Sand in my coffee

Gracewash

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 21:05:00 +0000

EB’s birthday is at the beginning of February. Every year. And every year, after the whirlwind of holidays, followed by Daddy’s January birthday and cold and flu season getting off to a bold start, I find myself shocked at the arrival of Groundhog Day and the Daddy Daughter Dance and another impending birthday party for my Big Girl.

This year, like last, she insisted on having a party at home. We considered all the hassle-free, super fun, party-in-a-box options across town, but each of them either placed onerous restrictions on the guest list or included activities that EB only considers medium fun. In the end she insisted (with husband shaking his head quietly in the corner) that the only good solution is a party for 15 of her closest friends right here in our home. Our original party date was pushed twice, largely because the weather and various illness-related contingencies destroyed my ability to get invitations out on time. But over the weekend, when I suggested to my husband that we were going to push the date once again to the first weekend in March, he gave me crazy eyes and I relented.

Already weary from the thought of hosting a homemade party for 15 six year olds, and of only providing 5 days advance notice to her guests, I also realized yesterday that our laser printer is broken. So, on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon with the cool breeze blowing through the windows across my kitchen table, I decided just to sit down with my Sharpie and hand-letter EB’s cupcake-shaped party invitations.

For hours, she watched me. She peered over my shoulder, careful not to budge the table or my arm. She left to play with a friend and came back to check on my progress. She sat next to me and chatted. She answered the door for the blessed Girl Scout selling Thin Mints. And she told me how much she loved her party invitations.

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As I shared a few weeks ago, this year our family decided to participate in Megan’s class Valentine project with Love146.org. I had big designs on creating cards and gifts with all the fabulosity my creative heart could muster. But the broken printer thwarted those plans. So after hand-lettering 15 party announcements, I dug out the construction paper, school glue, tape, Skittles, a Sharpie, and a glass of red wine, and set out to create Valentines for Main Man’s class party.

When I explained to him what I was doing, he instantly engaged. And so we sat in the living room floor together for an hour past his bedtime. He counted, organized, watched, advised, and generally invested himself in the whole creative process. Like his sister, I reminded him not to bump my arm or the lap desk where I was writing. He eagerly agreed to be oh-so-careful, and then with each new card I began to write, he leapt across the floor, skidded into my side, and rested his sweet chin on my arm to watch me write the message of Love146.org from our family to each of his friends. Before he went to bed, Main Man thanked me.

This morning when I took Main Man to school, he couldn’t wait to get inside. His arms exploded with his lunch and backpack as we walked toward the back door of the white wood frame, single room schoolhouse; still, he snatched the grocery bag filled with red and white plates and napkins and folded construction paper, handwritten Valentines. “Cheryl, look! Here are my cards for all my friends! My Mommy made them!” Even as I had bagged them up earlier in the morning, my heart sunk a little at how plain they appeared. So I was slightly embarrassed and caught a little off-guard by the pride in his voice.

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I enjoy crafts but I wouldn’t consider myself crafty. EB’s party invitations and Main Man’s Valentines surely will not be the most beautiful any of the recipients has ever received. But I found myself humbled by the pride those kids took in my work. The joy they found when I simply gave what I had available to give.

Seeing my hands at work to create something imperfect, especially for them, made them both inexplicably happy. They indentify with creating. They create for me all the time. Creating is one of the many ways they demonstrate their love for me. The hand-written love note. The sticky, messy, drippy heart-shaped doily glued on construction paper. The pages of attempts at numerals 1-100 or letters of the alphabet. They pour their love for me – everything they have - into their own precious hands and create something imperfect. And somewhere in the Giving, those Creations become Grace-washed, like a fence with a pretty coat of white paint. They give what they have, and I see beauty and love and perfection, and I am so grateful.

They don’t understand (or care) that the long day I spend at the office exercising razor sharp professional skill provides them with a "good life." The story they understand with perfect clarity is the story told by my clumsy hands employing imperfect skill to create a messed-up creation that, when viewed through their innate lens of Perfect Grace becomes, to their eyes, a vibrant, tangible picture of my love for them. They gladly – even intuitively – Grace-wash my creative efforts when I give what I have.

And all that grace washing over my miserable attempts to give what I have? The clearest picture of their love for me.

The clearest picture of True Love, indeed.

photo by Vintage Collective

The Woman Who Taught Him How To Love

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 17:00:00 +0000

Yesterday was my husband's mother's birthday. Cathy passed away only a year after we married. I think of her so often, of her smile and her laughter. I wish my children had experienced her as a grandmother. I wish she could teach me how to make French Toast. I originally posted this story in 2010 and want to honor her again for the life she lived and the son she raised.

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One evening my husband asked me to recount my earliest memory. I suspect that many of the events and moments I recall are colored by the photographs and home movies I’ve viewed time and again. But there are a few that I know exist independent of any documentary evidence. Like I have a memory of a terrible ear infection when I was around five. And I remember one time when I was in preschool some friends and I were playing outside in a group of metal barrels. When we emerged, we discovered that the entire class had gone back inside the school building. We were all alone. And scared. I suppose roster checks weren’t The Thing back then.

My earliest memory, though, is very distinct. It is a memory of the day my parents brought my baby brother home from the hospital after he was born. I remember the house. And I remember all the people. Our teeny little frame house was packed with family, and lots of love, awaiting his arrival. In an effort to make sure everyone knew his/her place, I announced loudly to the group that my brother had very special diaper cream. I knew this because his name was Dustin. The cream was labeled Desitin.

I was a precocious 3 ½ year old.

I recounted several other memories of things like family trips to the lake and my church and large family gatherings and ballet classes and gymnastics and learning to read. And then I asked my husband to tell me the earliest memory he could recall.

Here’s the story he shared:

My earliest memory is from around the time I was three years old. I was the youngest of 4 kids, with my nearest brother exactly seven years older than I am. The oldest two never lived at home with me – they were Mom’s kids from two previous marriages.

Mom became pregnant with me when she was 41 years old. Undoubtedly everyone was surprised, though she never told me that. She and her husband – my father – had adopted my older brother when he was a toddler, and he was six when mom became pregnant with me. My brother and I share a birthday.

My mom and dad divorced when I was only two. My father was an alcoholic. I don’t remember much about him living at home with us, but I know it wasn’t good. He wasn’t physically abusive. He was just a drain on the emotional resources of our little family. My mom was a hard worker, managing a local branch of a national finance company, and worked full time during my entire childhood. My dad? He was a cowboy, figuratively and literally. Dad broke horses, rode bulls, and traveled the country chasing the rodeo scene. A caricature of himself.

After my parents divorced my father lived with his mother, my grandmother, in our same little town. For some time, though, he would still come around the house quite a bit. I understand that I saw him fairly regularly until I was three.

And then one day I remember my dad came to visit Mom and me. It wasn’t all that unusual for him to hang around the house on a Sunday afternoon. I remember climbing on the back of my mom’s dusty blue leather recliner like I did so often when she sat there.

I had a favorite spot on the recliner, on the well-worn arm that was just the right size to hold a wiggly little boy. I sat on the arm of that chair so many times as a child. From that chair I stole sips of my Mom’s instant iced tea, because tea out of Mom’s glass always tasted better than my own drinks. I remember listening reverently and cheering wildly during Oklahoma football games as the announcer called the game from the transistor radio that sat on the coffee table, while Mom and I watched the game on television. I was always dressed in my Sooner jersey, perched on the arm of that chair. No matter what was happening in our world, there was always room for me on Mom's blue leather chair.

And so as my dad and Mom visited that afternoon, I climbed on the chair like I always had done. My space on the chair made my presence in the conversation seem natural, appropriate.

And then I heard my dad ask Mom to marry him again. And everything around me paused for a moment.

How my mother answered that proposal so confidently and quickly, I will never know. Today I can’t fathom what it meant to face such a question. Continue to raise two boys all alone? Or give dad Just One More Chance to get it right. To live in our home sober. To be a husband. To be a father.

What I don’t remember is having any particular desire for her to answer the proposal one way or another. When I think about that day, that moment, I don’t recall emotions of anticipation or hope. I recall a curiosity.

What would she say? And what would that look like?

If she said yes, would that mean he was going to hang around more? Would that mean he would play catch in the backyard with me and my new glove that Mom gave me? Would that mean he would come to my tee ball games and coach my teams?

(Later in my life he did come to my games. He never watched from the bleachers. Instead he sat in his truck in the outfield and drank whiskey. But he was there. I knew.)

I snapped out of my day dream.

She said no.

And in that moment, I remember knowing in a very matter-of-fact sense that Mom had made a choice.

In that moment I knew that I wouldn’t have a dad around.

And in that moment my three year old heart realized that Mom must like playing catch with me.

And she must not mind that I use her broom stick as a baseball bat. And she must enjoy making Nana Eggs and purple Koolaid and mowing her own lawn and working so hard at her job every day.

And she must think that we’ve got a pretty good thing going.

And surely she’s right.

It seemed like my dad didn’t come around much after that. It was okay, though. Mom had decided we were good just the way we were, and so I believed her with all my heart.

Plus, I could keep sitting on the arm of the blue leather chair.

That’s just how things were for us.

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Through welling eyes I listened. I listened to my husband travel back to the arm of that blue chair. I listened to the mind and thoughts and curiosity of a three year old navigating some big talk. And I saw a tinge of sadness. The kind of sadness that can only be experienced by a child who can’t know how things are supposed to be, but can sense that they aren’t supposed to be this way.

And then I spent a moment in awe of my husband’s mother. How tempting would that proposal have been? Working twelve hour days, raising two boys – 3 and 10 – to become strong men. And now, standing in her living room, was not just any man. It was their father. It was a man who once had made her swoon. Who she had loved with all her heart. I mean, he didn’t really abandon them, she must have thought. He’s been hanging around. And now he’s asked to come back. Back into our lives. Sure, he has his faults. But wouldn’t this life be just a little bit easier if I had another set of hands? If my boys had a man in the house all the time? Not just any man – their own father was asking to come back. Asking for permission to raise them. To love us.

And so I closed my eyes and thanked God for my husband’s mother. For the choice she made that day, and every day after that. For going to his baseball games after work by herself. For playing catch with him in the backyard, and raising up a man who didn’t leave his own wife and three children. For making lots of grilled cheese sandwiches and lemonade. For inspiring a man who is exceedingly careful with his personal choices because of his father’s history.

I hold her personally responsible for a man who doesn’t care for my French toast and has little tolerance for bad moods, but loves me with a ferocity that is impossible to assign words.

And for a man who demands so much of me because of the example his mother set for him.

She loved her little boy when she refused his father’s proposal.

Her choices taught him how to love me. How to love all of us.

photo by ^@^ina

Second Grade

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 12:28:00 +0000

Nora’s gifts were kindness and grace and a gentle, genuine smile. I knew she was different before I knew what those words meant.

We lined the wall of Mrs. Howry’s second grade classroom, one in front of the other, waiting our turn to walk to the cafeteria for lunch. In our minds we were already there, though. Lunch and then recess – a welcome oasis from mornings filled with hard work like Math Facts Baseball and spelling contests. Such relief in the instruction to retrieve lunch boxes and jackets and line up at the door.

Nora certainly was my friend, though we were very different in many ways. She had dark hair and dark skin. I was pale and blonde. I was outgoing and outspoken and still wanted the lead in the school musical (that much would change). She was quiet. Shy, maybe. As I look back and think about Nora, I see a calm and observant spirit that, even now, I envy.

Most of all, though, Nora was kind. She was peaceful. She was gracious. Her eyes always smiled a thoughtful Welcome.

And I noticed that Nora wasn’t standing in line with the rest of us. There she was, still seated in the yellow plastic chair pushed up to her desk, in the very front of her row.

I don’t remember what happened next, exactly. Mrs. Howry certainly must have asked me to help Nora, because I never would have left my place in line otherwise. As I approached her from behind, I realized she was crying, sobbing softly, with her face buried in her arms. Then at the same time Nora stood and Mrs. Howry came over with a wad of paper towels and I could see clearly what had happened. Nora was wet from the waist down, and what the fabric of her clothes couldn’t hold formed a puddle in the concave seat of that school chair.

I took the towels from my teacher and began cleaning Nora’s chair. Little did I know that just a few years later my own embarrassment would be mocked by the contents of a little yellow school chair. Mrs. Howry took over the cleaning and asked me to help Nora to the restroom.

By that time all of our classmates knew what had happened. No one laughed. Real embarrassment hadn't entered our collective experience by seven. At seven, we all just breathed and shared an eerie wisdom that it could have happened to any one of us. (When, and why, do we forget that truth?)

I remember very little of the rest of that day, or of second grade. I do know that Nora remained kind and gracious and quiet. I think of her strangely often. I wonder where she is. I wonder whether she remembers that day. I wonder how it made her feel then. Or now. I thank God, for her, that she was seven and not eleven. I suspect that made a difference.

Nora is someone I wish I could talk to today. I imagine she is living a blessed life, teaching everyone she knows about grace and kindness in the way she carries herself. And helping other people know they are valued with that gentle Welcome smile.

But a lot of times I just wonder why it happened to her. It still makes me sad.

photo by IMLS DCC

Just Right

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 03:12:00 +0000

Her eyes were so heavy, and I offered to say prayers over her rather than her saying them aloud. But she insisted.

Dear God. Thank you so much for our house.

Thank you for our family.

(long pause)

Thank you for making me Just Right. Amen.

She drifted off peacefully. Her thoughtful words lingered in my ears. The magnitude of that innocent, precious confidence weighing heavy in my mind and heart. If she never learns another thing about herself as long as she lives...

And the weight of my responsibility looms large. To create a haven where what she believes today will always, always be true.

photo by through my eyes

I can't un-know about this.

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 18:59:00 +0000

My heart is bursting with knowledge of an issue, and an action, that I have no choice but to share.

I care about social issues, and typically I am able to engage in my fair share of political wonkiness discussing remedies to things like a broken public education system, the childhood obesity epidemic, and immigration policy.

But there is one issue that messes with my head and heart in a way that I just can't shake. It causes my voice to catch and all notions of clear-minded banter just slip away.

Child exploitation and human sex trafficking.

Even typing that phrase makes my stomach lurch. In 2011 it is happening all over the world. Children as young as 6 sold into sexual slavery. It's happening to little girls in Thailand. It's happening to little boys in Cambodia.

It is happening to little boys and girls on the streets and in hotels in the United States.

If you don't want your world rocked, I recommend that you not visit this website to learn of the second most lucrative criminal industry in the world (second only to drug trafficking).

Because once you read, I promise you that you won't be able to un-know.

I read. My mind was wrecked. But my heart was encouraged by the work of Love146, and I think yours will be too. Formed in 2002, Love146 is a non-profit organization dedicated solely to "The abolition of child sex slavery and exploitation. Nothing less." And what they are doing to educate the public about child exploitation and sex slavery, to prevent and eliminate this wretched practice, and, equally important, to provide safe homes and aftercare and reintegration resources for children who have been victimized by this thriving criminal industry is phenomenal.

Interested in the work of Love146? Want to know how you can get involved easily and immediately, and get the word out about this organization's work? Friends, you're in luck.

My incredible soul sister Megan, whose heart for this issue knows no boundaries, has connected with Love146 to organize a project surrounding (get this!) children's school Valentine's Day parties. Megan's Give: LOVE provides you with (1) a DARLING, interactive project you can do with your kids that (2) gets the word out about Love146's work, and (3) replaces those ugly boxed Valentine's cards that they're going to take to school anyway with something parents will see and notice. A win all the way around.

I hope you'll take a moment to click over to SortaCrunchy and read more details about Megan's Give: LOVE project. My two daughters and my son will be participating in Give: LOVE this year, and I haven't been this excited about a school Valentine's party in... maybe ever.

And then I suspect you'll be curious about what kind of amazing mama came up with this incredible idea. And so you'll want to spend a few moments reading about Megan. And then, I anticipate you'll be jealous of me and the fact that Megan is a member of my Village who challenges my heart to be better daily.

photo by seyed mostafa zamani

Oreos For Breakfast

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 11:44:00 +0000

My grandmother taught second and third grade at the elementary school I attended. Each morning before school I watched cartoons on the television in the Little Den - the garage that my grandfather converted into the coziest room in that brick ranch-style house, with navy psychedelic print low pile carpet, a couch that would swallow you for hours, and a breakfast table. I ate breakfast at that table every day. Every day I decided between wheat toast with apple butter or Oreos and milk. It was always my choice.

The clear glass cookie jar with a pine wood lid was always in the same place on the kitchen counter. Just to the left of the stove, and across from the wall-mounted telephone. I could reach the cookie jar easily. It was always filled with fresh Oreos. Now I know that when my grandmother made her grocery list every week she deliberately included Oreos. For me.

I breathed particular delight when she shook the milk jug and poured quickly so tiny translucent milk bubbles formed a layer on top. I loved catching those bubbles with my cookie. The first and second cookies were always the very best. My grandmother’s refrigerator kept my milk almost too cold. Perfect.

Usually I took the cookie jar to the table with me. There was no Oreo allowance - I could have as many as I wanted. I just ate Oreos until I was full. Satisfied. No longer hungry. I didn’t always choose Oreos. But I also never once remember being told I couldn’t have cookies for breakfast.

(In fact, my only childhood memory of food as a point of discussion was the time my Dad made a rule that my brother and I had to come into the house for 20 minutes at dinner each night. The goal was to avoid us rushing through our meals so that we could hurry back outside to play. Because, you see, we were extremely busy. Outside. Playing. With other children and all of that. And, anyway, I don’t remember that rule lasting very long.)

And here's what happened to me because of all those Oreos for breakfast: I wasn’t overweight. I participated in math competitions and danced competitively. I graduated at the top of my class and was an active leader in my church youth group. I have never had a cavity, and went to college and law school on scholarships. I was generally respectful of authority and wore braces on my teeth and had lots of friends and broken friendships and fun late nights and difficulty with Organic Chemistry. And I was challenged a lot. And I'm happy.

My best friend's mother took her to the gas station every morning before school for a Dr. Pepper and a pre-packaged chocolate brownie. Despite her mother's suggestion that the nuts were a good source of protein, my friend scraped them from the top. And then my friend sang and danced her way through high school, went to summer camp every year, graduated top of her high school class, excelled in college and life professionally, socially and emotionally, and somewhere along the way (despite all those brownies) grew the confidence and internal fortitude to pack up and move herself across the country to Los Angeles. Where she is now wildy successful at everything she does.

My other best friend ate healthy oatmeal every morning for breakfast while he lived with his parents. And then he went to college, where he learned to start his day with a bowl of vanilla wafers and milk. And he kept eating vanilla wafers and milk while earning two undergraduate degrees and a PhD in immunology. Now he is a research consultant, literally contributing to cures for cancer, and deciding among several teaching opportunities at Ivy league schools. And one of the best people I know.

I'm trying every day to figure out and fine tune my list of What Really Matters in parenting. One of my favorite perspectives on Mama Choices is through the Lens of Natural Consequences. So you can see my struggle here. For a variety of reasons, I'm close to giving up on food battles and giving up the guilt associated with them. And I'm not even looking to the experts on this one. I think I'm right.

When there are homemade chocolate chip cookies in our house (which is often), Main Man’s first question of each day is whether he can have one for breakfast. I always say no. I’m going to start saying yes.

photo by Torben Hansen

Let's Build a Village

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 19:51:00 +0000

I could go on and on about how completely overwhelmed I have been by your response, both in comments and in crazy blog traffic, to Soft Laundry. (And I could spend many sentences thanking so many of you for inviting the women who care about you and for whom you care.) But instead, I’m going to tell you what I see from this side of the screen.

I see a topic that people may want to talk more about.

I hear the seedlings of a conversation that may really need to grow.

I am meeting some amazing women out there who have a lot to offer – and to receive from – well-constructed Villages.

In Soft Laundry, I admitted to the whole world that I refused for a long time to ask my dear girlfriend about her secret to amazing results in the laundry room only and precisely because she is a stay at home mom and, for me, asking her for advice was an admission that I don't have all the answers. That I can't do it all on my own. That my choice to work necessarily means I don't spend as many hours of each day devoted to home as she does. And so I kept trying and failing to replicate her laundry tricks because I would rather fail than ask for her help. Pretty nasty place to be.

I’m not so sure that our movement away from Mommy Wars toward Reverence and Respect for Others' Choices is all that effective when that Reverence and Respect just cloaks deeply-rooted indignation and hostility. Or when we continue to hide behind fear that paints us into a corner, whispering what does The Ask say about me? Respect with pursed lips and a resolve to make sure that, when push comes to shove, she’ll never be able to replicate MY pie crust, may not be all that fulfilling. In fact, it seems like a big waste of energy.

But I think we’re ready to move on - move forward - evolve - toward something that is not just Respect From Afar. What would happen if we started to do some hard work, lay a real foundation of confidence for building our own strong Villages?

Would it be possible to do a little experiment? In my original post, I wrote:

But what if? What if, in an effort to embrace the concept that we, as women and mothers, have a very strong Village upon which we all can lean, we decided to ask each other, very openly, How do you do it? What if there was no condescension, or shame, in the asking? And what if we started to share our skills and resources and well-researched solutions openly?

With no one looking around, everyone’s eyes closed, would any of you moms, whatever your day to day schedule, whatever your choices or circumstance, be willing to raise your hand and say:

“I’ve been embarrassed to ask, but She always seems to be really good at This Thing, and I’m wondering if there are any secrets I could apply to improve my Mess Of A System That Flat Out Isn’t Working.”

Anyone? Anyone willing to admit that a woman who has chosen, relative to you, to spend more of her hours inside the home, or more of her hours outside the home, by virtue of that choice might have already solved something that presents a mammoth struggle for you?

Okay, then. I’ll start.

I’ve been a full time working mom for almost 6 years. My daughter is in public school kindergarten, and I didn’t sign up to help with any of the class parties or “homeroom mother” duties, because I was sure I couldn’t be reliable. Plus, I assume (maybe wrongly?) that the mothers who are able to take on those responsibilities do it and enjoy it and don’t want the paltry amount of help I could offer. But is there a way that I, as a largely unavailable-during-the-day mom, could be helpful to the homeroom mothers in EB’s class without being annoying or “in the way?”

Maybe that seems like one that has an easy answer. From my perspective it isn’t. I do want to help out, if for no other reason than so my EB can see that I care greatly about the things that are important to her, like class parties. At the same time, I get all sweaty when I think about trying to be something I’m not, and about approaching some of these moms (who have already demonstrated their MAD school party skills at at least two events I’ve seen so far this year) with very little to offer.

So can some of you answer that question for me? Are there minor things I could do to make your job as homeroom mom more enjoyable for you?

And is there anything you’d like to know about how I do something that you’ve always wanted to ask a working mom but haven’t out of fear of admitting that you’re a miserable failure?

I have no idea whether anyone will respond to this - to my own question or to my invitation to Ask different questions. But it seems to me that this is the first step to testing the character – the Grace and Kindness and Generosity - of those who might make a good addition to your Village. The great thing about creating a Village is that you hold the keys to the city gate. You get to choose who is strong and kind and generous and gracious enough to stand next to you and make you better.

Why not start your test here? Maybe you'll get some awesome answers. Maybe you'll meet some amazing women whose lives look nothing like yours from the outside. Maybe you'll get better at something. And maybe you'll gain some direction and confidence toward building your own Village. What could be better than that? And what do you have to lose?

photo by christine zenino

Soft Laundry

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 19:34:00 +0000

My close friend has the softest laundry I’ve ever touched. Her baby’s blankets are like butter. Her dish towels are sparkly white, without a single stain, and every time I wash my hands at the sink I know they’ll smell better after having been dried with the rag lying next to the basin. When I walk up to her front door on laundry day, I breathe in deeply. It smells so fresh.

I tried for months to replicate her laundry. I stole a glance at her detergent brands and rushed out to get the same kinds. I attempted bleaching my towels over and over. And I used every fabric softener I could find. No matter what I did, though, my laundry wasn’t like hers. In comparison, my towels were stiff and dingy. My rags seemed to smell funny after a day of use. And my baby’s blankets just weren’t nearly as luxurious.

I suppose I could have asked her to divulge her laundry secrets. To give me a hint, or spill all the beans. To help me achieve the perfect load of laundry. But for a long time I didn’t. Why not? Because my friend is a stay at home mom. And somehow I had fallen into this awful, hateful, self-destructive belief cycle that whispers "To ask her for advice is to admit defeat." To admit that there’s something in my home that I can’t get right because I don’t spend enough time working on it. Good gracious. My baby goes to DAYCARE – the least I could do is figure out how to send her off each day with a soft blanket.

This week I read a post at Mom-101 titled Things you never say to a working mom. The comments to that post were fascinating and enlightening. As both working moms and stay home moms shared numerous offenses by “insensitive” folks, I realized two things. First, I have heard, in some form or fashion, virtually every single one of those sentiments expressed from a mommy of one camp toward a mommy of the other camp. Second, I was struck by a burning question: when, and why, have we all become so sensitive and divided? In an email discussion with two of my closest friends, I shared the following thoughts:

... But the comment that annoys me personally more than any other is “I don’t see how you do it.” Because almost every time I hear that from someone, whether it is a working mom to a SAHM, or vice versa, it sounds condescending to me. Almost always. Sort of like “I don’t see how you can stand to run your life that way and really think that is the right way.”

And, really? Do you really not see how I do it? Because if you really want to know, I’d be happy to show you. And then you’ll see that I do it the same way you do it. There are things to be done, and we do them. Or we don’t. But the sun rises and sets and we all make it through the day. In fact, hopefully we do more than make it through. Hopefully we go to bed happy with our accomplishments and owning and embracing our choices. Or our circumstances.

And so what if? What if we turned sour grapes to homemade grape juice? What if, in an effort to embrace the concept that we, as women and mothers, have a very strong Village upon which we all can lean, we decided to ask each other, very openly, How do you do it? What if there was no condescension, or shame, in the asking? And what if we started to share our skills and resources and well-researched solutions openly?

After all, isn't that what men do? I know my husband is first to admit that he cannot change the oil in his car. But he certainly doesn't get upset over it or stand in the driveway, looking under the hood of the car, pretending to solve the problem and secretly hoping none of our neighbors will find him out. He's good at what he does, and he has immersed himself in a dynamic construct of folks who are good at almost every single other thing you could think of. And they help each other. In fact, their resourcefulness is remarkable in many ways. From manual tasks to high level financial investment discussions to personal mentors and spiritual leaders, his web of friends and confidants is spectacular. It seems to me that we women are crippling ourselves and missing out on some rich opportunities by insisting that each of us as an individual must possess a complete Holy Grail of All That Is Womanhood.

More and more, when I talk to a non-working mom whose style and organization, or whose excellence in particular areas, I really respect, I will ask her “how do you do this or that or the other thing?” And I ask because I really want to know. And because I am genuinely inquiring, I find some AWESOME tips that are applicable to my own life and that have helped me become better/more efficient at the things that I do. People who simply have more time in the day to research and try-and-err and focus on things that I can’t devote that kind of time to come up with great solutions. And I poach them. And I love it.

And you want to know what happens next? Condescension? Guilt? Shame? Whispering behind my back about what a crappy mom I am?

No. Next, my non-working mom friend is hosting a large party in her home. And she doesn’t have time to make all the preparations AND clean her houses the way she normally would. So she asks me if I have a recommendation for a good housekeeper in a pinch. And I share my resources gladly. And tomorrow a different stay-at-home-mommy friend offers to pick up my daughter from school because she’ll be there anyway and our nanny isn’t back from winter break yet. That same day, I'm bringing home two babes from daycare instead of one because Little P's working mama is taking a deposition that will run late.

And then my sweet doctor friend, exhausted from a long day at work, runs across the street to my house at 9:00 p.m. in the cold Oklahoma winter wind, wearing her sweat pants, to take a look at Little Belle’s diaper rash because I accidentally blew the 3:30 appointment with her pediatrician that I had scheduled. And then I take a look at a construction contract that she and her husband need to sign and point out some language that she might want to tweak before they close.

And I need a children’s book on some difficult topics and I don’t have time to research them, so I send a plea to my dear non-working mom friend for ideas. And when I return to my office an hour later, sitting in my Inbox is an email with a litany of suggestions that she spent her morning researching. For me. Instead of me. And our daughters are friends, and these are topics they’ll probably discuss someday. And so she and I are working together, in every sense that is important, to raise our precious girls and to give them a strong, loving foundation for vibrant, healthy discourse.

She stands next to me as a mother and a friend. She helps me become better.

See? That’s my Village. My Village isn’t just helping me raise my children. My Village is making me better. Stronger. More confident. As a mom and a wife and a life manager. More and more I have rejected from My Village people who draw lines in the sand and ideals that insinuate that the varied and unique skills we’ve all gathered are to be hoarded and kept secret, or held in tight confidence as a sign of “Better Than You At This.” We’re potluck parents around here, and if you aren’t willing to bring what you have to the table, then I’ve decided you simply won’t be invited to the party.

And now that I've realized this about me, about the Village that I am determined to live in, I am enjoying the softest laundry in town.

(P.S. The response to this post has been so fantastic that I'm trying a little Village Building experiment. Check it out here!)

Image by Playingwithbrushes

Holiday Highlights... and Looking Forward

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 18:02:00 +0000

A few holiday snapshots as we here in Oklahoma enjoy a chilly Last Day of 2010...

A dear friend and (almost daily) coffee shop buddy, who knows how much I look forward to the Starbucks Red Cup, thoughtfully procured for me my very own ceramic Red Cup. As I drank my coffee this morning, I noticed the phrase on the cup that I hadn't seen all season:

"Stories are Gifts. Share."

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

We had a bit of a disagreement this year over my choices in decorating our Christmas tree. Some in the family loved it. Other(s) said it looked like fireworks coming out of the top:

Did I mention that some of us loved it?

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

I decided to try my hand at hand-made this year, and produced some fun Christmas gifts for women in my family. I was delighted by the results, if it's okay to say so. Here is an example of one of the small wreaths I made:

It was a festive year, yes it was.

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

As I rocked Little Belle to sleep on Christmas Eve, I considered that, this time next year, she'll likely be a fully verbal, running and jumping 2+ year old. And she might not need (want) to be rocked to sleep. This may have been my last Christmas Eve to rock a babe to sleep.

I contemplated Mary's heart 2000 years ago. Anxiously waiting on the arrival of her precious baby boy. She knew He was God. She knew all that had happened in the preceding months made her labor, that night, that manger, her Joseph, all a little different than any family or any birth before or after that one. And yet, in that moment, I wonder if she was only thinking about one thing. Mary was about to become a mommy. For the first time. Her labor pains hurt like mine did. She looked forward to seeing that sweet baby face for the first time like I did. She was probably nervous and excited and totally, completely unaware of what those first days would look like, just like I was.

As I rocked my babe on Christmas Eve, I remembered what it was like to hold my first baby for the first time. And I got really excited for Mary. Felt a bit of a kindred spirit with the Mother of God.

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

For Christmas EB received Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory (the 1971 original) DVD. It's one of my all-time favorite movies - the kind I stop to watch every time it plays on television. Since Christmas Day the kids have watched it four times.

Aaaaaaaaand, just in case you have ever wondered whether your littles really pay attention to the details of the movies they watch....

Running errands around town, Main Man, EB and I were chit chatting. My precious first born daughter suddenly said, "Mommy, I remember when we moved into our new house and we got a new refrigerator. And I remember that it didn't have any food in it."

Me: "I'm surprised you remember that, sweetie. How did that make you feel?"

EB: "Well, I wasn't worried, because I knew you wouldn't let us be hungry."

As I contemplated the weight of that conversation, the trust exhibited by her strong memory of a seemingly inconsequential moment in her little life, and felt a tinge of panic over how parents all over the world aren't able to assure their precious littles the same basic needs will be met, Main Man enters the conversation.

Main Man: "Mommy, you look like Charlie's mom."

Me: "Oh, is there a Charlie in your class?" I assumed we were about to discuss a child in Main Man's class who doesn't have food and tried quickly to prepare my heart.

Main Man: "No, Charlie's mom from the Chocolate Factory."

I learned two things from Main Man's statement.

1. As suspected, my three year old son does, in fact listen to and process far more than he lets on.

2. I need to do something with my hair.

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

How do I feel today, the last day of the year, looking back over the past 12 months that culminated in a busy and wondrous holiday season?

Filled to the brim with internal and external accomplishments, complemented by a healthy amount of business left unfinished.

Thoroughly celebrated with so much more to enjoy in this new year.

Refreshed and ready.

I could say much about 2010, but I'm happy to leave it with a delightful bow on top and a twinkle in my eye as I look back.

Welcome, 2011. I'm so happy that you've arrived, right on time.

photo of Diana Sowle from MovieMikes.com

Christmas Cards Part II: A Retrospective

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 02:54:00 +0000

(Ed. note: I realize two things about this post as I am about to publish it: 1) If you are not totally, completely, all IN on the minutia of holiday cards (my holiday cards, in particular), you will hate reading this; and 2) I need a better camera if I intend to convey much of anything via my own photography)

The history of my giddiness over Christmas Cards (and all things paper, really) began in 2005. Since then I have spent significant (inordinate) time on our family’s annual holiday greeting. I love it. Every excruciating minute. The near-instant gratification of the process, from the Sender's Perspective, is right up my alley. (Approximately one month from frenzied planning to photography session to card design to delivery of printed cards, addressing and mailing – all while enjoying the daily gift of receiving similar greetings from family and friends to encourage my continued interest. What could be better?)

During the past six years I have done a variety of different cards and styles. I remember the process to choosing/designing each one. I remember debating the precise semantics of the brief greeting. Here is a snapshot and brief description of each card we have done since 2005:

2005 was the first year I sent personalized photo cards. It was our first fall in Southern California, and we shot our family photos on the beach near our home. I knew what I was looking for in a holiday card, but none of the traditionally-colored cards I found seemed to capture my heart that year. I had loved paper from Crane & Co. since a fellow graduate student (who was several years older than I was) introduced me to Crane resume paper. When I decided to check out Crane's holiday cards, available through Fine Stationery, I was delighted to find a seafoam green card with gold fliligree print. I decided on engraving the personalized message in the gold ink that matched the cover design, so the printing truly was luxurious. (As I recall, I was able to take advantage of a printing special that made the cost to engrave the cards more palatable; I have found that these specials are common around the holidays.) The envelopes were also green, and lined in gold that matched the ink. I loved these cards.

By mid-2006 I had already decided exactly what I wanted on my Christmas card. Which is dangerous. Its sort of like shopping for attire for a special event, or planning your wedding day: the more particular you are about what you want, the more opportunity there is for disappointment. That year I knew that I wanted a single photomount card (not foldover), oversized (to accommodate a larger photo), and I wanted it to be red. The problem is that I am extremely picky about red. I wanted a blue-based red, not a yellow/orange red. And, because I wanted a single card rather than a foldover, I wanted the card stock to be particularly heavy. While Crane has beautiful papers, I have not fallen head over heels for their vivid-colored cards and was (at that time) less than impressed with the weight of their heaviest card stock offered as holiday cards. So I set out to find another option.

To make a long story short, I spent days (literally, many hours over multiple days) at Paper Paper, a darling gift and stationery store in Solana Beach, shoulder to shoulder with brides-to-be and new moms selecting their wedding invitations and birth announcements. You would think I had been saddled with the responsibility of announcing the actual birth of Christ to our family and friends. But the hard work paid off when I landed on this beauty.

Perfect upon PERFECT red. The only problem was that I desperately wanted white ink. And once I learned that white ink could not be thermographed on these deep red cards, I had no choice but to engrave them. All in all, I determined that the overall difference in cost was negligible, what with holiday specials and the cost of envelopes, etc. Plus, they were stunning. Maybe my favorite card ever.

By fall 2007 we had moved to Oklahoma. That season was so busy that I didn’t have a lot of time to get my bearings with good stationers in the area. In addition, I had become enchanted by letterpress printing earlier in the year, and was set on having my cards letterpressed. When I visited a couple of gift shops that carried the traditional stationery books, I was disappointed to learn that most of them did not offer letterpress printing as an option or, if they did offer it, it was exorbitantly priced. (More on that later.) So I did what any rational mother of two babies with a full time job would do: I sought out a custom print house, a paper dealer, and a graphic designer, whose services I combined to create this beauty:

This may be my husband’s favorite card, if for no other reason than the fact that 2007 brought banner ice storms to Oklahoma and we had to slide through the secondary streets of Oklahoma City, covered in sheets of ice, not once but twice in order to pick up my delicious cards from the printer. He loved that a whole lot.

Here’s what happened. First, I literally got out the phone book and started calling printers, asking whether they could do letterpress. Most could not, indicating that they had sold or otherwise disposed of their letterpresses years ago because no one wanted that style of printing anymore. Tragic. But several people referred me to the folks at Fine Arts Engraving and let me tell you that I couldn’t have been more delighted at this jewel of a service. They’re a big printer and an Oklahoma staple, to be sure. But Kevin and his artists treated me like I was their top priority. When we started discussing what I was trying to get done, and my love for paper, he stopped in the middle of his afternoon to give me a tour of their facility, and all their gorgeous machines. That is a talented, creative crew, and I recommend them to anyone.

And the bonus? Kevin knows, and loves, letterpress. He told me that the cost of letterpress services had been pushed up by commercial designers because of its popularity when, in fact, the process itself is actually less costly than engraving. That statement alone made me happy to have met Kevin. Kevin also knew a local paper supplier, and connected me with the folks at Classic Paper Supply, just down the street. Those kind people introduced me to Crane Lettra paper and ordered it for me at a very reasonable price. (note: the paper came to me in much larger sheets than the 8.5 x 11 shown in the link.)

Kevin then located a Crane envelope that corresponded in size and color to what I needed for the cards we had designed. And, because we had just moved, he suggested utilizing the leftover Lettra to letterpress coordinating calling cards, about the size of a business card, with our new address and telephone numbers. I included those calling cards with the holiday cards, and saved myself the trouble of a "we've moved!" mailing.

I cannot say enough about how involved – and delightful – the process of designing and sending those custom cards was for me.

In 2008 I decided to try something different. That year, as much as I wanted Pretty, I needed Simple. As in, no driving back and forth to The City for tours of print shops and custom ordered paper. For several years I had received cards from friends who used online card designs with digitally uploaded photographs. I always liked the idea of being able to include more than one photograph in our card - particularly as we had more children. I noted the source of a couple of those cards that I liked, and in 2008 I placed my first order with TinyPrints. I was quite happy:

The things I liked most about TinyPrints:

1. Extremely user-friendly website. There are multiple ways to narrow the hundreds of template options to only those that meet your particular needs - you can select the number of photos you want to use, whether you want a flat or folded card, or to have the choices narrowed by price point.

2. Every template available at Tiny Prints can be edited in so many ways that you truly have the option to make a one-of-a-kind card. You can change the color schemes and most of the text, the font, and even the photo layout. Still, if simple is your goal, your card can be as easy as selecting photos and uploading them to the template as shown.

3. The "preview" option really works; because all the photographs and templates are digital, you can see clearly how your card will look before it goes to print.

4. Tiny Prints uses heavy cardstock with several finish options. I was nervous about this before I received my first order, and was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the product.

5. Relatively speaking, Tiny Prints is an excellent value. Certainly you can spend less money on cards, but as compared with the custom photo mount cards I have used in the past, Tiny Prints gave me a custom look for 25-40% less. (AND, they run really great holiday specials, from free shipping to discounts on your entire order.)

In addition to all these technical pros, I can't say enough about Tiny Prints customer service. I have no idea the size of the company, but once the card was ready to print I received a personal email message from a customer service representative letting me know that my order had been reviewed by an editor and would be going to print. I felt just as important as an online customer as I have felt in any paper boutique, which is difficult to accomplish.

My Tiny Prints experience was so good that I used the company again in 2009:

All in all, I think my favorite card to send will always be a photo mount card with interesting paper and printed text. But that has everything to do with my love for tradition and all things paper. It's hard to beat the simplicity and professionalism, not to mention the financial value, you get with a good digital photo template like those available with Tiny Prints.

I'm excited to send out our 2010 cards, and I've already started planning for 2011! I'm always open to new holiday card ideas - do you have any to share? Online stationers I should check out?

Christmas Cards Part I: why I do them

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 18:08:00 +0000

In church on Sunday, our pastor asked each person to turn to his neighbor and complete the statement: “For me, Christmas is about ________.” I heard people say things like family and joy and The Birth of Our Savior. I was wise enough to hold my tongue. Because all of that is good and lovely and clearly right. But if I’m honest, the first thing that came to my mind was Christmas Cards. For me, Christmas is a whole lot about Christmas Cards.

Of course, our family focuses in some very deliberate ways on the spiritual meaning of Christmas. We will be guiding the children to choose some opportunities to give of their "own" resources. We’ll be enjoying a number of gatherings and meals with family and friends. But this week also begins the delivery of one of my favorite parts of the holiday season: the Christmas Card. For me, the Christmas Card embodies a whole lot of the intangible, infinitely important, parts of this glistening, sparkly, joyous season.

The Christmas Card has been a serious player in my holiday tradition since 2005, the year EB was born. That was the first year we had professional family photos taken. That was the first year that I poured over the beautiful paper and exquisite printing available through a number of stationers. And when I finally assembled our cards, 2005 was the year that I fell in love with the tradition of sending Christmas Cards. Still, designing, addressing, and mailing cards is a holiday hassle of the highest magnitude, to be sure. Might I direct your attention to the following guarantees:

1. I promise that you do not have all the addresses you need.

2. Those addresses that you had to text someone’s sister to get because you misplaced their cell phone number, and which you swore you would migrate into your iPhone contacts? You lost them.

3. You also don’t have a pen that matches your cards and envelopes, so you’ll need to run right out and get that.

4. And you are not going to like the holiday stamps this year. IF your post office hasn’t run out of them, that is.

Yes, holiday cards are a Big. Fat. Pain.

Something happens to me on November 15 each year, though. I start looking at all the new card designs by my favorite designers, who inspire my own creativity. And then we have family photos taken, and I am reminded of the sheer deliciousness of my children. Suddenly everything comes together and before I know it I am staring at a piece of paper that is, truly, a little slice of our life that I want to share with people who mean something to me.

My feeling about cards is likely due, in large part, to my character as an ever-so-grateful card recipient. I can spot a Christmas card in a stack of mail from across the room. I don’t open cards standing up with all the other mail. I save them for a time when I can sit down in my comfy reading chair and experience each one. I enjoy the hand-addressed envelopes. I always love the first photo that peeks out from beneath the envelope flap. I like to feel the paper and the finish and the print. Raised and rough? Flat and smooth? Is the paper bruised from letterpress or engraving tools? Glossy or matte? I look carefully at every photo, every dimple. I smile back at the beautiful friends who are smiling at me.

Every time I open a Christmas Card, I receive a gift. During a time of year when things get so hectic – chaotic, even – and my focus can all too often be checking boxes on my To Do list, enjoying a Christmas Card from someone I know personally, with whom I have shared at least one life memory, is something that forces me to slow down.

Christmas cards remind me to be deliberate about receiving and internalizing the joy and peace and blessings in my own life and in the lives of those precious people who, in experiencing their own holiday joy, decided to include my family. I guess I have a sense that the old fashioned Christmas card actually connects our families in a pretty powerful way. I challenge you to feel even a smidge of negativity when a pair of beautiful, innocent blue eyes are twinkling at you from a card that you hold in your hand.

What do I do with old cards? I save every single one that has a photo. I have a basket that I set out each year, and it contains all of the previous years' cards we received. Then I display the current year's cards on a buffet in the kitchen (the highest traffic area of our home). I am always amazed by how much fun people have looking at all the cards on display and then going through the old cards in the basket. And I find that I enjoy looking through the basket more than once each year. (For another fabulous, and far more creative, way to recycle last year’s cards, check out Wendy’s darling creations!)

This week I’ll be scrambling for addresses, hunting the appropriate pen, annoyed at the stamp choices, and up way too late writing and assembling cards. In true Three Alarm Holiday Emergency style, I’ll breathe a huge sigh of relief when the last stack of cards drops into the big blue mailbox at the post office. But in addition to the paper and the stamps, I’ll be sending and receiving thoughts of peace and joy to and from dozens of family and friends.
And that makes me happy.

photo of a darling handmade card by lauren manning - how awesome is that??

Christmas. Present.

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 12:32:00 +0000

This is sort of about social media and sort of about Christmas. And sort of about my 2010 life goals in early review. I tried to make the connection among the three as seamless in this post as it is in my head.

Much has been said lately - even in my personal circles - about easy access to social media contributing to a general malaise of detachment within society. In restaurants and meetings, and even at the family dinner table, folks are often more mentally (emotionally?) connected to the latest status updates from "friends" they haven't seen in 20+ years than to the audible conversations and equally meaningful silent interactions going on around them.

In 2002 I acquired my first Blackberry, which allowed me to access my work email from anywhere. For as long as I have a job I will keep that access. I could go on and on about this, but it is sufficient to say that mobile document and email access has provided me endless freedom from my office(s) that I wouldn’t otherwise have, and for that I am thankful.

Fast forward seven years. Approximately four seconds after acquiring an iPhone, I downloaded the Facebook iPhone app. (Eight seconds later, I downloaded the Facebook Contraction Master app because I was sitting in the salon chair patiently waiting on my stylist to finish foiling my hair when those first undeniable labor pains began. Different story.) This means that I now have a Facebook stream and four email accounts, in addition to a nifty web browser, to “check” every time I’m waiting in line or sitting on the sofa watching mindless television.

But gosh. Lots of times I’m waiting in a line with one or more munchkins by my side. And the truth is that if the television screens are on when the kids are awake, my “checking on” habit frequently steals more than a few moments I could be engaging with my babies or my husband. Sometimes I catch myself taking in all of those information feeds while my children play in the floor after I come home from work. Or during what should be sweet cuddle time early in the mornings. Or instead of chit chatting with my neighbors or calling a friend on the phone.

Connected. I am definitely connected. Connected to something. Sometimes I wonder whether I would be better connected with my family and community if they were my Facebook friends. Would I be more responsive to my kids after a particularly exhausting day of work if they would just send their requests to me via email or a wall post? That freedom that the 2002 Blackberry afforded me has definitely been turned on its head. Not okay.

The other thing I’ve noticed about my use of Facebook is that it seems to usurp my interest in writing. When something funny or meaningful happens during my day, I almost immediately launch into Mental Prose. But lately I’ve been telling the punchline via status updates. I’m telling my stories through an iPhone app, and robbing myself of the opportunity to capture the details of those moments more deliberately.

And to throw one more theme into this mix, Deliberate Living was my theme for 2010. I feel pretty good about what I’ve done to improve in that area (I’ll have more to say on this as we draw closer to the end of the year). But my focus on being more deliberate about the things that matter in my life has allowed me to identify what stands in the way of that goal. 500 neverending news sources is a stumbling block for me. For now.

And so here’s what I’m going to do about it: from now until at least the end of the year, I’ll be taking a Facebook break. Because I rarely use FB on my computer, the iPhone app is my primary feed, and I’ve deleted the app.

I won’t be posting links to this blog as status updates, at least during December. I’m going to keep the two separate for now, because they are very different media, and I need that distinction. (Incidentally, if you haven’t subscribed to Sand in My Coffee via email and are accustomed to receiving notice of new posts through FB, now is a great time to subscribe so you don’t miss a post!)

I’m hoping to achieve two things from this minor tweak: First, I hope to return to a more regular writing schedule, which is infinitely more satisfying to me than the instant gratification of a status update. But more importantly, I know that the most valuable gift I can give my family and the dear friends I see and with whom I interact every day is my attention and deliberate focus. I will make that happen this month better than I have been.

Today my family and friends begin officially celebrating the Christmas season. This year, this month, I want to breath it all in and engage more than I ever have. I want to interact even more with people whose stories I can hear and necks I can hug. I want my connectedness to be deliberate and uncomfortable – not a passive stream of announcements that I can read anonymously, but a knock on the door or phone call I have no choice but to answer and engage.

This Christmas I will be present.

What about you? Are you making any shifts in your normal routine to make your holidays more enjoyable and less stressful? I'm open to suggestions!

photo by jessica garro

One

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 17:13:00 +0000

My darling baby with the sparkling eyes and enchanting grin.

God’s timing is perfect.

No end to His Grace and Comfort and sweet, sweet Peace.

His Gifts are extravagant: Through you, in His Infinite Wisdom and Mercy, He gently has given me a vision of the most beautiful parts of My Angel's soul.

With every breath I love you. I want to experience you, to see life through your eyes, to gaze at you and to hold your piercing gaze. Thank you for looking deeply into me. Thank you for allowing our Sweet Abba to speak through you.

You bring unique, rippling happiness. Everything about you is unconditional and pure.

May you be blessed and blessed and anointed.

Joyful, glorious birthday, my precious daughter.

Risk

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 18:06:00 +0000

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took

to Blossom.

--Risk, Anais Nin

This week I have been challenged and comforted by the dense precision with which Nin describes a special kind of Risk. Each of my little buds has taken his and her own risks this week.

After a wonderful time of special mother-daughter connection, EB began Kindergarten at a wonderful public school today.

An unexpected opportunity led us to transition Main Man to a new private school, which will undoubtedly provide a very individual and unique preschool experience for him.

After 10 months of blissfully non-verbal immobility, Little Belle crawled to me across the room, sat up straight, waved and smiled and said “Hi!”, as if we were old friends who had just run into each other at the grocery store.

Wonderful, beautiful blooming going on around here. And yet this morning, during a telephone conversation about Junie B. Jones and chapter books, tears streamed down my face. I heard my own voice quiver, and I hoped that the dear old friend on the other end of the line couldn’t sense my throat tightening as I forced a smile while describing all the change in the life of my family.

All these changes are good, positive. All of them are steps in the right direction. So why is it that I feel – for lack of any better term – surprised? It’s as if I expected that our life would remain as simple and compact and slow-moving – and controlled – as it always had been. I never really thought my oldest would go to school where she could check out library books on her own. (She does.) I never considered that my Main Man would someday be interested in the difference between an ellipsoid and a rectangular prism. (He is.) And I never envisioned a Little Belle who could really, truly communicate and interact in a meaningful way. (She can.) I suppose that I have been so enamored of my family and our blessed existence that I never even dreamt of or hoped for any of it to change, even if the change is good.

Though Nin’s words have whispered to me all week long, today I realize it isn’t just the Littles in my home who are experiencing this enchanting risk. This mama heart is also determined not just to accept, but to capture and breathe in, the risk required during a season of Blossom.

photo by jronaldlee

My Big Day

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 20:44:00 +0000

On Thursday morning at 7:55 a.m. EB will start kindergarten. Months ago, I decided that I would take off work the two days before her Big Day. And now, those two days begin tomorrow.

We’re going to swim and get our nails done. We’re going for coffee and, later, a girlie lunch. We’ll probably do some last minute back to school shopping (as I realized this weekend we’re a bit light on grosgrain ribbon and other hair accessories). And we’ll do some relaxing with a few good books.

You know what else will happen? I’ll probably laugh a lot. Because she is surprisingly witty. And I’ll probably think a lot. Because she asks really good questions. The kind that aren’t easy to answer. And I’ll probably end up spending a little time on the computer. Because usually when I don’t have an answer, she suggests that we do some research.

I’ve always enjoyed her, in the way that mamas enjoy their babies. But today I enjoy her in a different way. I can’t put my finger on that little place in my heart that wiggles when she walks in the room. The only word I have to describe my EB is that she has bloomed. Or morphed. Or just started really, truly Becoming. And she’s Becoming this person all her own. This person I’m getting to know more every day, and who develops faster than I can catch up.

This person who doesn’t just hate green beans, but asks if she can substitute green beans for carrots with her dinner.

This person who still may balk at bedtime, but then understands the importance of getting enough rest so she can perform well at gymnastics.

This person who wants so desperately to improve her reading skills, for the sole purpose of being able to share that gift with her younger siblings.

This person who challenges me when I say that she should eat her dinner because there are children starving in other countries. What other countries? she asks. And why don’t we just send her food to them? Maybe a better question than she realizes. Or maybe she totally gets it.

This person who doesn’t mind when I’m in a hurry, as long as I’ll take a moment to explain to her what the hurry is all about. And who will challenge, in a pleasant enough way, my reason for hurry by wondering aloud whether “because I just want to be home” is reason enough to not finish looking at all the cereal choices at the grocery store.

This person - yes, this five year old person - who has a crazy-strong grasp on kindness and sincerity. And who already finds joy in helping the weaker around her.

Yes, she is Becoming this person whose character I find both charming and challenging. Whose value system I work to shape, and then admire when so many times she seems to get it right in spite of me.

I look forward to the next two days with my daughter. Not so much for the swimming and nails. But for the conversation. The uninterrupted, unhurried, thoroughly invested time that we will have to enjoy each other’s company.

And I will stare at this precious creation and relish the fact that my baby has taken some important first steps this summer. I have enjoyed her immensely for five plus years, but since she was born I have dreamed of the day when we would spend some time together as independent people who just want to hang out.

Tomorrow’s my big day.

this moment: let me count the ways

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 02:55:00 +0000

this moment.

a simple, special, extraordinary moment.

a moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

(see more moments at SouleMama)

A True Celebrity Crash-Up

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 19:17:00 +0000

Where am I and how did I get here?

This is an accurate paraphrase of the thought that kept churning through my head on the most unusual evening out that I spent when I lived in California.

Not long after moving to San Diego in 2005, the husband and I decided to go visit my best friend Laura who had lived in L.A. since 2001. In the four years since moving there, she had acquired an eclectic group of friends and I had enjoyed so many of her stories. Now, only a couple hours drive from her home, I just couldn’t wait to see her.

So on a Friday afternoon we loaded up my dad, Baby EB, and our best We’re In California and SOOOO Spontaneous Now attitude, and drove north. I don’t remember that we had a plan, except that we were staying in a fancy hotel and going out with Laura. Her boyfriend (at the time) had a business dinner planned at the Chateau Marmont, and so immediately following that dinner we were going to hook up with him.

My memory of the Big Things in life isn’t great. But I do recall drinks at a VERY crowded outdoor bar next door to The Chateau, and seeing a whole bunch of girls who were trying with all their might to look like Britney Spears.

At some point Laura told us that it was time to go next door. So we dutifully left the outdoor bar and walked over to The Chateau. The entrance actually looked like a long driveway, sort of like a back door. And there were two security guys standing at the gate. As we approached them, something really funny (to me) happened so fast. We acted like we were heading in. They stopped us and said we couldn’t because the restaurant was full. Laura immediately told them we were guests of a particular celebrity. And suddenly I felt like I was in that scene from The Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy, et al., approach the gates of the Emerald City:

Guardian of the Emerald City Gates: … Now, state your business!

Dorothy: [Dorothy and friends, all together] We want to see the Wizard!

Guardian of the Emerald City Gates: [gasps] The Wizard? But nobody can see the Great Oz! Nobody's ever seen the Great Oz! Even I've never seen him!

Dorothy: Well, then how do you know there is one?

Guardian of the Emerald City Gates: Oh, you're wasting my time!
[starts to close the window]

Dorothy: Oh, please! Please, sir! I've got to see the Wizard! The Good Witch of the North sent me!

Guardian of the Emerald City Gates: Prove it!

Scarecrow: She's wearing the ruby slippers she gave her.

Guardian of the Emerald City Gates: Oh, so she is! Well, bust my buttons! Why didn't you say that in the first place? That's a horse of a different color! Come on in!

And on in did we come!

After a while at The Chateau with Laura's Gorilla and JK and Spike, someone decided it was time to move on. So we all headed out the door, back down the driveway. JK lagged behind a bit, and even I could tell that something was… how do I say it… not quite right.

Suddenly from behind I heard hurried footsteps. And then out of the darkness came JK, holding a plate absconded from The Chateau, which he proceeded to CRASH over Spike's head.

(This was the first time I had ever seen someone crash a dinner plate over someone else’s head in real life, and I had the distinct impression that it was all in good fun. That’s not normal to me.)

Once the cackling slowed, various pieces of porcelain were picked out of Spike's hair (and head), and it was determined that none of the bleeding needed immediate medical attention, we continued on our way to Ye Coach and Horses, a regular haunt for this group. Because that’s just what you do after someone’s scalp is lacerated by a good friend and a dinner plate.

The rest of the evening was extraordinarily ordinary, and so I remember it well. I had a really great time sitting next to one of this generation’s most wickedly brilliant talents in the film industry, and just chatting life. We talked more about my job than we did his. And though I’ve only visited with him a time or two since then, my sense is that this is just how he is. He (just like The Gorilla) is really, genuinely interested in what you have to say. He is interested in the human element. He is interested in people.

And as a side note, I often think about the little life lesson I took from that night: the value of being able to make someone else feel like they are the important one in a conversation. When I have consciously attempted to employ that social approach, I find that I gain way more than I take.

**This story is part of Hollywood Housewife’s Celebrity Crash Link-Up. This week it has been super fun to read all the stories she has written as she toasts, and relives, everything that was involved in her decision to move to Los Angeles nine years ago. You should definitely check her out!!**

photo by brokentrinkets

Grosgrain and Mammograms

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 20:36:00 +0000

Isn’t it funny how sometimes the Big Events in life can pass by with little more than a nod, while the smallest moments can take on monumental weight and leave you emotionally reeling?

Or maybe it’s just me.

I guess I’ve never really been good at wrapping my arms around a moment just because it's supposed to be big. Those days can be special, for sure. But little things that catch me off guard tend to brand right into my brain with an unmasked smoldering that lasts far longer than I could ever predict.

I loved the days my babies were born. But my clearest memories of each of them are made up of a smattering of much more ordinary moments when, for any number of reasons, something seemingly mundane just enraptured my mind’s eye.

My wedding day is a beautiful memory, but together we have experienced some extraordinary regular days that I can replay in my head with gorgeous, excruciating detail. And that I undoubtedly enjoyed even more than the day I said I do.

When I turned 30, I expected to feel older. More mature. More civilized. I really did. I didn’t expect to feel “old,” but I did secretly worry a little bit that suddenly things would look a little less… optimistic? Fresh? I don’t know. But I knew it was supposed to be a Big Freakin' Deal. I did my best to prepare for that feeling. Whatever it was that I expected, though, it didn’t happen. I sailed right past 30 with little more than a nod, and continued to enjoy all the ordinary and extraordinary that came along in due course. In fact, so far my 30s have been way better than my 20s.

And then last week two things happened that sort of came down in a very polite but fervent crashing kind of way.

Or something.

First, one of my friends posted this picture to her Facebook status:

With a caption that read: It's that time of year again! Cheer camp next week.

As I viewed the darling ribbon and read the caption, I sank completely into a memory pool of pom camp and ponytails and the perfect grosgrain bow. There was a special technique to ensuring that the ribbon neatly covered the underlying rubber band without ever sliding out of your hair. And the ribbon had to be cut just the right length. Too short, and the bow wouldn’t tie. Too long and the look was limp and stringy.

And then I realized that, absent command attendance at a 1950’s-style costume party, I’ll likely not wear a grosgrain ribbon in my hair ever again.

It isn’t that I wore one last week but today it would be inappropriate. Honestly I don’t remember the last time I wore a ribbon in my hair – probably college.

But for the first time ever I have to say unequivocally that I am Too Old for something. Something that I might, possibly, be inclined to do if I weren’t Too Old.
_______________________________

Last week I was visiting with a dear friend who is my age. Out of the blue, she told me that she had discovered a lump in her breast, and despite every factor weighing in her favor, her doctor has recommended a mammogram. She is 33.

When I asked for more detail on the doctor’s recommendation, my friend recounted their conversation. After a discussion of family history and (lack of) apparent risk factors, the doctor simply said “well, a mammogram won’t hurt anything. Anyway, it’s good to have a baseline. We are seeing more women in their 30’s…”

It’s good to have a baseline. Not quite “this could be cancer,” but certainly not “you’re so young that I’m willing to rule it out.”

_______________________________________

These moments keep showing up in my daydreams. Maybe they stand out because I wasn’t looking for them. Or at least I wasn’t prepared. Who really expects a picture of colorful ribbon to make you revisit your personal mission statement? Who knew that a friend’s almost-routine doctor visit would send me tumbling into questions of age and aging? I wasn’t just stumbling through Life, oblivious to the fact that we’re all transitioning from one stage to the next, after all, and so I felt a bit betrayed by my own surprise. For a few days I wanted to say to my swirly head, “straighten up. you're overreacting. now don’t you think that was a bit uncalled for?”

And while those moments seem really quite small, I have a hunch that I won't forget either of them. The smoldering hasn't stopped. And the thought train I'm on shows no signs of returning to the station.

I think my changed relationship with grosgrain ribbon and a friend's recommended mammogram may fall in the category of Big Events for me. And I've decided I kind of like it that way.

Because, after all, it's this same swirly head of mine that regularly recalls an ordinary overcast day at the park three years ago, pushing my first born in a swing and eating sandwiches from Subway while my three-weeks old Main Man lay quietly in his infant carrier. Plain 'ole day turned one of my most cherished, and crystal clear, Big Events. Also a bit uncalled for. In a really good way.

And you?

Main Event Bar photo by Robby Virus

On Becoming Wise

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 18:50:00 +0000

At 33 I don’t consider that I’ve had enough experience in most of Life to claim any particular level of wisdom. To me, wisdom isn’t something you learn in a book. Wisdom is earned. In the trenches. By falling down over and over. And then picking yourself up and taking another step. In fact, as I look over my relatively few years as a grown up, the areas about which I have gained any wisdom worth sharing aren’t littered with rose petals and memories of sheer delight or unmatched success. I see some bruises, some injuries, some residual scars that remind me of lessons learned. As much as I hate admitting it, though, the hard lessons are the ones worth learning.

This week an organization dedicated to espousing a particular approach to parenting infants is hosting its annual leadership conference. Since 2004, Tulip Girl has faithfully hosted her own online week dedicated to creating a platform for voicing concerns over the Growing Families International parenting materials. While I have much to say about Gary Ezzo’s infant parenting guide On Becoming BabyWise (and not all bad things by any means), that is not the purpose of this post. Rather, as God would have it, a Divine intersection of opportunity and gentle encouragement was presented to me in the last 24 hours, and I want to share that here.

This morning, following an insightful post from my dear friend Megan, I sent the following note to a friend who will welcome Baby #2 in a matter of days:

Hi, friend! I can’t believe I didn't realize Baby’s arrival was so close! I'll be thinking of you next week.

I thought I'd send you a quick note just in case you may find this helpful later on. I did BabyWise with my first daughter (who is now 5 1/2!!!) and it worked beautifully. 27 months later my son was born. I tried the same approach and had very little success. In fact, it turns out he is just a very different person than she is, and that was reflected in their different responses to the BW approach.

With my youngest daughter (now 9 months), I actually took an almost completely child-directed approach (we keep a solid routine, but lots of variation within that basic routine) and it has been a wonderful experience.

I only raise this because, like you, I had a baby who did very well with BW first, so when things got rough with my little man I was at a loss. I wish someone who had gone through it before would have gently told me that it was okay if the "system" didn't feel right with subsequent bambinos!! In the course of all this I found some fabulous support and other resources that have been very helpful. I'd be more than happy to share those with you if at any point you're interested.

All the best to you next week! I can't wait to hear the big announcement and see pictures!!

I typed the note in a hurry (on my iPhone) and went about my morning. A few hours later, I reread what I wrote, and it brought tears to my eyes. Not tears of sadness or regret or even, really, joy. But tears of awe over how many sleepless nights and wild emotions and fears and questions and answered prayers were all bound up and represented in those three paragraphs. Tears of deep-rooted satisfaction over that feeling I remember so well, each time I came to know something new and unique about each of my babies’ personalities.

And, above all, tears of immense, indescribable gratitude to a sweet Father who gently guided, and continues to guide, my heart as I work to make parenting decisions that are right by my babes.

I’m not an expert on parenting – not on teething rings or best bottles or discipline or whether my kids should call our friends Mrs. Jones or Miss Cara or, simply, Aiden’s Mama. But what I realize now is that I have earned a gentle, quiet confidence in making my best effort at guiding these munchkins. And most importantly, I have allowed myself to sink deeply into a bath of Grace that washes over my every step as a mama.

Ironically, none of the Grace and very little of the Wisdom I associate with my parenting journey has come from reading a book that claimed to make me Wise. And yet it is that Grace and Wisdom that I yearn for, and that brings me to closer communion with my Creator.

I beg God daily for Grace. I thank Him for even a thimble full of Wisdom. And I pray that whether your journey is in parenting children or loving your spouse or giving to your community, you will experience Grace through the rough spots and the gift of His Hand-Wrought Wisdom.

If you care to read from one of the most gracious, beautiful authors I know on a true Spirit-led approach to parenting, I encourage you to spend some time with Megan at SortaCrunchy. She shares her heart without reservation on all topics parenting, and I promise that you will be blessed in a tangible way.

photo by Raphael Goetter

Extra proud...

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 19:52:00 +0000

This weekend some friends invited us to their home for dinner. As soon as we hit the door, EB proceeded directly to our hostess and gushed, "Hi, Cara! I lost four teeth!!" Cara immediately showed exceeding interest in my daughter's gaping grin.

Not to be outdone, Main Man wriggled his way into the conversation. With excitement equivalent to that of his sister, he announced, "Hi, Cara!! I tee-teed in my pants at the movie theater last night!"

Alas, both statements were true.

photo by evelynishire

Different

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 15:45:00 +0000

At eleven years old I attended a New School for half of every day, because two teachers there were able to meet my academic needs. That arrangement made me a little bit different.

The kids at the New School wore fancy clothes. At eleven, I didn’t know much about fancy clothes, and I didn’t have a wide variety from which to choose. And so they laughed at me. With precocious intuition I felt embarrassed and hurt, not only for myself, but because I sensed an embedded attack on my family’s ability to provide me with a more fashionable wardrobe. I didn’t tell my parents. I accepted that I was just a little bit different.

Within a week of school starting, I began holding my breath each morning as I walked into the classroom. I pretended not to hear the cutting, hateful remarks that came from all across the room. I smiled and sat in my chair. Except for the day when I went to my chair and found dead crickets in the seat. The room erupted. I pretended that it was funny to me, too, as I dumped the crickets in the floor.

And then beneath a crooked smile – the only kind you can muster when your little heart is broken into a million pieces - I held back tears with a strength reserved for the most painful, wretched ticks of the clock. And I remember with piercing clarity thanking God in that moment that I was able to keep from crying.

During that school year I developed an incredibly rare skin condition that was difficult to diagnose and treat. It lasted for months. The New School kids had their way with me.

Take off your mask. It isn’t Halloween yet.

And, really, what could I say? So I said nothing. And sat at my desk, excruciatingly embarrassed by the skin in which I lived.

During recess I considered myself fortunate when the New School kids allowed me to join them. I learned to cope. I accepted their caste system, and the position to which I had been relegated.

I wondered whether I would be happier if I were more like them.

Nicer clothes. Quicker wit.

But I wasn’t like them. In so many ways, I was just a little bit different.

I told my dad that I was sick as often as I could on the mornings he took me to school. I wasn’t lying. But I never shared the source of my hurt. I conceded internally that the consequences flowing from my differentness were mine alone to navigate.

In junior high and high school, many of the New School kids became friends of mine. Without being asked, I forgave the transgressions. But I never was able completely to separate the scars from the people who caused them. And I vowed never to make myself so vulnerable again.

Into early adulthood I struggled mightily with being different. In anything. My internal response channeled the stunted emotions of an eleven year old.

I am uncomfortable laughing at myself. I don’t do well as the butt of even the most well-intentioned and lighthearted joke. I retreat. I become mildly defensive. Or I smile and squirm inside.

Today I wear nice clothes. And I have developed a quick wit.

Eleven years old matters a lot.

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

Inspired today by my dear friend Laura to write honestly.

photo by willgame

The Father

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 15:02:00 +0000

There’s something a little bit different about their sparkly voices when he walks through the door. I can’t quite describe what happens to their hearts when they receive his praise for a job done well.

I cut apples and fill cups and read books and tuck them in next to Blue Dog and Pinky with all their favorite blankets. But he. His arms. His voice. His being there. It’s all a little different from mine. It’s all a little bit bigger.

He can encourage a nervous little boy to run the bases for the first time.

He can spur a five year old gymnast to work harder, practice more, and climb the rope all the way to the top of the gym.

He can calm a frustrated infant with the sound of his booming, gentle voice.

He chooses to honor me by commanding their respect of my every word.

He chooses to teach them love by loving me first and best.

His leadership is worth following. His love is coveted and flows freely – a blessed combination.

Thank you, my dear, for being the Father.

The Difference Between Sons and Daughters

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 16:49:00 +0000

Me: Main Man, you MUST keep your car seat straps on your shoulders.

MM: I don’t WANT to.

Me: If you don’t keep your car seat straps on your shoulders, the police man will turn on his flashing lights and make mommy stop the car.

MM: Will we get in trouble?

Me: Yes. I will get in trouble because it’s Mommy’s job to keep you safe and when you don’t wear your car seat straps you aren’t safe. So Mommy will have to go to jail. And I’ll have to stay in jail all by myself. I won’t be able to stay at home with you and Daddy and EB and Little Belle. And they will keep me there for a long time.

MM: No they won’t, Mommy! I will SAVE you!

Me: How will you save me?

MM: Because I’ll put on my Spiderman costume and I’ll play baseball like the big kids and I’m gonna hit a homerun over the fence and I’ll SAVE you from that jail and those police, Mommy. Spiderman will SAVE you!!

Thank you so much, Sweet Main Main.

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

Me: EB, I understand that you are tired. But you have to go to school today.

EB: But I don’t WANT to go to school. I HATE school. I want to go to work with you. I’m sick. My tummy hurts.

Me: EB, look. You are in big kid school now. When you’re in Pre-K, you don’t get to skip school. That’s just the way it works. You have to go. It’s the law.

EB: I DON’T WANT TO GO! I WON’T GO! I HATE SCHOOL!

Me: You love school.

EB: (hysterics) YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ME! I NEVER GET TO DO WHAT I WANT TO DO! Main Man ALWAYS GETS TO STAY HOME!

Me: That’s not true. Besides, if you don’t go to school, Mommy gets in trouble. Because it‘s my job to make sure that you go to school and learn. So if you don’t go to school then I will have to go to jail. And I’ll have to stay there by myself while you and Daddy and Main Man and Little Belle live here at home without me. They will keep me there for a long time.

Long, long pause.

Pensive stare.

EB: Well, for how long?

(Thanks, EB. I like where your head was on this one...)

Happy weekend!

Have You Ever Done A Cartwheel?

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 21:59:00 +0000

EB’s interest in gymnastics was, I think, sparked by the 2008 summer Olympics. One hot summer evening when we were in the backyard, she asked whether I had ever attempted the kind of acrobatics displayed by those elite athletes in Beijing. I responded by telling her all about my childhood careers in gymnastics and dance.

Then she asked me: have you ever done a cartwheel?

I had been challenged, and the only acceptable response was clear. I demonstrated my cartwheel, technically unassailable, even after at least 10 years of dormancy. The result of my demonstration – this one-time reunion between my body and my former gymnast self – was a severely strained abdominal muscle. Don’t ask because I have no idea.

(NB - I don’t actually recall doing a cartwheel 10 years ago. But I was in college. In a sorority. I think it is a valid assumption that I did cartwheels at the slightest provocation. I also have one friend who, inspired by the 1996 Atlanta Games, regularly practiced her salute or dismount every time she passed by the corner of a large area rug, careful that her heels didn’t extend beyond the edge. She was a master. She was not a gymnast. That’s a different post.)

From that point on, EB was determined to learn a cartwheel. And let me tell you that I’ve never seen someone work so hard to self-teach a skill? My goodness, that child hopped and jumped and wobbled and rolled and, finally, one day, produced something that looked remotely like a cartwheel. And then the next day she mastered it.

Kids like to imitate us, don’t they?

It’s so fun to be able to respond to those Can you do this? and Will you show me? and Have you ever? questions from your kids. They look to us for guidance. For permission to try things. For permission to succeed. For me, some of the most coveted moments in parenting are the opportunities to open doors for my kids and watch them pass through and then surpass my own accomplishments.

But what if they ask you a “have you ever” question that you don’t want to answer? What if they start knocking on a door you don’t want to open?

What if, suddenly, you don’t want to be completely honest with your precocious, inquisitive five-year-old?

A couple of Saturdays ago we were driving across town to pick up some plants for our spring flower beds. EB and I were in the car together, and Daddy, Main Man and Little Belle were ahead of us. As we drove along the semi-country road, we came upon a house with large oak trees in the front yard. And with long, streaming white indicators that some teenage pranksters had their way with those trees the night before. Immediately EB asked, “Mommy, why was there toilet paper on those trees?”

My insides giggled as I recalled one night in particular when, as a high school girl, some of my friends and I had “TP’d” one of our ex-boyfriends’ yards. It was a masterful job, as I recall. I don’t remember the number of rolls we used. Undoubtedly it was the stuff of legends.

Oh, probably just some high school kids playing a joke, sweetie. EB was silent for a moment, pondering how exactly toilet paper plus trees equaled funny. (And, most likely, making a new brain file titled “Things That I Am Fairly Sure I'll Try Someday.”)

Her silence left a void that, as a Good Mommy, I decided to fill. Yesiree, I proudly recognized this as a teachable moment. An opportunity to talk about making good choices and being respectful and not misusing resources and all that stuff that I’m supposed to teach my children at every opportunity. Gleeful that I had grabbed hold of this chance sliver of time, I began to fill in the silence with Mommy Wisdom and instruction and warning.

Admonitions about Following The Rules.

Warnings to Always Consider How Your Choices Impact Others.

I told her all about the challenge to clean up that mess, and the fact that the people who made the mess left it for someone else to clean up. I was really feeling my oats, sort of overdoing it with a broad brush. And even after I stopped talking, I continued thinking about this particular group of kiddos as if I had never been one. I painted a mental picture of

ne’er do well teenagers who had

nothing better to do with their Friday night than to

go around terrorizing this poor, helpless neighbor and they just

better be glad that the police didn’t drive by and

if I were their mommy I would…

EB interrupted my thought train that had flat jumped the tracks.

Oh, I know, Mommy. YOU never did that when YOU were a teenager, did you?

Silence.

Well, I think maybe I did one time. Maybe. I’m not sure.

Uncomfortable mumbling.

Oh. You wouldn’t do that now, though, right?

Exhale.

Of course not. Right. You’re right.

That’s okay, Mommy. Because you know about good choices now, right?

And, so, the teachable moment was over. For her. But for me? Ah, yes. Did someone say grace? As in Big Grace? If Grace is receiving that which you don’t deserve, my precious daughter extended grace to me that day. She saw me like God sees me. She looked at me and assumed the best. She gave me another chance.

Most importantly, though, she reminded me that harsh judgment and conclusions almost always come back for a bite. The past two years have been a lot about Grace for me. Learning what it is, what it looks like, how it feels. And learning how to extend it to others. To view others as God views them.

What is Grace? is one of the three or four most important questions I hope to answer and model for my children. Within developmentally appropriate parameters, of course, I genuinely hope that my answer to Have You Ever Done A Cartwheel? will always be honest. And yet I realize that sometimes that is probably going to be difficult and uncomfortable and squirmy. But here's what I know: I cannot expect them to appreciate what Grace means to me unless I am willing to share how God has used His Grace to make me who I am.

I hope that I never learn all there is to know about Grace, because I will never tire of being knocked on my heels by its unexpected appearance in my life, and by the moments God uses to show Himself to me.

In a really good way.

gymnast by erin MC hammer

tp tree by stevendepolo

Lunch With A Friend

noreply@blogger.com (jaime) — Thu, 20 May 2010 14:56:00 +0000

Yesterday I had lunch with one of my closest friends from childhood. Not just a Good Friend from when we were kids. But one of my very best friends in life. The keeping kind. He’s in this for the long haul, so to speak. And I appreciate him more today than I did Way Back Then, or maybe than I ever have.

We are pictured together in a photograph of our church’s baby dedication Sunday. Our mothers were both wearing yellow lacey dresses, and our fathers were styled in brown leisure suits.

As children we participated in a special “traveling cast” of a church musical. We rode in a church van to performance venues within a small radius of our hometown. We sang songs like “Noah! Why Are You Building a Boat?” As I recall, we used jazz hands a lot. I'm fairly sure we were big time famous.

In middle school we were yearbook staffers. He was lead photographer. I was Editor in Chief. One time someone threw out all the negatives for our photos for the year. We dug in the dumpster behind our building for the negatives together. Actually, he claims that he did all the digging, and I did all the directing.

But who’s really keeping score when it comes to digging in dumpsters, right? I mean, certainly I’m not.

In high school we were attached at the hip in so many ways. Church youth group, academic classes. I was on the pom squad and danced competitively, and he was the school mascot and the lead in every high school musical. Our youth group leader gave me a hard time because my dance classes precluded me attending Wednesday night youth services. I always knew my friend was a little jealous.

We laughed til we cried at church camp every summer. Usually under highly inappropriate circumstances.

To this day he plays the piano like an angel and loves Broadway musicals. I love listening to him play, and much of the time would be more entertained by his rendition of a Broadway performance than by the original.

We supported each other in college, though our college years were very different. I was in a sorority. He led music for a Southern Baptist church youth group.

Still, we ended up with the same majors. We took cell biology and Organic II together. We schmoozed the P-chem lab instructor as a team. We still quote translation exams from our Latin instructor.

While I spent some years figuring out what I wanted Me to look like, he kept a hand on the wheel. More than I realized then. More than I deserved.

He played and sang for my wedding. He wrote special lyrics to a song we both loved. He also forgot the lyrics to a different song we both loved, and made up new ones on the fly. We affectionately refer to that as his Spontaneous Song. I’m not sure which memory I appreciate more.

We went separate directions for several years after college, but always stayed just within arms’ reach.

One day he drove 3 hours to visit me, and we caught up over bacon, egg, cheese, ham and toast sandwiches from the neighborhood deli on a summer Sunday morning.

I told him I was pregnant.

He told me he was gay.

Both of us smiled and said "it's about time." Neither of us was surprised.

I am married with three children now. He has a fabulous partner. I have a law degree. He has a PhD in cell biology.

I practice law and write and focus a lot on home and career. He is a fancy research and consulting scientist who travels the country for work and play. And he documents the lives of my children through beautiful photography.

He reminds me when it’s time for updated family photos. He tells me they are the most beautiful children he has ever seen.

He hates conflict and is frustratingly kind. At least as far as most people would ever know.

He is considering a move to Southern California, and can put together a mix tape of my twenty favorite Broadway show tunes in thirty minutes or less.

And sing all of them word for word.

And perform them.

In a costume of striking propriety, thrown together from a bath towel, a throw blanket, a fruit bowl and the feather boa he may or may not have lying around the house.

He would do this for me.

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Recently my reflections have been focused on friendships and, in particular, how I have handled relationships through the years. Not always gently. I have had to cringe a little at how carelessly I treated some of the friends I would claim to be most important to me. I like to think that with maturity I have gained awareness of the importance of nurturing the relationships in life that are worth keeping. I want to be a better friend, and I admire those who have it figured out. I suspect that part of my maturation will require me to address some iniquities with the ones I love. Slowly I’m embracing that.

And yet it’s amazing, really, the staying power that can mark your relationships with those souls who are preordained to be in your life forever, no matter the digression of your individual life paths. So very rare. Like a fishing boat in a fierce ocean storm, battered by high winds and salty water and yet, when the winds and waters calm, the ship emerges.

Intact, afloat, and proven.

When we met for lunch yesterday I knew I was in need of a seaworthy vessel to accept the gales and sting pouring from my heart. I needed to lean into the waves with someone with a shared history. And what did I receive in exchange for that outpour of vitriol?

Encouragement, perspective, and a reminder that there are people in my life who are not interested in my fabulous performance. They would rather encounter a heart that has emerged from storms.

Intact, afloat, and proven.

My heart is full.

photo by John-Morgan