Yesterday Grace and Mia were sharing in one of their favorite activities, namely, hanging on Mommy's legs while I put on my makeup.
Suddenly Grace looked up at our bedroom wall as if she'd never seen it before. Looking at our wedding picture, she exclaimed, "Hey! There's Dad with a lady!" I should have let it die right there, but it was early in the day and I still needed more blows to my ego.
"Grace, who is that lady?"
"I dunno. It's just a lady."
"Grace! That's mommy! That's mom and dad when we got married before you were born."
Long pause. Grace looks at me carefully, then back to the picture.
"Nope. It's just a lady. It's Dad getting married with a different lady."
The diet started yesterday.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Friday, September 01, 2006
Well, in that case.....
Mia is quickly perfecting the art of being the ultimate annoying little sister. Her favorite is touching, poking, jabbing, and otherwise tormenting Grace, just enough to elicit a scream but not enough that she risks really getting in trouble.
The other day Grace was laying on the couch trying to drink her nighttime milk. Mia walked up and began poking her in the face with one finger. Eventually Grace yelled. "Mom, Mia's poking me!" Since I was sitting right there and had seen the whole thing, I responded in predictable Mom-fashion, "Mia, stop poking your sister."
Mia glanced at me to acknowledge the warning, then reared back and began headbutting Grace in the face. Much more sharply, I said, "Mia! I told you to stop touching your sister!"
With all the aggravated and injured dignity that a two-year old can muster, she corrected me: "I not touching Grace--I just bonking her."
Oh, well in that case, carry on.
Ah, toddlers.
The other day Grace was laying on the couch trying to drink her nighttime milk. Mia walked up and began poking her in the face with one finger. Eventually Grace yelled. "Mom, Mia's poking me!" Since I was sitting right there and had seen the whole thing, I responded in predictable Mom-fashion, "Mia, stop poking your sister."
Mia glanced at me to acknowledge the warning, then reared back and began headbutting Grace in the face. Much more sharply, I said, "Mia! I told you to stop touching your sister!"
With all the aggravated and injured dignity that a two-year old can muster, she corrected me: "I not touching Grace--I just bonking her."
Oh, well in that case, carry on.
Ah, toddlers.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Mothering, Identity & Loss
This is from a Mother's Day message I posted to an online infertility group.
I want to give a special mother's day note to those who have lost a child in some way, whether through miscarriage, stillbirth, death, failed adoptions or any other way.
As this mother's day has approached I've been pondering how my life has been defined by either my lack of children or by having them. But for children who leave too early, there's like a fuzzy gray spot in my mothering identity. I am their mom, or I was their mom, or something...however it works out, it's real. They are real and I am real and my mothering role for them is real. But I'm aware that when my friends and neighbors and ward members look at me they are seeing me as the mother of my active little girls--they aren't remembering the ones we've lost.
In a sense that's okay--I don't want to wear mourning the rest of my life, and my trust in God's eternal plan is also very real and tangible.But sometimes I wish I could introduce myself as not only the mom to Grace, Mia, and Mercie, but also to the others, named and not-yet-named, because they are as much a part of my mothering heart as the children who have stayed. On the rare occasions when a past loss does come up in conversation, I find myself reluctant to say the names of those children we've lost. It makes it more real. That seems to be uncomfortable for those around me.
If you've been in this place you know that each little spirit you mother, whether carried in your womb or nurtured in your arms or loved in your home--each one permanently and eternally changes something in you. Each child changes your heart and therefore your identity. You always exist as the pre-child mother and the mother who has been forever changed by connecting to that little soul.
On a day when we celebrate and honor our identity as mothers, it can be so very lonely to remember the babies and children who helped create us as mothers, the ones who aren't remembered by others yet will always be deeply missed in our hearts.
So to all of you who have lost a child you loved, I just want to honor your mother heart and affirm your identity as eternal mothers. I know the Lord binds up our broken hearts, but I also believe that He gives us the gift of remembrance, which can be painful at times, yet serves to validate the eternal nature of our precious relationships.
Hugs to all you mommies.
I want to give a special mother's day note to those who have lost a child in some way, whether through miscarriage, stillbirth, death, failed adoptions or any other way.
As this mother's day has approached I've been pondering how my life has been defined by either my lack of children or by having them. But for children who leave too early, there's like a fuzzy gray spot in my mothering identity. I am their mom, or I was their mom, or something...however it works out, it's real. They are real and I am real and my mothering role for them is real. But I'm aware that when my friends and neighbors and ward members look at me they are seeing me as the mother of my active little girls--they aren't remembering the ones we've lost.
In a sense that's okay--I don't want to wear mourning the rest of my life, and my trust in God's eternal plan is also very real and tangible.But sometimes I wish I could introduce myself as not only the mom to Grace, Mia, and Mercie, but also to the others, named and not-yet-named, because they are as much a part of my mothering heart as the children who have stayed. On the rare occasions when a past loss does come up in conversation, I find myself reluctant to say the names of those children we've lost. It makes it more real. That seems to be uncomfortable for those around me.
If you've been in this place you know that each little spirit you mother, whether carried in your womb or nurtured in your arms or loved in your home--each one permanently and eternally changes something in you. Each child changes your heart and therefore your identity. You always exist as the pre-child mother and the mother who has been forever changed by connecting to that little soul.
On a day when we celebrate and honor our identity as mothers, it can be so very lonely to remember the babies and children who helped create us as mothers, the ones who aren't remembered by others yet will always be deeply missed in our hearts.
So to all of you who have lost a child you loved, I just want to honor your mother heart and affirm your identity as eternal mothers. I know the Lord binds up our broken hearts, but I also believe that He gives us the gift of remembrance, which can be painful at times, yet serves to validate the eternal nature of our precious relationships.
Hugs to all you mommies.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Carrying Stones
It's official. We're committed. Baby number four is on the way home, and he is waiting for us over in China. Yes, I said he. We were so sure the next one was a girl, but surprise--he's not!
Truth be told, we knew back in March that this was our baby. But our entire China adoption efforts have been an uphill battle, and the financial end of things just wasn't working out the way it needed to, and it was just too scary to commit to follow through on bringing this little guy home.
We waited for a miracle, or at least a sign. Some glimmer that the uphill battle would end, and the rest of the road to this little one would be an easy one.
The big ol' miracle we were waiting for never came. It had been almost three months since we first found out about him. I think we were maybe secretly hoping that another family would come forward and then we could be sad but relieved because obviously we were wrong and he wasn't meant for us, and then we could move on. But at three months we knew we needed to make a decision.
So we prayed and fasted and went to the temple. And we realized that this was our baby, pure and simple. That's it. No blinding flash of inspiration telling us how this was all going to work out financially or how to adjust our bedroom situation to add one boy in with three girls, or melting away our concerns about meeting the needs of FOUR very little children. Just that he's ours, so get cracking on the paperwork and get him home!
A few days ago I found a Chinese proverb that I think I will frame and put in every room of our house: "If you want to move mountains you've got to start carrying stones." (How appropriate that it's a CHINESE proverb, huh?).
As we've built our family we've seen mountains moved. We know the Lord's hand is involved in bringing these babies home--no doubt about it. We've seen little teeny pebbles move out of the way and big old mountain ranges stand aside. For almost a year now we've been struggling to carry stones, to do everything we could and exercise all our faith that the Lord would make up the difference. We've already seen so very many miracles. It seems that every small leap of faith we take is rewarded a hundred-fold.
For some reason I think I expected that we'd reach a point where our part was done and we could sit back and watch the Lord do the rest of the work. Hmm....that doesn't work too well when my girls decide they've done enough cleaning in the front room and Mommy can just finish up. On the other hand, I love my girls. I know they are only 3 and 2, and so I gladly, happily do much more for them that they cannot do for themselves yet--washing their clothes, preparing their meals, cleaning up after them, bathing them. And I keep reminding them that they CAN do it as I try to teach them, step by step, how to do what I do.
The paradox of two promises is at work here. Just as Mercie is learning to walk and I can't do it for her no matter how I may want to, Heavenly Father knows perhaps that we can do more than we think we can. He knows, but we must learn that we can do it, too. Yet just as I will always come running when Mercie reaches the end of her rope, when she takes one too many tumbles, and can't try again--well, there's a time to be carried. One of my favorite poets, Carol Lynn Pearson, expressed it this way:
Time for the Gulls
It's time, Father
For the gulls, I think.
My arms shake
From flailing my field.
I sink
Broken as the little stalks
Beneath their devouring burden.
I yield it all to you
Who alone can touch all things.
It's time, Father
For the gulls.
I will be still
And listen for their wings.
(Picture Window: Carol Lynn Pearson Collection, Gold Leaf Press, 1996).
So--we're having a boy! A miracle boy (in more ways than one) who is just meant to be part of our family.
We're praying for mountains to move, to get this little guy home. In the meantime, we're singing happy songs and carrying stones.
Truth be told, we knew back in March that this was our baby. But our entire China adoption efforts have been an uphill battle, and the financial end of things just wasn't working out the way it needed to, and it was just too scary to commit to follow through on bringing this little guy home.
We waited for a miracle, or at least a sign. Some glimmer that the uphill battle would end, and the rest of the road to this little one would be an easy one.
The big ol' miracle we were waiting for never came. It had been almost three months since we first found out about him. I think we were maybe secretly hoping that another family would come forward and then we could be sad but relieved because obviously we were wrong and he wasn't meant for us, and then we could move on. But at three months we knew we needed to make a decision.
So we prayed and fasted and went to the temple. And we realized that this was our baby, pure and simple. That's it. No blinding flash of inspiration telling us how this was all going to work out financially or how to adjust our bedroom situation to add one boy in with three girls, or melting away our concerns about meeting the needs of FOUR very little children. Just that he's ours, so get cracking on the paperwork and get him home!
A few days ago I found a Chinese proverb that I think I will frame and put in every room of our house: "If you want to move mountains you've got to start carrying stones." (How appropriate that it's a CHINESE proverb, huh?).
As we've built our family we've seen mountains moved. We know the Lord's hand is involved in bringing these babies home--no doubt about it. We've seen little teeny pebbles move out of the way and big old mountain ranges stand aside. For almost a year now we've been struggling to carry stones, to do everything we could and exercise all our faith that the Lord would make up the difference. We've already seen so very many miracles. It seems that every small leap of faith we take is rewarded a hundred-fold.
For some reason I think I expected that we'd reach a point where our part was done and we could sit back and watch the Lord do the rest of the work. Hmm....that doesn't work too well when my girls decide they've done enough cleaning in the front room and Mommy can just finish up. On the other hand, I love my girls. I know they are only 3 and 2, and so I gladly, happily do much more for them that they cannot do for themselves yet--washing their clothes, preparing their meals, cleaning up after them, bathing them. And I keep reminding them that they CAN do it as I try to teach them, step by step, how to do what I do.
The paradox of two promises is at work here. Just as Mercie is learning to walk and I can't do it for her no matter how I may want to, Heavenly Father knows perhaps that we can do more than we think we can. He knows, but we must learn that we can do it, too. Yet just as I will always come running when Mercie reaches the end of her rope, when she takes one too many tumbles, and can't try again--well, there's a time to be carried. One of my favorite poets, Carol Lynn Pearson, expressed it this way:
Time for the Gulls
It's time, Father
For the gulls, I think.
My arms shake
From flailing my field.
I sink
Broken as the little stalks
Beneath their devouring burden.
I yield it all to you
Who alone can touch all things.
It's time, Father
For the gulls.
I will be still
And listen for their wings.
(Picture Window: Carol Lynn Pearson Collection, Gold Leaf Press, 1996).
So--we're having a boy! A miracle boy (in more ways than one) who is just meant to be part of our family.
We're praying for mountains to move, to get this little guy home. In the meantime, we're singing happy songs and carrying stones.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Laying Hands on Baby Bug
As part of our religious beliefs, we adhere to the practice of laying on hands for blessings when people are sick or in need of extra divine help. Hands are placed on the recipient's head and a blessing is pronounced. This has not gone unnoticed by our daughters, who began asking for blessings when they were very small.
Our youngest daughter Mercie has big problems with chronic constipation, poor thing. If I don't zealously moniter her fruit juice intake (making sure she gets at least double what the other girls drink), she winds up straining and crying and laboring hard to move anything through down there.
The whole family knows all the signs--Mercie goes into her tell-tale pooping position, her face gets red, her whole body goes tense and she starts shaking, and heart-wrenching wails and crocodile tears appear. It seems to help a little when Mom or Dad hold her, so we try to rub her back and snuggle her till the moment (or the "movement") passes.
Mercie is in such obvious distress that her older sisters come running. They pat her and say, "It's okay, Mercie?" "You pooping, Mercie?" and other sisterly comments. One day Grace was patting Mercie and was obviously becoming quite worried about her. She snuggled her head in right next to Mercie's screaming head, put an arm around her, and began praying that Mercie would be able to poop and "have no more hurting in her bum-bum." Of course we thought it was adorable. Mercie promptly pooped, we thanked and praised Gracie, and a new protocol was established for Mercie's pooping problem.
I should have seen what was coming.
Yesterday the familiar signs began. I gathered Mercie in my arms and started singing in her ear. Grace and Mia gathered on either side of her. Mercie is already learning that her family will support and help her in EVERYTHING--even bowel movements.
Grace's eyes lit up with a flash of three-year old brilliance. " I give her a blessing, Mom!" She put her hands on Mercie's butt, where Mia promptly added her chubby little hands for added benefit. Over Mercie's crying Grace loudly gave her a blessing:
"Dear Heavenly Father, please help Mercie feel better. Please help her poop. Her bum-bum is hurting, poor little baby bug. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."
Okay, it's kind of silly and cute. But I'm glad that when Mercie is in a "tight spot" (I promise--no more dumb pooping puns), her sisters are gathered around, going through it with her. And I'm even happy to see them joining their fledgling religious beliefs with profound childlike practicality--after all, if the problem is in your bum-bum, why on earth would you lay hands on your head? And I am oh so glad that my girls are learning already that they can take ANY problem to the Lord, and He will help with anything, even Baby Bug's pooping problems.
Our youngest daughter Mercie has big problems with chronic constipation, poor thing. If I don't zealously moniter her fruit juice intake (making sure she gets at least double what the other girls drink), she winds up straining and crying and laboring hard to move anything through down there.
The whole family knows all the signs--Mercie goes into her tell-tale pooping position, her face gets red, her whole body goes tense and she starts shaking, and heart-wrenching wails and crocodile tears appear. It seems to help a little when Mom or Dad hold her, so we try to rub her back and snuggle her till the moment (or the "movement") passes.
Mercie is in such obvious distress that her older sisters come running. They pat her and say, "It's okay, Mercie?" "You pooping, Mercie?" and other sisterly comments. One day Grace was patting Mercie and was obviously becoming quite worried about her. She snuggled her head in right next to Mercie's screaming head, put an arm around her, and began praying that Mercie would be able to poop and "have no more hurting in her bum-bum." Of course we thought it was adorable. Mercie promptly pooped, we thanked and praised Gracie, and a new protocol was established for Mercie's pooping problem.
I should have seen what was coming.
Yesterday the familiar signs began. I gathered Mercie in my arms and started singing in her ear. Grace and Mia gathered on either side of her. Mercie is already learning that her family will support and help her in EVERYTHING--even bowel movements.
Grace's eyes lit up with a flash of three-year old brilliance. " I give her a blessing, Mom!" She put her hands on Mercie's butt, where Mia promptly added her chubby little hands for added benefit. Over Mercie's crying Grace loudly gave her a blessing:
"Dear Heavenly Father, please help Mercie feel better. Please help her poop. Her bum-bum is hurting, poor little baby bug. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."
Okay, it's kind of silly and cute. But I'm glad that when Mercie is in a "tight spot" (I promise--no more dumb pooping puns), her sisters are gathered around, going through it with her. And I'm even happy to see them joining their fledgling religious beliefs with profound childlike practicality--after all, if the problem is in your bum-bum, why on earth would you lay hands on your head? And I am oh so glad that my girls are learning already that they can take ANY problem to the Lord, and He will help with anything, even Baby Bug's pooping problems.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
FIghting for Jesus
Tonight we were listening to a song about Jesus as we took our new van through the car wash. I told the girls that Jesus would come back to earth again and we would see Him and be so happy, and He would hold all the children and bless them and hug them.
From her carseat Grace drew this big old scowl on her face and loudly informed me that she "don't like Jesus" and "she don't want to see Him."
Playing good girl to Gracie's *bad*, Mia promptly reassured me very earnestly that "Mia DO like Jesus, Mom."
That started a pint-size debate in the backseat that ended with Grace trying to slap Mia and Mia bashing Grace over the head with her fists.
Ah--the violence that has been done in the name of Jesus over the centuries--and it's now continuing in my car....
From her carseat Grace drew this big old scowl on her face and loudly informed me that she "don't like Jesus" and "she don't want to see Him."
Playing good girl to Gracie's *bad*, Mia promptly reassured me very earnestly that "Mia DO like Jesus, Mom."
That started a pint-size debate in the backseat that ended with Grace trying to slap Mia and Mia bashing Grace over the head with her fists.
Ah--the violence that has been done in the name of Jesus over the centuries--and it's now continuing in my car....
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The Trenches of Mommyhood: An Apology
When I had to title this blog, I mentally sorted through titles with enough over-analysis to do any Type-A personality proud. I knew that dealing with the daily realities of family life would be the overwhelming focus of my posts. "life in the trenches" seems like an accurate summation of my life most days.
Yet the phrase also suggests direct conflict and aggression--a war or battle with high stakes. After all, those in the trenches are the foot soldiers, the trenches are generally the places with the highest casualties in any battle. Trench warfare denotes brutal realities of war--bugs, disease, death, hunger, physical discomfort, and ever-present danger. If I'm in the trenches of motherhood, who and what am I fighting? Although there are times that it feels like every interaction with a two-year old is a battle worthy of any WWII vet, I really don't have an adversarial relationship with my kids.
It didn't seem to apply, yet I couldn't get the phrase out of my mind. Then I realized that I am perfectly justified in using it because I am very much in a war here, and the stakes could not be higher. Along with millions of other parents, I am a foot soldier, and the danger is real and ever-present, and no matter how uncomfortable the battles might be at times, I'm in this for the long haul.
I'm at war with everyone and everything that sees my children as potential sexual objects. Internet predators, child molesters, even hypersexed advertising that tries to entice my babies to grow up faster than they should--it's an all out war and I'll do whatever I can to protect my kids.
I'm at war with anyone who would keep my child back and prevent her from reaching her full potential. While politicians, teacher's unions, pundits, and administrators argue over who should control our children's education and how it should best be achieved and measured, I fight for my kids' right to learn. And not just the right to learn, but I fight to give them education, too. Reading at bedtime, counting peas on a plate, sorting colors in laundry, discussing where butterflies come from--this is a rather enjoyable aspect of foot-soldiering.
I'm at war with aggressive assaults on family time. While there are many worthwhile things in the world that clearly have value to many, I know when all is said and done what is accomplished within our home is the most important achievement in the world. There isn't a whole lot I can do for widespread global suffering and inequity, but I can raise conscientious, thoughtful, engaged citizens who will continue to make a difference in their own worlds. Accomplishing this goal, however, takes time. Time together as a family, not engaged in individual pursuits, not in front of the TV. Like the most zealous sentry in high-stakes battles, I guard my family's time.
I'm at war with those who believe my children are worth less because of external labels. We're a multiracial family, and our children have a variety of stories to tell about how they arrived here. They each have unique challenges and marvelous strengths. It amazes me how many people want to pigeonhole them because of their own prejudices and stupid thinking. I'm at war against racism, sexism, bigotry, and prejudice in any form. Hopefully the world my children inherit will be a more tolerant, more aware one.
I'm at war with confused values that give my kids distorted views of moral reality. I often hear the phrase "family values," and I'm not sure what the heck that means. To me, morality is very simple. Love other people. Forgive them. Serve them. Honor God. Do good things. That is the essence of what I want to instill in my children. Yet all too often *values* becomes a confused label that applies more to political rhetoric or denominational debate.
I'm at war with a super-materialistic culture that leads families into extreme debt and extreme unhappiness. The emphasis on having and getting "things" hurts parents and children both. I'm counterattacking within my domain by striving for simplicity and focusing on what brings TRUE joy in life.
This list could probably go on and on. The enemy is out there. Yep, it's really a war. Welcome to life in the trenches.
Yet the phrase also suggests direct conflict and aggression--a war or battle with high stakes. After all, those in the trenches are the foot soldiers, the trenches are generally the places with the highest casualties in any battle. Trench warfare denotes brutal realities of war--bugs, disease, death, hunger, physical discomfort, and ever-present danger. If I'm in the trenches of motherhood, who and what am I fighting? Although there are times that it feels like every interaction with a two-year old is a battle worthy of any WWII vet, I really don't have an adversarial relationship with my kids.
It didn't seem to apply, yet I couldn't get the phrase out of my mind. Then I realized that I am perfectly justified in using it because I am very much in a war here, and the stakes could not be higher. Along with millions of other parents, I am a foot soldier, and the danger is real and ever-present, and no matter how uncomfortable the battles might be at times, I'm in this for the long haul.
I'm at war with everyone and everything that sees my children as potential sexual objects. Internet predators, child molesters, even hypersexed advertising that tries to entice my babies to grow up faster than they should--it's an all out war and I'll do whatever I can to protect my kids.
I'm at war with anyone who would keep my child back and prevent her from reaching her full potential. While politicians, teacher's unions, pundits, and administrators argue over who should control our children's education and how it should best be achieved and measured, I fight for my kids' right to learn. And not just the right to learn, but I fight to give them education, too. Reading at bedtime, counting peas on a plate, sorting colors in laundry, discussing where butterflies come from--this is a rather enjoyable aspect of foot-soldiering.
I'm at war with aggressive assaults on family time. While there are many worthwhile things in the world that clearly have value to many, I know when all is said and done what is accomplished within our home is the most important achievement in the world. There isn't a whole lot I can do for widespread global suffering and inequity, but I can raise conscientious, thoughtful, engaged citizens who will continue to make a difference in their own worlds. Accomplishing this goal, however, takes time. Time together as a family, not engaged in individual pursuits, not in front of the TV. Like the most zealous sentry in high-stakes battles, I guard my family's time.
I'm at war with those who believe my children are worth less because of external labels. We're a multiracial family, and our children have a variety of stories to tell about how they arrived here. They each have unique challenges and marvelous strengths. It amazes me how many people want to pigeonhole them because of their own prejudices and stupid thinking. I'm at war against racism, sexism, bigotry, and prejudice in any form. Hopefully the world my children inherit will be a more tolerant, more aware one.
I'm at war with confused values that give my kids distorted views of moral reality. I often hear the phrase "family values," and I'm not sure what the heck that means. To me, morality is very simple. Love other people. Forgive them. Serve them. Honor God. Do good things. That is the essence of what I want to instill in my children. Yet all too often *values* becomes a confused label that applies more to political rhetoric or denominational debate.
I'm at war with a super-materialistic culture that leads families into extreme debt and extreme unhappiness. The emphasis on having and getting "things" hurts parents and children both. I'm counterattacking within my domain by striving for simplicity and focusing on what brings TRUE joy in life.
This list could probably go on and on. The enemy is out there. Yep, it's really a war. Welcome to life in the trenches.
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