I remember

I remember a blog post I wrote years ago.  We were living in Kentucky then, too.  I remember writing about a morning I had to walk the kids into preschool, in sweat pants, shoulders hunched inside a big coat (to hide the fact I hadn't been able to don the proper undergarments thanks to having had to nurse a baby all night), hair unwashed, teeth unbrushed.  I was basically a hot mess.

I remember being baffled by the moms who calmly strolled into school, wearing actual outfits, no spit up on their shoulders, hair brushed, makeup on!  Who were these people??  And how were they possibly raising preschoolers?

Now I know.  Or perhaps it's more accurate to say, now I notice.  These put-together moms are only brining in preschoolers, and usually just one.  Probably the baby of the family.  Preschoolers are somewhat self-sufficient.  Even if these moms had elementary aged students, they would be up and off to school well before the preschooler needed attention in the morning.

Now I am the mom walking calmly into school.  Now I can wear clean clothes and brush my teeth.  Oh happy days!

And yet...

There is a sort of wistfulness in my heart when I pass those young mommas.  The ones slumped in their seats just after morning drop off.  The ones with the wiggly toddler in the booster seat and the sleeping baby in the bucket carseat in the back.  Those moms' mornings last forever.  In fact, their days last forever.  Then it all starts over again tomorrow.  There is no leisurely sleeping in on Saturday.  Babies never seem to get that memo.  No, these moms just completed one lap of their morning race that likely started at 5 a.m. and won't end until after a midnight feeding.

I used to worry that the moms who seemed to have it all together at preschool might somehow be judging me.  Now I know better.  Now I know that they remembered what it was like.  That they knew how badly I just wanted a nap, a bath, an adult conversation.  Oh mommas!  I see you, friends.  This, too, shall pass.

One day, just around the corner, you will hug your little boy and be able to rest your chin on his head at the same time.  You won't be able to pick him up, but you will still cradle him in your heart.  And all these exhausting, wonderful, maddening mornings will have been worth it.

One day you'll be able to cook dinner while watching your children play together in the back yard.  You'll even be able to join in before it's time to take the food out of the oven.  There will be peace at dinner.  No one will spill their drink.  For real.

Each season is just that.  A season.  A handful of moments, soon to pass.  I know it feels like that old Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day.  Every morning feels never-ending and all too familiar.   But please hear me when I say it will pass.  I know you have dishes in the sink, clothes souring in the washer, unmade beds, crumbs on the table.  I remember.  But what I hope is that you will take just a few moments to sit and hold that baby.  Marvel at those eye lashes, kiss those toes.  This, too, shall pass, all too quickly.

Homeland

We went on a bike ride yesterday. Caleb is just shy of being too heavy for the seat strapped to the back.  I wanted to take advantage of a few more fast rides (where I wouldn't be stopping to drag his tiny but impossibly heavy training-wheel clad bike up the hills).  Jack was on his scooter.  Maddie rode her pink and purple bike.  Parker is at camp (but that's another post).

After strapping Caleb in the seat, we stuffed every nook and cranny with apples, bananas, and water bottles.  It was a short ride - just up to the school's new playground - but I knew they'd be hungry and thirsty after only a few minutes of riding.  It was hot and humid and sunny and glorious.

When we arrived, they devoured the snacks and ran to the playground.  I leaned against the school wall in the shade and slid down to sit on the ground. A brick column hid them from view, but their laughter was carried to me by the occasional gust of warm wind.  I was instantly swept back to my own childhood.  This place felt so familiar.

The familiar click-click-click-buzzzzzz of some unseen insect provided a constant, almost unnoticeable soundtrack to the day.  Birds chattered, concealed in nearby trees.  A robin landed nearby, head erect, hopping along with his little red chest puffed out arrogantly.  Tree branches hung heavy in the heat under the weight of thick, dark green leaves.   Clouds so round and white you could almost convince yourself they were made of cotton drifted slowly across a royal blue sky.  A tiny yellow moth flitted through the grass and weeds.  Even the weeds looked lacy and pretty here in the shade.

I was looking at a scene from my childhood (one county over and decades later).  It felt magical.  I wondered, is it more than just familiarity that makes it special?  Would a stranger to the region feel the same love for this land?  I honestly didn't know.

I thought of my grandma's garden on Griffiths Avenue.  Behind her tidy little house a well-tended garden bursted with reds and purples, pinks and yellows.  Many hours were spent enjoying that garden in the back.  She certainly loved this land.  Then I thought of the little old women I saw walking down the streets of Singapore or practicing Tai Chi in the park near my favorite cafe.  Did their hearts swell when they looked at the flowers in their own gardens?  I imagine they did.

What a beautiful gift - homeland.  What a gift that we all have precious homelands.

The kids returned from the playground.  I was glad they didn't see the tears in my eyes.  I didn't want to have to explain.  I just tucked the gift into my heart and lifted Caleb into his seat.

God's Favorite

I feel rusty, sitting here, trying to tap away these thoughts quickly before I'll need to start making dinner.  How did I do this when my littles were little?  How did I blog so freely between diaper changes, and naps, and building block towers?

Oh well.  I will try again.  Because it is important.  It's important for my soul to record these beautiful glimpses.  

Today at the pool, Caleb was lamenting the fact that Maddie was "Grammy's favorite" because she'd received a special gift.  We all rolled our eyes, knowing, of course, that Grammy doesn't have favorites.  I reminded him his birthday was next month, and he was certain to receive a special present from Grammy.

I grinned as I remembered all the times this summer the kids would whine, "Why does so-and-so get such-and-such?!  It's not fair!"  In response I would look at them with wide eyes, brows raised, and state simply: "Because he/she is my favorite."  This was always followed by a stunned silence.  You could almost see the wheels turning.  Then a smile and groan, "Mo-om.  I'm serious!"

I love that response.  I love that they know me so very well believing I would have a favorite is completely impossible.  They are right, of course.  There is absolutely no way I could even consider one child more dear than another.  Of course there are times when the company of one is more enjoyable than another.  Perhaps they are choosing joyful obedience or are sharing without being asked or helping around the house.  However, mere behavior does not have the power to create a favorite.  They are all my favorites.  They are inherently special - because they are mine.  When I look into their blue eyes, I see my own.  How could I not love them?

I was reading my favorite book again: A Thousand Gifts.  The author speaks of years of Bible study and how she was always focused on what she thought of God.  More recently she has focused on what God thinks of her.  Of course it made me wonder: What does God think of me?

Oh how my heart swells.  I am His favorite.  He looks at me and sees Himself.  The beautiful (and sometimes confounding) truth is this: we are all His favorites - special and unique and capable of making Him smile.  I hope that reading this will spread a little joy in your life today.  You (and I) are so loved!


For the LORD your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.                   Zephaniah 3:17 NLT

Happy Birthday, Big Guy

Dear Parker,

As I type this post, I am looking at the photo of the four of you kids taken before Caleb could even crawl.  You are lined up on your bellies, staring at the camera.  Caleb is drooling, Jack is grinning, Maddie is cupping both cheeks with her hands like an angel, and you?  You look as you always do, as if the the wheels in your head are turning, but your lips are sealed.  You are always thinking, considering and considerate.

In the 11 years you've been on this earth, much has changed in your life, but much about you has remained consistent.  You are so brave, son.  I think of the way you jumped right into baseball this season.  It may not seem like a big deal to some, but it really is.  You might have played tee ball once when we lived in Texas years ago.  We didn't play in Singapore because the only league was just too far north (where most Americans lived).  When we got back here and you expressed an interest, your dad and I were on the fence.  We didn't want to quash your dreams, but let's face it, most kids your age have been playing for nearly a decade, and it's a pretty technical sport.  We talked to you and each other and God, finally deciding to let you play.  I was more nervous than you.  Kids can be cruel.  Would they make fun of you?  Would they be put out by the kid on the team who might not even hit the ball?

You went to the evaluations and were placed on a team.  After the first few practices, the coach talked to us about placing you with a younger age group due to your skill level.  The league decided to evaluate you again.  The coach, league leaders, and dad were all there.  They were all so impressed with your coachability.  [Yes, I know that's not a word, but it's my blog, and it should be.]   It's one of the things I love most about you.  It is a skill most do not possess.  I certainly don't.  You have this ability to really listen to others when receiving feedback, positive or negative.  You absorb the information, process it, and make changes.  Son, seriously, this skill is going to help carry you through some rough stuff and leave you all the better for it.

The way you've handled yourself in baseball is just one of the many ways you've amazed me during this year of transitioning back to the U.S.  It has been tough.  You have missed your friends and the familiarity of Singapore.  The differences between east and west are still great even in our very connected world.  I know it's been challenging for you to assimilate all the aspects of your life, and sweetie, I'm so proud of you and how you've handled it.  You are an amazing kid.

You are humble, quick to admit your weaknesses.  You are bold, always willing to try new things.  You are inclusive, never wanting others to feel left out.  You are multifaceted, are able to juggle your varied hobbies and roles (athlete, fantasy battler, video gamer, outdoorsman, friend, brother).   Best of all, you are mine.

Parker, dear, I thank God all the time for making you my son.  I love you, sweet boy.  Happy, happy, happiest 11th birthday.

Love,
Momma

Lost...and Found

Early Saturday morning I decided to visit Goodwill where I'd dropped off donations the day my bag went missing.  Though I had called them on Friday, and they had not seen it, I thought perhaps if I looked in person, it might turn up.  The employees informed me donations are processed the same day they arrive; books would go directly on the shelves.

While searching for my book (I was hoping they just chucked the old journal), I came across another book: I Think I'm Happier Than I Think I Am.  I was intrigued by the title.  When I saw it was written by a pastor, I flipped through a few pages and landed on this passage: "I believe that we humans cannot make real progress toward maturity without letting go of something significant."  Seriously?  I mean, come on.  It's like the Holy Spirit just took the book and slapped me in the face.  $1.50 later, I was carrying it to the car.

I pondered those words all day.  Old verses came to mind:

Consider it pure joy...

Thy will be done...

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord...

Was I really going to let a missing bag and journal undo a lovely Mother's Day weekend?  Whenever I began to feel anxiety about the journal, I reminded myself of the verses.  I reminded myself that God's plans are bigger than mine.  I imagined someone who didn't know God reading my prayers.  Would they write me off as a crazy person,  wondering why I wasted so much ink writing to an imaginary being?  Or would they consider that maybe, just maybe, there was something sacred there?  Would they see the pattern of the chaotic ranting and raw emotion at the beginning of an entry followed by God's assurances and a thankful heart at the end?  God knows I didn't really want anyone to find it, but I hoped if they did, it would at least be put to good use.  

By the end of the day, I was feeling a little more peaceful.  Maddie and I went to a bookstore to buy more Mother's Day cards (since the ones in my purse were gone) and some gifts for the grandmothers.  On the way home, we were passing by the coffee shop I'd visited Friday morning.  "Do you mind if we just pop in and ask about my purse, honey?"  She agreed, and we pulled in minutes before closing time.

"I know I already called, and you guys said no one turned it in, but I was in here yesterday, and I lost my blue bag.  It has elephants on it..."

The employee's brows drew together.  Her lips puckered into a frown as she looked under the counter.  "No, sorry...Oh wait.  Is this it?"

Cue the crazy lady:  "WOO HOO!!!  Thank You [eyes raised to heaven]!  Thank you [to wide-eyed employee]!  Come on around here!  I need to give you a hug!  Can I give you a hug?"  I ran to the end of the counter, and the poor, uncomfortable looking young woman gingerly accepted my bear hug.  [Ugh, boundaries, Jessie, boundaries!]  Oh well, it's not like I'll be going back there after my crazy display.

I have learned a few lessons from this whole experience:

1. Never take a personal journal out of the home.  I've now written in the front of my journals instructions for their disposal when I die.  Morbid, right?  Maybe I'll just burn them when they're full.

2.  Write in code, especially when praying for friends.  No more first names.  My friends trust me, as I trust them, to pray for very private matters.  Not for public consumption.

3.  Trust God.  Even if my bag and book and journal had never been recovered, God knew where they were at all times.  He know everything and has a perfect plan.  I'm just so very grateful our plans aligned this time!    

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.