Hurt Like A Mother

I stepped on a Playmobil pirate this morning and bruised the ball of my foot. Bluebeard left an actual discoloration -- right in the softest spot. Hurt like a sumbitch.

(I think it was the tiny goblet in his hand that got me. That or the claw-like grip, ready to receive an accessory or impale an appendage, depending on force applied.)

The experience reminded me of an ongoing list I'm compiling in my head: Things A Mom Will Learn to Love, Or at Least Tolerate, With Young Boys in the House.
(It's a distinct list but related to a few others I have going: Curses Uttered by Mothers of Boys, And The Reasons Why... and The Toys That Make Me A Real Mutha.)

No one prepped me for this all-boy life, I have to say. And maybe that's for the best. This way, the oddest or least relatable parts can come as a surprise. On the days the surprises bump into me like a serendipitous encounter with a casual friend, well, hooray! I'm charmed. And I leave the encounter knowing "the other" better. On the days the surprises slam into me like a 130-pound lap dog... well, at least I didn't spend any time worried about that fall to the ground, since I didn't know it was coming.

I'm so often just ... surprised... by them. By the little things they do, kind of, but more specifically by the way they do them. Not MY way. I wonder at the convoluted ways they carry out a simple request, set up project... how they build a homemade game with 1 ball, 3 sticks and 10 yards of Scotch tape. Sometimes, surprises come in labels they write for their stuff; in Post It notes they leave for me. I find myself surprised, too, by the humble objects they love and hoard; by the simple things that engage the pair of them for hours; at the really cool (I think) toys or books they want no part of.

I'm also surprised at the force of the manhood within them. Just little boys, they are. Small, vulnerable people... whom you might think have more in common with other small people of a different gender, than with adults of any stripe. But they're so determined to be boys, specifically. To follow Dad. To break from Mom.

Again, the surprises of boyhood can be very good. They can bring out my awe and whimsy. They can spark spontaneous laughter and silliness that falls like sudden summer rain. OR, they can leave me fumbling, reacting, frustrated and bruised at the end of the day.

No one really prepped me for this boy life. And sometimes I step in it. When I do, it hurts like a mother. But that's OK. Because sometimes, instead, I walk the whole way down the hall, bed to bed to bed, touching every red head in its sleep, ending at my own rest, and no landmines have found my feet. I make it through an entire day with only good surprises.

For that, I will endure any bruise, small or soul deep.

On Owen Time

I like the way my 3-year-old counts the days. His weekends are actually three days long. His Labor Day weekend will be four.

I ask him how he's getting these numbers and he says, "You told me! Mommy! You said! You say we haf 'fhree' (three) days off!"

"Do you think I said 'free days' instead, maybe?" I say with genuine question in my voice.

"No! Lemme count them for you," he answers with equal parts exasperation (how can the grown-ups in his house be so dim-witted at times?) and precision. "There is FRIDAY, as soon as Daddy comes real fast to Growing Stick to pick me up. And there is SATURDAY, which is a stay-at-home day. And there is SUNDAY, where we have the church day where we all-together go to church, with you and me and Miles and Daddy and I go to the classroom with the teacher Mrs. Shea that I like."

Well, OK, then, he HAS an answer! It's just not the one we think we taught him, because we wouldn't think his day count is correct.

But ya' know what strikes me about this 21st century, little-boy logic? It goes way back, as in ancient, and it's quite possibly more right than mine. Owen's time reminds me of Biblical times. Recall: How many days was Jesus dead before he rose again? Three. Whereas I never got this idea as a kid -- if he died on Friday and rose on a Sunday morning, how is that 3 days -- Owen would immediately get it, I bet. Because he marks time the way the Jewish community did.

Jesus died midday Friday, and the day continued -- one. Jesus was dead on Saturday, which ended at dusk -- two. Jesus was dead from Sat. evening to Sunday morning -- three. Three days.

The Biblical example is a good reminder for me, that we all have more "day" in our days than we might first think. Most of us adults have time enough to do more than we believe, I suspect.

I often collapse after work and dinner and then feel grouchy that "I got nothing done today" or "I've given up my whole day!" But my day isn't over when I'm saying that. I may have given up, yes, but more "day" stands to be measured, and used, to whatever constructive purpose my will commits.

Owen doesn't write off an evening just because there was work and school during the day. His weekend starts EXACTLY when his dad shows up on the other side of the glass door (probably with a Dum Dum sucker or a snack waiting), and he leaps from the lap of Miss Shawna into Jeremy's arms.

That kid lives full out. He fills his time, all the time. He measures what can be savored and what is special in every day, not what commonly gets discounted as the margin. And I'd like to follow suit.

...Let the weekend begin!

Truth-telling

Truth is a tough thing. My truth is not yours, and probably neither of ours are "true."

...But our truths sure feel real, don't they? And that feeling can very neatly obscure reason. Cloud judgment. Impair communication.

I find I have fewer and fewer truths as I age, and though that would seem to make the remaining set more sure and precious to me, I'm not very inclined to talk about them. Maybe because I don't want to fight over these few truths I still have. Or be shown how they might not jive with one another. I sure don't want to feel verbally pushed & shoved by a conflicting, so that my ire rises up and I start to, with angry words, defend mine.

When I really get reflective, I know I don't want my truths to hurt people -- especially other Christians with whom I simply disagree. I haven't figured out, yet, how to really, really believe something, and have that something be quite different than someone else's something, and neither compromise my truth nor disrespect theirs.

Our church is entering a time when we're going to have to swap truths with each other, pretty openly and maybe dangerously. We're going to disagree. And we're long overdue for some public truth-telling.

I pray that something glorious happens to us in this process -- which is bound to get bumpy, so smudged and pockmarked with all our humanity. I pray we become more than our everyday selves as we weigh decisions for others. I pray that we have been called for such a time as this. I pray that I can be a speaker of truths that are not my own hoarded, petty thoughts -- that are not of me at all. I pray that you, God, make me an instrument of thy will.

I pray that something eternal and indivisible and holy wraps all around us as we weigh where to go, what to do next.

And I pray we can see, unclouded, the only Truth that will set us free.

Seeking

Why am I a girl who hates easy answers? Why do I ask so many questions? And, if I know I can't know, why do I still assume so much?

Look, I try! (Wait. Do I try? Enough? Does God know I'm trying? Because if I am, He'll know. And if He doesn't know, I'm probably not. Trying. Enough. Sigh...)

But I walk around thinking I'm trying... To see what is right. And to do it. To love mercy. To walk humbly with my God. And today I'm completely fed up with the trying and the trying, haltingly and imperfectly though it goes, and not feeling any closer to the life I really want to lead.

Enough failing! Enough flailing! Just... enough. For today, anyway. Today I have no more "try" in me, and I only want to hide out on my couch with a blanket over my soul.

What I really, really want today is to feel like I'm one of my kids, wedged into the coziest corner next to the plushy armrest, snuggled in against a great big God who loves me.

And here is the problem. All that "trying" I do doesn't necessarily bring me any closer to the one and only God. Often, it only drives us apart.

Because, you see, I'm always trying, trying, to do it myself.

...When will I ever learn? Forget the try. Just "do" and "don't," as each condition occurs, every step of the way bathed and breathed in talk with God. That's the what! (Or, in the parlance of my friend Katelyn, maybe the "what-what!") If I'm truly seeking, and peace is the object of my desire, the only chance I have is to leave my "try" behind.

I forget this lesson, a lot. But sometimes I am lucky enough to stop, in the very middle of an ordinarily crappy day, and process words long until my muddled mood starts to make sense to myself. I write, and things clear. I remember. And thus I renew my conversation.

God be with me, in this day. Help me not to try. Allow me to do and not to do. That is all.

Occam's Razor

In the course of my daily work, I can pull up some pretty sophisticated information about my company's accounts. Instantly. Handily. Invaluably for the many in-the-moment decisions I'm asked to make. I can do this... given that I can correctly spell their names.

You have to enter proper business names JUST SO to make our fancy search tools work. Type "and" where there should be an ampersand or an apostrophe-N, and you're sunk. "No records found." (Right about now you should know that I work in the wedding industry and am looking up often small, often quirkily named bridal boutiques. Let's just say ours is not a retail category that feels confined by grammatical rules. Think Toys R Us or Chic-Fil-A... with flowery adjectives + female names. Louisa's Lovelies. Gorgeous Girlz 'N Gowns. Karen's Krowning Glories.)

To get at the data I really need, that will let me weigh in on the pressing requests being made, I've developed a system of quickly paring back what I type when at first I don't succeed.

For instance, I could type "Yolanda's Unique Expressions of Love" (an admittedly insane, but truth-based hypothetical) and find no records. So I'd immediately try "Yolanda's U." This amended search will find my best match and yield the exact "Yolanda's U-Nique Xpressions" I was looking for.

I'm so good at this step, at work. But so bad at it in life.

...Because isn't paring back a pretty good system for living, too? When in doubt, cut through the excess. Get back to what you really, really know ya know. Reduce. Razor. Whatever. Just stop floundering and go back to the beginning. Find a bit of certainty and build from there.

I have a hard time getting back to the beginning. I have a hard time not floundering.

I just have a hard time, of late.

I realize that I complicate my inner life by racing around the circular ruts of my mind, rather than razoring down to the fundamental bits that will allow me to seek and find.

(Anyone else reminded of what we are to "seek first" in the book of Matthew? A refresher. Ouch! Such a convicting reference. Because those tracks in my brain were NOT created by thoughts of Kingdom-seeking. More like carved through my own whirl of self-centeredness.)

Right now, I need to work on the first few letters of my personal search. All the information I seek is out there, at my fingertips if only I key in to the surest few words.

Here's what I know I know...

God loves me -- inexplicably, really, but yes! -- and has a plan for me to do good and live well. In this life. And not in the distant future.

The everyday I have right now is not that plan.

God's plan does involve me loving Jeremy and Miles and Owen more fully, more abundantly, more recklessly.

And it involves finding more time for a lot more people.

Beyond that, I acknowledge I've lost my way. I've typed a whole string of characters into being and can't figure out what to cut, to pare away, so that answers appear.

But I'm seeking. And I seem to recall some other words from Matthew that help clear, and not convict, the troubled soul. "Seek and ye shall find."

...Ask and it shall be given unto you. Al-le-lu, Alleluia.

God, I'm looking for another way to live. I will try to seek it with my whole heart. And I trust that you will lead me unto the place.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

To Sum It Up

I think I need a tagline.

Not a pithy explanation or an abbreviated About Me or a blogging mission statement -- but a real tagline. A marketing slogan so immediately clever and memorable you can "read my brand" from a billboard two exits away.

I've been thinking about it (because I do a lot of thinking when I'm avoiding doing any writing), and I've been thinking that what this little, struggling, oft-neglected blog needs is something tagline-ey under the header... you know, like I'm runnin' with the big dogs. (wink.)

And by that of course I mean, as if I'm one of those *real* blogs that we all love to read, that we make regular destinations, that we follow on Google Reader. (Hey, I've heard of such. Even if I don't participate in all that new-fangled, fancified blogginess.) I mean the kind of blog you felt so lucky to have stumbled onto, that first time you followed a link or clicked a button and pulled up writing that instantly reached you. The kind of blog that has personality, that catches you up in its point of view and leaves you thinking you have just met a real, accessible person. A blog after a woman's own heart.

That's what I'm goin' for here. A blog after MY own heart.

Only my heart has no writing discipline and likes to embrace the shortcut and so, instead of SHOWING you that, I'd much rather just TELL ya in about 7 words or less.

A tagline is the way. :D

See? I really have given this a lot of (procrastinating) thought. And I actually came up with one.

It happened after I noticed how far back my archives went. After I started thinking about the things I was writing way back then. And how they are similar to the things I'm still working out now. And I came up with something that says, in the nicest way possible, "I may not progress much over time, because I am pretty clearly a SLOW emotional and spiritual learner, destined to repeat lessons while struggling with a fierce combination of laziness and impatience -- but stick around if you can put up with that, 'cause I sure do try to love this journey, whenever I stop to notice where I am."

Or, tagline style: "Embracing the smallness of my humanity, since 2004."

Bigger-Hearted.

If I get this mommying gig right, it will break my heart. In the purest and noblest way, I will be wrecked. And remade. I will never be the same. For every little crack they leave on the tender casing of my soul, more of "me" will seem to seep out.

This very thought hurts, by the way. That doesn't mean I reject it or resist it (much). I'm TRYING, truly, to get it so right that I bear my brokenness like a prize. A 1st place, Best-in-Show blue ribbon permanently affixed to my lapel. So the other purely, nobly broken people can identify me. Can know I'm a safe place. I've felt it too, that mark will say. It undid me, too. I fall to pieces, still, all the time.

I want to own the marks of motherhood. I do. One day. But getting those marks hurts. Because, well, feeling enough love that one human heart can't hold it all in... it's a bursting, messy, painful business.

Getting to be a real rabbit is no small thing.

Of course, the more of me that seeps out, the more room for God to seep in. That's part of this gig, too. The on-the-job rewiring that's so much MORE INTENSE than any orientation you've ever sat through. So much longer than any continuing ed class.

...And so much better, too.

My heart will break at this. If I'm strong enough to keep seeing them, keep feeling what they feel, keep loving them like Jesus loves me. I will never be the same.

Thanks be to God.

Nature abhors a vacuum. And I can't stand a white wall.

A couple of weeks ago, as part of (some clearly misguided) spring cleaning, I switched up the art that's been hanging on my living room walls about 5 years. ...It had become so permanent there were yellowed spots where the three biggest shapes hung, just behind the couch.

After the yellow spots... and the nail holes... the thing that suddenly jumped out at me was, gee, I have really white walls. Really LONG, really white walls.

The crazy part of this effort -- crazy to the "normal" people, I mean -- is that there was nothing wrong with the art where it was. It looked pretty good, by most accounts. I was just beyond bored with it.

So I moved the "couch art" to the mantel and schemed a new collection of things behind the couch. ...That I was gonna get RIGHTON!

And now, almost three weeks later, I still have an impossibly long, pockmarked, yellowed white wall to fill. With no clear action plan for how to fill the void.

I don't know why I do these things, but I do. Do them. All the time. I make my own life HARDER instead of EASIER. I plan big then procrastinate long. It's a pretty deadly combination. And -- this gets even weirder -- even though I know I have these defeating tendencies, I persist in thinking positive thoughts about my self-inflicted change. I keep thinking I'm JUST ABOUT to have a breakthrough. In which I will make things all magically better than ever. Sure. Yes. Just as soon as the little birds and field mice respond to my Cinderella warbling and show up to help. I KNOW better than to start something I can't finish right away. I drive myself NUTS. But I also know I have to push car into the lane, sometimes, before it will start. Got a weird alternator, or something. And I really do HATE that white wall. So change is coming. Soon. Probably, hopefully.

Driving Home Thoughts

Sometimes I feel like loving them will be the death of me.

This is not true, I know. They are the life of me, really. The highest and purest life I've known. But death is definitely involved.

To mother my boys well, I must "die to myself" a thousand times over. The big deaths -- career compromise, geographic compromise, a crappy car from now till 2029 -- don't seem so hard for me as the little ones. Being "the bigger person?" The grown-up who doesn't meet anger with anger, who doesn't take offense easily or take hurtful words to heart, who shows PATIENCE through and through? Now that's difficult.

I think maybe I'm selfish enough that I don't like being this "good" -- and even when I try, I find I'm often not that good at it.

Today I was irritable with my exuberant, insuppressible Owen on the way to school. This kid is an energy bar wrapped in caffeine dipped in candy coating. Truly -- and objectively! -- he's a pretty adorable 3-year-old, with a big vocabulary, a ready, winning smile, bouncing red curls, huge blue eyes and the clenched-fist gait of a little linebacker. But his in-your-face adorableness also reads as bossy, willful, stubborn domination of everyone else's time. It's the yin-yang of Owen's particular humanness -- all the things that make him beautiful and unique also make him a challenge for others to live with. ;)

So today I succumbed to my own humanity and got grouchy. I was DONE with the demands and the commands and the non-stop stream of commentary from the back seat. When something small happened to upset Owen, I didn't want to be rational or to explain or make it better. I really just wanted to shout, "NO. The answer is NO. ENOUGH!"

I did say "NO" to his request pretty loud, but I closely followed with an alternate plan to make peace -- not from a place of overflowing love, but more because I didn't think I could stand any oncoming whining or crying.

And this is how I ended up sitting in the parking lot of Chick-Fil-A at 8:05, blowing on a mini chicken biscuit to cool it off before introducing a completely new junk food for Breakfast No. 2 and a Morning Reboot.

The chicken detour went pretty well. Well enough for me to realize my blood pressure had just spiked, then subsided over bickering with Owen. And that my kid's behavior was a lot better when my heart rhythm was normal.

Sounds all positive, touchy-feeley, "I-learned-a-valuable-lesson" -- I know! But I relate this morning's events more to say, "Sometimes this job really stinks -- ya know?!"

It's aggravating. And defeating. And painful to look at my own non-progress as a mom. Because I freely confess that I probably haven't learned anything about managing Owen's extra-needy periods I won't have to learn again next time.

...I just don't GET the small stuff very easily.

But, driving home, I realized I do "get" the big stuff.

I will never be Jesus for my kids. I can take captive every stray thought and think only on what is pure, noble and lovely and still I won't be Jesus.

I'm just a girl who screws things up and muddles her way back to equilibrium and who needs a Savior from herself, most every single day, and who occasionally, not always, can funnel enough Holy Spirit to shine some light.

I lose my temper. I am not patient enough. I often don't get it right the first time. But, when my kids need mercy, my soul deeply wants to pour me out for them.

I can never be what I am not. But I can use my best flashes and revelations, little sparks in the dark though they are, to point out something higher to Miles and Owen. In this way, it's OK that I am not a "perfect mom" (ha! ...as if that creature exists). My job is not to be perfect, just to point to it. When I am kind and selfless, when I do God's justice and love mercy, I help illuminate real love -- sacrificial love -- where it daily dwells. And it lives between and betwixt all of us, in every space and nook and cranny where common, flawed people exist in a state of common, flawed, happy, healthy "family."

Owen and I didn't have a smooth or perfect morning, but we had a mercy-filled one.