Undercover Mother

Everyday Life: Taking Notes

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Wed, 30 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

He's always been an old soul, my first-born boy.

But there are moments where he seems much older than almost five.

Like when we happen upon a Memorial Day ceremony where veterans carry our flag and share stories of lives that were laid down for country's freedom and my oldest listens intently as I give him the run down of the celebration and solemnly puts his hand over his heart as we recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing the National Anthem.

Or when he and his younger brother are out in the back yard and the little one ends up haphazardly crying from a minor injury and my oldest boy rushes to his side asking if he's OK and envelopes his tearful brother in a hug.

And just today while he's snuggling his 9-day-old baby cousin -- she lets out a cry, he presses his lips into her forehead, giving her a kiss and says, "It's OK, baby, I'm here, and I'm taking care of you."

It's like he gets it.

So much of it -- in ways I don't fully comprehend, and in ways that only my heart really can interpret and fumble to translate for my brain.

And I realize sometimes, in these moments of him getting this Bigger Picture way of love, that this little boy is going to one day be a man

who gets it -- so much of it.

And I'm taking notes from him as fast as I can scribble them out and press them into my mind for keeping.

Thinking, That's All: The Flag

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Mon, 28 May 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Every year it sneaks up on me.

I don't notice until I'm strolling around the neighborhood the night before Memorial Day, blissfully and ignorantly enjoying the long weekend, that our streets are lined with a plethora of red, white and blue, stars and stripes.

And?

We don't have a flag flying in front of our own house.

Again, I've forgotten to purchase the very symbol used for displaying our gratitude and gratefulness to the service men and women who have laid down their lives for the freedom we enjoy in this country.

It's got to be something like growing up as as the only kid on the block and not having a Christmas tree come December.

Except without the flag and its freedom, a family might not be able to celebrate Christmas or any of the other holidays we embrace during December at all.

So maybe it's a little more than not having a Christmas tree, and I've just never totally verbalized it in my own head before.

But the little things we do in our everyday life and take for granted are wrapped up in the freedom my family so much enjoys. Like just today, and I doubt we even thought about it, we dipped our toes into some of that goodness found wrapped in the freedom our flag proclaims.

We worshiped vividly, sang our hearts out and partook in communion at church ...

and I checked in publicly on Facebook {because we're allowed Internet access to all sites}

and it wasn't against the law that we were in a place of worship

and I read Time magazine articles criticizing our government

that the United States Postal Service delivered to my mailbox

and E and I went on a walk where we spent most of the time saying aloud "Thank you, God, for ..."

and my neighbors just smiled instead of reporting us to the police.

None of that came without a price; lots, so many men and women have paid it with their lives, with the best of their years spent in service to the citizens who hold tight to this freedom even when they don't realize it.

And I don't even have a flag in front of my house, flying in gratitude because I have the right to have forgotten.

I know the spouses, the children, the mothers, the fathers, the friends of these fallen soldiers haven't had the choice of having forgotten.

I assure you, as I go about my day and the days to come, enjoying my various freedoms however big or seemingly small, I will remember.

And the flag?

It will become a permanent resident standing victoriously, billowing from the steps of our front porch.

Lest we never have the audacity to forget again.

G., 21 months, Memorial Day Parade, 2009

Living Healthfully: Curried Quinoa and Sauteed Vegetable Salad

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Sun, 27 May 2012 13:00:00 +0000

This versatile dish has been a staple in our house since half of us have bid gluten a not-so farewell.

We love eating this curried quinoa and sauteed veggie dish for a variety of reasons: it's tasty, it's healthy and it's versatile, perfect for eating alone or atop a bed of greens.

We also love taking this dish, adapted from a Body Ecology Diet recipe, to parties and picnics because even gluten lovers think it's fabulous, so perhaps give it a spin this weekend as we celebrate Memorial Day.

Ingredients:

1 cup of soaked {eight hours} quinoa

1.5 tablespoons of curry powder

1 teaspoon of Herbamare or sea salt

2 tablespoons of extra virgin coconut oil {you *could* use butter, but it's SO much better with coconut oil!}

2 medium sweet onions

1 zucchini

1 yellow squash

1/2 green pepper

1/2 red pepper

1 cup of peas

Directions:

First begin boiling 2 cups of water for the quiona. Add the quinoa to the boiling water with a bit of oil and simmer for about 15-20 minutes. Fluff the quinoa with a fork and allow the quinoa to sit and continue to fluff while continuing with the recipe.

Chop all veggies into small chunks and put each aside in separate bowls.

In a large skillet pan, melt the coconut oil and add the curry powder and Herbamare or sea salt. After about 30 seconds of letting the spices simmer in the oil, add the onions to the mixture. Simmer until translucent. Place in a separate bowl after cooking.

Add a bit of coconut oil to the same pan, sauteing the squash and zucchini. Mix the cooked squash and zucchini with the curry and onion mixture.

Boil the peas until tender.

By this point, the quinoa should be fluffy looking. Remember that sauteeing pan? Add the cooked quinoa to the sauteing pan with a bit of coconut oil and roast it for about 5 minutes. This brings out a nutty flavor.

In a very large bowl, mix the quinoa with the curry and veggie mix. Add the peas and the chopped raw peppers and enjoy!

{For more awesome gluten-free recipes, like the artichoke asparagus salad pictured with the curried quinoa above, I highly recommend the Body Ecology Diet book! Please know that links to the Body Ecology site are affiliates and if you make a purchase through them {thank you!}, I receive a bit of commission.}

Bigger Picture Moment: On Being Ready

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Thu, 24 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

I fully expected the test to display one line.

Negative.

No Baby.

Just a late period.

Fully expected.

But I had to confirm, what with not having taken a vow of abstinence while simultaneously taking herbal supplements that could be dangerous during pregnancy, when the days easily slipped past 30, 31, 32.

I'm not ready, I've shared with my husband at least a dozen times per month since we last sent a baby from the the womb and into heaven.

I'm not ready, I've declared and ensured we'd taken precautions so as to not find ourselves as surprised and with-child.

I'm not ready, I cried out to God as I looked at the end results of a positive pregnancy test.

I stared at the double lines before calling John into the bathroom to examine the test for himself.

He confirmed the reading, and we stared at each other incredulously.

No hugging.

No tears of joy.

No wide grins.

We just sat there staring at each other like two high school kids, air thick with shock and disbelief.

Quick to read my face, John gathered his mind and quickly shuffled the boys outside, left me and my positive pregnancy test in the bathroom alone to wrestle with each other ...

alone to wrestle with God.

I fully expected for my chest to tighten and my heart to thump wildly beneath my breastbone in a state of panic, my breathing to morph from deep breathes to short whisps of air sucked in through a straw, my mind to race in panic.

But I stood there

test in hand

Word in heart:

"Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you."
Psalm 9:10

Nothing takes the Designer by surprise, and with plans to retest with first morning urine, I fell soundly into hard, deep, fast sleep later that evening knowing that if He wanted this baby to be here, even if I weren't ready, I would be ready when he or she arrived.

****

Again, in the morning two blue lines displayed across the test, this time smudged and faded and running from a line into a u-shape, alerting my mind to the possibility of faulty tests.

I cursed the invention of the early-detection pregnancy test as I fed the boys breakfast, preparing to make our way through the Target aisles for another box of tests.

Irritated, I thought to God

What are you trying to do to me?

Haven't we had enough of the ping-pong emotions?

Could something just be or not be?

You know I've ached to stretch and swell again ...

my arms have longing to be heavy with drunken-nursing child dozing against my skin.

You know, I whispered in my mind.

And then ... the question turned

on my own heart,

but did I know?

Am I really ready?

Had I really realized the depth of that ache, the lingering longing as I prayed and wondered what He'd have for our family

if we should grow in number or remain four.

Am I?

Ready?

****

The early summer fields spread out before us, I watched two birds flutter and twist in the sky side by side while driving home from the store.

Gracefully, in confidence, they swooped and fluttered and dove and lifted higher and higher, like mirrors of each other.

My heart beat in time with their early-morning dance, knowing too well the fell swoops of low and the ecstasy of high-bright sky horizons.

****

Three more tests, all negative.

Relief and calm whitewash my mind,

only to be tinged with the color of disappointment.

My mind races to the birds and their early morning dance.

No turns have taken you by surprise, Oh Lord.

Not one.

You've been following along with each turn of my heart's wing.

You've been listening to my cries for guidance.

Am I ready?

I find answered prayers in the aftermath of two faulty pregnancy tests coupled with three negative ones.

And I know He's answered.

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Everyday Life: Summer Liberation

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Wed, 23 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

Today is G's last day of school, which means summer vacation begins this afternoon!

I thought about making a summer must-do list and checking adventures off one by one.

But.

I'm trying to declutter our lives, simplify our schedules and make enough space to burn with passion -- so adding more to-do lists to the fridge would be sort of defeating.

Instead, I've been thinking about all the liberation summer brings.

So here's what you won't catch me doing this summer:

Copious Amounts of Cooking

Yeah, I said it. I'm not going to spend a bunch of time in the kitchen preparing meals. Of course, we're not going to feasting on boxed dinners or processed food either. Rather, we'll be eating plenty of fresh food from the garden, grilling our meats and veggies and rarely turning on the oven.

And if my kids want celery and almond butter for lunch with a side of blueberries? Cherry tomatoes right from the vine? Raisins and nuts? Go for it, littles. Go for it. I'm not doing the food fight this summer. {But I will still be culturing my coconuts and veggies and giving the old Vitamix smoothie-blending workouts; I haven't totally lost my mind.}

Grocery Shopping the Middle Aisles

Speaking of the food fight that I'm not engaging in during meal times -- well, I'm not doing the food fight during snacks either, which pretty much means I'll be bypassing the middle aisles of the grocery store a large percentage of the time.

With so much fresh fruit and veggies, which both boys like one or both, we'll be snacking on easy-to-prepare snacks like strawberries and nuts, pears and peanut butter and carrots and hummus. Because we are NOT spending all summer debating which snacks are sometimes snacks and which ones are always snacks.

Scheduling

Even though we're involved in really good activities and we enjoy so much time that is scheduled and planned, we're not filling the calendar days this summer.

Today, the sun was bright shining and beautiful and it was so nice to say yes to a friend's text message asking if we wanted to meet at the park in our neighborhood. When weeks are totally scheduled, though, it makes those kinds of impromptu fun dates impossible.

I kind of want to see what happens when we wake up and just live the day.

New Projects

My brain twin and I are masterminds of projects. But this summer, as soon as we wrap up the first-ever Little Lake County Green Guide, we're writing down ideas and tabling them until school restarts. Mostly, I've decided to say no to any new projects simply so I'll have some time to work on my long-awaited and already started e-book and its corresponding site.

Sorting Socks

Now that I have my barefoot shoes for working out, I'm tossing all of our socks into a bin and saving them for cold weather; I've spent way too much time lately trying to tame the sock explosion.

And I'm allowing my children to buy and wear the croc shoes I've been adamantly against for several years. {Do I have the only kids in the free world who hate wearing sandals every day? Why do they prefer gym shoes?}

Fight the Daylight

Bedtime is a huge struggle during the summer months because of the lingering light -- this summer, so long as we don't have crabs scurrying around the house or yard, we're not enforcing lights-out bedtime at the normal 7:30-8:00 time period.

And because we aren't scheduling, it's no biggie if we sleep later in the morning and eat breakfast at 10 a.m.

So. What are you NOT doing this summer so as to live the simple life for a few months out of the year? Please share your ideas!

The Bigger Picture: A New Sweet Song

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Mon, 21 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

We keep whispered vigil in the early morning whisps of Sunday sunrise.

Quiet, the hum of the fan fades into the elongated mmmms of labor escaping from pressed-together lips.

We are dawn-light drenched mother robins perched in the branches of trees, awaiting the first chirps of a small baby bird to add song to the praise chorus of encouragement.

A steady rhythm finally breaks the staccato song of building contractions as morning twilight gives way to full sun.

Fullness in time, a mother's body knows

lets go

and

tiny lungs clear, belt out a tune of beautiful cries --

a crescendo to the swan song of labor

that fades into the beginning verses of a new sweet song we welcome gladly to our ears.

Welcome to the world baby girl, EV. Yours is the song we've been awaiting. May He make your life a song of praise.

Bigger Picture Moments: In the shadows of pirate swords

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Thu, 17 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

They've raided my silverware drawer again for pirate swords, and I find irritation creeping into my voice as I bellow down the hallway for someone to bring the butter knives back so I could PUL-ease swipe peanut butter across the hollow body of a celery stalk.

But, mom, the oldest protests, the foam swords are broken and these are the only swords we have left to defend the pirate ship!

Everything is pirate swords. Or light sabers. Or riffles.

And there are not enough foam swords on the shelves in all of the greater Chicagoland Target stores to keep my boys in the business of being brave.

So sticks from the backyard are carried like guns and butter knives are confiscated from the silverware drawer first thing in the morning after I unload the dishwasher.

It all drives me sort of crazy -- this constant need and desire for battle that's seemingly engrained in their biological make up, their genetic codes.

I lose sight of who they are when I get all wild, demanding butter knives be returned to my lunch-making hands.

When I deep groan internally after the oldest has been carrying on about the complexities of fighting an imaginative Darth Vader.

When I instruct them to stop light sabering the old My Little Ponies my mother dug out of the basement instead of treating them how I did -- combing and braiding their hair before frolicking about in the grass and building relationships with each other.

When John was away it was harder to sleep because I felt like I couldn't really turn off. {And it wasn't just because the dog, who now needs therapy, took his growling to the next level each time a car passed our house at night.}

But, rather, it was because I was thrust into a role that doesn't come as naturally to me as it does to John; he is the natural protector of our family.

Sure, if someone were to burst into our home I would get all mama bear and go into a blind, flesh-ripping rage of protecting my children ... but the desire to battle doesn't come as naturally as it does for my boys.

One night while John was gone, I prayed for God to watch over us as we rested. Not a full second after we'd said amen, my oldest son turned his eyes to me and told me I didn't have to even think about that.

Because not only would God protect us, but he would, too.

It's my job, he'd said.

I glimpsed the kind of man my four and half year old will one day become as he boldly proclaimed his intentions.

Thankfulness coated heavy the irritation that often emerges thick in my mind during the play battling, all the imaginative scenes of good versus evil unfolding in my living room and all the stolen butter knives morphed into pirate swords.

Because these moments are ones of play, yes, but they are also of building the desire to protect, to ensure good defeats evil.

And I surely know, I am reminded every time I read the headlines that the world needs more good pirates defending the ship.

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week..

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Alita's! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Everyday Life: Hurts So Good

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Wed, 16 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

He fell asleep again today in my arms.

I couldn't help but marvel at his small-bigness.

His elongated legs, but his yet-chubby cheeks.

His almost-too-big-for-his-new-shoes feet, but his still-soft, still pudgy baby belly.

After he woke up and crabbed about having woken to a world where chocolate {gluten free!} cake cannot be consumed at all hours, he was off and running, wrestling and jumping with his brother.

His brother, who when we headed upstairs to get ready for bed, read/recited-from-memory two books complete with perfect inflections and voice punctuation.

I couldn't help but marvel, again, the small-bigness of my four and a half year old, too.

Who are these growing-over-night boys?

And how did I get so fortunate to watch them sprout up so lovely and strong and solid?

As he read and his younger brother tried to read along outloud, too, I think John and I smiled so hard our faces hurt the kind of good that happens when you take a small- big bite out of a life that's better than what you could have ever imagined.

Everyday Life: Dear Diary

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Mon, 14 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

I knew John's departure for his work trip last week wasn't going to be a cake walk the minute I heard what happened at a seemingly innocent carpet time at G's preschool:

One moment the children are signing the continents song, and the next moment my oldest son's chin is quivering as he shares with the class that his daddy will be going to Europe.

"Oh, that will be fun for daddy," his teacher exclaims and smiles.

Chin quiver intensity increases, my preschooler blurts out through heavy sobs "but not for me!" and the entire class circles around him, offering stories of hope and survival from when their daddies were out of the country, successfully turning carpet time into an organic group therapy session.

Two minutes after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I calmly, lovingly, patiently wiped the tears from my four and half year old's cheeks.

Since I'd expected this, I'd been brainstorming ways to help him cope with missing daddy.

I was prepared to comfort his heavy heart for 20 minutes or so after John left, expecting to usher him away from the door and engaging him in other exciting activities.

And even though I also even prepared myself for the WWF-style wrestling match that is "snuggling" the 2.5 year old to sleep, I neglected to prepare well by forgeting to wear a helmet and found myself staring in a special edition headbutting match where I was the unfortunate loser.

Exhausted, we all fell asleep only to be awoken several times during the night be an unsettled golden retriever who was equally disturbed about the daddy-car being in the driveway without ever bearing a daddy at the door during dinner time.

I didn't sign up have to take the dog to therapy because of his intolerance for cars turning the corner in front of our home while John is absent.

Know what else I didn't sign up for?

Zombie mommy.

Fourteen hours after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I pried open my heavy eyes and extracted my groaning body from bed at the insistence of getting some Peanut Butter Puffins for an early-morning snack.

Fourteen hours and six minutes after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I scrambled to find my referee hat to break up head-butting contests.

Sixteen hours: scraped mud from the walls, swept it from the floors and cleaned it from the carpets, shoes, small legs and paws.

Seventeen hours: sopped up soapy sink water from an overflowing sink and enforced another clothing change.

Twenty five hours: exhausted, I served more Peanut Butter Puffins for dinner for the boys and ate cold green beans like they were gourmet food.

Thirty four hours: more WWF-style wrestling with a toddler who is miserable and waking every hour because of a nasty cold disgused as emerging molars.

5:50 a.m. Wednesday morning: Can no longer calculate how many hours hubby has been gone because of sleep deprivation coupled with copious amounts of tired whining from two little non-sleeping zombies.

Wednesday: Can no longer see digits on the clock. Just know the day of the week. bluuuuuuuuurrrrrrr.

Wednesday, sometime while the sun still shining: Reinforcements arrived. Sleep was still for the weak, according to E.

Thursday, morning: doused firestorms of frustration over missing "guys" and their attached-to-plastic-hand "lie sabers", napped, reunited myself with almond butter, started sneezing. A lot. Reinforcements left. I cried.

Thursday afternoon: realized it was less math to count the time until husband emerged from the super blackhole that I've found Europe to be these days and found the reason that I was no longer able to count had a lot to do with the colonies of snot overtaking my sinus cavity compliments of a toddler who coughed in my mouth all night long the night prior.

Friday: No eggs, no milk, no green beans = no breakfast so took the kids to a cafe where they behaved like angels after finding a renegade Easter card from great grandparents that included money. Experienced no-sleep, snot-induced, feverish blur filled with moments of holy-cow-are-these-kids-Droids-with-endless-battery-life? moments. Took boys out to dinner, too. And didn't feel guilty one single bit. Better than eating their weight in Peanut Butter Puffins

Friday night: Seriously considered writing a prayer titled "Are you there God, it's me, Hyacynth."

Saturday morning: head feeling like an overinflated balloon, awoke to a smiling toddler at 6:35 a.m., survived the farmer's market and subsequent Target prepartion trips for hosting Mother's Day, fed the children nut and fruit bars for breakfast, bananas for snakcs and Peanut Butter Puffins for lunch. Didn't even think twice about it. Considered exchanging nuptials with the kleenex box.

Saturday afternoon: While tying the last ribbons around Mother's Day gifts, heard G squeal that daddy was home. Hugged husband, kissed husband, thanked God, searched for bed. Hugged bed, kissed bed and considered chaining myself while waving the white flag of surrender and resigning that even the best laid preparations cannot save Zombie mommy. Only husbands returning from forever-long business trips can.

Motherhood: I {will} remember

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Sat, 12 May 2012 18:18:00 +0000

These boys of mine running through the tall grass of our backyard, picking me Mother's Day flowers and bringing them as love offerings to my hands, they began like you.

Tiny heart beats flickering fast like galloping horses.

Trust me when I say that I've loved them fiercely since the moment I felt the first twinges of pregnancy resound inside my body.

And probably even before there was ever one moment of exhaustion or tenderness felt, I loved them.

The heart knew them first, before the body even could.

It's the same for you.

Though my arms have no memory of you

and my mind doesn't know the color of your eyes or hair (like I've memorized your brothers' faces and can see with even my eyes shut)

my mothers heart remembers you.

It remembers you this week, the due date forecasted for your arrival

And it will remember you tomorrow as we celebrate motherhood and the gift of children.

And that -- remembering that you were and still are

will be enough water enough to quench my thirst for you until the day

my eyes can memorize the softness of your cheeks

and my arms can know the curves of your body while pressed against my own

both of us restored.

Five-Minute Friday: Identity

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Fri, 11 May 2012 19:09:00 +0000

They began to grate on my nerves each time I saw them, seemingly Scarlet Letters of sorts.

What was meant to be a resource for the lonely and seeking mother, turned into flashy, glaring badges defining me and thus defining you by parenting styles we've chosen or not chosen to embrace.

And so the Attachement Parenting, Breastfeeding and Babywearing buttons had to come down from the sidebar of my home here online during my recent redesign by the fabulous Alita Jewel.

Not because I don't passionately believe in the benefits of breastfeeding and babywearing and the basic tenants of AP such as loving and respecting each person in the family no matter how tiny

but because I don't see you as a breastfeeding mom or a formula feeding mom

a babywearing mom versus a stroller-pushing mom

an AP or a Babywise mom.

I see you

I see me as

whole people

who are loved beyond our modest understanding.

We are more.

More than our parenting choices.

More than our jobs.

More than our self-professed roles.

We are valued

and chosen

and wildly loved

and complexly created

by a Master Artist.

I wasn't planning to explain the facelift here but timing seems serendipitous as my online home was revamped just a week before the controversial Time magazine cover of a mother nursing her toddler son with a cover story title asking Are You Mom Enough? began yet another firestorm. {I'm not linking there, but you can search it if you'd like.}

And I'd like,

if I could, to answer

that for us all

regardless of if we nurse

by bottle or breast

when we are nourishing our loves with love --

that, no,

we are not mom enough.

we are more

because we are beloved beyond belief.

Bigger Picture Moments: Fires

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Thu, 10 May 2012 17:54:00 +0000

I crack the shell and egg white and yolk drip into the pan, sizzle in the heat.

Sleep hasn't come easy the past three nights, and I am running on broken-rest fumes while my cranky toddler melts into a teething, runny nose mess on the floor near my feet.

Anger stirs into my mind, mingles with frustration, blending into one like the eggs I'm frying. I rush-hurry to serve breakfast, my own exhaustion and weariness warmed by the fires flaming this third morning of solo parenting {reinforcements have since arrived}.

My preschooler makes the unfortunate mistake of airing complaints about his breakfast at the same moment his little brother flings the eggs I served just moments ago onto the floor.

I yell loud and power-punched the little one's full name.

My preschooler shrinks into his chair while the youngest dissolves into more tears.

I power through breakfast at high speed -- cleaning up, getting ready,trying to finish writing.

The flames are still burning, though, and my two year old is having none of it.

He's walking around sobbing and tantruming as I continue to burn in my pit-fire of anger and irritation.

Hurried attempts are made at calming him before I finally grab him by the shoulders and shriek "what?! What is wrong with you?"

I douse the fire of my own temper tantrum with guilty tears.

I gather him up in my arms, heart sopping wet from the drenching and try to find my way through the smoldering ashes.

But I can't see beyond the smoke, so I sit in quiet prayerfulness.

And I rock. I rock him gently, his small body still shaking from crying.

I rock him until his eyelids fall heavy and close, his breathing slows into rhythmic peace.

I rock until chaos fades into calm until the heat cools his body and my own.

I pray repentance in the stillness of the room, whispering how I'm sorry to have let the fires spread in the fast movement of my day.

I soak deep into grace-filled words that only ran across the surface of my heart this morning because I was simply going too fast to drink them into my thirsty, drought-ridden, fire-susceptible heart.

“We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead." —2 Corinthians 1:8–9

The smoke clears, and I move slowly to restore what was lost in the fire, asking forgiveness from two little boys who watched me burn.

There are gracious hugs, mercy-words given.

I replant seedlings into the soil with slowness, with patience, with gentleness and with love.

And remember that when there is nothing of me left to give, there's always more of Him for us all

in the midst of the burning fire and after the smoke clears as well.

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week..

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Sarah's! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Conversationalism: Blue Car Grocery Carts and Gypsies

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Wed, 09 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

A few of the conversations had with my 3.5 year old* during the span of one day:
7:28 a.m.: "Mom. Mooooooom. MOOOM!"

7:28 a.m.: "I'm late for work at the fire station! I need you to drive me there."

7:28 a.m.: "Yes, I do work there! LOOK! I'm wearing my fire coat and fire hat and fire boots."

7:28 a.m.: "My name isn't G. It's Rich the firefighter plumber."

7:28 a.m.: "If I don't go to work, who will help all of the people?"

7:28 a.m.: "I'm going to ask daddy to take me."

7:35 a.m.: "Mo-OM. Daddy said he won't take me to work at the firestation and he said my name is not Rich. And it is! I AM Rich the firefighter plumber."

****

10:28 a.m.: "Hey, mom, can we use that cart? Look, it's a car! I want that blue car cart!"

10:28 a.m.: "Hey! HeyWAIT! Mom. MOOOOOOOOM. YOU FORGOT THE BLUE CAR CART. WAIT FOR ME!"

10:28 a.m.: "I neeeeed green apples. Mom, really, I need green apples."

10:28 a.m.: "But I see green apples."

10:28 a.m.: "Are you sure those green apples are pears?"

10:28 a.m.: "If we would have taken that blue car cart, I could have droven us to find the green apples and we wouldn't be in this mess."

10:30 a.m.: "Can we buy pretzels?"

10:30 a.m.: "I didn't SEEEE any pretzels in the drawer."

10:30 a.m.: "When we get home I'm going to tell daddy about this."

10:30 a.m.: "He's probably going to put you in time out for being mean to me!"

10:30 a.m.: "He's probably not going to let you play with any toys or have dessert."

10:30 a.m.: "He's not going to tell me I can't play with any toys or have dessert."

10:30 a.m.: "What are gypsies?"

10:30 a.m.: "But where would I sleep?"

10:30 a.m.: "But I don't want to sleep in a tent!"

10:30 a.m.: "OK! I won't tell on you! Don't sell me!"

10:30 a.m.: "But teasing is NOT nice."

10:42 a.m.: Unexpected item on the belt. Pleas--

10:42 a.m.: "But I'm not touching the belt."

10:42 a.m.: Unexpected item on the belt. Please remove the item and place it -- .

10:42 a.m.: "My HANDS are not touching it!"

10:42 a.m.: Unexpected item on the belt. Ple--

10:42 a.m.: "Those are my ELLLLLbows, mom."

10:42 a.m.: Unexpected item on the be --

10:42 a.m.: "OK! I'm sorry! I won't touch it with my hands or my elbows or my ARMS."

10:44 a.m.: "Why do you put that card in the machine?"

10:44 a.m.: "How does the monies come out of that card and go into the machine?"

10:42 a.m.: "Why don't we have any REAL monies to pay for our groceries?"

10:42 a.m.: "I have monies in my piggy bank. I could pay for the groceries if you let me smash it open."

10:42 a.m.: "You and daddy do have real monies and the real monies is in that card?"

10:42 a.m.: "Look the blue car cart is gone. Oh, now I'll NEVER get to take it with me."

10:43 a.m.: "I don't want to get buckled in my seat."

10:43 a.m.: "If I get buckled in my seat will you take me to work at the fire station?"

10:43 a.m.: "I do, TOO, work there. I pay them monies."

10:43 a.m.: "Yeah, they pay me monies."

10:43 a.m.: "Will you get real monies if you sell me to gymsies? Because I don't want to sleep in a tent with people I don't know. Only people I do know. I like living with you and daddy and E."

10:44 a.m.: "Can we put our bed in a tent?"

*Originally posted Monday, April 4, 2011

Thinking, that's all: A blanket

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Tue, 08 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

A soft blue glow dimly gives light to the dark recesses of an inky backstage area.

We sit hip to hip, perched in chairs that form an oval, silent except for the wild beating of hearts, the quick whispers of courage breathed out to the first voice making her way toward the center stage.

She's first to bring life to the black print on white as she shares her story.

I find myself holding my breath tight inside my lungs, keeping vigil for her before I realize that she's got it and slowly exhale it into the soft shadows.

I hang on her words, her threads dangling in the air and grab on tight.

She brings her story to a close and a round, full-bodied applause breaks out from the audience and fills seemingly ever inch of empty space in the theater.

And the backstage?

The backstage is drenched.

It is drenched with applause, and it is weeping with awe and love

because she has broken the silence with her voice.

She has taken the first threads, added her own and she has begun weaving them all together through gifting us with her own.

The words we've all written about motherhood -- about how it's changed, shaped, grown, morphed us, made us-- come quickly, deliberately thereafter, single thread after single thread added

hers

and his

and hers

and hers

and hers

and then ours.

We are next.

As part of the only duet in the show, I've long realized that this story I'm about to give voice, this thread I'm about to add to the collection, isn't only mine.

It's hers, too.

But it's not until I step onto center stage that I truly realize it's not just mine and hers either.

There is laughter, deep thundering laughter, as we give comedic voice to the loneliness of mothering in our day in age.

And I know, in the laughter, that our stories, our threads have been grasped, they've been picked up and woven together with others

that these stories don't just belong to the people in center stage, the people giving them voice.

No.

The laughter coupled with tears tells a story of its own: that these stories are all of ours

that motherhood has given us all a song swelling in our chest in some way or another

that these threads were meant to be woven together.

Our lives, our stories weren't meant to simply be separate, dangling threads

but rather a blanket of warmth spread across shivering shoulders.

Sunday night in Chicago, I snuggled deep into the comforts of that blanket in the best of company.

Five-Minute Friday: Real

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Fri, 04 May 2012 18:18:00 +0000

I retreat sometimes into words I was fed as a child:

If you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

It's advice that's served me well for the most part, encouragement to tame my tongue before my tongue tames me

But I find myself quiet here in this space when I'm drowning in weeks that have dumped heaviness, weariness on my back or I find myself striving to glimpse the bigger picture amid the suckfest that's unfolded right before my eyes.

It's a way of thinking, taking all thoughts captive, remembering the bigger picture, and that's served me well.

But.

The hurt, the pains, the hardships -- the not so nice parts of life need voice, too.

And I find myself struggling for balance.

Struggling to be real about being real.

Because the reality of this week is that it's been hard.

Yes, I see hope wound tightly, wrapped beautifully in the Bigger Picture. And, yes, I hold fierce tight to the gift of Eternal Summer He's given so graciously.

But the truth of the matter is that I cried wet tears, almost choking on grief last night while thinking about the sweet babies to whom our friends have said untimely goodbyes.

Thinking about the tiny lives nestled deep in my womb to whom we've bid farewell too soon.

And thinking about how much I hate that death ever sauntered into the scene disguised as knowledge and life.

The not-so-nice stuff.

But as real as it gets

and it gets its five minutes today.

Bigger Picture Moment: Miracles

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Thu, 03 May 2012 13:37:00 +0000

I prayed for miracles.

Two this week.

In honest pleading, hope desire, I prayed. We prayed.

And yet still one couple said goodbye to a small babe in the womb; today another says goodbye to the son they held in their arms for just under an hour before he went to the arms of Love.

I prayed for miracles.

That these tiny lives would hang on and hold out and give to the world the gifts of their hands, their hearts, their minds.

That two sets of loving parents would watch these babes grow.

That their feet would join the stampedes, more echoes would be added to the thundering in my hallways during get-togethers.

I prayed for miracles.

Two babes being rocked in the embrace of heaven.

I wonder if they've met the two small fruits of my womb in the midst of being held.

I don't ponder it for long because peace washes over the tugging struggle in my heart of how I've prayed on my knees for miracles that seemingly never come, for an end to farewells that don't want to be bid.

An eternity with out goodbye.

An eternity I don't yet realize, understand, but one two of my babies, their babies now know.

One He knows because He prayed for miracles, too.

"Father if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done." Jesus offered in painstaking prayer* during the hour of his arrest before He traded His life for ours.

He prayed for miracles, too.

And though it didn't look like what He'd asked for, in mercy, in grace but laced with pain and grief, He got the miracle, He gave the miracle of death defeated in the permanence of eternity.

Thick hope grows quick, fresh, lush in my thawing end-of-winter heart.

I pray spring for those who mourn today, too.

I prayed for miracles.

These babies long-nestled in our hearts, pulling our souls Homebound, ingraining in us a longing for life without goodbye seeded in the soil of our soils, instilling in us more of a longing for more that miracle that came after the cross.

I prayed for miracles.

And I find them growing slyly wild in the revealed promise of the forever summer that is for them and is also yet to come to us through grace.

*Luke 22:42

In honor and memory of beautiful baby Sam.

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week..

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Melissa's! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Just Write: A Light

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Tue, 01 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

In the heavy blanket of night, she hears him cry out for her.

She presses her feet to the floor and tight-rope walk the lines burned into her memory from the day's sun.

She fumbles through the blackness, coated thick like tar spread out over uneven ground beneath her feet, before she reaches him, sighs small relief before resigning again to slumber, closing her eyes to the darkness that spread out for miles and miles in Pignon, Haiti.

****

In the heavy blanket of night, I hear him cry out for me.

I press my feet to the floor and tight-rope walk the lines of light spilling from the soft shine of a bulb.

There is a glowing path in the darkness, and it gives me just enough to walk without fear through the spaces of post-dawn morning.

There's comfort found in those lines of light that I often take for granted when I flip that small switch.

****

It only takes one little streak of light to break the cover of darkness.

I wonder if today you might be that little sliver of light?

For every new like Bright Hope International receives between now and May 31, one flashlight will be donated to a family in a village in Haiti without much light in the post-daytime hours.

Such a simple action, such a complex gift given.

A like for a light.

Be light today.

Disclosure: Our church supports ministry and missionaries in Pignon and this is an effort to aid the work already already being done in that community. Will you share the love?

Everyday Life: Listen to Your Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 13:41:00 +0000

I adoringly watch two little boys sweetly play with each other on the floor, in a rare moment of quiet togetherness, only to witness my youngest flipchange the scene by whacking his unsuspecting brother in the head with a toy ax.

In these moments of broken peace and heavy tears encased by wailing, I feel terribly inadequate, under qualified: how could the great Editor in Chief have given me this long-term assignment in this thick, lush, beautiful, exotic jungle of motherhood?

How could I, a simple writer armed with the tools of pen and words, possibly raise babies into growing boys into men of faith, conviction and integrity?

The insecurity of my ability to mother well, to love fully, to practice graceful parenting is a swelling riptide that could easily sweep me away if I built my foundations on the shifting sands instead of the Rock.

And this feeling -- this what do I know of motherhood -- has left me quiet about a recent adventure on which I'm embarking with one of my most beautiful friends.

In six days -- SIX days -- I'll be standing in front of a microphone, the other half of our duet, giving voice to the loneliness that often accompanies early motherhood.

I'm slightly trembling at the thought of giving voice to my half of the words in front of a sold-out audience; I still often feel like the young mom who is fumbling through the dark to grasp onto new super powers. I still feel like I'm just beginning to grasp this mothering thing. I still feel like I'm growing and stretching beyond my skin's capacity to grow and stretch.

In the trembling, I'm reminded, though, of the heart of Listen to Your Mother: to give voice to the everydayness of motherhood, highlighting a colorful, vibrant span of experiences.

To listen to not just your mother, but our mothers, our community of mothers who are daily walking through life circumstances that seem anything but ideal while trying to lavish grace, love, truth on a new generation.

I find bravery in the stories of my cast mates.

I find courage in leadership of our directors.

I find inspiration in the vision of our visionary.

And I find a reason to embrace my own inadequacies because it is then that I rely on the power of the Spirit and His greatness -- not only carry me through each day of mothering, but also to carry me onto a stage {gulp!}and share my experience despite my own trembling, my own inadequacy and my own insecurity.

"And He said to me: 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.'" 2 Corinthians 12:9

I stand waiting at the edge.

At the edge of a new day of parenting

at the edge of a stage

And I am armed with words and Word, with first-hand experience of this luscious motherhood jungle

and all I must do is simply navigate each one step at a time.

My cast spotlight for the show is featured today, which makes this experience seem so much more real. Gift offerings of love and prayers coveted.

Everyday Life: As Planned

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 01:16:00 +0000

I woke to a face full of thrashing, kicking toddler feet and only pillows piled in the space my husband normally fills.

Not my favorite way to start the day.

In the quiet of Saturday morning, I walked downstairs with my toddler, hand-in-hand and found my best laid plans cracked at the foundation.

John, curled up in the guest bed, groaned that he didn't feel so well and that he wasn't going to make it through the day with the boystorm

which meant I wasn't going to make it through the day without them, as I'd planned.

Groggily, I scrambled to call our manager and coaches and let them know the conference was no longer a go for me explaining how we could proceed and then fueled straight into the normal week-day mom mode of unloading the dishwasher and preparing breakfast while fielding a hundred and one questions from my boys, my mind still in overdrive about trying to reorganize the day.

Until my oldest made a remark that spun around on my heels when he essentially asked what happened to our morning quiet time.

In the fullness of routine after plans diverted, frustration brimming over my plans having gone haywire, he reminded me I'd skipped over what is normally part of each day's plan. Quietly, and with a resolved deep breath in and out, I abandoned the clean dishes and snuggled up on the couch with the boys only to read from Jesus Calling:

"As you look into the day that stretches out before you, you see many choice-points along the way. The myriad possibilities these choices present can confuse you. Draw your mind back to the threshold of this day, where I stand beside you, lovingly preparing you for what is ahead.
You must make your choices one at a time, since each is contingent upon the decision that precedes it. Instead of trying to create a mental map of your path through this day, focus on My loving Presence with you. I will equip you as you go, so that you can handle whatever comes your way. Trust Me to supply what you need when you need it."
"Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord."—Lamentations 3:22–26
"Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man who trusts in Him!"- Psalm 34:8

The God-breathed whispers of the divine are sometimes buried beneath my clean dishes, my frustration, my best laid plans scattered and dispersed.

And in the quiet of Saturday morning, my heart slowed to regular keeping time, mind untwisted, as I waited for His to unfold, fully assured that though Saturday wasn't supposed to go like this, it actually, really was.

Because when I make Him the priority in the plan, I've accomplished the greatest part of His plan for the day.

Five For Five / Six Word Fridays: Listening

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:40:00 +0000

Maybe in the thickness of heavy grief
words are overrated and overused anyway.

Maybe all of which aches, pulses
Maybe all of which burns, stings
more needs open arms, open ears.

That I would offer strong embrace,
whisper, oh, friend, I hear you*.

*If I can hear your heart today, friends, won't you send word? I don't have perfect responses, but I can offer prayers and love.

Bigger Picture Moment / Five for Five: Age

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 11:00:00 +0000

I felt it again last night.

Like I was superman with all my superpowers drained from my body.

The kryptonite -- stretching of skin over lengthening bones and shedding of babyness for childhood.

The super powers I'd had wrapped up in my mother's body only a mere memory amid the screams of an inconsolable 2.5 year old, shrieking in the darkness of my bedroom at 12:15 a.m.

When both boys weaned, there was that sense of power-comfort loss, too. And then again when I could no longer pick up my lanky oldest son and walk rhythmically with him up and down the long hallways after he'd had a bad dream or a badly skinned knee.

And there it was again in the fullness of my inky-black room, only a tiny section illuminated by soft-glowing nightlight.

No milk. No baby carrier in which he could find rest amid the steady bounce of my pace, against the beating of my heart, in the security of being snugged right against my frame. No swaddling blanket large enough to comfort his toddler body.

Just me fumbling in the dark for new the bag of motherhood superpowers I haven't quite yet mastered -- the right words, the right melody of soothing song for his ears, the right touch to his skin, the right calm for his wild, wordless upset.

I stumbled hard into thinking in the sleeplessness of midnight about growing in my own mother skin. About what I have now to offer little boys who are no longer little babies and are growing quickly into little men.

What is there apart from a breast of comfort and arms like entwined branches and the calm of my heart thumping in time with their own now that they've grown out of the supermom powers I'd relied on most.

We finally all drifted to sleep, exhausted and teeming with frustration after riding out the crystorm together of what I can only assume is emerging molars, snuggled in the same bed.

I slept hard-crazy-dream sleep where I found myself struggling against intruders in my home, unfaced villains who were trying to harm my babies. In my dream, I was conniving and fearless, strong beyond my own knowing and I protected my growing flock with super-natural God-given mother fierceness of heart.

I carried this fierce-love into total consciousness, woken by smiles and babble mixed with toddler-crafted words followed by the happy sounds of a preschooler coming to say hello.

There were wrapped-up words, oh so many words from my preschooler and tackle hugs, so many tackle hugs wrapped around my neck by my toddler.

And with these word spoken, hugs given, tantrums thrown, ideas shared, tears shed, the emerging super powers of a mother who ages with her children, the sheer weight and depth of that strong-ocean-current-fierce love manifests itself in listening well, in embraces fully returned and in pausing to pay the captors of this soul-love my fullest attention even when I feel like I'm fumbling around in the dark.

Every Thursday we come together to share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week, and this week we are teeming with Momalom's Five for Five to find the Bigger Picture wrapped up in AGE. Don't forget to link at both Jade's and Momalom's to support each other and find new friends!

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Jade's!Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Just Write / 5 for 5: Words

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 21:03:00 +0000

We started the morning with sunshine, warm and perfectly pouring itself on our skin.

I had plans to continue basking in the honey-amber sunlight spreading across my body, quietly mark the two-year anniversary of my dad's death.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't let the day pass silently, unwritten and unfolded.

I couldn't help but tattoo in printed fashion how the sunshine is a glorious contrast to the sunshine I remember of two years ago today.

How not even full force rays could warm my skin from the cold, whipping wind outside the chilled grays and pinks of hospital beds and waiting rooms.

How that day was positively the coldest late-April day I could ever remember.

How I was glad for its chill so I could wrap numb myself up and wrap myself into some sort of blanket-cocoon and hibernate away what must have been a bad fading winter dream.

How it gave me a reason to keep frozen what unfolded that tumultuous week, to keep solid and packed away all these sour-sweet memories of life with him.

How I needed today's sunshine to be different than the kind that flooded that day.

And how I needed it to thaw my memories, warm the emotions that have been slowly defrosting during the past two years so it could all freely been lived and flow like sap dripping from from hard maple trunks amid the heat after a long, hard winter freeze.

I just couldn't let it pass.

I just had to let the words dripdropdrip out of my thawing fingers, thawing heart.

Everyday Life: Redefining Beauty by Bathroom Mirror

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 13:25:00 +0000

Size four.

I slip my hips into size four black pants, chic, designer hand-me-downs.

I don't expect them to fit, honestly, but they zip and button and latch.

Haphazardly, I decide to wear the pants, straight-legged and fitted, to my sister’s baby shower, thankful for clothes that fit without cost, grateful for a healing, healthier body and slightly awed at this drastically new shape I have yet to fully embrace.

I’d spent years wrestling with body envy in the name of fashion before I shifted the focus from two-piece swimsuits and skinny jeans to healthy heart, healthy body mass and healthy thoughts. Slowly, my mind has shifted as my body has transformed that what makes the body beautiful has less to do with clothes and more to do with how it’s been created.

That I have strong legs, a healthy heart to carry me after little boys who play escape down the neighborhood sidewalk.

That my hips can carry an extra 30 pounds of crying child, my lips can kiss away hurts.

That my arms can hold tight my husband in full embrace.

That my body has twice grown new life and nourished children and a marriage.

During the middle of the party, I sneak off to the bathroom for a quick break and am confronted by a full-length mirror next to the sink, my long-time worst enemy and truthful friend.

Normally, I look away, but today I take it all in, this new shape.

My sister steps out of the bathroom stall, all belly and beautiful and glowing and her frame, too, is now next to mine in the full-frame reflection of the mirror, and I can't help but stare at two bodies that are perfectly imperfect and capable of so much more than I ever used to appreciate.

I’m absolutely overcome with the lovely she’s radiating, how she’s simply overflowing with life, her shirt and skirt perfectly accentuating soft curves, how her size-four body has lovingly and achingly stretched to make room for another small body, has given and grown to bring forth a tiny gift to our family, our world.

From inside those long-envied size four pants, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t willingly trade them in for the flowing skirt she’s wearing at that very moment.

Because beauty to me now is much less about the size four pants and much more about what fills them {baby bump and beyond}.

Five-Minute Friday: Together

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 20:20:00 +0000

There are twinges of headache hiding behind my eyes.

I don't know what's to blame

be it the gray bleakness of atypical April skies

or lost car keys

or mounding to-do lists

or if it's the byproduct of having scrubbed down a poop-spreading toddler and his poop-painted walls for the fifth time in so many days.

All I know is that by 3:09 p.m. Friday I'm asking God if He could just help me hold it all together for just awhile longer ...

I crave 4:30.

I daydream, eyes closed in effort to lessen the strain spread out across my forehead, about my white-car driving knight pulling into the driveway, tapping on a locked glass door to be let inside, joining me in the wildness of long days with little boys

so we can tie this day together

with palms pressed together, fingers laced.

Share the Love:A few pretty Mother's Day Gifts

noreply@blogger.com (Hyacynth) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 11:00:00 +0000

Gift giving has always been kind of my thing.

Though it's not one of my primary love languages by which I receive love; it's definitely a way I communicate love to the people I hold dear.

And though I'm sure most moms would declare the best Mother's Day presents they've ever been given as the gift of motherhood, I'm also sure we each have some lovely women in all of our lives who receive love through gift giving.

With gift giving as a vehicle of showing love, though, it's not just about the gift itself; rather, love is best received when the giver has put some thought into what's beneath the wrapping paper and bow.

With Mother's Day quickly approaching, The Bradford Exchange asked me to highlight a few of my favorite Mother's Day gifts for grandma and mom. If gift giving isn't your thing, but you know the simple act of giving a gift would communicate your heart, here are a few suggestions.

The Footprints in the Sand necklace is my top pick gift for grandma because of the expressed sentiment and the simple beauty of the message and the actual design; also, as a mom, I love having a lovely reminder of my little ones near resting on my chest.

I also thought the Holy Trinity Cross Ring would be a beautiful gift for a mother or grandmother whose faith has been a pillar of strenght through out the years; I love the message giving this gift sends -- you are loved and important to not only us but also our Creator.

As expressed, The Bradford Exchange asked me to highlight a few of my favorite Mother's Day gifts for grandma and mom. I have been compensated for my time; however, all opinions expressed are my own.