Pumpkin Bread and Contentment

The Papa is out of town - he surprised his dad in Florida with a visit. I am, therefore, trying to make the most of these days with the kiddos. Thus the pumpkin bread.

We spent the first half of the day getting ready to, and then going swimming with friends who have access to a local time-share/resort. This wore the kids out, and they came home and napped for nearly three hours, waking up after 5:00. We took it easy, ate leftovers for dinner, played Play-Doh, watched a show, and ate fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin bread. Oh. Yum.

This brings me to thoughts of my deep contentment in mothering. Oh, it's hard. When we jumped from two kids to four overnight it got really, really hard. It's actually been a lot of unromantic ugly in the last several years. (I keep meaning to write about the two-year transition, but as much as I think about things to say, the words just won't come out of me quite yet. So I will just keep alluding to that time, and you can anticipate the big reveal that will one day come.)

Our home is loud, way too loud for my sensitive nerves. It's boisterous, which is really just code for often supremely chaotic, which triggers my clamp-down response as I try to get a handful of control back in a life that feels so out of control to my INFJ personality.

But there is peace, too. There are sweet moments of sharing, or times when playing Play-Doh is a calm and creative experience rather that a wild, squashing, mixing-all-the-colors-into-puce experience. There are apologies and hugs when the feral wrestling matches end up hurting someone. There is the sharing of a toy out of the blue. There is even cheerful helping in the kitchen on occasion. There are moments when I read to a crew all snuggled up on the couch, and moments where a little girl is sounding out words and demonstrating the amazing transformation that occurs when the brain learns to read. There is lying down in each kiddo's bed at night and listening as they share their thoughts.

I used to dream of going back to work. At something. Just about anything. Like, I thought being a barista at Starbucks sounded heavenly. I wanted to do something mindless. Something you could leave at work and not bring home. Something that did not require endless self-doubt, invasion of personal space (OK, let's be clear here...groping and being slobbered on and leaned on and interrupted), and constantly seeking perspective - reading, talking, praying, reading, talking, praying...so much processing and trying to figure the crazy out.

The days are more manageable lately. And this has allowed me to reconnect with the joy I once thought I would have in parenting. The joy and wonder I DID have before our world got rocked. At some point during the trying times, I found a necklace at World Market. It was just a piece of flat circular pottery on a leather string, but it bore the imprint of a symbol that (supposedly) meant "joy" in some African language. I bought it immediately and wore it as a reminder to find the joy in my life. It took a long, LONG time for that to sink in on a daily basis. But I have it again.

I have joy. I am content. I don't dream of escaping to a job anymore. I do freelance from home a few hours a week. I like being home when the kids get out of school. I like that my presence is a dependable part of their day. I'm not always in a great mood, but I am here. I am accessible. I dislike the hectic routine of making dinner--it's probably the lowlight of my day, but I love that I am able to cook dinner from scratch most nights. It's meaningful for me and sustaining for them. We are in a good place right now, and I am enjoying it.

I catch myself enjoying moments IN the moment. Not later. Not looking at pictures, in fact, I am taking fewer photos lately in part because I just want to be. Be present. Not be trying to capture it all for someone else. I am perhaps selfish in that--I want all the moment fully. I want all its senses burned into my memory so that I don't need a photograph in order to remember it.

In contradiction to all the "positive thinking" philosophy out there, I have learned that you can't just "fairytale think" your way out of tremendous upheaval. You can't change everything by simply willing yourself to be happy or different. It's a process. The only way through the storm is, wait for it...through the storm. Real growth, permanent change, and wisdom come from enduring and learning from, reflecting on, what was endured. And that is no picnic. Right? You can't picnic in the middle of a hurricane.

I found that several things help me tremendously.

1. Gratitude. I read Ann Voskamp's one thousand gifts a while back and have intermittently kept a gratitude journal (actually I can never find one when I need it, so I have three or four journals scattered throughout the house). I dove in again when my mom got me a devotional based on the book, and it has been such a lovely experience - there is room to respond to the text as well as to continue the list of gratitude. I feel refreshed afterwards, even if I only spent ten minutes on it while waiting in the pick-up line at school.

2. A high-altitude perspective. Individual moments can be very overwhelming. Emotion, stress, uncertainty, and other people's disregulation can whip up the intensity of a problem or issue. We have dealt with ADD impulsivity, anxious attachment issues, speech therapy, massive tantrums, hours of occupational therapy, loss/grief, death, sneaky passive aggression, temporary depression, declarations of not believing in God, declarations of hatred towards me, my own grief over my flawed responses to my children, and, at one point early in the transition when we had two kids in diapers and a third regressed due to the upheaval and everyone was sick, I changed 12 gag-inducing poopy diapers in one day. All of it, ALL OF IT, even the stuff that brought me to my knees in tears and frustration, was ultimately handled by clinging to the truth of God's plan and supremacy. Clinging to the truth that these kids are not my own, but God's, and therefore I am called to do my best to be a faithful parent and let God handle the healing. I cannot plug all the emotional gaps for my kids. I cannot fix the sorrows in their stories. I cannot take away the challenges they were given in their natures or their brain chemistry. I teach, coach, feed, hold, discipline, and stretch them. God's going to have to see to all the super-human stuff because, ahem, I'm only human.

3. Community. This part is so very beautiful. I have more loving community than I know what to do with, and it's why I am sane. Um...really. I meet monthly with a few other adoptive mamas. We are free to be raw and sad and mad. Adoption is beautiful, and it is very hard. Some situations are mild, others eat the family. In my little group, we are all dealing with some thing(s) specific to adoption and our kids. And so we cheer each other on as one finds a glimmer of hope, a medication that works for a child's issue, a neurologist who "gets it," a teacher who makes all the difference in a school experience, resources that support healing. We make an annual getaway - once we escaped to a cabin in the mountains for a weekend, another time to a hot springs spa for a day. We can laugh at things that most people wouldn't find laughable, and while it is sometimes a dark, wry laughter, it brings some relief.

I also have a community of mamas through my church. These mamas have children in the same age range as my own, but as mamas our own ages span more than a decade. This is life-giving. We get together with our kids, do Bible studies, read books, and take our book club to Big Bear because we are fun like that. We know each others' stories well. We keep each others' kids in line. We babysit at the drop of a hat when an emergency arises. We pray for one another, text each other goofy updates and memes, and generally instigate a healthy amount of belly-laughing. 

I am not alone.

It feels so good to be sure of my place and to be happy in it. And tonight I was reminded of that, so I thought I'd share.

THE TALK

One of my goals for this summer was to teach the two oldest kiddos about sex. We now have a 3rd grader and a very mature Kindergartner. How did I know either one of them was ready? The trigger was the oldest child's scientific mind: as we were driving around town he asked, "Mom, I know how a baby would get DNA from his mother because he grows inside of her. But how does he get DNA from his father?"

It's pretty impossible to answer that without being honest about the details.

And it's pretty hard to put off that answer without sending the signal that somehow it's taboo.

And because this child is such a persistent learner, the question was clearly not going to go away on its own.

And since the second child is already FAR more aware of bodies and body stuff than I imagined at this age, and because she's the most committed sidekick to the first child (who I'm guessing would not be able to keep his mouth shut forever), The Papa and I just decided to teach them both together.

For a little more background, studies have shown that it's healthier (and kids make healthier decisions in the future) when parents talk early and often about sex--kids who get the scoop from parents learn to trust their parents to give them accurate information; they are also more likely to have sex later than their peers and use protection when they do; and they tend to pick up their parents' attitudes and values surrounding sex.

A family therapist once told me that the average age when children hear about BJs for the very first time is first grade. FIRST GRADE, people. Now of course they don't have the brain development to totally get what they're hearing but still. Do I want my kids to trust playground wisdom or do I want them to come to me? I am not going to keep my head in the sand about this subject.

For more authority on the subject, here are a few articles and facts that might be informative:

TIME Magazine shares why it's often "Too Little, Too Late."

The CDC has sexual risk statistics for 2015.

The Guttmacher Institute reports on how teens learn about sexual health.

The Palo Alto Medical Foundation emphasizes that parents are the most important sexuality educators for their children. 

Now I didn't need all those sources to tell me this is a good idea, but they provide some evidence of the importance of being the first and the best source of information for our kids, as well as an ongoing source of information. It's not a one-stop talk.

I headed into the first conversation today lead by The Talk by Luke Gilkerson. I'll tell you about that in a minute, but first I want to share a few tidbits from the parent introduction. Gilkerson talks about the work his organization does with families that have been affected by porn obsession, including kids who have been exposed as young as 8, 9, or 10 years old. One of the things the parents say is this: "I wish I would have spoken with my child sooner about sex."

Another point I appreciated: "In some conservative religious Christian circles, sex is treated as gross, a necessary function they'd rather not talk about. In the world, sex is treated like a god, an ultimate source of pleasure, meaning, and value. Neither of these is a right biblical attitude. Sex is not gross. It is not God. But it is good. As parents it is not only our job to communicate to our children what sex is, but a godly attitude about it."

The introduction also explains why, in most cases, the best age to begin talking about sex is between the ages of six and ten. I won't go into it here, but it's comforting to read, actually.

Now I don't want to betray my kiddos by sharing their responses in too much detail. You can imagine the "Ew!" and the "I'm so embarrassed" and so on. But what was curious to me was the complete respect they both had for the womb--talking about how the body produces and brings a baby into the world blew their minds in the best way possible. When I asked them what they found most interesting about all the stuff we talked about, they both had their spin on that information. My firstborn found it even more fascinating than anything he learned about his own body.

I'm pretty sure that, while they didn't mention it, learning all the technical terms for the parts of the body "down there" was exciting for them. Like looking up the rectum, and understanding how the urethra works, and comparing the male and female systems.

And I did cry from laughing at one point as one child gyrated in an attempt to get down the logistics of it all.

If you are curious about this resource, I highly recommend it! There are seven lessons, all Biblically based. (We accomplished the first two today, because the BIG QUESTION of "HOW" was left unanswered by the first lesson.)

1. God Made them Male and Female
2. Go Forth and Multiply
3. Wonderfully Made
4. The Two Shall Become One Flesh
5. You Shall Not Commit Adultery
6. Do Not Violate Me
7. Bought With a Price

Get The Talk on Amazon.

May this be helpful, fellow parents, as you navigate this tricky subject. I am already loving it!

Mountain Rain, a Flat Tire, and Apple Pie

Sometimes what we need most is to blow off any of the "normal" routine and just go. Get in the car...and GO.

I actually need this far more often than I am able to do, what with nap needs and pickup schedules and homework requirements and making dinner. But today The Papa and I looked at each other and knew: it was time.

It didn't matter that it was dumping rain. Fewer people on the roads, we thought. We'll go to the top of Palomar Mountain and grab apple pie at Dudley's on the way down. We'll bring some sandwiches and not care if the kids eat the rest of their hungry in pie. We are going to have FUN.

About 25 minutes in, we had a flat. The rain was slightly lighter, and we dug around the boot in hopes that we actually had a spare tire. Yes! We did! As well as a jenky jack that barely worked. Still, we called AAA which was fortuitous because the spare tire needed air.

Brent got the tire changed, the AAA guy filled it with air, and the entire interruption lasted less than an hour. Not bad. We gave the kids all their snacks to keep them happy while they waited. Smart move, I say.

But then we were left with the question: should we attempt to drive up the mountain in the rain on a spare tire? Um...YES! We were seeking adventure and not about to turn back now!

So we drove. Turn after turn up some 4,000 foot elevation, through the clouds. It was misty and mystical.

For The Papa and I, anyway.

Sadie (in the whiny voice): When are we going to get to the apple pie shop? (Every 4 minutes.)

Benji: AUGH. My tummy hurts.

Bella: AAAH!!! AAHHHH!!!!

Oliver: Sop it, Beya! Sop skweeming!!!

Mama: Look how beautiful it is!  Look for the outlines of trees in the mist! It's so lovely!

Bella:  UUUUUUUHHH!!!! (Plus some banging of her head on her seat.)

But persevered we did, stopping briefly at the top to stretch our legs in the pouring rain, and on our way down the mountain we saw wild turkeys in the road. By the time we crept close enough to take a picture, they were in the bushes. Find four turkeys in the photo below:

And of course we stopped for the pie. Sadie wolfed it down. Benji ate it slowly, appreciating every bite. Bella screamed and spit it out, then screamed that Papa ate it for her. (Because...two years old.) And Oliver picked pieces out of it and left the crust. But Mama can't take photos in a crowded hectic place (because...stress), so you'll have to imagine that part.

We put on Wild Kratts for the rest of the ride home (hooray for DVD players in vans - we resist the temptation most of the time, but man, it's handy for the last bit of a long drive) - bought eggs at the egg farm, and honeycomb from the beekeepers on the side of the road.  We made mental notes to look into cabin camping at Lake Henshaw and to come back to one of the pumpkin patches at a roadside farm.

Then we pulled into the garage and put the kids to bed for late afternoon naps, and they actually fell asleep.

Lovely, lovely day.

Like Air, Really

A couple of weekends ago, Brent watched the kids for me so I could get out of the house. I had no plan; I just knew I needed space between me and the continual onslaught of noise and need. I left while the kids were resting, around 3:00. I didn't come home until their bedtime.

I drove in a bit of a daze to the bookstore. Since jumping from two kids to four, this feeling of fog in my head has never really lifted. Some days I fight through it; some days I lean into it and let everything go. It has taught me to stop being concerned about everything being "just so" - Sadie's hair is usually a mess; I have been unable to host any get-togethers; this blog is terribly vacant lately; I have lost the bandwidth for maintaining well-organized details of any sort. And while this lesson in imperfection is one for which I am grateful, it has cost me the ability to maintain my side of a coherent conversation - and the public loss of my train of thought is sometimes rather embarrassing; unless I'm one-on-one with someone, I generally refrain from talking.

I was only in the bookstore about six minutes before my eyes began filling with tears. I almost started sobbing. The solitude (in the midst of strangers, yes), the instrumental music playing, the chance for my mind to quiet, the peace of the moment overwhelmed me. That hollow, starved place inside me swallowed the solitude and spit out tears.

So I wandered around, picking out a few gifts for people, drinking a fancy coffee drink, and splurging on an Imogen Heap CD. By the time I left, a damp darkness had fallen.

I was not ready to go home.

Putting on my new CD, I drove to the top of a hilly street and parked. The small town lights twinkled and I absorbed the music. I think I was there more than an hour.

This is the thing - solitude is necessary to creativity. Solitude is necessary to good thinking. Solitude is necessary for my mental health. And solitude is the hardest thing to find when mothering a large family.

Something deep within me just split open while I sat in the car. It split, and all the grief of missing my old self overflowed. The self that lit candles and sat alone and created. The self that read hard things and had the attention span to ponder them. The self that went out and walked in the dark. The self that loved being alone in a crowded coffee shop. This noise, this fog, this constant refereeing of ear-splitting squabbles, this never-ending sense that a gazillion things need to be done right now, this incessant multi-tasking sucks the creativity - one of the things that brings life - out of me.

And, oh, sitting alone in the blackness and listening to music was so good. So good.

I don't know what the answer is - I don't anticipate consistently getting more of this time until the little people are older, in school, and easier to care for so that others can relieve me. But I do know that it's OK. This is a season of life. This is one of the costs of mothering. And when we all pull through this I'll be wiser and more durable for it.

All us mamas need something that we don't get while parenting. I guess I wrote this to acknowledge the struggle. It's not romantic - our needs not being met - even if it is for the miracle of our children's lives and growth. But it's OK, sort of, for a while, as it's part of this journey. It's temporary, and it's for the best possible reasons. And as soon as we can, whenever we can, we need to grasp those opportunities to feed our spirits.

Some might advise...just get up earlier, or put some time on the schedule for yourself, or get a regular babysitter or...you name it. The truth is - I would if I could. Really. You don't need to read a post on all the reasons space for myself is limited, but there are reasons. All mamas have reasons that are not simply excuses. One of the things I am learning is not to feel guilty that someone else's solution is not a solution that works for me and my family. (That's another lesson from imperfection and chaos - letting go of guilt and the "requirement" of pleasing others. Those are tough ones to leave behind, but doing so brings tremendous freedom.)

For now I'm going to hold on to that moment. That span of four hours of solitude. It's amazing how long I can go now on a single experience. And I'm going to listen to that Imogen Heap album on repeat while I'm driving a van full of arguing, weird-sound-making children around town. And I'm going to hold my breath until I get another chance to break the surface for a gulp of solitude.

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

P.S. In order to write this post I put off going to the grocery store (which I am going to regret later when I need to fix dinner); I took two breaks to read Oli a book; I got Bella up from her nap and changed her diaper; and I still desperately need a shower (which I am going to have to rush so that I can go pick Sadie up from school). Just a reality check.

The Thing that Sucks about Infertility is that It's the Hardest Way to have a Baby

I started out writing this post about the greatest challenge for me as I deal with infertility. And then that one thing turned into two things. And then it turned into a realization that no matter how hard it has been, I really have nothing to complain about. And then the post became moot. And then it became relevant again because suddenly there was a greater truth than the original complaint. So here is my progression of thought along with a happy ending.

Infertility is on my mind of late because I am soon turning 40 years old. As I approached this number, so dreaded by any woman wishing to bear children, I thought: this is it. If I have any shot at possibly getting pregnant, I had better get going on that treatment now. So I did. Seven years ago, or so, we went through a couple rounds of treatment that were unsuccessful...which quickly led to the adoption of Benjamin. This time we decided to try another couple rounds of a slightly more aggressive treatment, but we found out last week that our final attempt still did not take. We're done with medical intervention now.

So it's over. The lingering hope that our unidentified issue could be circumvented by science...done. Moving on. No babies in this womb. The grief finally ambushed me.

My first complaint about infertility is that it just makes growing a family hard. No option is simple. None are cheap. You have to really want to add a baby to your family. And whether you do it through medicine or adoption, it is a long and challenging process. 

There is the issue of money - medicine costs money. Adoption costs money. Money that some folks would use for a tropical vacation or dramatic home improvements or to pay off college loans.

There is the pain factor. Giving oneself shots in the belly is really no fun. Though I must say, I got a kick out of looking at my husband after he jabbed an intro-muscular needle into my right butt cheek and reflecting on how we never anticipated that living out our wedding vows would include sticking a needle in one of our arses.

Adoption requires struggling through mounds of paperwork and jumping into an intimate friendship on the count of three. It requires adding more people to the family, and being available to others who are experiencing a loss at the very moment you are experiencing the joy of addition.

I sum up these challenges with this: for those of us who are infertile, simply getting to the point of attempting to add a child requires a ridiculous amount of forethought, planning, decision-making, and effort. And for every thought one has toward a possible next step, there are numerous thoughts that pop up against that course of action.

The second burden on my heart is that I just want to experience pregnancy and birthing. I am the mama who dreamed of natural birth, of doing things at home, of breastfeeding for an uncomfortably long time. Some of my friends think me a bit of a hippie. Call it what you will, I really wanted to give birth and be present for it all along the way. I do not have that choice...and my heart hurts a bit.

But as much as I am tempted to complain about it, we who are infertile are not unique in our struggle. In a lifetime, a couple will be faced with any number of health challenges, child-bearing or rearing challenges, life-and-death challenges. Some of us get cancer. Some experience miscarriages in between healthy births. Some give birth and then discover their child has a grave illness or developmental issue. Some give birth once and then can't anymore, and their family growth gets cut off prematurely. Lots of couples deal with financial constraints as they consider having another child. Lots encounter struggles during pregnancy or have premature births.

I can't mope about my situation. Especially because here is where it led:

I am privileged to have the children I have through open adoption. PRIVILEGED. They are dear and amazing little people. I have seen God work through our situation time and time again. And how can I dishonor that by rewriting the script this time around? Why would I want to? I don't have any desire to change our past or the family I have been given, so I will look at this latest moment of grief through a different lens.

I will set aside my feelings of loss to embrace our next journey - we intend to pursue another open adoption. Our final one, as far as I can tell. There must be another boy or girl growing in the womb of a mama who is looking for safety and love in a package that resembles our family.  So we will get out there and wait for her.

The thing that sucks about infertility is that it is the hardest way to have a baby. But in the end, that's not so bad.

Not My Own

I would probably have missed this truth had it not been for the blessing of adoption. My ego, or my attempt to control, or the way my boy might have worn my eyes or smile might have obscured my sense of clarity.

My children are not my own.

It is not DNA that separates us. It is not blood or lineage or nine months in another mother's womb.

It is the truth that my children actually belong to God, and I am merely acting on God's behalf, acting as the physical presence of His embrace, His compassion, His correction. This changes everything.

For one, it is incredibly humbling. Every time I feel human rage gripping my throat - anger at how the older child hits the younger on the head, indignation at a child's disrespect and defiance, frustration with the incessant screaming or wailing or whining - I have to evaluate:  Is this holy anger? Is this anger born out of true righteousness or is it the swelling of my pride or a reaction to inconvenience? Is this response going to hurt or teach? When I am sober of spirit, I can take a deep breath and think before I speak.

But when I am feeling frayed, the words come out without filter. The words are harsh, the tone condescending, or worse - shaming. The words are loud, too loud. And after the tears, first on his face and then on mine, I must go to this little learning boy and apologize. I must tell him how I love him and how God loves him and how the way I spoke to him was not loving and kind, and how this is precisely the problem we have as human beings - God is perfect, though, and in that we can place our hope.

And oh, how quickly he forgives - for he is still a little boy who just wants his mama's arms around him.

It is good for me to remember that I am acting on God's behalf - it helps me take the deep breaths first. I try to take time to think creatively about how to turn an explosive situation into a teachable moment. I am reminded to ask for wisdom from above, for eyes to see the bigger picture, for patience despite the inconvenience or fatigue.

This truth also takes the ego out of parenting. My children do not look like an extension of me, therefore I am less tempted to see them as such. But this is just as important for biological children. Because they are God's, they are not required to fulfill our childhood dreams. They are not here to continue a family legacy. It is not important for them to attend the university we attended, to achieve the grades we maintained, to meet or supersede our athletic accomplishments (of which I have few, let it be known). They are not mini-me's competing with the children of our friends whereby we outshine our friends through our children. They are not required to be successful by the world's standards, nor are they required to maintain parental image or reputation. They are not an extension of us.

America is a hard place for raising children without ego. Everything in our society tells us that our children are like accessories - they accent or tarnish us. They bring us pride or shame. They are a way by which we may impress others - after all, if my child makes it into Harvard, isn't that a result of my good genes? My excellent parenting techniques? The superb education I worked hard to ensure?

But children are not purse dogs to be groomed and toted into public to advance our appearance or our career or our family name.

And then there is the responsibility part of this Godly parenting task. I have the responsibility to care for my children - to provide for physical needs, to teach self-control and kindness, to instill values and a knowledge of God.  But it is not my responsibility to control my child. To hover incessantly. To make the decisions for, to protect from every pain (after all, we learn most from trying experiences); this need to control is only born out of human fear, in some, or personal fulfillment, in others.

If I see myself as acting on God's behalf, I will not spoil my children with material possessions; I will give what truly matters - my time and affection and presence. I will not teach my child to satisfy the holes that swell up in his heart from time to time with entertainment and frivolous distractions, but rather with seeking God, with creating and maintaining life-expanding friendships, with giving to others instead of expecting others to always give to him. I will teach him that instead of looking out for Number One, he will find greater joy in serving others - that this will buoy his spirit, help him see his place in this world, reveal his sense of purpose. To love God and love man - there is nothing greater that is asked of us.  Is everything that I do, every gift I give, every experience we navigate as a family drawing us closer to this or away from it?

America provides us with a million ways to shirk our responsibility. If we are adults, we are sold on the idea that children should not infringe on our right to be "happy" - this limited perspective completely misses the truth that loving parents make sacrifices (and there is great joy in this at times). No, we don't become people other than who we have been created to be, but we are frequently inconvenienced for the greater good of investing in these little people within our care. We no longer live wholly unto ourselves.

If we are women, we are told we can be an amazing mother and have an amazing career at the same time - with others raising our kids. We are told that anything less is untrue to ourselves and uninspiring to our children. **

If we work hard, we are told we "deserve" time to ourselves. If we did not have much growing up, we believe our children "deserve" the luxuries we did not have. Our children are beaten down with advertisements that make them think they cannot live without Disney princesses or Halo or Wii systems or iPads or their own personal cell phone.

No. Instead of releasing my children to the whims of a culture obsessed with consuming and escaping, and then worrying about the nebulous dangerous strangers out in the neighborhood somewhere, I will release my children in the care of God, knowing that whatever befalls my children or our family is ordained. And if it is ordained by God, we will be given the strength to meet it and the healing to get through it.

Most of life is not an emergency, after all, though we often treat it as such.

And most of life is worth savoring, not escaping with mind-numbing, spirit-stripping substitutes.

I am just getting started on this run through parenthood, but this I know:  my children are not mine to make into my own image - to ruin through my own passivity, ego, self-pursuits, or need to control.  It does not matter if my children are of my own flesh or someone else's - they belong to God, and I will do my best to parent accordingly.

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**Note: I am not throwing stones at mamas who work outside the home. I am only challenging the thinking that values outside-the-home work as worth more than mothering because it requires greater intelligence or education or talent, or because it is somehow more reflective of who we are as individuals. I also question the "you can, and should, have it all" messages we receive. Women's empowerment today often enslaves us to the impossible idea that we can/should do it all - and we breathlessly, joylessly, and overflowing with guilt attempt to live up to standards that can rarely be met and are not necessary bars to achieve anyway.

Lovely Saturday Morning

It's Saturday morning. The Papa went mountain biking at the lake, early, like around 6:00. That left me with Kid Sunshine and Bright Eyes. It is not unusual for me to spend the morning alone with the children - it's what I do Monday through Friday. But for some reason, Saturday mornings are simply full of peace.

I must put pressure on myself during the week to get things done. I do believe the need for haste germinates in my mind. Weekend mornings can be sweet and lazy, and that's acceptable. I wish every morning could be this tender.

So we begin with watching an episode of Sesame Street and eating Cheerios. Sadie has been rolling around on the rug, trying to keep up with Benjamin's antics and gnawing on everything. Sandra McCracken provides our soundtrack, as morning sunlight peeps through the shades. It is cool, a welcome change from the heat of the past weeks.

I pick up Sadie to feed her, snuggling her close. For a girl whose primary goal is to get to some other destination, her moments of sinking into an embrace are limited to feedings and tired moments. I cherish them.

Benjamin crawls into a fleece blanket and wraps himself up.

"Mama," he calls out. "Mama, look! I'm a snake."

"Wow. Are you hissing?"

"No. I'm shedding my skin," he says as he wiggles and slithers out of the blanket.

A few minutes pass. The rocking chair is overturned by a pair of busy hands. This boy climbs onto the back of it.

"Is that a rocket ship or are you sailing the ocean?" I ask.

"It's a wocket ship!" he exclaims.

There is much movement, some climbing on and off, and then...

"Mama!  I landed on the moon! I'm going to get out and walk on the moon!"

Hot coffee and cream for me, some sliced apples for the boy. Sadie lies down for her morning nap, and The Papa returns home. The sun is now bright, and it is time to carry on with the day. I am so very grateful for this blessed morning.

Happy Birthmother's Day!

In honor of the dear birthmothers in our life:

Fortunately, this is not a trite Hallmark holiday. It was actually instituted in 1990 by a group of birthmothers in Seattle who wanted to do something to honor women who had placed a child for adoption. Mother's Day is a very painful day for most birthmoms, and some of the activities that occur on Birthmother's Day help a birthmother process her loss.

Some adoption service providers or adoption counselors will organize a gathering of birthmoms, adoptive families, and adoptees where people will read letters or poems, show photos, and just honor the journey of the birthmothers.

It is often asked - Why do women choose adoption for their child? Or who is the average birthmother? Really, every story is unique. Some may be too young or financially unable to parent. Some might be single and desiring a two-parent family for their child. Some already have a child or two who they are struggling to support. Sometimes they have been left by the boyfriend or husband during the pregnancy. Many are educated or in college. Many come from good families themselves. Many have religious beliefs, but not all. Some are imprisoned. Some are without a stable home. Some are older and surprised that they got pregnant.

All of these women love their child. All of them hope they made the right decision. All of them will grieve their loss - and sometimes, that grief wells up year after year on the child's birthday or on Mother's Day...even if they feel they made the right decision and love their child's adoptive family.

So, today we honor these brave women and the courage it took to carry a child to term and then part with him or her.

Just a look

I experienced something today that bothered me more than I thought it would. It disturbed me so much, in fact, that I was still thinking about it two-and-a-half hours later...one-trip-to-Costco and after-putting-my-son-down-for-a-nap later.

Benjamin and Buckley and I had gone to the dog park and then to Starbucks. Sitting at a coffee shop with Benjamin is one of my favorite things to do. He's a people person, and he tends to be compliant when out and about, so I thoroughly enjoy the moments we spend at a cafe table. He drinks his water through a straw while eating a banana or a bar, and I sip my double espresso on ice.

Today was less than idyllic, however, as we had Buckley with us. We sat outside and shared water with the dog. We didn't talk much as he was busily consuming a granola bar. I was distracted with Buckley.  But still, all was fine until we needed to go.

Benjamin's newest method of misbehavior is the silent treatment. I ask a question or suggest an action and he says, and does, nothing. To outsiders it may not appear to be much, but I know he is being defiant. I know he heard me. I know he is choosing to ignore what I said. And I don't tolerate this.

In this case, I told him we needed to leave soon, asked if he was finished, suggested that maybe when he was done he could throw his trash in the can. He used to love this routine. Today, he just decided to, at that moment, open his cup and dump the ice on the ground. Then he picked up ice and began eating it. He wouldn't look at me when I handed him the trash and, for a second time, asked him to put it in the can.

I knew this would be a loud, losing battle so I chose not to engage. I took the trash and put it in the can, intending to just scoop him up and leave. But as I walked over to the can, the leash tangled around Buckley's leg and he yelped.

He has been doing a lot of this lately - getting himself tangled up in something and yelping pitifully. I don't know if he is really getting hurt (it rarely looks serious) or if he wants attention. In any case, I don't take it very seriously unless he limps afterward (almost never).  So he yelps/screams and sounds like I just ran over him.

Here's where things went awry:

[Click the link below to read more]

Oh, Erma!

I am thinking about using other people's quotes to start off my reflections on parenting. I did not plan to start this project today, but I couldn't help sharing this one with you:

When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they're finished, I climb out. ~Erma Bombeck

I only have one kid, so why do I relate so well? I also have a needy dog and a husband. My toddler is now noisy, and he like to head butt my legs or hang from the thighs of my pants - you can imagine the shape of my yoga pants these days. My dog likes to stand immediately behind me so that, on the evenings when I am exhaustedly making dinner and not paying due attention to my surroundings, I trip over him. He also stands really close to me and stares when he wants something, or follows me around nipping at my ankles.

Add The Papa into the mix, and on weekends I am running from meal to meal with little time for myself between cleaning the kitchen and starting prep for the next meal. These boys are always hungry. Until two weeks ago, we lived with another two-year-old and a baby for six months. The squabbling that went on between Amal and Benjamin at times was added nuisance. They might as well have been brothers. (And I might be using hyperbole here just a little bit, but goodness if this doesn't feel perfectly accurate on some days!)

There are afternoons where all I can do is sigh loudly, "The creatures will be the death of me!" and shake my bony wrist in the air. But that is nothing compared to the mother of three kids, a dog or two, and a husband. I clearly need more intense training to become one of these Olympian moms.

I can laugh with Erma. I can laugh with my mother, who has admitted she locked herself in the restroom on occasion - not because she had any business to attend to - but because she needed a breather from her three children under the age of six. I can only imagine. And I apologize right now, Mom, for my part in all of that.

So, Mamas, whether you hide in the playpen or the restroom, I hope you get a breather now and then. And maybe we should start off a book club with something by Ms. Bombeck.