Lost

I lost my purse today.  I'm not sure if it's lost or stolen.  Regardless, it's gone.  I've turned the house and car upside down.  No luck.

Well, that's not really true.  There are some lucky things.  I have my wallet, car keys, and phone.  Now how, you might wonder, could someone lose a purse but keep all those important items?  Let's just call it God's mercy.

The reason I can't sleep tonight is because of what WAS in there.  There were school registration forms, thankfully still blank.  There was a sheet about Parker's upcoming musical performance at school, bearing his grade, and first and last name.  There was my new favorite book, A Simplified Life.  (Oh, the irony.)  Some cards - Mother's day, thank you, thinking of you, etc.  But most importantly...drum roll please...MY JOURNAL.

That is what has me sweating bullets.  I think and write some crazy stuff, y'all.  In the midst of my repatriation blues, I was recording thoughts that could have me locked away.  I'm not even kidding.  It's where I pray, where I sob, where I praise, where I am completely uncensored.

I used to think I was an open book.  I think I was more open when the kids were teeny tiny.  Then we moved abroad.  Besides being on sensory and emotional overload, freedom of speech was a thing of the past.  I knew that anything I wrote could be monitored.  I knew of a blogger hiding out in the U.S. to avoid prosecution in his country because he had said some pretty unflattering things about the government.  I decided, better safe than sorry.  I stopped blogging almost entirely, save for some travel posts and the kids' birthday posts.

When my online reflections ended, two things happened: I stopped reflecting as much, and when I did, I utilized my journal.  The problem with a journal is that it is completely uncensored.  There is no storyline, no narrative.  Blogging forced me to pause and ponder.  It made me want to articulate my thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something that made sense.  I missed it, and I looked forward to returning to States, to opening up again.

But that didn't really happen.  I came back, yes, but I came back changed.  Someone once described the expatriation experience like play dough.  You come from a country where everyone thinks "red play dough."  You move to a country where everyone thinks "yellow play dough."  Eventually, you think "orange play dough," and there is absolutely no way to separate them again.  Your world view has changed.

I have wanted to write about repatriation and why it feels so hard, but I also don't want to.  I don't want to be misunderstood.  I don't want people to think I don't love the States.  I do.  I just see the world a little [ok, a lot] differently now.  I still don't think I can adequately explain it, and I'm not ready to try.

The only place I felt secure writing about my feelings was in the dang missing journal.  It is raw and oh-so-personal.  I am praying tonight that whoever finds my purse will be utterly bored with the contents and chuck the whole bag!  Meanwhile, I will try to see the silver lining.  Maybe God is reminding me that a journal is not my security.  He is.

You are my hiding place! You protect me from trouble, and you put songs in my heart because you have saved me. 
Psalm 32:7

A Metal Spoon

This morning, Caleb asked for a "metal spoon."  Now there is a dog that needs bathing, blankets that need folding, and dishes that need washing, but I can't be bothered with such things today.  I find myself tapping away at a keyboard, as if that will somehow soothe the beating of my heart and the tears threatening to fall.  My baby asked for a metal spoon, and I am suddenly undone.

For years (ten and a half to be exact), Ikea plastic spoons have been our utensil of choice.  They were bright and colorful and came in packs with matching forks and knives.  They matched the cups and plates - all now untouched in the far right kitchen cabinet.  Untouched and unnecessary.  Like the jogging stroller we just donated.  And the tiny blue bike helmet that no longer fits.

Time doesn't march on.  It races by like a cheetah.  Try to focus, to look closely, and you miss it.  Caleb asked for a metal spoon.

The toy room has evolved.  Little People moved out, and Power Rangers moved in.  Shoe-tying competitions have begun.  "No, I want to do it!" is the refrain heard throughout the day.

These are all good things.  This is progress, right?  Oh, but why does progress have to sting?  How long will my eldest, all arms and legs, allow me to pull him into my lap for morning snuggles where I breathe deep the smell of his hair?  How long will not-so-baby-girl ask me to scratch her ever-lengthening back at night?  When will middle boy lose that tiny front tooth?  When will baby boy graduate to metal spoons?  Today.

It happens in a blink.  So today I will live my life with eyes wide open.  I will strain to see that cheetah and catch it by its tail.  Today I will live moment by moment by moment with my darling, changing, growing dears.

Reflections (Maddie's 9th birthday)

Dear sweet Maddie,

I haven't written your birthday post yet because I pretty much stopped blogging (more on that later).  And, as you know, I've always been a little late writing birthday posts.  Doesn't mean I don't care.  It's just the way I operate.

The older you get, the more difficult it is to describe you.  You change, you grow, you evolve.  Some things have remained constant...You are still way into crafts, you are extremely thoughtful and loving, you are great in school.  You love snuggles and "special time" [one on one] with mom and dad.

You look for ways to show kindness to others.  You created a kindness sticker chart for your younger brothers and offer them praise and rewards when they are nice.  You love our new dog (even though she has chewed through some of your favorite clothes).  You offer your allowance to Parker when he's spent all of his (and still wants more).

You are making new friends.  You've always had your own unique approach to friendship.  I move to a new place, cast a large net, and organize activities.  You slowly and quietly get to know those around you.  You work through whether or not you think they will be good influences and watch how they treat others.  Your choices are wise but limited.

You therefore spend lots of time with the family.  (I'm not complaining!)  I love spending time with you.  I love watching you dress up your dolls.  You sewing skills are truly amazing for someone your age.  I LOVE the apron you made for me!  I love setting up your tiny Calico Critters with you.  I love your fashion shows.  I love watching you practice cartwheels and round offs.

We still battle over your hair (the endless tangles).  School mornings are TOUGH.   "That's not fair!" is a favorite phrase used to compare the ways in which we treat you versus the way we treat your brothers.

But you know what?  Those are "small potatoes" as grandma would say.  Unimportant.  In the grand scheme of things, I couldn't be happier with you.  I couldn't ask for a more wonderful little girl.  You are my angel.  My only regret is that I can't be in 4 places at once.  I would spend more time with you if I could.  You are one of my very favorite people in this whole world...definitely my favorite 9 year old girl!

I love you, sweet girl.  Happy birthday!

Love,
Mom

Just sick enough

I pressed the snooze button on my alarm this morning at 5:45 and closed my eyes again.  It was too late, though.  The list of responsibilities had already begun scrolling across my closed lids.  At 6 swung my legs out of bed and began to record the ever-growing to-do list in the notes on my phone.

In the midst of packing lunches, finding coats that aren't "too puffy," combing hair into a "half pony, okay mom?", fixing breakfast, and finding shoes, a little blond haired boy wandered into the kitchen then turned and headed for the couch.  I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief...one less breakfast I had to make.  I wasn't even going to make him wear shoes for the big kid morning drop off.  Just toss a fluffy blanket over the car seat, and voila!  We were on our way.

Only, we weren't.  The moment the garage door open I heard gasps and squeals.  "Mommy!  Mommy!  It snowed!!!!"  They ran across the driveway to the grass where frozen dew had turned the ground silver.  For children who spent the last three winters living near the equator, this remarkable phenomenon was just as exciting as snow, even when I explained it was merely frost.  We took a moment to bask in the newness, crunching it under our feet.

Then the drama began.  Eldest timekeeper hurried littles along.  "Get in the van.  We'll be late."  Half-pony girl disappeared inside to find a different, warmer coat.  "Come on!" we called.  "Coming!" came the faint reply...

"Come on!" a bit louder.  Huffing and puffing and swinging backpack wildly, she threw herself tearfully in the van.  "Why is everyone yelling at me?"  Crying, fighting, yelling for 2 of the 3-block drive to school.  Sigh.  Tears dried by the time the doors open.  Quick kisses.  Then quiet in the van again.

*Cough*  Oh, yes.  That cough that kept him awake two nights ago and home from school yesterday. That blond head peeking out from under the fluffy blanket.  "Mommy?" he croaked, "Can we snuggle on the big couch when we get home?"

Yes!  Yes, to snuggles.  We had a good hour before we'd need to leave for preschool.  As I settled in next to him on the couch and covered us with a blanket, I began mentally shifting my to-do's.

This couch by the window is our special place.  It's the place where the world slows down a bit.  A place for cuddles in the morning, books in the afternoon, and prayers at night.  It's a place for feet up on the old coffee table, warm, fuzzy throw blankets, and sipping hot cocoa.  It's where our whispers float up to the ceiling as we search for birds in the branches outside and where our belly laughs fill the room when we all try to escape daddy's tickles.  It's my favorite spot in the whole house.

"Let's look for birds," Caleb whispered, turning toward the window.
"Okay," I whispered back, cupping his tiny, round, warm cheek in my hand.  He nuzzled closer, and I could feel his warmth.  Too warm.  A quick check with the thermometer confirmed my suspicions.  A note to the preschool teacher, a note to my morning meeting coordinator, and we settled in again.

Luckily, he is just sick enough.  Not scary, call the doctor or rush to the hospital sick.  Just sick enough to stay home.  Just sick enough to want to snuggle.  Just sick enough to sit still for an entire cartoon, commercials and all.  Just sick enough to make me slow down and whisper and search for birds and cuddle.

So thank you, Lord, for giving us those unexpected gifts.  Those just sick enough days.

Never Lost

Dear Jack,

Just like Caleb, your birthday post is months late.  Don't be fooled, son.  Just because you are a middle child, you will never (and I mean ever) be lost in the middle.  

There is something about you, little man.  Something special.  I wish I could put my finger on it, but then again maybe I don't.  Maybe I don't want to crack the code of what makes you so magical.  The way you look at the world is simply different from others.

Just the other day we were walking past a neighbor's dead yard.  Flanked by lush, green yards on both sides, it stuck out like a sore thumb.  Every blade of grass was brown. 'The people who live there are really lucky!" you exclaimed.  "Why?" we asked, confused.  "Well, now they know exactly where their yard ends and where the other neighbors' begin."  Your positivity is inspiring.

You are also tenacious.  You are the only one in the family who chose to continue your Chinese education.  You go to the Kentucky Chinese School every Sunday.  I love to hear you speak Mandarin.  You may not know it now, but this is an investment that I believe will serve you well in the future.

You make friends easily, but you still enjoy playing on your own.  You are extremely creative, making worlds and games and rules all your own.  There is never a dull moment with you around!

You've done so well with the transition back to the States.  I know you miss your best buddy, Jack Mac.  I know you miss our neighborhood and the pool and your old school.  I'm so proud of how you've managed to stay our sweet, positive Jack, through it all.  

I can't wait to see what adventures are in store for you this year, dear.  I love you to the moon and back.  Happy 6th birthday, sweet boy (a lot late).

Love,

Mommy

My baby is 4

Dear Caleb,

Did you know that one of Mommy's favorite songs is The Circle Game by Joni Mitchell?  She sings about how quickly time flies and children grow.  It brings me to tears every single time I hear it.  Just like that book: Love You Forever.  Pretty much anything that has to do with growth and change makes me a blubbering mess.  And now that list includes you.

I'm happy to report that the tears I cry are no longer tears of frustration with your larger than life attitude.  No, these days, I cry over my baby not being a baby anymore.  You really are a big boy now.  I mean, you don't even need my help in the bathroom anymore.  What??  Guess it really is time for that puppy.

I think it's actually a great thing it's taken me an extra few months to write your birthday post.  You've blossomed while we waited for the computer desk to arrive.  As we watched moving boxes slowly dwindle, and seen you walk into your preschool class for the first time, we've seen a beautiful change in you.  In just a few short months you've gone from punching temper tantrums to actually using feeling words to express frustration.  You are so kind and loving.  I am showered with kisses instead of being told, "Mommy, today is not a kissing day."

I can honestly say, you are a joy to be around.  We've had some difficult times this year.  I don't know how much of it was an international move and how much was just a natural progression from grumpy toddler into fun little boy.  Whatever it was, I'll take it.

I want to give you a snapshot of your four year old self...You have what Maddie would call "fluffy" white blond hair.  Your huge blue eyes draw adoring smiles from strangers.  You are still a little thumb sucker.  You refer to your button down shirt as your "handsome" shirt, striking a pose and smiling coyly each time you wear it.  You think bathroom humor is the funniest.  You love your ABC's, your grandparents, dogs, and sugar.  You want to be a "minja" [ninja].  You cling to us like a spider monkey when we pick you up, pressing your cheek hard against ours.  You have mommy's heart.

I am so excited to see what this next year holds for you, Caleb.  You will learn so much in school.  You will begin to make friends.  You may even learn to ride a bike.  Who knows?!  The world is your oyster, and I'm lucky enough to be sitting in the boat beside you.

I wish you a belated happiest birthday ever, little man!

Love,
Mommy

Long Gone

Happy birthday, Parker.  I know your birthday is long gone.  The streamers have been torn down for ages.  Not a cupcake sprinkle remains.  The thank you notes have been written (but not sent because that part is on me, and clearly, I'm a bit behind).  So why have I not written your annual birthday post?  Is it because we are in the midst of planning an international move?  Is it because we spent every day of the first official week of summer break at VBS?  Is it because I forgot?

Nope.  None of those.  It's because I'd rather be a momma ostrich, sticking her head in the sands of time.  The same sand that seems to be slipping through my fingers.  Suddenly I see a man-child in front of me with thicker arms, a head that nearly reaches my shoulders, and a sometimes serious expression on his beautiful face.  Where is that itty-bitty baby whose little feet refused to stay stuffed in their impossibly tiny socks?

On your birthday, we were driving somewhere, and I thanked you for making me a mom.  Maddie laughed and said, "But mom, you've been a mom for 34 years."  [We're just gonna go on letting her believe I'm 5 years younger, k?]  "No," I replied, "I've only been a mom for 10 years."

"So you're only ten years old?" the kids giggled.

"I guess you could say that.  I'm only ten mom years old...That's why I make so many mistakes.  I'm still trying to figure it out."

No one laughed.  Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see the wheels turning.  What was meant to be a joke was in reality, truth.  I do still make so many mistakes.  Sometimes I give bad advice.  I lash out when I'm angry or stressed.  I complain.  Some days I use guilt trips to get my way.  I am, in many ways, still a child.

And you?  You love me.  You wrap your big boy arms around me, and squeeze me tight.  Just a tilt of my chin and I can kiss the top of your head.  When I ask for forgiveness, you immediately extend grace.  At 10 years old, you have more EQ than some folks will have in a lifetime.  You are tender-hearted, compassionate, funny, serious, generous, and forgiving.  You love spending time with family, hanging out with friends, collecting Fidget Spinners, building Legos, coordinating Nerf wars, riding your bike, and playing video games.

Sometimes you seem to be trying to find your place in this world.  It's hard to tell what's "normal" when you've moved around so much and when you are trying to compare yourself with kids from all over the globe.  While it breaks my heart to see you struggle at all, I know God has a perfect plan for you.  I'm really happy for you about your decision to get baptized.  It's just one step in following in the footsteps of Jesus.  I trust that if you continue to follow Him, He will make your path straight.

I love you like crazy, kid.  Thank you, again, for making me a mom.

Love, Momma