there you go

There you go, working good from my bad
There you go, making robes from my rags
There you go, melting crowns from my calves
There you go, working good of all I have
Till all I have is not that bad.
-Caedmon’s Call, “There You Go” 

I am bone tired.  This work of caring for the Little Ones is hard work.  It is all consuming, and refining.  At this point my daily task is triage: managing whatever need is most pressing.  It is delicate, often, to understand priority.

Today went something like this:  home from the grocery store, the drive a bit long for all, Littlest wanting to nurse and punctuating our drive with cries to let us know.  Into the house we go, arms full of Little Ones and cold groceries.  Get the salmon and yogurt in the fridge – all else can wait.  Scoop up the Littlest, new diaper and then to the breast.  Another new diaper.  Feuding bigger kids, screams demanding intervention.  Half dressed Littlest goes into the swing to deal with the escalating tantrum of the Eldest:  show down.  Finish up that diaper change.  Middlest in potty crisis necessitating new underwear.  Back to the breast.  Burp, burp — uh oh!  Spit up everywhere: couch, my shirt, my pants, soaked through to my underwear; new outfits for Littlest and me.  Gather the laundry, scoop the detergent, lid closed on the machine. Did I mention it’s lunchtime?  Hungry Little Ones, and the rest of the groceries are still in the car.  On it goes, a full hour since we’ve been home, and I’m finally putting the last box of rice away.

The needs are pressing and persistent.  Somewhere in there I find time to slather a piece of french bread with peanut butter, and pee.

We’ve been stuck together, in this space, for some time as we’ve battled sickness in the midst of life with a newborn.  My mom suggested a few fun ideas that might freshen up our playtime: an indoor beach picnic,  for instance.  I nodded, loving the thought of it all, but knowing deep in my body that I do not have what it takes right now to orchestrate even that.  So we stick with the old favorites: we read, we color, we breath and we move on.

This season for me is about offering up what little I have, in faith.  Faith that my love is communicated in the daily chores of mothering.  Faith that these seeds are being planted, to sprout with fullness in due time.  Faith that this work is forming beauty and rightness and tender love deep in my heart, in their hearts. My offering is this tired body, it is my less-than-enthusiastic make believe games.  It is my voice reading to the Little Ones, less dramatically than it was last week.  It is days in pajamas, and one too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  I offer it all, giving more fully than I knew I was capable.  It is received, and redeemed.  I know it is made better, more full.  I am certain that my Little Ones will know this desperate love that I carry for them, as they will know the burning love of the One who redeems it all.

This work is refining.  This work is humbling.  This work is revealing.  It is beautifying, and mystifying.  I give it all as my prayer, my living sacrifice.

 

the inquisition

“Mommy, what is this song called?”  
“Mommy, why is orange juice yellow?”
“How do the bakers make strawberries?”

The Eldest has always been a cleverly curious boy.  But recently, his level of questioning has reached a new high.  His constant questioning has pushed my level of patience, and has shown me, in more than a few ways, how little I actually know.

Somewhere along the line he got the idea that bakers are responsible for making things.  Not just things like bread and cookies, but all things.  Mostly, as we’re sitting down to eat a meal, I’m fielding questions that go something like this: “Mommy, how do the bakers make pretzels?”  And so I explain, to the best of my knowledge, throwing a little flour in, a bit of water, and always the salt.  He thinks hard about that, swallowing a bite of sandwich.  And then “Mommy, how do the bakers make forks?”  He really wants to know where forks come from, how they are made.  Here’s the other thing:  if I really thought about it, I could parse out the particulars.  I could tell him about the factory, how the fork gets packaged and shipped to a store.  And the worst thing?  Mostly, because my life is the hectic mess of the Littles, mostly, I brush off his questions, spout some quick answer that doesn’t satisfy.  Mostly, because it’s the twenty third question he’s asked in ten minutes, I get frustrated that his constant curiosity is getting in my way.  Because the Littlest is crying, and the Middlest is spreading peanut butter on the table with her fingers, I sigh and offer an exasperated “they just do.”

The other day we were driving home from Target, taking some back roads because the day was beautiful and with no place to be we were taking “the pretty way” home.  It doesn’t take much around here to get away from the more developed strip malls and traffic lights to find gently sloping country lanes, crossing small creeks over single lane rickety bridges.  As we drove, from the back seat he asks “Why is this a hill?”  Mark and I caught each other’s eye in the front of the car, and Mark breathed in deeply before beginning to formulate some sort of answer.  I can’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something having to do with God creating the earth.  Then, not even a full beat later, “Why is it so steep?”  I sighed, and landed on the answer that I give probably too frequently: “It just is, buddy.”

As a grown up, I don’t have that feverish curiousity about the world that my four year old so desperately has.  I’ve come to accept things just the way they are, for better or for worse.  When I actually slow down enough to listen carefully through the relentless curious chatter, I hear his hunger to know the world around him.  I see his eyes, wide with wonder, and a desire to make sense of what he witnesses.   It betrays his wild intelligence, and who am I to squash that?  While it may seem like he is pestering me for attention in moments when he is not getting it, ultimately when he is asking me as we are merging on the highway “Why are we driving fast?” it’s not because he is trying to be a nuisance.  No, instead it’s because this observant boy has noticed the change in his environment, this shift in our momentum, and with his foot firmly planted on his imaginary gas pedal, he wants to make sense of it all.

Just as much as I need to slow down, exert a more patient ear and give the straight forward answer that the Eldest is looking for, I am ready to embrace an honest confession, humbly offering up the limits to my knowledge when I don’t have an answer.  I want to search out answers with him. I want his curiosity to be contagious, to kindle in me a desire to be drawn with him into a deeper relationship with the world. As he grows, his questions will grow, gaining strength and importance as he tackles the Big Questions. I want to give him permission to ask ,over and over again, challenging the status quo:  To give light to the world’s injustices, always asking “why?” 

But for now, this will be my soundtrack:
“Who sings this song?”
“How do bees make honey?”
At a three in the morning: “How did God make everything?”
And on it goes.

 

{this moment}

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. ~inspired by SouleMama

when i am certainly not (enough)

When I chose enough as my “one word” for this year, I didn’t realize that it would be such a challenge. 

Roll with it.  Go with the flow.  Usually I think I’m pretty good at this.  I mean, I think it’s actually one of my strengths, being able to just go with whatever is happening instead of digging in my heels and bucking the tide.  But still it happens where even in my best, most easy-going, yoga-breath moments it all becomes too much, and I find myself struggling to find that place of “enough.” And when I’m not at my best?  Well, that was this weekend.

Friday morning started early, and I’m sure that I wasn’t rested enough anyway.  No school because of the holiday weekend meant that we were not constrained to any particular routine, for better or worse.  The day was shaping up to be pretty special, though, because we were anticipating a visit from  long distance cousins (more playmates!), Daddy was coming home early, and it was my mom’s birthday with plenty of celebrating to do.  But waiting is the hardest part, and our visitors weren’t set to arrive until just before lunch, and then were waylaid due to traffic and traveling difficulties, and so it was that we were on pins and needles, waiting, waiting.  I did my best to occupy the Little Ones, trying to infuse semi-tired activities with new enthusiasm (Playdoh! Let’s make a feast! I’ll roll the hot dogs, you make the pancakes!)

We had a wonderful visit with cousins not seen often enough, so thankful are we for their dedication and love for us, and the welcome distraction of a well-played afternoon.  Daddy came home early, but with kids climbing up his legs and hanging from his back, he confessed that he wasn’t feeling well and needed to lie down.  (Didn’t see that coming, did I?  Roll with it). And so it was that while the Little Ones skipped their afternoon naps because of our guests, Mark spent the afternoon in bed.  We hugged our cousins good bye and sent them off, late afternoon cresting into early evening.  After I checked on Mark, and it was clear that he was in no shape to join in the birthday celebrations for my mom, I tromped around the house coming to terms with my own ragged tiredness.  The kids whined about not seeing their dad.  I was all too glad to have some place else to go.  I threw a pack of Saltines at Mark, said a quick “good bye” and half-hearted “hope you feel better,” and felt less enough than I have ever been.

Roll with it.  Right.  As the Littlest is buckled into his infant car seat, screaming, and the bigger kids are taking too long to get their shoes on.  As I realize that the Middlest has pooped in her underwear.  To the bathroom we go, screaming infant in tow.  As, once that is sorted, we all manage to get into the car, buckled up, I open the garage door and see Mark’s car blocking our way.  As the Littlest screams, and cries, and I can’t get this car moving soon enough to lure that guy into the sleep he so desperately wants.  Enough.  Somewhere in there is enough, but I couldn’t find it.

It was a long evening, after a long day, and once the bigger kids (who were so great) were tucked into bed, full up on birthday cake, I scurried around trying to figure out how to survive what I knew was to be a long night by myself.  The Littlest and I slept in the other bedroom, after I created a makeshift space for the two of us to snuggle.  And yes, it was a long night, but joy comes in the morning, right?  With heavy eyes, heavy body I nervously tapped on my bedroom door that next morning, wanting nothing more than to see a rejuvenated husband and daddy.  It was a rocky start, and I’m not sure our weekend ever recovered.

I have been less than graceful this weekend, less than gracious.  My momentum to roll with things dried up somewhere around 5pm on Friday, and was clearly not enough to last the weekend.  What makes this even harder for me is knowing that Mark will start a night shift on Monday, throwing our days on end for an indefinite period of time.  This weekend left me dried up already, so clearly not enough to handle what little was being asked of me.  And yet, in my absolute weakness I turned not to the One who redeems that, but instead threw my hands up, acting out in bitterness.

I don’t know what this week will look like, as Mark trades his normal working hours for ones that are skewed in awkward directions.  I hope that I will reclaim my ability to go with the flow a bit more, to recognize where we can be pliable.  I am certain that I will find my edges, and be made to see more clearly what “enough” looks like, in what I offer up, and in what I receive.

{this moment}

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. ~inspired by SouleMama