goods, including passports stolen from a home a few miles away from us, a home that was burglarized the same day as ours. "I can't guarantee anything," the detective told me. "But you had a red Dell laptop that was stolen, right? I know that's one of the items we've recovered."

I thanked him for the call and sat in the car stunned. Maybe delirious.

I didn't say anything about it on the blog back then, maybe because I wanted to wait and see how the story would play out. The detective said it would take a few weeks to sort through the stolen goods. They literally filled tables and tables with all the recovered stuff. The clip of all those necklaces, earrings, watches, cameras, laptops and purses made for good TV. The day I got the call from the detective, our thief's picture was on every local news station. (And you better believe I poured over every inch of the tape given to local media and sent to me by my detective contact, searching for my jewelry. "Is that my necklace? Oh my word, there's my bracelet from Grand Marais!")

It was very surreal.

Maybe even weirder than seeing some of my stuff on TV was seeing the face of the man who had broken in to our home.

Police said his MO was exactly what we experienced. (And they know this both because of clues he left behind and because they arrested him after doing surveillance.) He would knock at a front door. If no one answered, he would go around to the back, cut the phone line, break open a door with a crow bar and use a pillow case to grab the most expensive and portable items he could find. A few times, he actually opened the garage door from the inside and pulled his car in while he pillaged. It only took him a few minutes to enter the house, get what he wanted and leave. Police labeled him "very efficient."

You might say.

It took longer than I hoped, but eventually, the few pieces of my jewelry that were recovered were returned to me. It wasn't much. A few bracelets, a few earrings, a broach.

But it meant the world.

The blue-and-green bracelet I got at the flea market up north. The pink Mercy House bracelet I bought from Kristen Welch at the Orphan Summit last spring. A 31 Bits cuff I won in a giveaway from Love. A plastic beaded bauble Natalie made me "because blue and green are your favorite colors, Mom, and I put in gold because I know you love the sun." A broach that I borrowed from my mother's jewelry box when I was a teenager. A pair of earrings Corey got me that triggered one of the more memorable fights in our marriage.

Pulling each one out of a customary manila envelope a few weeks ago, sitting in a bare cement county building, it was like greeting a long-lost friend.

And that they are.

So the story ends. The thief has pleaded guilty to the 10 burglaries he's been charged with so far. He will be sentenced next month. Because my laptop wasn't password protected, it was used to sell stolen goods on Craigslist, so for the time being, it's court's evidence. I'm told I'll get it back eventually.

And I will probably never wear those bracelets again without smiling and thinking of the months they lay in someone else's house, of the things they saw. I still wonder what happened to the rest of my jewelry.

But I know I'm lucky to have even gotten back the few things that I did. I mean, who gets robbed and then gets their stuff back?

Time to shop for new jewelry.

Case closed.

On Not being That Mom

2012-05-18T06:00:00.000-05:00

You're familiar with the phrase "helicopter parenting," right? Parents who hover over their children and try to micromanage every detail of their offsprings' lives. It's natural when your baby is 18 months. It's something else entirely when your baby is 18 years.

Today, I'm honored to feature a guest post written by a friend. I'm not naming her or linking to her blog, for reasons that will soon be made clear. Because she works in college admissions, she offers a cautionary tale for those of us who want to avoid staying too involved in our kids' lives long past the point when they should be ready to launch. Although my kids are years from college, I took this as a reminder to evaluate what I'm doing now to encourage independence and confidence in my children. And to be honest, I need to up the ante when it comes to my older kids. This summer, I'm teaching Natalie to do the laundry, and Connor is going to take over vacuuming. And I might just let them run with scissors. Maybe.

photo credit: Hugh Kretschmer for TIME

Nobody wants to be that mom.

The one who calls too often, hovers too close, holds too tight.

We all want to be the one who trusts God for every daily thing: for safety and protection, for clarity, for guidance. But we also want to hold on because we hear tell that these days slip like sand.

I’m not a mom yet, but I am a college admissions counselor. I’ve interacted with many of those moms.

The moms who answer emails I send to their child. The moms who fill out their child’s college application (“because she won’t do it if I don’t”). The moms who send me emails, then call, then leave voicemails checking to see if I’ve received their emails…on a Sunday.

The moms who call because they heard about some sick kids on campus and if it’s meningitis, their son isn’t vaccinated. The moms who call because their daughter isn’t picking up her phone and would I go find her in the dorm and make sure she’s okay? The moms who still sit beside their 20-year-old to help him through his homework. The moms who call because their child needs to be on time to the dentist, or the airport, or the chiropractor.

From my vantage point, I get it. You want your child’s application to be flawless so they get accepted. Once they’re here, you want them to be responsible and safe. Any mother would want that for their child.

What comes across to other adults, however, is the message that you are not done raising your child. You may have raised your child to be trustworthy, but in your hovering, you refuse to trust them.

Watching a child wilt under that mom is the most discouraging thing I see.

Because what comes across to the child of that mom is this message: I am not ready for you to grow up. I do not want you to grow up. That wordless guilt burdens these children in college and will one day hinder the relationship they forge with their mothers as grown adults.

Don’t become that mom. Be the one who trusts God instead of controlling the little details (and in the grand scheme, a college application is a little detail). Be the one whose child is confident in their own ability to try on adulthood.

Trust that you have done a good job. By the time your child is 18, you have passed along the essentials, whether you know it or not. They’ll figure out the rest.

Stand back and let your child make a wrong decision. It may be painful to you—and to them—but adulthood isn’t about being shielded.

And for heaven’s sake, stop calling me, worried about your child. They are flourishing marvelously here at college, rooted deeply in the foundation you have laid and discovering all the joys and challenges of that transition to adulthood. They are turning out just great.

You did good, Mom.

Kieran and the Delayed Birthday

2012-05-14T15:47:00.001-05:00

Pity the last child.

Kieran turned 2 last Monday. We had no party for the birthday boy. A frozen custard from Culver's stood in for candles and a cake.

Thanks to a last-minute business trip, Corey wasn't even home. That was a decision we made together, because Corey was either going to miss Kieran's birthday or Connor's field trip which he had already agreed to chaperone. We sided with the experts who recommend you give more weight to the older child in Solomonic situations like this, since the older child will remember it and the younger child won't be aware.

Still. It perfectly illustrates the pitiful plight of the last child has, doesn't it?

Of course, Kieran had no birthday expectations, him being two and all. But I was a little sad. I'm always painfully aware of Natalie's first birthday at times like this. Since she was the first (and at the time, only) grandchild on both sides, we threw a three-day birthday extravaganza for her. We had a barbecue for our friends, accessorized by a balloon artist and piñata. Both sets of grandparents and my sister flew to San Diego for the occasion. We decorated the house in pink and yellow "1st Birthday Girl" steamers and plates and glitter, and we went to the beach and ate al fresco in Coronado and spread out the present opening, because the sweet 12-month-old didn't have the stamina required to get through them all in one sitting.

So when my last baby turns two and his own father isn't here to celebrate, I feel a little melancholy. Kieran is just as special as Natalie, Connor and Teyla. It's just that these days, our cup of life runneth over. Or maybe we're more sane. Take your pick.

So this past weekend, we had a make-up party. It was just our immediate family, and we didn't decorate with streamers or buy balloons. (Mostly because it was too nice to be indoors and because balloons scare the pants off Connor. He hates that they spontaneously pop. You would think he has PTSD the way he reacts.) I didn't even cook a birthday dinner, because there are few things that Kieran loves more than pizza delivered right to the door. (A few weeks ago, the mailman brought a box up to the house. "Pizza!" Kieran shouted, throwing his arms in the air.) So it seemed only fitting that we order "Pizza!"

I did make cupcakes.

And we did have candles. We've taken to singing the Sprouts Happy Birthday song, which includes the line: "You're good to grow, so count your candles and blow." So Kieran was pretty ecstatic that he had real flame in front of him to blow out. We had to relight the candles and blow them out for many an encore.

And we did have gifts.

Here, again, the last child gets short changed. The older kids have already amassed so many toys, we often can't think of anything to get Kieran. Literally. Every toy out there is just an iteration of something we already have in our basement.

So this year, when I found not just one but two gifts that are unique and perfect for Kieran, well. I was beside myself. May I share what we got our two-year-old?

First was the Anniversary Edition of Little Tikes Cozy Coupe. These things are so popular, I've seen toddlers open a can of whoop a** on their best friend just so they can have a few more minutes behind the wheel.

Kieran's eyes almost popped out of his head when the big kids wheeled it around the corner, and he spent the rest of the night being wheeled around in it, turning the pretend key and honking the horn and running into Connor for laughs. (For the record, the Target reviews for the Coupe say it's more difficult and time consuming to assemble than the Great Pyramids. It took about an hour for Corey to do it, with an electric drill (ying) and three helpers (yang). Then again, he has assembled scores of things from Ikea. So maybe he's just a pro? My advice is: It's worth the time to assemble. Don't be intimidated.)

Up to now, the only outdoor toy Kieran's had to ride is an ancient Big Wheel that is more size-appropriate for Teyla - which means she's usually the one sitting on it. So present one: success. Huge success.

Present two was given to him post cupcake to encourage him to want to take a bath. And make no doubt: This bad boy did the trick.

Oh. Wait. Too amazed by my classy gift bag to see the gift? (First person to Pin that wrapping job gets a pony!)

Here's what's inside the bag.

Now, I realize I can be dramatic, but I don't think I'm exaggerating here. The B. Fish and Splish Bath Boat is one of the most brilliant bath toys we've ever owned. (Second only to the Baby Einstein ABC wall clings and soap crayons.) It has 13 separate water toys, including a captain, a life preserver (to save him from huge waves), a fishing pole and four fish to catch, a combination whale-nail brush, an octo-comb and a set of three nesting cups. But maybe the best part: the boat actually floats. So many bath boats I researched are reported to barely stay upright, much less above water. And all the toys can be stored below desk in the boat itself when bath time is done.

Brilliant.

And the birthday celebration ended happily, even if a few days late. And the birthday boy couldn't stop smiling.

Kieran's presents were bought at Target, naturally. Special thanks goes to their "Find in Store" button, because that enabled me to browse for gifts online, when Kieran was in bed, so I could shop the next day with him in the cart and sneak gifts I'd already selected and knew were in my store into the checkout lane. Some of the links above are affiliate links, just so you know. Because Target is my bestie.

Why I'm not a fan of Mother's Day

2012-05-12T23:25:00.000-05:00

This is proof of how crazy I am about my kids: I take pictures of them at the most mundane times,
like when they are all squished together on the couch after school watching "Wild Kratts."
Because yeah. Like that doesn't happen every day. But look! My babies!

I love being a mom. It's one of the biggest surprises of my life.

I love my children with an intensity I didn't know was possible. Sometimes, the sheer scope of that love feels like an 80-foot wave, powerful and more than a little scary. I'm just trying to ride it.

With that caveat out of the way, I will say what I want to say: I'm not a fan of Mother's Day. It's always felt contrived to me, and a tad self-indulgent. Getting to be someone's mom is one of life's most vibrant blessings. Being celebrated for that is like being honored for eating the whole lemon chiffon cake by myself.

And then I read this from Anne Lamott* last night and I practically quivered with resonance.

Mother’s Day celebrates a huge lie about the value of women: that mothers are superior beings.

Ah yes. That. A whole day to celebrate only a certain subset of women. It's a day that excludes as much as includes, a day that divides rather than unites.

In fact, I would guess that Mother's Day is responsible for more pain than joy. Because for most moms, it's just another day, only with crumbs in the bed and clay corsages on the shirt. But for those who flinch at the mention, the celebration is fresh gouge in the wound.

Anne goes on to say:

I hate the way the holiday makes all non-mothers, and the daughters of dead mothers, and the mothers of dead or severely damaged children, feel the deepest kind of grief and failure. The non-mothers must sit in their churches, temples, mosques, recovery rooms and pretend to feel good about the day while they are excluded from a holiday that benefits no one but Hallmark and See’s.

I bet you know someone who fits that description. In fact, I bet you could find a few of them in the women's bathroom at your church today. They are the ones silently weeping in the stall, hoping no one hears their heart breaking again.

I see no reason why a small honor to me should come at such a great cost to them.

So while I am gushing over my children's homemade cards today and smiling at their sincere expressions of love, I will be loving them back and thanking God that He gave me this job. My kids might think they are celebrating me today. But it's really me celebrating them.

And I will be praying for you, friend, for those of you who feel your heart crush again today.

You do not need to be a mother in order to love and love well.

Anyone can unwrap that gift.

And I speak from experience: It's the best gift of all.

*Hat tip on the Anne Lamott article to my friend Leigh.

Remember

2012-05-10T17:46:00.000-05:00

I had almost forgotten the blessing of not doing.

This afternoon, when Kieran went down for a late nap, I did not sit at my computer and work on one of my Orphan Summit posts. I did not edit pictures or check in with Facebook or bake banana bread or fold laundry or try to figure out why I cannot get the toilet in the bathroom to stop smelling like pee. (I clean it and clean it and clean it and it's driving me crazy!)

Instead, I grabbed my favorite outdoor blanket and headed for the backyard, where the sun and trees were making lacy patterns on the turf. I laid down and inhaled the bright green smell of freshly mowed grass and I listened to the birds sing and I faintly heard a plane trace a line in the bright blue sky. I felt my pulse slow and I felt an ant zig zag it's way across my foot. (At least, I hope it was an ant. That's my preferred version.) And without even recognizing it, I fell asleep, thanking God for the sacrament of Sabbath.

Maybe this summer, as the days stretch long and the breeze becomes a friend, I will make a point to be not do for a time every day.

Because when I do, my soul returns and my heart is made whole and I remember.

Hopeless

2012-05-03T12:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a surreal day to come home to Southern California.

When Corey and I landed at LAX, the skies hung low, gray and threatening. "It's a little early for June gloom," I thought to myself.

We disembarked, stretched our legs, gathered a rental car, ate some fish tacos. Then I got on a train bound for Oceanside. My brother, who came to live with Corey and me when we lived in San Diego, still lives in North County, as the locals call it. And while Corey had official Orphan Summit business last night, I did not. So I redeemed the time and made a run to see Michael and my niece and nephew for a few hours.

I had no idea what I was doing on the train. I boarded the wrong car and didn't know where I was supposed to sit. I laughed at myself and ended up moving around at each stop, settling on a seat on the upper deck so I could have a better view.

And what a view it was. Once we got beyond San Juan Capistrano, we traveled surfside. The sun came out. (Or maybe we entered an area where the sun was already shining.) The water sparkled aquamarine and blue and crashed white and sand-flecked. Surfers littered the swells and children on the beach waved to the train as we passed by. (It felt so wrong to hear the train whistle from inside the beast.) Piers and boardwalks roared by and flocks of seagulls and mounds of bougainvillea and tiny (gorgeous) million dollar homes. I sat next to the window and turned my whole body to the ocean and took pictures like a tourist and drank it in like a person dying of thirst.

By the time I go off the train in Oceanside, I had fallen in love with San Diego all over again.

Michael met me at the curb, and we laughed and hugged and I said hi to my four-year-old nephew and smiled at my two-year-old niece who was a sweaty mound, napping in her carseat.

Then Michael said, "Did you hear the news about Junior Seau?" And my heart sank.

When Corey and I moved to San Diego in 1994, Junior was already an hero. A local boy turned pro football player, he led the San Diego Chargers to the Super Bowl that year. Even after he retired from the NFL, he was an icon. He started his own restaurant, he was active with area charities. My brother said he often saw Junior walking around Oceanside, sometimes running mini "training camps" for kids who would gather outside his beachside home.

Michael drove me by that same house yesterday afternoon. It was just a few hundred yards from the train station. We could see the legions of live trucks set up on the beach. News choppers buzzed overhead. The splashing surf and bright sunlight was a sharp contrast to the somber faces of the people milling on the sidewalk.

What makes a person who "has it all" commit suicide? It's a question that will surely haunt Junior's family and friends. From where I sit, suicide is the ultimate howl of hopelessness. It's the darkness of the soul exposed.

I understand. Apart from Jesus, I am wretched too. There are a lot of amusements in this life. I can do many things to numb the heartache. But ultimately, only Jesus makes me whole, lifts my head, gives me hope.

I'm at Orphan Summit this week. And honestly? It can be discouraging. There are 163 million orphans in our world today. There are many amazing organizations standing in the gap, who work tirelessly to hand out food, clothes, hugs.

But I know they would join me in this chorus: We cannot do this without Jesus. Without Him as our hope, without the conviction that we act in love because we ourselves have been adopted, we burn out. We grow cynical and bitter, angry at the darkness and frustrated at our inability to break its chains.

Jesus is our only hope, not Obi-Wai Kenobi. He is the only answer to the orphan crisis, the only balm to our personal heartbreak, the only anchor that can withstand the tsunami of life in a broken world.

I wish Junior Seau has known that.

On a Jet Plane

2012-05-02T14:34:00.000-05:00

I can hardly believe I'm writing this from 10,000 feet.

Technology astounds me on a daily basis. Poor Corey. I can't tell you how many times he's patiently listened to me rave about my love for GPS. ("Look! It follows me wherever I go! I'm the little blue dot!") And my favorite weather apps. Oy. I get a little swoony over the swirl of colors on the radar and the possibility of warmth in the extended 10-day forecast. ("This weekend is going to be cool and cloudy, but the European model says by next weekend.... Hey honey! Where'd you go?)

Today, Corey and I are en route without kids to Orphan Summit 8. It's in Orange County this year, at Saddleback Church, which means we will be just a jaunt up the 5 from our old hometown. I'm escatic, both for the conference and for the chance to return to California. I haven't been back since January 2009. It's been too long. (In N Out, I'm coming for you.)

You can expect me to blog from the Summit, about everything from global orphan care to how social media can be best harnessed by nonprofits that do orphan work. I'll also be posting pictures on Instagram (which can be accessed via Twitter or my Facebook page), in case you like to follow along with my adventures. And I'll try to resist updating you on the weather, especially if this cloud cover persists all the way to the West Coast.

May gray already, people? It doesn't seem right.

Finally

2012-05-01T11:31:00.000-05:00

Nineteen years ago this morning, I woke up with one thought echoing in my head: FINALLY!

Finally, it was May 1.

Finally, the day of the wedding was here.

Finally, I was going to start my new life.

I was excited for the celebration. But honestly, I was just glad we were getting on with it. Corey and I had been engaged for seven months (after dating for eight weeks; clearly, we are all about the slow and measured), and at times, it felt like the wait for the wedding was interminable. We both remember a Sunday night in early February that year, when we found ourselves sitting in a booth at Perkins, seriously discussing elopment. We made a list of pros and cons in one of my college notebooks, and in the end, reluctantly agreed it was best to stay the course and keep May 1 as the date.

So we waited. And waited. And waited.

And FINALLY, May 1 had arrived.

I practically rushed through my morning. I took a shower, ate some breakfast, headed for the church. I did my make-up and hair in the women's bathroom, which was both practical and nostalgic. Being the pastor's daughter, that bathroom held thousands of memories for me. I remember giggling that I was doing everything well but to the bare minimum. My make-up was the same as every other day, my hair wasn't professionally styled. My best friend helped me pin back my long hair with my veil and we called it good.

Corey showed up late to the pictures. He and his groomsmen had gotten caught up in a game of pick-up basketball. But I didn't really care. Our photos were beside the point. We smiled at each other with a mixture of relief and joy.

And then the ceremony, a blur. My Dad walked me down the aisle. (I can't even comprehend what my parents must have been feeling that day. I'm sure it wasn't finally.) My little brother handed Corey a plastic spider ring instead of the gold and diamond band, a prank he had been put up to by Corey's best man. I made funny faces at my bridesmaids during prayers to keep them from crying.

Because clearly, this was not a day for tears. This was a day for rejoicing, a day for laughter.

FINALLY.

Of course, now I look back at that 21-year-old bride, so eager to get on with the future, so ready to embrace her new life, and I smile with tenderness. Because now I know. The journey she was embarking on was so much more than she expected. Adventure, yes. Laughter. Discovery. But also loneliness. Confusion. Separateness. Heartache.

But I also smile because she and I still have this in common: The absolute clarity that Corey is the one for me. (For us?) Even in the darkest days, when I wondered why God would do this to me, why He would set me up to make me so miserable, I never doubted that this was my destiny.

I still don't.

In one more year, we will have 20 years of marriage to call our own. I am almost to the tipping point, when more of my life will have been with Corey than without. Our relationship has weathered 11 moves, five pregnancies, four babies, a million frequent flyer miles. It has endured neglect, cruelty, selfishness and ruin.

But we have seen God's grace flood through the holes in us. We have witnessed redemption and restoration on a scale almost unfathomable. We now know what the saying means: and two will become one.

Finally.

What the Train Taught Me about Perspective

2012-04-27T16:42:00.000-05:00

We live a few hundred feet from a train crossing.

It's not as bad as it sounds. Because our home's original owner was a man who owned a cement company, our walls are solid concrete. (We have to be very careful hanging picture on outside walls. The nails only go in about 1/2 inch before "ping" and they bend.) This place is a fortress. So even though trains thunder by about half a dozen times a day, we barely feel a tremor.

But of course, between the hours of 7:00 AM and 10:00 PM, we hear the whistle. OH MY WORD, do we hear the whistle. We hear it in the distance, we hear it as it grows close, we hear it around the corner and then it takes up residence inside us when it sounds its arrival at our street.

This delights Kieran to no end, of course. Even the faintest whistle triggers his train dance. "Train cah-ming, Mama! Train cah-ming!" he squeals. And then he runs for the front door and bounces on his toes with impatient joy. We end up standing on our front steps for the whole show, from the almost-scary thrill of the piercing it's-here whistle to the ding-ding-ding of the crossing guards returning to their upright position after the train is gone.

Watching the train in December

Occasionally, we will catch a train crossing when we're in our car, as happened this morning. We were loading up for the drive to school when we heard the first whistle. We ended up pulling out of our driveway just as the red engine roared through the intersection. We drove closer and idled right next to the crossing guard, counting cars and feeling the tick-tick-tick of the train wheels shake the minivan.

But you know what? It's hard to watch a train when you're close to it. The freight cars whizzed by with such ferocity, I couldn't focus. I got dizzy. I ended up backing up a bit so I could gain some context. It was too close, too fast, too much.

It's funny what a little perspective can do.

My word for 2012 is focus. It isn't as all-pervasive as Sabbath was last year. It's more of a drip in my mind than a steady stream. But this morning, because of the train (Hi, my name is Kelly, and I'm an analogy queen), it's been like a mountain brook rushing with snow melt.

I've lost perspective of many things in my life lately. It's understandable. When you're standing close to the fast-and-furiousness of it all, it's easy to get hypnotized. You can hardly take in what's right in front of you when - zoom - it's gone and the next thing is coming at you full steam. Zoom! Zoom! Zoom! Pack the lunch. Fold the laundry. Make some dinner. Clean the dishes. Hug a toddler. Play dolls. Go to bed. Zoom! Zoom! Zoom! It's all encompassing, all consuming.

But thanks to the "train cah-ming," I think what I really need is to step back and remember the big picture. (Maybe after I close my eyes for a few minutes to chase away the vertigo.) I need to refocus on my husband, my family and my deepest dreams. It's easy for me to lose sight of the best things in life when I'm caught up in the zooming train inches away from my nose.

One of my Siesta Memory Verses from last year was this passage from Ephesians.

That's why, when I heard of the solid trust you have in the Master Jesus and your outpouring of love to all the followers of Jesus, I couldn't stop thanking God for you — every time I prayed, I'd think of you and give thanks. But I do more than thank. I ask — ask the God of our Master, Jesus Christ, the God of glory — to make you intelligent and discerning in knowing him personally, your eyes focused and clear, so that you can see exactly what it is he is calling you to do, grasp the immensity of this glorious way of life he has for his followers, oh, the utter extravagance of his work in us who trust him — endless energy, boundless strength!

I think those words need a freshening in up in my mind this weekend.

Maybe I'll focus on them while I sit on my front porch and watch the train.

Last week, in between trains, I created a Facebook page for my blog. I'd love you to click through and like it, because then I will have another way to interact with you. As a thank you, I've put a video of Keiran's I-want-to-jump-out-of-my-skin-with-excitement train ritual on the Love Well wall. (And if you're not on FB and you want to see the video anyway, email me. I'll send you a link to it on Vimeo.) Happy weekend!

Sweet Little Lies

2012-04-25T12:16:00.003-05:00

This picture is a couple of years old, but the attitude captured in it is always current. Read on.

I was cleaning up dinner when I heard a loud "crack" from the playroom. Kieran immediately started to wail.

"What's going on?" I called as I walked, drying my hands on the way.

Kieran, in full-out cry, reached for me. Teyla, sitting on the floor next to her brother, wore a scowl.

"Did you hit Kieran?" I said with my eyebrow cocked and serious face, which is Mommy code for: Don't even TRY to mess with me.

"No," Teyla answered, more to herself than me, scowl louder than words.

"Teyla," I said, shifting the still-bawling Kieran to my other shoulder, "look at me." (Mommy code for: I so know you are lying.) "You and Kieran were playing nicely in here, and now something is wrong. I want you to think about it again, and tell me the truth. Did you hit your brother?"

There was a long pause as we stead at each other. Then Teyla's eyes shifted to the side and her words slid out in a long, tremulous, "Nooooooo."

I sat Kieran on my knee and asked the offended. "What happened, buddy?"

"Tey-da HIT ME on da HEAD it HURT!" he practically shouted with righteous indignation.

You could almost read the thought bubble above Teyla's head. "Crap! I forgot he can talk now!"

I stuffed the laughter threatening to bubble up inside me, and I stared hard at the offender, "Teyla, would you like to tell me the story again? Did you hit your brother?"

"Yes," she sighed, equal parts remorse and resignation.

I thanked her for her (reluctant) truthfulness, talked stern about honesty the first time and then hugged away the hurt in both my youngest.

Then I returned to the kitchen and giggled until my sides hurt.

Mommy code for: I win.

Because There's No Epidural for Living

2012-04-22T17:04:00.000-05:00

There are (rare) days I wake up and think, "Life? I love you. Let's me and you go make a pot of French press and get married."

And then there are (most) days when I wake up with a toddler picking my nose BEFORE I'VE EVEN GOTTEN OUT OF BED and I get in the shower only to watch through the glass doors as the same toddler (smiles adorably) and then smears cream blush all over the toilet. And I think, "Sweet hosanna, where is my life epidural?!?"

Because, let's be honest. No matter which side of the natural childbirth equation you're on, a guaranteed pain-free day would be an instant hit. Imagine the day you're going to take that college final and you haven't even read the textbook, much less studied, and - life epidural! You color in those Scantron dots with a silly smile on your face and a jaunty tip of your head. Or what about the day when you are parenting solo and one of your kids throws up and the washer breaks and you reach for the coffee only to find you're out? Life epidural! Get through the next 24 hours without feeling frustration, resentment or that raging headache.

Or what about when life really hurts? You miscarry the baby. Your spouse says, "I'm not sure I ever loved you." You find porn on your teenager's computer.

Life can hurt. ("Life is pain, Highness.") It's good, it's a gift, I'm the biggest proponent of sunshine-rainbows outside of Kelle Hampton. (Seriously. No one can top her in optimism. She's my hero.) But still. When we are lying in bed, not even awake, and we feel life's sucker punch to the ribs (or the toddler's head-butt to the nose, take your pick), we might be tempted to find a way to anesthetize our way through the day.

Through our life.

Pain is one of the consequences of sin, as I see it. The world is broken, thanks to Eve. She listened to someone she shouldn't have and believed what she shouldn't have believed. And today, we all live with the fallout.

But we don't have to repeat her mistakes.

Enter I Blame Eve, the new book written by one of my Internet BFF's, Susanna Foth Aughtmon. Susanna blogs at confessions of a tired supergirl, and she is every inch what you would imagine given her blog name. She's witty and real and not afraid to ask hard questions or embarrass herself. She writes in a disarming, girlfriends-chatting-over-coffee kind of way, but she writes deep truth.

I Blame Eve is all about us dealing with the waves Eve put into motion. (And yes, Adam is totally complicit too. He just stood there, silent and removed, as Eve discussed the merits of life change with a talking snake. So I'm not letting him off, OK? It's just that Susanna's book is for women, so we're focusing on Eve here.) Because of Eve, we try to hide from God, we have pain in childbirth, we battle dirty laundry daily (as Susanna points out, Adam and Eve didn't wear clothes; ergo, no laundry in the garden of Eden). But above all, we think God is holding out on us, that He isn't looking out for our best interest. In short, we think life would be better if we were in control.

Some of us try to bury the pain under guilty pleasures, self-soothing and pacifying ourselves. When life begins to feel broken, we go shopping or indulge in a new relationship or eat our way through a bakery. When the good feelings wear off an the despair begins to creep back in, we simply repeat the process, committing to a lifestyle of overindulgence to survive. Others of us respond by trying to control our surroundings. We figure that if we can make our world look like we think it should, then we will feel better. We organize ourselves into corners and negotiate impossible to-do lists. When we can't control our environment, we try to control other people, placing high hurdles in their paths and holding then to standards they can never attain. Still others of us try to perfect ourselves, thinking that if we can patch ourselves up with self-improvement books and breathing exercises we will lessen the pain of real living. Or some of us do all these things. Like me. As you can imagine, living with me is no walk in the park.

But the wildest part is that with all the pain and brokenness of this life, we have the audacity to think we can fix ourselves. We turn ourselves inside out looking for peace, for deliverance, for clarity, when as far as I can tell, we don't have a whole lot of peace, deliverance or clarity on hand. We try to set ourselves free when we don't have the ability to do so. Just like there is no way on this green earth that I could give myself an epidural, there is no way we can bring healing about in our own lives. We would be crazy to think otherwise. -I Blame Eve

Again and again, in this easy-to-read book, Susanna points to the only person who can bring wholeness to our brokenness. She uses stories from her own life and from the Bible to make her point that trusting God is better than forging our own path. Because Susanna's style is so approachable, this is a great read for summer, or to do as a study with your friends. She's even thrown in questions for small groups in the back of the book.

And really, sitting at the feet of Jesus with your girlfriends and a cup of coffee, reminding ourselves that our need for control is not going to get us what we crave - well, that's as close as we're going to get to a day epidural anyway.

Ruthless Rules for Stuff: Sticky Situations

2012-04-20T11:46:00.000-05:00

Earlier this week, I wrote about my new-ish ruthless lifestyle when it comes to stuff. My philosophy is to evaluate everything in my home by these two questions: Do I use it? Do I love it? If I can't answer an honest yes to at least one of those questions, the item must go.

At the end of my post, I mentioned my rules get a little tricky in two areas. And those are gifts and anything that's related to my children.

Let's tackle gifts first, because I have one staring me in the face. Literally.

A few days ago, a loved one (who doesn't read this blog) gave me that necklace, because they knew I lost most of my jewelry in the robbery last year. It's beautiful and not cheap. Those are real pearls, they told my husband, and that probably means the delicate gold chain is real as well.

Problem is? I will never wear that necklace. It's not my style at all. The past few years, I purged all similar necklaces from my jewelry stash, because they didn't pass my two-rule test. I didn't love them, ergo I didn't wear them. So out they went, no matter the sentimentality attached.

But now I'm faced with a fresh dilemma. It feels ungrateful to donate the necklace to a local charity, which is what I do with most of my unwanted stuff these days. But it seems ridiculous to put it where my jewelry box used to be and hold on to it just because it was a kindhearted gesture.

Ugh. I hate internal conflict. Why do people give me gifts I don't like and force me to deal with them? It's so rude! [/sarcasm]

The only solution I can think of is to give the necklace to someone who will love it. (Read: Who wants a necklace?) I can't justify keeping it just because I feel guilty getting rid of it. Giving it to someone who wear it and enjoy it will honor the intent of the gift, which is to bless someone with beauty.

And I will still have satisfied my ruthless rules.

Stickier still, though, is applying the rules to children's stuff, especially when it comes to evaluating anything from the baby era. I mean, that's not just stuff. That's my heart.

That yellow smocked dress that Natalie wore for her dedication, which was the Sunday immediately after 9-11? That's more than fabric.

And the baby blue two-piece set adorned with a fuzzy duck that Connor wore for his first official pictures?

And Teyla's tiny newborn-sized clothes?

(Seriously. Those are newborn clothes. And she's drowning in them.)

And Kieran's blowout outfit?

(Kidding! Just checking to make sure you weren't asleep at the screen.)

Those are memories. Those are love. Heck, they still smell like my babies. Holding them up to the two-rule standard is agonizing. Because those tiny clothes, those soft blankets, those brightly colored rattles and tattered board books aren't going to get used anymore. And yes, I love them. Oh my heart, I love them. But if someone else could use it and love it too, is it right for me to hang on to it just because of sentiment?

So I've made some hard decisions - and some concessions. I've kept for myself two tubs of baby clothes, one for the girls, one for the boys. I tell myself I will give it to the kids someday when they have babies of their own, but I'm not an idiot. I know they won't want sleepers, possibly spit-up stained, that are decades old. The memories are mine, not theirs.

And I've put my favorite baby toys in our storage area, because I hope I'll get to use them again when guests with little ones come to visit.

But the rest? I've given away. Many of the clothes I've given to my siblings or my close friends, and I will confess that it makes me smile wide to see one of Natalie's old dresses on my niece or Kieran's infant short sets on my nephew. And I gave most of the toys and baby paraphernalia to area ministries that help families, where I know they will go to good use.

It reminds me that my treasures here are destined to rust and fade anyway. It's the love they represent that's eternal.

So I continue to be ruthless with my stuff, living a lean lifestyle, purging my possessions even if it's painful. Because ultimately, it does more than keep my house clutter-free. It keeps my soul focused on what really matters.

And it's not stuff.

Your comments on the last post were so awesome. I'm thinking I might do one more post on my ruthless rules to talk about the nitty-gritty of how to do it. I'm an organizer by nature, so if I can offer a few tips or point you toward people who are more gifted than me, I'll do so. If you have tips to share or questions to ask, leave them here. I'll try to tie it all up in a pretty package with one more post.

My Ruthless Rules for Stuff

2012-04-16T10:22:00.000-05:00

If you've ever browsed through a second-hand shop and wondered who can give away their grandmother's yearbook, or their great-aunt's old wedding dress or their family's heirloom dresser, the answer is me.

I'm the one.

I've never actually had my grandmother's yearbook or my great-aunt's wedding dress or an heirloom dresser. But I feel certain that, at this stage of my life, they wouldn't last under my roof.

I am done hanging on to things for mere sentimental value. I only want things in my house that I will use and enjoy. If I won't use it or enjoy it, I will give it to someone who will or donate it to a charity that will put it to better use.

(I'm so mean.)

This hard-nosed approach is a distinct change for me. I used to be nostalgic to the core. I kept every note I ever passed to me in high school. (Reflect on that a moment. Every. Note.) I kept old clothes that didn't fit anymore and were hopelessly out of date because they reminded me of a sweet moment in time. I shlepped boxes of my childhood toys across the country, and I dutifully cared for the hand-me-down furniture given to us by well-meaning relatives.

Then came move #10. We had almost a full six months to plan this particular transition, and we knew early on we would be leaving behind our large, 5000-square-foot home behind and starting over in a 1900-square-foot townhouse. We knew we would have to get serious about selling, donating or tossing many of our worldly goods to make this happen. So we did. We sold big items on Craiglist, we sold smaller items at a local consignment store and we donated loads and loads to the area Goodwill.

And you know what? It felt GREAT. Turns out, all my childhood stuffed animals had mold on them anyway, thanks to that damp cellar in our Northern California home. And the notes were most illegible. And getting dressed was much easier without all those old clothes hanging in my closet. The more I got rid of, the lighter I felt.

In the midst of the Great Purge of 2006, I read an article in our paper.

Seems there was a local man who, in the 1970s, started collecting kerosene lamps. It was a fun hobby for him, made easier by the fact that he was a truck driver and able to visit antique shops and auctions across the country on his travels.

Problem is, he couldn’t stop collecting kerosene lamps. Or tools. Or toys. The article said he first fell in love with the sing-song rhythm of the auctioneers conducting the sales.

“I used to get half toned up and go to these sales,” he said. “I didn’t care, I’d give them bids.”

Eventually, he ended up with 14 buildings – 14 BUILDINGS! – stuffed with stuff. “And I didn’t even know what was in them,” he admitted. He recently opened a store in his farming community to sell off some of his stuff. The store’s name? Dad’s Good Stuff.

I couldn't stop thinking about that man. His story both amused and horrified me. And honestly, it convicted me. I wasn't a hoarder. But I wondered where one draws the line between holding onto things because of the memories associated with them and holding on to things because stuff is our security blanket.

It renewed my energy to be ruthless as I sorted. In the end, we fit into our cozy townhouse with room to spare.

And you know what? I didn't lose a single memory. They are all in there still, tucked behind the library due dates and the reminders to pick up more orange chicken at Trader Joe's.

So now I live my life under the banner No More Stuff. Everything in my house must meet my two rules: Do I love it? Will I use it? If not, it doesn't stay.

P.S. Corey and the kids are grandfathered in.

This gets tricky in two areas, which I'll discuss tomorrow. But for now, because it's a blustery Monday in my neck of the woods and I feel chatty, tell me your story: How do you decide what stays and what goes?

Spirit-Led Parenting : My Unintended Journey and a GIVEAWAY

2012-04-13T11:07:00.000-05:00

I discovered I was pregnant with Natalie on Thanksgiving Day 2000. When the test I pulled out on a whim displayed two bright pink lines immediately, I went numb with shock. I hadn't been feeling well for weeks, but I had chalked it up to stress or maybe the flu.

The girl who never wanted to be a mom was going to have a baby.

It took a while for the adrenaline to stop pumping; about three months, I would guess, about the same time it took to get over the all-day sickness that always plagues my pregnancies. But once I got used to the mommy idea, trying it on for size and examining my new future in the mental three-way mirror, I was happy. You might even say I was excited.

And it goes without saying, I was completely clueless.

Corey and I were the last of our friends to get pregnant, the last to hop on the baby bandwagon. Thanks to their endorsements, I was already familiar with the popular parenting classes offered at our church, something about cultivating kids in the way of the Lord. But the class wasn't being offered again until after our baby would be born, and because I am a planner control freak, I went to a book store as soon as I was up to it and bought the book that summed up the curriculum.

It was the only book I bought. Surely, I wouldn't need anything besides this one, I thought.

But as I settled in to read that night, my stomach began to churn. I didn't have the experience to know if the authors' strict feeding schedules, cry-it-out sleeping methods or emphasis on parental authority would work. But I was appalled that they continually tied their formula back to God, as if Jesus himself had endorsed their ideas. "Do this, and your child will be a breeze, a child who will never rebel and who will love Jesus all their life," the book seemed to promise. "But if you dare to choose another path, God will punish you. Your home will dissolve into chaos, your marriage will disintegrate, your children will grow up unruly and hardhearted and you will only have yourself to blame."

I know rotten theology when I see it. I started to do some research. And I got angry. Over Sunday dinner, I shared my newfound knowledge with my Dad, the senior pastor of the church we attended at the time. He was also gravely concerned. The church dropped the class and stopped endorsing the curriculum.

I threw the book in the trash, confident that its foundation was so flawed, it had little to offer me.

But that left me without a plan.

What I wouldn't give to go back in time and hand myself a copy of Spirit-Led Parenting.

Written by my dear friend Megan Tietz and her dear friend Laura Oyer, it is heaped with the kind of wisdom that would have soothed my soul and reassured me that the best thing I can do to parent my new baby is seek Jesus.

As it so happened, Natalie was born in late July, and I feel so deeply in love, the very axis of my soul shifted. I jokingly say I experience postpartum euphoria, instead of postpartum depression, and it was never more true than it was that first time. Suddenly, things I never considered before became realities in my life. Breastfeeding on demand? Check. Co-sleeping? Check. Scheduling my life around this tiny infant instead of the other way around? Check.

Maybe most amazingly, I didn't care if the experts said I was ruining my daughter. I could feel in my soul that what I was doing was the right thing for me, for us.

And that is the message of Spirit-Led Parenting.

What we are so passionate about sharing with new parents and parents-to-be is a message that we desperately wish would have been shared with us when we were new to motherhood: There is another way. There is an approach to parenting that looks fear in the face and boldly speaks an answer: Freedom. Freedom from required formulas, unrealistic expectations of our children and ourselves, and the belief that we must force our babies to fit into a mold that may not have been designed for them. Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby's First Year

It's true. Babies are individuals, unique in design and breathtaking in potential. Why do we expect them to operate like little machines? I have found so much wisdom in just getting to know my children and then reacting according to who God made them to be.

This idea of beginning without a clear plan can be unnerving. We want consistent guidelines and cold hard facts. We want outlines and directions that are easy to read and follow. But Spirit-led parenting doesn’t work like that. And the reason for this is yet another radical idea: the first year should be less about training our babies and more about God developing us as parents and human beings. If we let Him, God can use that first intense year of baby’s life to train us how to live a life that is fully surrendered to Him. To cultivate in us a trust that follows His lead, seeks Him first, and understands His grace. Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby's First Year

Yes, this means my life the last 10 years has surprised me. I co-slept with all my children when they were infants; I still co-sleep with Kieran half the night. Our kids all breastfed well past one year. I never fed them traditional baby food. (Natalie wouldn't eat it, and so I went down the route of baby-led weaning before they had a word for it.) I rocked them, nursed them, sang them to sleep. I still sit in Teyla and Kieran's room while they nod off, because they don't like being alone.

Does that mean I have discovered The Right Way to Parent? Hardly. What works for you may be completely different than what works for me. And that's OK. That's the point.

But I do know my life today is radically marked by experientially knowledge of God's grace. It's been the best surprise. Parenting has humbled me, emboldened me, taught me selfless love.

Spirit-led parenting is not a one-size-fits-all approach. It has no “rules” and doesn’t rely on the wisdom of others. It requires only that you listen to your child, to your intuition, and most importantly, to the Lord’s leading to determine the best way to respond to each unique situation. While some families may find that the approach they are led to may appear quite similar to the ones found in the popular school of thought, others will discover that God leads them to methods which split off the mainstream path. Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby's First Year

So much wisdom. I cannot recommend this book enough. It's not a parenting manual; it's a journal of humor and comfort, an encouragement that you can parent your children just as they are meant to be parented because you have the Holy Spirit.

And in the end, that is enough.

Every baby is His unique creation, every mother is His treasured child, and every family has a calling. When my heart led me to care for my daughter another way, it wasn’t rebellion or failure or the beginning of ruin; it was Him. Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby's First Year

~~I am so excited to be able to give away a copy of Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby's First Year.~~ ~~Just leave me a comment here by next Friday, April 20 - and don't forget to leave me a way to contact you in case you win!~~ Update: WE HAVE A WINNER! Kelly from View Along the Way. And get this: She had her second baby between the time she entered and I picked a winner. Glad to see she'll be able to put it to immediate use. Congratulations Kelly!

To read more about Spirt Led Parenting and for more chances to win a copy of the book, check out these other stops on the blog tour.
4/10 Gypsy Mama, Mama Monk, Little Hearts Books
4/11 Sarah Bessey
4/12 I Take Joy
4/13 Love Well
4/14 Joy in this Journey
4/15 The Stanley Clan
4/16 Simple Mom, Life Your Way
4/17 Lifenut
4/18 Fried Okra, Live Renewed
4/19 The Pilot's Wife
4/20 Nish Happens
4/21 To Think is To Create
4/22 It's Almost Naptime
4/23 Keeper of the Home

Entertaining Angels

2012-04-09T22:32:00.000-05:00

If there is a Pinterest standard for Easter, I failed completely this year.

I didn't dye eggs with the kids. I didn't get new clothes for anyone. I didn't buy any candy besides a couple of boxes of Trader Joe's jelly beans which are still sitting in a drawer in the kitchen. (OK, confession: And a couple of boxes of Peeps, which are now unwrapped and getting stale and chewy for me, which is the only way to eat a Peep, and don't try to tell me otherwise.)

I didn't even do Easter baskets. I didn't have enough candy to make them look respectable, and I had no stomach to go shopping just to fill the baskets. So I left them tucked in the storage area with my mommy guilt.

I'd like to spiritualize my laziness by saying, "We just focused on Jesus this year." But it seems wrong to add deceit to sloth.

But you know what? It was still a great holiday. Both because the truth of the resurrection doesn't need bunnies to make it better. And because we were invited to Easter dinner by a family in our church.

Never underestimate the value of hospitality.

Because this family hails from Canada, they have no extended family within driving distance. So they open their home on holidays to other "orphans" so no one has to celebrate alone. When Dana asked if we would want to join them for Easter this year, I said yes right away.

Corey and I did the same thing when we were newlyweds living in San Diego. Having neither the money nor the vacation time to fly home very holiday, we simply opened our house up to anyone else who might not have family nearby. (And to be clear, that's almost everyone. Very few people living in Southern California are from Southern California.) Thanksgiving was our favorite. We would host a potluck for somewhere between four and sixteen people. We would play Nertz and watch football and eat way too much food and it never mattered if the dishes matched (they didn't) or the centerpiece was crafty (it wasn't) or if no one could ever beat Corey at Nertz (we didn't). It was a shared holy day, a day to be together and be thankful for the moments when friends become family.

To be clear, Dana's Easter table was not only beautiful, but it would have passed any Pinterest test.

She is a gracious hostess (I hope her laptop recovers from the many times we found Kieran banging on it) and the food was amazing and the kids reveled in an outdoor egg hunt with friends.

But it wasn't the trappings of Sunday that left me with a glow. It was the spirit. By entertaining us, Dana and her family fed our souls with heaping portions of love and acceptance and community.

You can't Pinterest that.

Rain

2012-04-03T11:38:00.000-05:00

My left leg is tucked under me, and my right leg is stretched across his lap. He curves his fingers around my calf. The house is quiet. In the distance, thunder rumbles.

It's been a long day, full of wood splitting and children laughing. Together, we've marveled over the early blooms of the rhododendron and and the lateness of the bed hour. Such is life when you're raising four children and two acres of land. Both are works in progress, although he and I know we are not the creators of these wild things. We are merely the caretakers.

I marvel at the simplicity in these moments, the peace we share in the weariness together. It wasn't always this way. I remember a time when our soil was parched, when the drought left us shriveled and separate. There was no peace then, only staggering loneliness.

But then the rains came, unexpected and fierce. And what was dead was restored. Miracle.

A good thought on this most holy of weeks.

He drums my ankle and I study his profile, smiling at the gray hairs along the temple. Nineteens years this May, and did we have a clue back then how much we would endure? Of course not. But then again, we are not the creators of this wild thing. We are but the caretakers. We would never have seen the beauty of the plan back then. Our expectations were all wrong.

He drums my ankle, knowingly, and the thunder rumbles again.

The rain is almost here.

Linking up to my friend Heather of the EO for her 29th installment of Just Write Tuesdays. But I must confess, I was also inspired by the Marriage Letter series posted each Monday over at Amber's place, which never ceases to draw me into the mysterious beauty of this thing called marriage.

Mahma Mahma

2012-04-02T08:38:00.001-05:00

Spring break has finally come to Chez Love Well, so to celebrate, we had family movie night last night and watched the new Muppets movie. (And honestly? It was a little weird. Maybe it's because neither my kids nor my husband have ever seen the Muppets in action before. But I found myself laughing and then trying to explain why Gonzo sleeping with the chickens was funny or why Beaker only says meep-meep-meep and why the old guys sit and criticize the show even though they are obviously apart of it. Seen from a third-party perspective, I realized the Muppets are an acquired taste.)

(Then the movie ended and all the stars started in with the Mahna Mahna song, and Corey looked at me like I had just exposed our babies to a bad 60s drug trip. And then his own children started to sing along, which almost made his head explode. All I can say is: Thank you Pandora Elmo channel for educating my children in pop culture. Maybe someday they will be able to win the pink slice of pie in Trivial Pursuit, unlike their father who can get everything but.)

Of course, I say "we" watched the movie so glibly, when parents all know: toddlers don't watch movies. Kieran was mildly interested in the opening sequence. Then he was, "All done, Mama. All done!" So I sat sat the kitchen table with my cuddly, beguiling, brown eyed son and played "Yegos" instead.

I'm still not sure what we were really doing. It doesn't matter anyway. He would hand me a guy and then take another guy in his chubby fist and say, "Aye-yah!" I would respond by making my guy do a roundhouse in the air worthy of scene from Matrix which would culminate in a blow to the head of Kieran's guy. He would make an "I've suffered a blow" noise, which is something only boys can do, and retaliate by knocking my guy out of my hand and across the table.

There were moments when I thought our guys might be friends. Sometimes, my guy would hold out his hand and Kieran would say "high pive" and I would die from the cute.

And then there was the time I knocked his guy under the table and his head fell off and Kieran said, "Danged it!" which made my head fall off from laughter.

But mostly, I just played along, swooping and swishing and battling and befriending. Kieran's eyes glowed with delight. When he smiles, his whole face just crinkles. I couldn't stop staring at him, drinking in every moment of toddlerhood.

The one time he seemed to grow interested in the movie (or more correctly, in he loud noises coming from the screen), I got up from the table only to find him grabbing my hand away from the dishwasher. "Come on, Mama. Come on!"

Kieran loves many things right now. Heck, he loves most things. He is intense and most of the time, that means he is intensely happy.

But no one can touch my status with him these days. I am Mama, his confident and comforter, best friend and favorite cook. I am the Chief Book Reader before bed, and I am the only one he wants to cuddle with in the middle of the night.

And you know what? I love it. I know this phase is over all too quickly. I can't get enough of that boy right now, with all his giggles and belly and voracious joie de vivre.

I am ecstatic to be ... Mahma-Mahma. (Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo.)

The First Cut

2012-03-21T05:00:00.000-05:00

I’m never ready for that first big boy haircut.

Kieran’s hair was perfectly shaggy last fall. It fit him. It matched his smily personality, his rugged explorer’s soul. Corey and I loved watching him run around the football field where his big brother played.

He was laughing, always laughing, his hair bouncing with the joy waves coming straight from his heart.

But time, as we all know, doesn’t stand still. Fall changed to winter (or something resembling winter) and Kieran’s hair grew. Soon, it was in his eyes, always brushing his lashes. I developed a hobby out of brushing it back for him, swooping it to the side.

“There’s my handsome boy,” I would smile, and he would smile back and give me a big hug. (Or as he says it, a “BEE huh.”)  

Eventually, I could ignore it no longer. With the sigh of a woman who admits defeat, I scheduled an appointment with our stylist. “But a TRIM! Only a trim!” I said, adamantly. “I don’t want a big boy cut yet.”

Of course, Kieran being Kieran, he didn’t particularly enjoy the pampering. It took us several tries over several days to even clip the edges off and give him a clear viewpoint.

And even that didn’t last long. The shaggy layers that made him look so rugged in the fall grew out. The hair was in his eyes again. Only this time, it was more of a bowl cut, like he was auditioning for a boy band in the ‘90s.

I’ll be honest. It wasn’t his best look. It gave me the strength to do what I knew had to be done.

Last Saturday, we went on a mother-and-son outing to our favorite Aveda clinic. Coffee was required (for me). And donuts (for both of us).

He’s a big boy now.

I can’t stop staring.

Consolation prize: With the locks gone, the chubby cheeks are more pronounced.

My baby's still in there.

Spring Decor that isn't Pink

2012-03-08T12:05:00.000-06:00

I have a problem with spring.

It doesn't fit my home's decor.

Spring colors are usually pastel and primarily pink. My home's palette is bright reds, deep blues and earthy greens. Pink doesn't work.

But a few splashes of season in my house make me happy. So a few years ago, I devised a solution. I went through my spring decorating bin and got rid of all the pastels (which was almost everything) and started over with a mix of creamy whites and fresh greens. (Bonus: There are years in Minnesota when spring is slow to arrive. Whites and greens aren't as disconcerting against 10 inches of fresh snow as are pinks and yellows.)

It's taken me a while to build up my white-and-green collection, but this year, I finally feel like I have enough items to play with. And the timing is perfect, because this is the first spring in our new house in which I have the energy to decorate.

I loved my Valentine's fireplace, but it's been up since mid-January. It was past time for a change.

Megan's post on spring mantles inspired me, especially since she has a lot of red in her home too. Here's what I came up with.

This fireplace is in our kitchen sitting area, which is next to a playroom, so I like it to be whimsical and cheery, not too sophisticated. That said, my own style and this house scream out for texture and touches of nature. All of my mantles include something of the outdoors - birch bark pillars, rocks from Lake Superior, bumpy twig balls.

I found the fuzzy felt bunny at a local grocery store this week and fell in love. It's the perfect blend of spring and make-me-smile. Plus, it's green-and-white.

The only other place I decorate seasonally is the front entry table. Here's what I've got right now.

I need something else on the right-hand side. Because this is next to the living room, which is decidedly more adult in feel, I'm comfortable making this more sophisticated than the fireplace. (Read: I tried to put a felt chick in here, and it didn't work.) Any ideas? Maybe a stone bunny?

By the way, that is a real bird's nest. My precious. I love that thing. A robin built it on one of our deck beams when we lived in the country. She laid four blue eggs in it, and because it was perfectly situated between cracks, we were able to lay on the deck every day and put our faces on the wood and peak into her world. (Which drove her crazy, naturally, but I promise we were very respectful.)

(I just found that picture! It makes me so happy that I took a picture of it.)

Connor, Natalie and I watched the eggs hatch, we watched the scrawny baby birds change into feathered nestlings. We watched them learn to fly and then we watched them leave. When fall came, and no other birds seemed to care about the nest, I asked Corey to take it down so I could keep it.

And now it sits in our entry, filled with a trio of fake blue robin's eggs, a reminder of the sweetness and miracle of spring.

And it's not pink. Which is just about perfect.

Change

2012-03-04T23:33:00.000-06:00

It finally happened.

Last week, driving home from a playdate, with Kieran and Teyla in tow, lunchtime imminent, I couldn't find a single drive-thru restaurant that sounded good to me.

Culver's. McDonald's. Pizza Hut. Even Chick-fil-A.

(Oh wait. We don't have CFA. We eat heathen chicken. Never mind.)

They all sounded like junk. None of them tempted my palate. Not even the thought of a crispy, hot, salted French fry. Not even the siren call of a chocolate peanut butter malt. Not even my formerly beloved McChicken, which has sustained me through many a first trimester.

It no longer tempted me. I drove home and ate strawberries and yogurt for lunch.

It's a turning point, this. I have been been on a real food kick for a couple of years now. Slowly but steadily, I've cut junk food out of my diet. I replaced refined carbs with whole grain options. I stopped buying preprocessed stuff (except for Trader Joe's, because they do an amazing job of keeping even their preprocessed options fairly healthy). I buy free-range eggs and organic milk and grass-fed beef. I allow myself only one small treat a day, and even that is usually a square of dark chocolate or a slice of fruit pie.

My taste buds have finally caught up to my brain. I just don't enjoy the old stuff anymore. It isn't even hard to resist.

I've changed. Not only my habits, but my desires.

That, friends, it's true transformation.

It's something I've been thinking about lately, thanks to a post on failed New Year's resolutions from my friend Laura Parker. We are at that point in the year when so many of our bright and shiny intentions are battered and bruised. We aren't going to bed earlier. We aren't exercising much, unless you count that one week we made it to the gym and that time we chased the toddler in the Target parking lot. The only weight we've lost is from that bought with the flu. It's discouraging, especially for a optimist like me.

What I'm learning is this: True, lasting, deep change is hard. As I commented on Laura's post, it's like herding cats or swimming through Jell-O. Or both. At the same time. I think this is especially true the older we get. Our brains are wired now. It takes tremendous energy to get our synapses to move in a new direction. Habits are grooved into our gray matter, quite literally. Teaching ourselves new ways of coping, new methods of living takes time and slow-and-steady reinforcement. For most of us, change isn't overnight. We don't wake up one morning and - bam - we're different.

But. Driving by McDonald's the other day, without even the slightest urge to turn in, I realized: Change is possible.

It's possible.

Don't give up.

Now, let's talk about my resolution to start working out again.

Life

2012-03-01T16:34:00.006-06:00

Maybe it's because I can't shake the lingering Plague. Maybe it's the ages of my kids. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's Kieran.

But the other day, as I cleaned crumbs off the kitchen floor (again) and put away the milk (again) and asked Connor to pick up his Legos (again), I thought to myself: Man, life is schooling me lately. I can barely keep up.

And it's true. Life just keeps coming. It's wave after relentless wave. Dinner. Bedtime. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Menu planning. Detangling Teyla's hair. School drop-off. School pick-up. Lunch. Dishes.

I'm not drowning. The past few years, I've simplified in big and small ways. No one is involved in a ton of outside activities. I only have two church commitments a month. We aren't navigating a crisis. I can stay afloat on these waves.

I just can't make much headway.

And that leaves me feeling a little silly, to be honest. There are days I glance at my mostly empty calendar and think, "Girl! You do NOTHING outside of the home. Why are you so tired?" And I have no solid answer, nothing that seems to hold water. I mean, I know woman who work full-time jobs in addition to raising children. I know women who have double the number of kids that I do. I know woman who blog daily (actually, I know dozens of you) who also manage to write books and attend conferences and do good and generally dazzle me.

If that's you, let me be clear: You amaze me.

Because I am exhausted just keeping the plates spinning here, in my little world. To be clear: I am happy and at peace. You might even say, I'm fulfilled. I'm not hurried or running crazy or fried crispy. I feel like God has taught me how to have margin, and it's a wonderful thing to have space to enjoy my life, instead of endure it.

But even with margin, my pages are full. Every drop of energy I have is used up by 9:00 PM. (And those are the days Corey is home. When he's traveling, I'm done by 5:00.)

Maybe I'll have more freedom as the kids get older. Maybe I'll have more energy as the warm weather returns. Maybe I'll have more dreams as God gives them.

For now, I'm just here, kicking and laughing and spitting out seawater from the occasional wave that slaps me in the face. Keeping it together, trying to stay afloat.

Anyone with me?

Roller Coaster

2012-02-20T13:42:00.004-06:00

I woke up this morning, hacking half a lung and wishing for just three hours more sleep.

It had been a roller coaster night - which is to say, normal. Because Corey is gone on a business trip and today is a day off school, I decried a Sleepover in Mom's Room last night, a treat the kids all love. When I went to bed, my floor was a mess of sleeping bags and damp heads and Legos and flashlights an blankets and Pinkalicious books and stuffed animals.

I love them so much, I thought. My heart is so full.

The view from the top of the hill is always breathtaking.

And then - the plunge. Because I was attacked by the Plague last week, I snuffled and sneezed and coughed half the night. Connor kept waking up to turn on the gas fireplace, which turned a room already heavy with the breath of four sleeping people, into a side room of Hades. At some point, Teyla woke up and crawled into bed with me. "Great, now I have to roll over and try to clear a path through the other nostril," I thought to myself. And then at 5:00 AM, Kieran woke in his room with his normal "Mama, Daddy, Mama, Daddy, Mama, Daddy!" cry. I shuffled back to bed with him, as I always do. He feel back asleep, as he always does, after fifteen minutes of restless thrashing.

He woke for good at 6:30, and I was not eager to greet the day.

Eventually, the ride started to even out. I brewed some tea, got the kids breakfast, folded some laundry. I even managed to spend a few minutes at my desk, sampling my way through my blog reader, which is something I haven't done for at least a month, maybe more.

I looked up and saw the kids playing happily together. Their sweet voices and faces warmed me and made the normal morning doldrums melt away.

I snapped a few pictures (naturally) and went back to blog reading.

Hill tops are lovely, aren't they?

"Mama! Kieran is getting in BIG TROUBLE!"

Teyla's voice was loud and insistent and very Big Sister.

"What's he doing, honey?" I called, already headed for the scene.

"He's making a BIG MESS with your SPICES!"

'Twas true. Kieran had liberally sprinkled a whole jar of Mrs. Dash around the kitchen, and he was working on the Lemon Pepper as I walked around the corner.

"Buddy! No-no!" I said, grabbing the bottles from his hand and trying, in vain, to brush spices off his chubby feet.

Whoosh.

I washed off Kieran's feet in the sink, waved along the rest of the kids who naturally came to survey the damage. ("Whoa, Natalie, you have to come see this!" shrieked Connor.")

Nothing to see here folks, move along, move along, please.

I got the Swiffer and spent ten minutes pushing salt-free seasoning into piles. Meanwhile, I guarantee you there was nothing salt-free about the seasoning in my mind. "Oh my word, can't I even sit at my desk for a few minutes and relax? Why must he always create a mess? Why can't he just play with his freakin' toys? Why must he always explore? I am so tired of cleaning up mess after mess after mess."

Loop-de-loop.

My brow furrowed to yesterday, when Kieran had managed to grab the diaper changing station off a cabinet and lotion up the carpet in his room while I had the audacity to eat breakfast. And then, when I was putting on make-up, he snuck into the other bathroom - thanks to a sibling who forgot to shut the door - and squeezed half a tube of pink princess toothpaste on the wall, the door, the countertop, the cabinet pulls and - most impressively - the little potty which was stored in the linen closet.

From Instagram

But, by the time I finished vacuuming the spices - and let's face it, they were all probably past their prime anyway; I haven't made anything with lemon pepper since we lived in San Diego - I could hear laughter coming from the bedroom.

I found the siblings engaged in a silly game of Lego war.

And I headed back up the hill.

It's a crazy ride, isn't it? Let's go again.

Why I Love Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T07:00:00.001-06:00

Source: via Kelly on Pinterest

I have always loved Valentine’s Day. It’s one of those sweet, little holidays that splash color and joy all over winter. Red and pink and purple. Glitter hearts. Chocolate and strawberries. I’ll channel my inner Ina Garten here and say, “What’s not to like about that?”

Maybe because my Mom did such a great job of making Valentine’s a fun, family day, I never got weighed down with the romantic implications of the day. As a teenager, I was uber-aware of the couples around me and the swoony music and the candlelight dinners. And there were Valentine’s Days celebrated by Corey and me in our pre-kid years that involved dinners next to crashing waves and fondue chocolate in dark, cushy booths.

But mostly, Valentine’s Day to me isn’t a chance to get love – it’s a chance to show love. I don’t really care if it’s reciprocated. I relish the chance to make heart-shaped butter cookies with pink frosting and serve them to my kids after school – just to see them smile. I love helping them make Valentine cards for their cousins and their friends at school – because glittery hearts and silly sayings are simple and sweet ways to love others.

I don’t really care if Corey gets me a card or if the kids make me a gift. It’s not about me. It’s about my chance to show them how much I love them, on a day largely bereft of expectations or pressure.

Valentine’s Day is just pure, sweet joy.