an ode to those making homes with boys

We buy band-aids in bulk.

We manage to look amazed (and not even a little grossed out)
when a worm is dangled under our nose.

We pick up Lego pieces invisible to the naked eye.

We make rules like
'No throwing boogers'
and 'No swords at the dinner table.'

We do eleventy-hundred loads of laundry a day.

We are terrible at car crash sound effects
(but we make them anyway).

We pretend to be dragons
and dinosaurs
and knights
and pirates
and big scary sock-eating monsters.

We kiss milk mustaches.

We know the difference between
a 'we're just having good loud fun' noise
and a 'someone's about to go to the ER' noise.

We find pebbles in the dryer.

We sneak into their rooms at night to stare at them
because it is the only time
when they are quiet and still enough to let us.

they all start somewhere

Above are the opening 2 chapters of N's first novel.

Things I love about this:

1. The author, who turns six later this month, wrote it without any help.

2. Almost every sentence is exciting! enough! for! an! exclamation! point!

3. All CAPS on the dramatic last words of the sentences. Despite repeated attempts on my part to ascertain the source of this unusual writing technique, the author refused to divulge his influences.

4. References to flora.

5. Mom was not burned after all [sigh of relief].

what i would say to you (if you were not me)

Dear friend,

It's OK. It's OK to be useless. It's OK to be sad. It's OK to need help.

Who gave you permission to say those things about yourself? You are God's beloved child, created for his glory and redeemed by his grace. He delights in you. Yes, even now, when you feel you are at your worst, when you feel like a failure, when you have nothing to offer, even now - he delights in you.

This is a hard stage. That is just facts, it has nothing to do with your efficacy or skill. It just is, unequivocally, a tough stage of motherhood.

You can only be what God made you to be. You are only as useful as the grace he gives you at any given moment. If you find that God is pleased to render you useless sometimes, don't despair. Rest.

Nothing you do or fail to do can change the love of God for you, his child. You fight this, and if you're honest, you don't really like this about God. Surely, if you do things right, he'll love you just a little more. But his love does not fit in your hand. You are thinking in teaspoons about a love that floods the oceans. Toss away your measuring cups and drown in it.

Love,
The Me I Am To Everyone Else

the middle

I guess I unintentionally gave up blogging here for Lent. But now, as my son wrote in his notebook this morning, He is risen! and I am back.

I don't have much to say, really. [I get most of my free therapy blogging done here these days.] I'm writing anyway today because sometimes it's good to hear the middle of the story.

We like to wait to see where our stories are going before we start telling them. We're not afraid to admit our mistakes and stumbles as long as we can keep talking, as long as we can explain just how they all got fixed and how everything happened for a reason.

What about the middle? What about the times when we aren't sure how it will all turn out? Why are we afraid to open our mouths in those moments?

It might be because opening our mouths when we're in the middle can sound a lot like whining. It can sound like lack of faith. It can even sound like disobedience.

And maybe it is, I don't know. Maybe we have to whine and doubt and disobey our way through the muck until we see how God is making castles from our mud cakes. I still think it's OK to talk about it.

lent

It was a strange Ash Wednesday for me this year.

True, I did spend the usual quiet evening hour in stillness and intermittent soft singing... but I wasn't at church. I was in a dark bedroom, trying to lull my strong-willed son into the sleep he so desperately needed.

Instead of ashes across my forehead I got scratch marks across my cheek. He's a fighter, this one.

I haven't been thinking about what I'll give up for Lent. I've been wavering between self-pity over the sacrifices of my current season and pure wonder at the joy of it.

I think I'll allow myself the creature comforts this Lent - facebook and coffee and such. Lord knows I'll have enough built-in loneliness and exhaustion in these 40 days. The task, then, will be to turn to Jesus in all of it -- to let it be a joining in his loneliness, his aching bones, his fear and confusion and desperation. He walked those roads to lead me in them if I'll let him.

noticing

Noticing is a good habit, I think. It can be a remedy for self-obsession... unless, of course, you only notice things about yourself. :) Anyway, here are some things I've been noticing.

The light pink rhododendrons are blooming.

My boys, 27 months apart, are sharing clothes. (Can't decide how I feel about this.)

Reheated rice is not that great.

Board books hurt when they are chucked point-blank at the back of your head.

The grass is growing again.

My children are some of the most forgiving individuals I have ever met. Thank God.

The laundry needs to be folded.

The scent of newly-opened cherry blossoms can drift a long way.

Nothing important seems to happen when (or how) you think it will.

God knows what he's doing.

they said it

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Me: Dexter, are you all done with your cereal?

Dexter: You're a moose fur bagel dog!

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Preschool Teacher: Wow, you're smart!

Dexter: Smarty, hearty, party!

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[in the car, out of the blue]

Dexter: Only bees are on facebook.

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Nate: Mommy, I kind of like that show that's not a kid show where the people sing and the three people watch them.

Me: Oh yeah?

Nate: Yeah. Is that in Hollywood?

Me: What?! You know what Hollywood is?

Nate: Yes, I know what Hollywood is.

[Duh, Mom.]

Me: OK, what is Hollywood?

Nate: It's when you get the yellow paper.

Me: [cracking up and remembering that I let him watch a few minutes of American Idol with me last week] Yep, you're right buddy.

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[during prayers last night]

Nate: Please Jesus, help the people in Ethiopia have a good meeting so that Zeke can come home soon. Because I really want Zeke to come home soon.

[Amen to that, son.]

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