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Legacy of Love

The doctors said you weren’t going to come home.

1 in 10 chance, they said.

Lungs are just too full, body is just too frail.

Is your will updated?

Have you said all you need to your sweetheart of 65+ years?

My mom had to ask you, had to be sure.

Your daughter, wondering if her dad would be around for Christmas.

 

Why are you crying, Mama? 

My kids wanted to know.

I told them I probably wouldn’t get to see my Grandad again.

They prayed for you to get better and for Grandmom to not be too sad.

We facetimed to say goodbye after the kids went to bed.

You joked about how you were doing, and asked about our lives in the Lonestar state.

We hung up and said hopefully to each other, He seems ok?

 

I woke up throughout the night to check my phone.

Would we be going to Colorado earlier than we planned?

Wearing black instead of festive red and green?

Christmas is your favorite, I think.

Always has been.

The family all gathered to celebrate His birth.

 

Skits and stockings.

Cookies and chaos.

Sometimes snow, and sometimes sun.

Always games and always laughter.

Legacy of love strengthening year after year.

Would you be here to see it this time?

We didn’t know. 

 

Lungs are clear!

Surgery went well!

He’s going home on Monday!

Christmas is on Thursday!

 

You beat the odds.

Stubborn will and onery genes keeping you this side of the now and not yet.

Would it have been the same if Christmas wasn’t so close?

If you hadn’t had a trove full of memories and a quiver full of people bolstering you afloat?

Science says, maybe not.

We weren’t meant to be alone, our bodies know as well as our minds.

You sat in your worn in brown recliner, watching us tear into gifts you and grandmom painstakingly wrapped.

We filled your living room with laughter and chaos once again.

Our kids bringing to mind the years we were young.

Throwing stuff down the laundry chute.

Banging too loud on the organ.

Four generations under your roof.

 

You smiled with tears in your eyes as you told us going to your grandparents’ house for Christmas held some of your favorite memories.

Keep gathering, kids – you said, as we sat round.

Families like ours are rare, you stressed.

We nodded because we know.

 

We know because some of our favorite childhood memories were made in your house at Christmas.

Not because the food was so good (although it was).

Not because the presents were plentiful (even though they were).

Not because California kids loved the snow (but we sure did).

It’s because your house and the people in it were familiar.

Familiar in the way that allows for belly laughs and goofy pictures to abound.

Familiar in the way that brought forth long nights around dominoes and basement shenanigans.

Familiar in the way that let us know we were part of something that exceeded state lines and time passed.

 

Warmth infused with care.

Laughs infused with love.

Family.

Not perfect by any means but tied together by knowledge that we are loved.

You and grandmom built this legacy of love, founded on Love Himself.

And boy, am I glad you were around this Christmas to see how we are all trying to continue that legacy.

Run.Fight.Hide.

Run

My baby is fast.

So fast, she beats all the kids in all the races. 

Her body moves quick, with strength and speed. 

My baby is so fast.

But she can’t outrun a bullet.

Fight

My baby is tough.

She stands up to school bullies.

Looks them in the eye and loudly yells, “Stop that!

My baby is so tough.

But, please God, dont let her stand up to a bully who has been given a gun.

She’s not tougher than a bullet.

Hide

My baby is sneaky.

She finds the best spots during family hide and seek.

Squeezes her body into tight, dark places.

My baby is so sneaky.

But…would she stay hidden if her friends were getting shot?

We’ve taught her to be a helper… so would she stay hidden from a bullet?

Oh, God, my baby.

All of our babies.

Let Us Lament

Sometimes – like these times – I don’t feel like raising a hallelujah. 

I don’t feel like singing of thankfulness and peace. 

I don’t want to sing about glory and goodness or beauty and gifts.

Sometimes – I don’t feel like singing the Psalmist’s praises in the church pew.

In these time. 

I want to utter a cry of lament.

I want to 

whisper tear filled whys

shout an anger filled how could you-

not save them…

let it pass…

allow this…

hide your face…

I want to add to the Psalmist’s anguished pleas while donning sack cloth to wallow in despair – in tune with the mamas wailing beside their daughters’ empty beds.

And so… I lament.

I cry out to the One who can hear.

And ask for

intervention

comfort

remembrance 

Hope.

Because although I don’t understand, I still believe our God is a God who can handle our raging, and holds us as we weep.

Investing time in our kids now will change their whole world

We try to be intentional about spending 1:1 time with each of our three kiddos. Special dates with Mama and Dada.

Because it doesn’t cost much to make a kid’s day.

To focus your sole attention on their little eyes, listen with your whole brain to the vast worlds inside theirs.

Maybe while some ice cream dribbles down their chin, and markers smudge their fingers.

They giggle and smile and whisper, “this is so fun, right Mama?”

They stand a little taller as they march to the car, asking to push the cart since big sis and little brother aren’t there to squabble for attention. They smirk a little while saying, “I wonder what dada is doing with them at home while we have all the fun.”

Schedules might get disrupted a bit to make that special time. Bedtime starting a little later, making your adult time that night a little shorter. But really, what a small cost to pay.

To remind your baby they are worthy of your time, deserving of your attention, and the object of your love. Just for being them. Just for being yours.

It doesn’t cost much to make a kid’s day.

But it makes all the difference in the world.

And those babies of ours, they are worth it. Oh goodness, are they worth it.

It’s the little moments that bring big feels as a Mama.

You never know what’s going to get you as a parent. What’s going to hit you right in the feels. There are the things you expect – their first birthday, when they can say “I love you,” first day of daycare or school, etc. These things you expect and can sort of prepare for, but those random things? Those weird things that just happen and all of a sudden you are tearing up at a stop light on a Friday morning on the routine drive to daycare? You can’t prepare your heart for those things.

This past week, my baby boy started singing along to the song I’ve been singing to him since he was born. And let me tell you, apparently that’s one of those things.

I heard his quiet little voice pipe up from his car seat behind me, “blues…dreams….sweet baby James”. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw his little face was lit up with half a grin, like he understood this song was for him. Granted, it has his name in it, so it’s sort of a giveaway, but still. It was a shy little smile, like, “oh, mama’s been singing this song about me, to me.” He’s two, so I know the thoughts in his little brain aren’t that complex, but I still think he got it.

We made eye contact in the mirror and his smile widened as he said, “mo’! Mo’ sweet baby James?”

Of course, my boy. Always. Always more.

Maybe it was because there was this song playing on the CD that I’d been softly singing to him since that first night in the hospital, when he fit in Mama’s arms and instinctively knew they were his safe place. And now, he’s a toddler the size of a five year old, who tries his best to fit in Mama’s arms and has learned that they are still his safe place to run. Where there is always more room, more snuggles, more love. Always more.

Or perhaps, it was because it was so quiet with only him in the car because his older sisters were off on a “starting kindergarten and second grade” adventure with Daddy; making me realize this would be the commute the next couple of years. Just him and me on the way to daycare because my other two babies had outgrown yet another stage of childhood. My baby of babies, the last for my mama heart to plead for more memories, more snuggles, more time. Always more.

Probably, it was becuase I pictured, right there in the van, him and I dancing to Sweet Baby James at his wedding. Him towering over me in his man body, whispering in my ear as we slowly twirl, “More? More sweet baby James, mama?.”

I’ll look up into those dark brown eyes I’ve been drinking in for years and years and say, “Of course, my boy. Always. Always more, my sweet sweet baby James.”

Always and forever, more.

Stay close to me, my love.

Stay close, my love.

Right now it comes natural, as you totter and play. You take a few steps, then turn back around, checking that Mama hasn’t wandered away. So natural in fact, that sometimes I might say, “Can’t you ask someone else?” as you claw at my leg for the hundredth time today.

Stay close, my love.

When you start to drift just a little bit further and you no longer need Mama’s hand on your shoulder. You’ll climb and you’ll jump and you’ll get that much taller. While I’m watching on, my arms feeling just a bit colder.

Stay close, my love.

When you and your friends stay out late in the night, having gone to the game out under the lights. You’ll forget to call home to say it’s run late, and I’ll be pacing the floor trying not to worry with all of my might. The door will ease open and you’ll head up the stairs, anger melting away as I hear, “Love you Mom, Goodnight.”

Stay close, my love.

When you pack up your car and family of your own, waving out the window as you make your way home. Home to a place that is miles away, where the fastest way to reach you is to pick up the phone. I hope that you’ll call when you’re feeling alone, call your Mama for help, even once you are grown.

Stay close, my love.

No matter how tall you may get, or how far you go, Our hearts are connected, and I want you to know:

My love for you baby boy, will forever continue to grow.

Childbirth is the Magical Undoing

There is magic to be witnessed if you visit someone who has just given birth. A deep primal magic.

Indescribable power and strength marrying brokenness and unmatched vulnerability. It thickens the air, new mama drenched in the union. You can’t help but stare, in awe, at her. Sitting on a throne of bloody pads and swollen body parts, she is regal. She is breathtaking.

Animalistic energy sweats off her, adrenaline retreating to make way for the fiercer chemical etching new pathways in cortices that cannot be unmade.  Disheveled, in pain, exhausted – radiant. Beauty like nothing you’ve seen before.

She may resemble the person you had lunch with a few days prior, chatting excitedly about how she hopes her baby comes soon…but she is not the same. You feel it. She feels it. Something has shifted.

She has been undone.

And it is in the undoing that she’s become.

The unraveling of what and who she used to be, has spun a new being into existence. Nine months in the making, coming to a beautiful completion in the matter of hours.

The juxtaposing experiences of every muscle of the body being strained and pushed to their limits, intense pain, possibly even trauma, giving way to life and a new form of love impossible to describe.

Terrifying. Beautifully soul wrenching. Glorious. Sacred.

The every day event of giving birth is inexplicably miraculous. And the birth giver… that new Mama you are visiting?

She is pure magic.

Our Kids Deserve Moms Who Ask for Their Forgiveness

I forgot my daughter’s first kindergarten assignment today. Not like, it was the first time I forgot, no… it was her first assignment ever (really, my first assignment) and I forgot to do it. It was simple – take a picture of her getting ready for school and bring it by September 3rd. Noooo problem, I told myself when I read it in her folder last Friday. I’ll get it done this weekend.

LOL.

My little kinder girl reminded me on Monday – “Mom, I need to bring my picture in!”

“No, no. Not until Friday. We have time. But let’s go ahead and take it.” I said, still confident I’d successfully be putting a printed picture in her folder for her to take in on Friday.

We took the pictures. Her pulling on her socks, backpack, and mask with exaggerated slowness so I could snap a couple pictures. Phew. Halfway there.

Wednesday came around, as it always does, and I was met with, “Maammmaaa, I need my picture!”

“Oh yes. I know. I’ll get it printed. You don’t need it until Friday, it’s ok.” My Wednesday-self reassured her as I bounced a crying baby and ushered her 3-yr old sister to the living room to get ready.

But. Then I slept for 3 hours Wednesday night because my sick 3month old was wheezing and coughing all night.

Sooooo when Thursday came around, I was running on caffeine and mom-power; y’all know that combo, right? So OF COURSE that’s when I found out my work had messed up my return from maternity leave and I’d somehow been removed from the payroll so I’d essentially been working for free for the past month. And, OF COURSE, as I was sending emails to HR, the nurse from the kindergarten called and said my daughter had been directly exposed last week to a classmate who had tested positive with COVID. I started googling where to find a rapid test available in the city, wondering if all the urgent care wait times of “548 minutes” were accurate, and asking my husband if I should just have her skip gymnastics (her fav part of the week) and take her with me to the pediatrician appointment I had for our son in a few hours to beg them to test her while we were there. He picked her up from school and we played car swap in the driveway as I made it to the doctor only five minutes late.

I got work sorted, got 2 of my 3 kids tested for COVID (both negative, thankfully), gave my wheezing baby a few puffs from his newly prescribed inhaler and Tylenol for his double ear infections, fed my kids fabulously healthy Happy Meals – then put them all to bed. I promptly sat on the couch with some cookie dough and watched an episode of Scrubs with my husband before going to bed.

Enter this morning. “Mama, I need my picture.”

Ugh.

Mom-guilt smacked me full in the face.

“Sorry, I don’t have it. I forgot and I don’t have it.”

“But, I need it! I’m supposed to have it!”

“I know, but I don’t have it. Tell your teacher I forgot and I’ll bring it later.” My voice starting to rise.

“But maaammmaaaa.”

“I’ve had a hard week! I can’t do everything for all of you all of the time!!!!”

Ugh.

It just came out. Mom of the year over here…

Her quiet little voice spoke up, “It’s not for me, it’s for my teacher…”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll go get it printed and drop it off, ok? It’ll be ok.” I felt my face get hot and my eyes start to burn as my husband left to drop her and her little sister off at their respective schools for the day.

I felt terrible guys- this was not my best parenting moment. This was not the social media worthy moment of love and affection between mother and daughter.

Was the picture a big deal? No, absolutely not. I messaged her teacher, had the picture printed at CVS, and dropped it off to her school all before her teacher even responded with, “No worries, I’ll be accepting pictures all month.”

But it was the fact I had forgotten. I’d disappointed my little girl who loves school and wants so badly to please her teacher, and then lashed out in anger when what I was really feeling was guilt for forgetting, overwhelm with the whole week, frustration with myself for not being able to do it all, and mostly – exhaustion.

Parenting? Is hard. Being a parent to small children in the middle of an on-going, no-end in sight, pandemic? Is very hard.

And I felt it this past week. And I’ll likely feel it again. And again. And again.

When juggling kids, work, a marriage, household chores, church small group meetings, extracurricular activities, etc. … Sometimes, assignments are going to be forgotten. Kids are going to get sick. Dinner is going to come from a drive-thru window. Work reports are going to be rushed. Pajamas are going to be worn to daycare. Showers are going to be fast. Laundry piles will be mountainous. Sleep will be seldom. And yes, tempers will be short. Words will be said in tones or intentions not rooted in love. These things will happen.

And apologies will need to be made.

As parents – we are NOT going to be perfect. We just aren’t. We can try our best, and be pretty darn great most of the time. But there are still going to be balls that get dropped from the juggling act we are doing on the daily. And sometimes, unfortunately, that dropping is going to be cause for apology to our kiddos. Not an angry, sassy, “Well, sorry – I don’t have it!” but a big hug after school and a, “I’m really sorry for forgetting your picture and for talking to you the way I did this morning. I was upset with myself, not you. Do you forgive me? And do you want some ice cream?”

I think it’s important that we acknowledge our humanness to our kids, and model humility by asking for their forgiveness when that humanness hurts their feelings.

It’s hard and uncomfortable and takes work. But our kids? They are so so worth it.

So, excuse me. I have to go get some ice cream ready for my girl. ❤

Your Last Day of Daycare is a Bittersweet Farewell

This is the part that gets me.

Come Monday morning, I’ll be rushing to get you and your younger siblings out the door and into the car so we can make it to the various drop off spots on time. I’ve been doing this routine for 5.5years now. Getting you ready, helping you get ready, and now- just telling you to get ready, loading up the car, and dropping you off to learn and play while I go to work. From drop off to pickup, we are apart for nine to ten hours a day.

So the twinge of leaving you or thinking of you being without me for a good chunk of the day? Doesn’t really twinge when I think of you starting Kindergarten in just two days.

Because you are a daycare kid.
From 11 weeks old until this very day- I’ve dropped you off and picked you up in this exact parking lot, five days a week.

Five and a half years ago, I walked through that door with you in my arms as a new little baby- my arms laden with too many bottles of pumped milk (because I didn’t know how many you’d need) and my spirit laden with worry about my first baby spending her day with strangers.

Today, you’ll bound out of that door, a full on kid- your long arms laden with art projects and your spirit laden with confidence because you’ve spent not just the day, but years, with people who know you and love you.

Those people fed you bottle after bottle when I wasn’t there to feed you myself. They helped you learn to walk and caught you when you fell – wiping away tears as my proxy. They taught you to spell your name and count to 100. I came to recognize the phone number that accompanied the familiar voice on the other end saying, “Not an emergency Mom, but…” informing me of yet another tumble you took from the playground, or of another “incident” you had with a friend.

These people that started off as strangers in a strange building became the faces and names you’d come to tell me about on the daily, in the place you’d come to think of as a second home.

My strong, emotional, wild-child of a girl. You are who you are because of genes, and your dad and my parenting, of course. But you are also who you are because of this place. Because of these wonderful people who not only let you be who you are, but encouraged it with love. And I know you won’t remember a lot of these first 5years when you grow up. But oh man, I will.

As your Mama, I’ll remember the complete relief I felt after realizing the people at your daycare not only kept you safe and fed, but happy and loved as well. I’ll remember the peace I had dropping you off day after day, being able to go to work and do my job without wondering how you were being treated all day. I’ll remember the excitement and joy on your face in the pictures and videos I received during the day from your teachers and the smile on mine in return.

So, on Monday, as you start your new adventure in Kindergarten, where you will learn all the things and make all the new friends, I’ll not be emotional that you’re growing up and leaving the house. Because you’ve been doing that for years.

It’s this part that gets me about this Kindergarten thing.
Your last day at this place that has come to feel like an extension of my love for you. A place filled with people I’ve trusted with you, my greatest joy, for five years.

So my love, if you climb in the van this afternoon after walking through that door for the very last time, and see that my eyes are puffy, know that I’m praying your next place will be as safe and secure for you as this one has been.

Because as your Mama, that’s all I really want for you. To feel loved and secure wherever you are, even if I can’t be there too.

Mama arms are strong, but Mama hearts are stronger

Mama arms are strong.
They carry and carry, lift and lift.
Making sure babies are held and toddlers corralled.
Muscles defined like never before.

Mama arms are strong.
They carry and carry, lift and lift.
Making sure lunches are made and backpacks are packed.
Loaded with bags as she heads out the door.

Mama arms are strong.
They carry and carry, lift and lift.
Making sure sheets are bought and pictures are hung.
Embracing in the dorm as she whispers, “Just one more”.

Mama arms are strong.
They carry and carry, lift and lift.
Making sure wedding details are sorted and hearts are at peace.
Wiping her eyes as the pair grace the dance floor.

Mama arms are strong.

But one day those physical arms won’t be needed to carry, won’t be able to lift.

And that is just fine.
Because those strong Mama arms?
They do their job well, but they merely represent.

Represent the strength and love of a Mama’s heart.

Because Mama hearts –
They carry and carry, lift and lift.

Carrying their babies close forever, no matter how big.
Lifting their love to the heavens to pour down on their kids, no matter how far.

Mama arms are strong, but only because the love in Mama hearts is far stronger.

And that strength lasts for always.