Seasons of Life

It's an interesting thing, life. We go through times, or seasons, where people often shrug off what we're feeling by saying, "Eh, it's a season of life. Enjoy it. It won't last long."

Here I am, only 30, and I feel like I've been through a million seasons. Some that weren't worth enjoying and others that have left behind memories I'll cherish forever. On second thought, I think that all of them have left behind at least ONE memory worth cherishing. Even if it is just how we got the heck out of there alive!

And here we find ourselves in some new seasons.

Young Family: There have been three, and soon there will be four. That's a crazy thing to think about and a big adjustment to make. With it come joys and triumphs . . . and heartaches. We had a great time camping, until Ellie fell out of the trailer and landed on her face. No real damage, but some real trauma--for Ellie because her cookie broke; for Mommy because my Ellie was lying in a heap at the bottom of the steps. We peed on the big girl potty. After three attempts, a minute amount actually came out! Yay! Real progress!!

Another thing that comes with this is being in the "child-bearing" season of life. Between August 2007 and May 2008, I know more than 15 people having babies!!

Adult Child: Even though I am the youngest in my family, somehow a lot seems to fall to me . . . my grandma (91 years old) lives with my mom. Since Dad is in Iraq, every time my realtor mom has to be out of town, Ellie and I pack up our lives and move to Mom's to stay with Grandma. The inevitable conversations about what to do with Grandma or about Grandma also fall to me. As does camping in October. It works, but it's more than awkward. I'd like to not be an adult child anymore.

Here I also grieve my father's absence. It's hard to keep in touch, but maybe that's because I'm lazy. I know it is no indication of my feelings for my dad or the degree of my missing him. He'll be home in January, and I know we'll cherish each moment we have. But I also know that he'll leave again until April. He won't meet Megan until she is 2 1/2 months old. That is hard. I also grieve my mom. She misses him so desperately, and her reflections on it don't match up with her actions toward it. My inclination is to withdraw from the whole situation . . . but I owe Ellie more than that somehow. I owe myself and my parents more than that, too.

The "Wedding" Season: I thought we were past this . . . and we were, for our college friends and such. We entered this season again, though, because I worked in youth ministry for four years. That saw three lovely ladies through four years of high school . . . through driving, dating, prom, graduation, college, and into adulthood. Amber is getting married March 15. Then she's moving to Oregon (another reason to visit!!). Sarah is getting married July 12. Then she's moving to grad school in Boston, NYC, Connecticut, or some other distant locale that would LOVE to be my family's vacation destination. Jillian is getting married at the end of September. Then she is staying in West Virginia--a long drive, but a lovely spot to see. The significance with these weddings is that we are no longer asked to be groomsmen, ushers, or bridesmaids. Instead, we're invited to serve as Master and Mistress of Ceremonies(!) for Sarah and Jillian, and Ellie is invited to be a flower girl for Jillian. Craziness. See how the seasons overlap?

I'm sure there are more. For instance, I can add At-home Mom, and Beau can soon (hopefully) add Grad School Student. In the mean time, we're just trying to figure out what these seasons look like for us, how to get out of some of them quickly or with our sanity, and how we can afford the others.

Growing up is strange. But it's also lovely. I'm glad to be in a place that I wasn't five years ago. The knowledge is great, and the progress is essential. It's also interesting to think of what labels we'll give our seasons five years from now. In all of GOd's wisdom, we can't identify those seasons yet. We don't know where the joys will come in or where the heartache will come in. All we know for certain is that we are loved. By many. And we are carried when we need it, and we carry when they need it.

And that's the greatest beauty.

Are you going through a dry spell
I was there awhile ago
Now I've come to a place where the rain falls
Where the trees bear fruit and grow
Where I find a refuge in my God
It's a place of surrender I know
I look at God and see what I want to be
He looks at me and sees His own

Seasons change
And then they pass
No way to know how long they'll last
I'd love to know the reason why
But God knows
Seasons change
- Seasons Change, Crystal Lewis

Being a Mom and Embarking on New Adventures

I've been awake for four hours so far today. That doesn't count the times I woke up while I meant to be sleeping. It's been a busy four hours, and Ellie has cried for almost all of them. There was a peaceful hour before she woke up, but then all hell--and runny noses--seems to have broken loose. I don't know what brought it on.

My head finally was aching so badly that I carried her upstairs and shut her in her room. And now I feel terrible about it. It's not like I used a dog kennel or anything like that. Her room is lovely--complete with a pink bean bag, bumble bee bookends, an empty diaper box that doubles as a boat, a comfy big-girl bed, a CD player, and a box of Kleenex that has been emptied one by one onto the floor too many times to result in smooth Kleenexes. And I brought books up with us. But I still feel awful. I just couldn't deal with the crying anymore. Does that make me a bad mom?

Maybe her problem is the fact that Liam is here today. She stays with him on Tuesdays while I work, and I watch him on Wednesdays while his mom enjoys a day of peace alone. If three crazy cats and a loud dog qualify as alone. Anyway, Ellie melted down last week Wednesday, too. She hit, she pushed, she cried, she whined, she screamed, and she horded toys. She doesn't like to share. She's going to eat Baby Megan, isn't she? Or lock her up in a dog kennel.

Thank God we don't have a dog.

In other news, we're camping this weekend. Clearly we're insane. At least Grandma found a nice camper for us all to use. Tomorrow, Ellie and Mommy will drive to meet "Bamma Binga" in way-too-cold-and-rainy Ludington where we'll enjoy four days and three nights on the coast of the Great Lake that looks like an ocean on stormy days. Did I mention the storm we're supposed to get tomorrow? Yeah. Clearly we're crazy. At least the camper has a TV and VCR. Plus I'm bringing cookies.

Then, next week we embark on Mission Potty Training. Clearly I'm insane.

By the way, if my daughter grows up to be as rude as the president of the United States is, I'm buying a dog kennel for her.

The Lofty Task of Motherhood

I came across this today: " 'Salvation' isn't just about me, BTW. It's good news for the people around me, too, when I live as Jesus taught. His way of living restores relationships, sets injustices right, frees me from anxiety and slavery to money, for instance, and is GREAT news for the most vulnerable people in my life, when I try to live in a way that brings the Kingdom to Earth, as it is in Heaven." (see comments)

It strikes me that, as a mother, "salvation" truly changes the way that I raise my children. It changes the way that I think about, treat, care for my unborn daughter, and it changes the way that I discipline, love, potty train my oldest daughter. It changes the way I live my life. It has to. And it truly does have to be good news--for me, yes, but for everyone around me.

I love the way the author, in his comment above explains salvation--by grace, through faith, not works--to an admitted nonChristian who inquired about how this relevant gospel changes our lives . . . and brings about good works without requiring them. I want to save this forever and share it with my little girls when they ask why we go to church every Sunday. Ellie, Meg, it isn't about making our lives richer or seeing our friends or complaining about how weak the coffee is . . . it's about learning how to make OUR salvation GREAT news for the people we meet every day. For our friends, for our enemies, for our families, for our neighbors, and for the most vulnerable people in our lives.

Does being a Christian have an impact on my parenting? Does being a Christian have an impact on the television I watch? On the jobs I take? On the job I do at the job I took, or the way I talk about my friends or my pastor or my coworker, or the way I spend my money? What about the way I vote and what issues make me angry? It damn well better. But maybe it isn't being a Christian that does it . . . maybe it's "being saved" that does it. Because I'm "saved," my whole life needs to change . . . and it needs to change for the better. Because if my neighbors hate to see me coming, then it surely isn't good news. And I heard once that if it isn't good news, then it isn't the Good News . . . for anybody.

400 Days

It's not really that long. It's not the end of the world. It's not forever.

But it is a really long time.

In 400 Days, my daughter went from inside me to walking around and talking. She learned to smile, laugh, sit up, roll over, fall asleep on her own, feed herself, play, talk, walk, run, make up songs, tell jokes . . .

In the next 400 Days, she'll likely be joined by a baby brother or sister (a sister, if you ask her!), maybe she'll learn to potty in the toilet (Mommy's wishful thinking!), she'll turn two, and she'll learn a million more words, jokes, and motions for nursery rhymes and songs.

It's not the end of the world. It's not forever. But it's a long time to miss your grandpa . . . and my daddy.

Be proud of your grandpa, young one. He is going to a place where he'll be in danger . . . where he'll be learning new things and "playing" new games. There will be new people . . . many with guns, many with bombs and IEDs. But they'll be people, sweet thing, and that's why your grandpa is going. Grandpa will live a life no one should have to, and he really will be one of the safest people there. My darling daughter, I don't know if he'll come home. There are no promises. But I do know that the soldiers there--mommies, daddies, grandmas, grandpas, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, sons, daughters--will be lucky to have the man that we are lucky to have. For the next 400 Days you will know your grandpa only through technology. Through email and through webcams. For the next 400 Days Mommy will not curse technology again. Except when it doesn't work. Except when Mommy can't bring Grandpa into your living room for you to love and tell jokes to and sing songs together. Except if that tape erases, and we lose his stories.

My love, I wish that I could make this different. I'm sorry that you have to say goodbye for longer than you imagined. I'm sorry that your sweet "Bompa" will miss the next 400 Days and that you will wonder where he is and why Mommy is sad sometimes. I'm sorry that I can't promise he'll come back to us just because we tie a yellow ribbon on our porch and pray as hard as we can. Just know that Chaplain Bierenga loves you more than he can say. And that he'll do all he can to come back to you and hug you and swing you onto his shoulder and whisper in your ear.

Until then, 400 Days isn't so long. Really. Really?

It's time. It has to be.

I need to go on a trip. I'm feeling like I need a sunset or a suntan or just a change of scenes. I'm a mommy, but I still need to write and dream and be. It's easy to put that aside in favor of making sure that She writes and dreams and is.

Is there really any way that can happen unless she sees it somewhere though? I don't think so.

So it's up to me.

I have an obligation.

I wonder if I'm up to the task. When She looks at me, I can tell that She thinks I am. So . . . (deep breath) Rowling unveiled the beautiful and mysterious and perfect Harry Potter with a million kids at home right? I should be able to write down at least ONE of the stories in my head.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

I need to do it for me. Otherwise I'll never make it through.

Brave

There is so much about me that is less than I hoped it would be. When I dreamed about my life, I dreamed of Oregon or Washington, D.C., or Boston or Cape Town. That was before I discovered that I don't really like Boston, but that can't be held against me. When I dreamed about my life, I weighed less, and I looked just a bit different. When I dreamed about my life, I didn't do what I do for a living, even if my living is with a really cool, important, and flexible job.

Somewhere along the way I settled for the rut I fell into because settling was easier than climbing. So I sit. And I dream. And the life I dream of doesn't look much like the life I live. The people are the same, but the places and the sights are so, so different.

But sometimes it just isn't enough. Sometimes I want reality to look just a bit more like my dreams . . . all because the short girl dancing in my living room quite often doesn't stop until she's danced across my heart.

This is the best thing that I've ever done. I keep expecting it to get old, but it doesn't. Every day is better than the one before it, even when I struggle to find time to fit my less-than-dream job in between the tears and the "cackuhs" and the mountains of laundry that fill my basement. There are no bonbons, but there are cackuhs and djoooce. And I wouldn't take a dumb old bonbon anyway. I'd take these temper tantrums over any of those.

So it's for her that I try. It's for her that I fit the job and the laundry in. It's for her that I try.

So long status quo
I think I just let go
You make me want to be brave
The way it always was
Is no longer good enough
You make me want to be brave.
- "Brave" Nichole Nordeman

It may look ugly, but she sure makes me want to try.

Imagine

I'd like to rewrite that glorious song that John Lennon sang so beautifully. Imagine. Imagine. Really do it, sweet Ellie. Really imagine a world where things make sense.

I had the privilege of being born into a world without AIDS. A world without the horrors and the 40 million orphans and the children too old for orphanages who have to sell their bodies on the streets. For food. So they get AIDS and die a quiet death alone where no one even notices. When I was young, unsafe sex maybe got you pregnant or, at worst, got you a disease that made you sterile. Sterile has nothing on dead.

Yet another thing to try to explain to my daughter. And I don't know what's harder to explain:
Why women and children are dying in alarming numbers
or
Why we don't do anything about it

God. It's so hard to be a parent on days like this. In worlds like this.

But it's the most amazing, awe-inspiring, and humbling privilege ever. So, sweet Ellie. Yes. You were born into a world with AIDS. But maybe, just maybe, someday you will live in a world without it.

Happy World AIDS Day, sweet baby girl.

With a heavy heart

It's hard to know what kind of world it is that welcomed my baby girl almost one year ago today. When you birth a child, you birth with it high hopes for life and joy and passion and change. You birth with it hopes for eternal innocence, even while you know that true innocence doesn't exist for even a day.

For a while my due date was September 11. At the time, I insisted that it would have been okay with me. It would have been thumbing my nose at terrorists who tried to claim that day as theirs. It would have been proof that life really does go on, even on the most terrible day in so many of our memories. God chose to give my love another birthday, and now September 15 is the day that life and joy and passion and change was born. So we'll celebrate on Friday. Today we celebrate something different.

I'm grateful to have a one year old on the fifth anniversary of September 11. I'm grateful that I don't have to try to summarize September 11, 2001, and the events of that horrible day and year for this child whom I so desperately crave one more brief moment of innocence. I'm grateful that I can hug this squirming bundle and steal a kiss through my tears and know that there is hope, even in the midst of grief that still feels raw. And not just for that day but for that year. That year when the world felt like it couldn't go on turning for the sheer weight of it. That year when every phone call seemed to bring with it more bad news. That year when every beat of my heart longed for Home.

Praise God for good friends. For Family. For the hints of Home that they are. We wouldn't have lived without them. And praise God for wee babies that we can look at and love and cherish now five years later.

Which brings me to today. A day when I carried a heavy heart around in addition to my already heavy diaper bag and purse and an increasingly heavy almost one year old. I think, though, that when I looked in to her eyes this morning, I caught a glimpse of innocence. So I guess I owe it to her to do my grieving and show her how to do the same. I guess I owe it to her to carry that heavy heart and show her how Family lessens the burden. I guess I owe it to her to say "I love you" when I mean I'm sorry and show her that the sorrys don't matter because it's love that keeps us there. I guess I owe it to her to claim the beauty of today and celebrate her innocence.

I'll have a six year old on the tenth anniversary, and maybe that will be the time to begin to open the door. But on the fifteenth anniversary, she'll be eleven. And then sixteen when we celebrate again. And that's the year that we'll open the time capsule. Pretty close to fifteen years from today. Maybe that will be the time. Maybe she'll grasp it all a bit more then. Maybe by then the wars will be over and the horrors will stay on TV instead of creeping in our doors. Maybe by then we'll be Home. But if we aren't, I hope I can figure out how to tell her everything.

As Bono sang in remembering five years ago today while at the Superbowl the next winter, "It's a beautiful day." It is. And it was. That's what I remember the most clearly about that day. Just how gorgeous the bright blue sky was. It was a beautiful day, even though it didn't look so much like it. Sometimes you have to look a bit below the surface to see the true beauty. So if you look, you can see it. And maybe, somehow, we can keep just a bit of that innocence.

All I need to know in life I learned from my baby girl.

How is it possible that I've taken more than 29 years to learn what she was born knowing?

1. The art of making conversation. She gabs on and on about nothing, and she doesn't even care that no one follows her track. Plus she gets out of small talk.

2. The art of avoiding unwelcome visitors. She falls asleep whenever she wants, regardless of who is chatting with her. And they think it's sweet.

3. The art of enjoying dinner. She eagerly grabs the veggies and fruits with both hands and shoves them in to her mouth. And you should hear her giggle when she sees her bottle coming.

4. The art of stopping when she's full. If I could learn only that one, I'd b able to lose that baby weight!

5. The art of play. This kid is most content with a box or cup and keys. She's wants nothing more than to put the keys into the box/cup, jiggle them around, dump them out, and start all over again.

6. The art of welcoming. Her two-tooth-smile greetings will warm your heart. Even on the worst days. And she doesn't stop there. No. She giggles, bounces, and shrieks, too.

7. The art of joke telling. EVERYthing is funny to her. Now that's beautiful.

8. The art of accepting love. The biggest lesson of all.

I told you she was brilliant.

Little girl, you'll be a woman soon

Too soon, in fact. Ugh. She waves now. It's just about the sweetest thing that I've ever seen. She was sick the other day, around 5:00 in the morning. I went into her room, changed her, and cuddled her against my shoulder. All of a sudden she pulled back, looked into my eyes, and drew back her hand to wave at me.

I almost cried as I said, "Hi, Baby."

She's beautiful, and she takes my breath away. This first nine months has gone so fast. And it has been so good. She thinks I'm beautiful. And that may be the best thing yet.

It's the baby, right?

Ugh. I'm watching Today this morning, and they are broadcasting from Freedom of the Seas--a new GIANT cruise ship. Some foster mom from Oregon was chosen to be the godmother of the ship, and she just did the christening.

I cried.

For the love of my child.

It was just before Ellie woke up from her nap that I found out that Jerry died. I went upstairs to get her out of bed, and the tears were still fresh on my cheeks. She put her chubby little hand on them and patted. She couldn't understand my tears or the words I whispered in her ear. "Sweetie, Mr. Jerry died. He loved you."

My heart was breaking while I cared for Ellie last Friday, because I remembered our last time with Jerry. He chuckled at Ellie, and she chuckled back. Oh, they loved each other.

He was the candy man at our church. He welcomed the little children who called him "Papa Jerry." He loved our children. And they loved him back. My heart broke on Sunday morning when Pastor Tim gathered the children to explain to them that Papa Jerry was in heaven with God. Ellie was home sick. But she wouldn't have understood anyway.

My heart broke on Sunday night when we stood in front of the casket, looking at the body that served as Jerry's home for 70 years. Ellie, restless in her father's arms, looked at Papa Jerry. No longer squirming or discontented, she stared at Papa Jerry. His body held her gaze for more than a minute. And then it was over. She didn't understand that, either. But she seemed to know it was important. She seemed to know that man loved her. We made our way to Nancy, Jerry's wife of 48 years. Nancy was so glad to see us. And Ellie flashed her charming smile. It brought a smile to the room. Oh, I love that little girl.

So how do I explain to her that she will forever miss knowing the man she knew for only 7 1/2 months? And how does my heart not break remembering knowing him and wishing we could know him still? Oh, I love that little girl. And that old man, too.

Better late than never.

I meant to post this days ago, but I'm a bit late because I’m a mother. That happens these days.

A while back my brother-in-law sent me a link to this new book called "Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay." It is supposedly a compilation of essays that "deliver the straight dirt on parenting" (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12204538/). He asked for my feedback, thinking that I could easily write something better than this. While I think he may have been overly nice to me with that comment, if it gets me interviewed by Matt Lauer, I just may make a go at it!!

So my feedback on the excerpt I read is that it was just okay. One part made me laugh out loud, but I’ve now forgotten what it was. The issues that she wants to discuss are, apparently, not the issues I would want to discuss, but that doesn’t make her writing bad. Her point was definitely good. I can’t count the number of times I’ve lost my dignity for my daughter—and not just during labor and delivery—already, and I know that will only continue. That said, she felt a bit cynical to me, I guess. It’s probably because she is a comedian . . . I don’t get comedians. Maybe the full book is better, but I don’t think I would pick it up and read it based upon this excerpt.

I thanked him for sharing, though, because that one part made me laugh really hard. I remembered later that it was the swimming part—seriously, who would enroll their one-day-old baby in swimming lessons?! Who even knows that they HAVE a baby when it’s only one day old? It was also inspiration to write down some of my own thoughts.

And that's where this was born. So maybe it's a good thing after all.

That's a TALL order!

It's a high calling on life, to be a mother. It's an even higher calling to be a mommy. And while my ability to be funny may be subjective and I may only be a writer in my head, I am definitely a mother. And the little girl in the laundry basket chewing on a purple flower finger puppet and occasionally looking up at me to offer me a tongue-sticking-out, gummy smile seems to think of me as mommy. So there you have it. And that's a fine identity for now. Let's see what I can do with it.