Reviewing: Raising Uncommon Kids

Raising Uncommon Kids – 12 Biblical Traits You Need to Raise Selfless Kids

By Sami Cone

So I started reading Raising Uncommon Kids and then quit reading it at the 13^th paragraph: “If I wanted my daughter to change, I realized, the change had to start with me.”

Wait.  What?  I went back to the cover.  What had I missed?  How was this book meant to change my children from self-absorbed drama queens into beautiful Proverbs 31 women about changing me first?!  “12 Biblical Traits YOU NEED to Raise Selfless Kids.”  I missed the two simple words in all caps.  “YOU NEED.”  (So then I laughed nervously at my oversight, picked myself up off the floor, and took a few cleansing yoga breaths before I started reading again.)

Me.  It’s about me.  My children model so much about who my husband and I are . . . and their “uncommonality” and selflessness is bound to be no different.  Cone introduces and then dissects the 12 Biblical Traits we need to produce in our lives what we hope our children will emulate.  From Love and Harmony to Wisdom and Patience to Humility and Compassion, each chapter provides an explanation, a mirror to hold up and examine ourselves, a mentor moment that will allow us to share these truths with our children, and practical tips to cultivate these traits in our children.  And cultivate is the right word.  While Colossians 3:12-17 can feel like a giant to do list for creating peaceful homes, it is really a guide for what God can do through our homes and families as we submit to His way of thinking, parenting, and living together. 

These blog reviews always mean I have to read a book too fast to fully chew it, embrace it, and measure its change in my life.  As a result, some of them require deeper reading.  This is one of those books.  I hope I can find a group of parents to chew it and embrace it and measure its change in our families with me.

DISCLAIMER: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers Program in exchange for my honest review.  I was not required to write a positive review, and all views expressed are my own.  I am disclosing this in accordance with Federal Trade Commission guidelines.

A Letter of Apology

A letter of apology, to my oldest daughter--

Dear one, I owe you an apology.  And I am very, very sorry.

There are so many places where I fall short in the eyes of the world or in the eyes I see in the mirror.

I am afraid when I should be brave.  I don't write enough.  Our house gets messy, and I fall behind on the laundry.  You know I hate to cook, so we eat out too much.  I have trouble saving our money, and we have more debt than we should.  I don't work out enough.  I eat too much ice cream.  I stay up too late.  And I sleep in too long.  I watch more TV than is healthy, and I let you do the same.  I don't spend as much time with Daddy as he deserves.  I choose other things over spending time in prayer and reading my Bible.  I yell at you for crazy things.  I have a hard time controlling my temper.  I don't like vegetables.

But somewhere along the line I did you a disservice.  Somewhere, somehow, I let you believe that those things are how I see myself.  I let you believe that I don't think I'm enough.  And then, that translated into you believing you aren't enough.

And, oh, my precious one.  You are.

You.

Are.

Enough.

You have those beautiful blue eyes and a great smile that makes them disappear.  I love your apple cheeks everyone says are mine.  You are smart and funny and caring.  You live up to your name because, like grace, you can make beauty out of ugly things.

I still remember when your preschool friend Lily's baby brother died right after he was born.  You waited for Lily to come back to preschool, and when she did, you held her hand and sat by her.  Because she needed you.  You were three, Baby.  Three.  But that shouldn't be a surprise, because I remember how you looked at Jerry lying in his casket when you were less than one year old.  You probably thought he was sleeping, except you looked at him like you saw him differently than the rest of us did.  And then you turned to Miss Nancy, and you reached for her to give her the love you had tucked in your tiny baby heart.  And, just last month, I watched you work through your frustration to figure out how to draw an elephant just in case you needed to remind our family that you have their backs.  Nobody loves more than you do, honey.

I love how much you love Ivy and your friends and reading and messy rooms and Marie Grace and Trixie Belden and sleeping in and riding your bike and Paris and not working hard.  I love that you don't like to fly but you still want to see the world and go to France some day.  I love getting to know the beautiful young woman you are becoming.

And I am sorry for not telling you that enough.  Because I am proud of who you are.  I am proud of you.  And I am proud to be your mom.

You are enough, Baby Girl.  Enough.  And you always will be, no matter what.

I wish I could see myself through your eyes, and I wish you could see yourself through mine.  Then you would sit up tall.  And you would take on the world like a mighty warrior.  Like a beautiful, mighty warrior.  Like a girl who loves like no one else can.  And you would proud to be you.

#alsicebucketchallenge

So our day came.  Our middle daughter and I were challenged by two separate people to participate in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge.  If you aren't familiar with it, go to YouTube and search ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, and you can watch for days.

Working in fundraising as I have for the past 13 years, this is a tricky thing for me.  I resent gimmicks as fundraising tools.  I also think it's easy to get caught up in the emotion or excitement of the "challenge" and not understand the purpose or the mission.  And, I get the concerns of people saying this is wasting water while people around the world struggle for clean water and California is in the middle of a record drought.

Still, what if only half of the people who do the challenge donate their $10 to ALS?  What if only a quarter of the people do it?  Reports this morning are that the ALS Association has raised $79.7 million to fight ALS and research to find a cure.  That's $77.2 million more than during the same period last year.  So what if those are pledges and not actual donations and only 1/4 of them come in (which is far worse than normal pledge to donation ratios)?  That's still $19.3 million MORE than they raised during that time last year.  It also surpasses their entire revenue from FY12.  Just in the last month or so since this challenge started.  And if half of those pledges are actually donated . . . or the closer-to-average 75%.  Wow.

In addition, I spoke with three of our neighbors when we were in the process of completing our challenge.  One of them didn't know what ALS was.  Neither did my 8-, 6-, and 4-year-old daughters.  And now they do.  So if each of us who participates donates $10 and tells 4 people about ALS, then maybe this is more than just dumping a bucket of ice water on our heads.

So we did it:

And then we challenged Marianne Boykin, Nancy Bierenga, Amanda TeKrony, Beau McDowell, Addison McDowell, Ellie McDowell, Abbie Schalk, Tressa Meyer, Danielle Meyer, Sara Meyer, Josh Schalk, and Kate Schalk.

So if each of them donates $10 and tells four people about ALS, then that's another $120 and 48 people.  That's nothing to complain about.

Haven't been challenged but still want to learn more and donate?  Here's your chance! 

P.S. I really did get soaked.

Processing a Processing Disorder

My pastor recently sent me an interesting article questioning whether Sensory Processing Disorders are a true medical diagnosis. It's a condition I have talked about before, and one that my husband and I are seeing in our middle daughter as well. The article is worth reading, even if it raises a point that ruffles some feathers, including mine. Sensory Processing Disorders are not widely recognized, and I have a friend who had to fight for a while to get her child diagnosed. Even then, insurance may do little or nothing to treat its symptoms, and there is no cure. 

Thankfully our doctor does recognize it and has worked with us on free or very inexpensive ways to cope with it--Meg "snuggles" with a medicine ball, I made a "sensory jar" she can stare at to calm herself down, I've learned deep tissue compressions, etc.--and we haven't needed to try to find therapy which is, indeed, not covered by insurance.  Gratefully, Meg's Kindergarten teacher also recognizes Sensory Processing Disorders and worked hard to make sure Meg transitioned well into full-time schooling. Meg was fine at school, but her teacher wanted to be sure we were coping at home, too. And she saved us. She really did. 

So, obviously, I disagreed with the title of the article. I believe Sensory Processing Disorders are real. And totally a medical condition. 

Right? 

Still, I found this interesting: 

In 2012, the American Academy of Pediatrics claimed it is unclear whether children with sensory problems have a distinct disorder or whether their challenges are linked with other disorders such as autism, ADHD, and anxiety. It urged doctors to caution parents that the effectiveness of sensory integration treatments are "limited and inconclusive."

While I do think it's apparent that I have something more than just normal reactions to things, and I can see that Meggie does too, I'm not prepared to say it's not linked to autism or ADHD.  I believe autism is a spectrum--ranging from ADD to savantism--and that spectrum includes a range of functioning.  It's all sensory processing difficulties--an inability to concentrate on any given task, an inability to control oneself to sit still, an inability to function in social settings, an inability to express oneself in any way other than playing the piano.  In fact, when I describe it to other people, I just say, "It's on the autism spectrum."  And Meg isn't as far down the spectrum as Asperger's, but she is closer to that than just ADHD or ADD.  So am I, though I'm also coming to terms with the fact that I might have ADD.  So do I have an extreme case of ADD manifested in a constant flight or fright state?  Or does a place on the spectrum closer to autism mean I have everything to the left as well, including the ADD?  And someone with Asperger's would have the ADD and the flight/fright state AND trouble in social settings/gathering social cues?  Hence the problem.

What I do know is that the therapies we've tried DO generally work, and it IS a matter of finding what works for yourself or your child.  But, boy oh boy, it's easy to be overstimulated in this fast-paced world.  I can't imagine trying to diagnose this or get insurance companies to determine what or how much to pay for it.  It's rather like diagnosing post-traumatic stress disorder.  Each of us is capable of handling different stressors . . . and we all have bad days.  So is someone with PTSD weak or depressed or just dramatic?  Or is it real and does it deserve disability payments and therapy?  How do you measure that degree and then assign a dollar value to treating it or compensating for it?

I understand why the psychiatric establishment isn't ready to rewrite the DSM just yet.  But I hope they're investing the time and the research dollars to explore it and helping families who haven't yet found what it takes to cope.

Epic Mommy Moments

In my ongoing effort to cultivate a healthy  (ie. generous but realistic) self-esteem in my three daughters, I regularly talk to them about what they have to offer the world and all the things that make them special.  My mom started this with my oldest niece.  From the time each of my mom's five granddaughters was born, she would tell them a special "I love you" followed by a question: "And why do I love you so much?"  The girls have been conditioned from their earliest words to shout, "Just because I'm ME!" in response.  It has caused many laughs, see the "Just because I'm YOU!" and "Just because you're ME!" phases, but it has also grown to include the same response to others who ask a similar question, like when I asked my youngest daughter the other day.  I said, "Do you know why I love you like crazy, forever and ever, no matter what?"  Her answer warmed my heart, because she nailed it.

I also want to teach my girls to be awesome to each other because life is hard.  There are enough dream stompers in the world.  I want my girls to be dream builders, dream encouragers, dream deliverers, dream followers.  So sometimes when they get out of the van in the morning, I say, "Be great today!"  I don't mean "Be well-behaved," or "Do really well in school."  I mean, "Be great for someone else--be your best you."

My favorite song is Jennifer Knapp's "Martyrs and Thieves," and even though I know they probably will I still hope they won't ever have "ghosts from their pasts that own more of their souls than they thought they had given away."

Because I have those ghosts.  And I spend days telling them to shut up and working to convince them that their voices aren't the loudest in my ears.  And it's exhausting.  So I'd like to avoid that wherever possible.

To that end, the other day my two oldest and I had a "Martyrs and Thieves" conversation where I got to ask them the most important question I know for my own life: "Could it be that my worth should depend on the crimson-stained grace on a hand?"

And I told them the same is true for them.  Their worth depends on the crimson-stained grace on a hand.  There's freedom and confidence in that.

There's also permission to be awesome to other people and to yourself.  To be great.  And to be a dream builder, a dream encourager, a dream deliverer.  A dream follower.

So that was a win.  Even when they asked about the "crimson-stained" part and looked a little squeamish when I told them that was Jesus' blood.

Then a while back I read a blog post written from a father to his daughter. It really was great, and one of the things he said there is that he works hard to help his girls understand that while they are pretty and should try to take care of themselves, the most important beauty they possess comes from within. It's in their hearts. 

I like that question he asks when he tucks his daughter in at night.  "Honey, where are you the most beautiful?"

Well, what kind of mom would I be if I didn't take that opportunity?  So the other day I talked to my girls about that too. And it was an epic conversation that went a little something like this:

Me: "Girls, where do you think you are the most beautiful?"

Oldest daughter: "Um, my hair is nice."

Middle daughter: "My eyes?"

Oldest daughter: "No! My smile!"

Me: "Those do look nice. But really it's on your insides."

Oldest and middle daughters look at each other with disgusted expressions.

Middle daughter: "In our guts?!"

Me: "Well, not exactly.  I mean in your heart."

Oldest daughter: "Not too much better.  That's really gross and bloody."

Me: "Well, not your heart, really.  Not, like, the heart that beats your blood around.  But your inside.  You know, how you treat people and stuff."

Middle daughter: "Well, we are pretty nice.  So I guess we have beautiful guts."


You guys, they're 8 and 6 and 4.  And they get it!  They've figured out their worth depends on bloody hands, and they're most beautiful in their guts.  And the whole reason they are loved is because they are themselves.  They really get it!  My work here is done.

A Letter to My Daughter

Dear Daughter,

Last night I crawled in bed with you.  Well, I suppose it was actually this morning, as it was about 12:30 on your clock.  I moved your big bear, a gift to you "from" your new baby sister more than six years ago.  I moved the bear, and I laid down in its spot.  I didn't wake you up, but I did brush your beautiful brown hair out of your face, and you snuggled up to me.  I wrapped my arm around you.  And I cried.

It's been years since I crawled into your bed while you were sleeping.  Every night I peek at you, often I kiss my finger, and I rub it down your nose.  Many nights I turn your music down.  Sometimes I turn it off.  I close your curtains or I open your window.  I check your alarm to make sure it's on, though I know you'll just turn it off in the morning and roll over to go back to sleep like the teenager you will too soon become.  But last night, I crawled in bed with you.

You see, I read the most terrifying book*.  It took me a few days, but last night I laid awake in bed reading, long after I should have fallen asleep.  I just had to finish it, because I couldn't read it for another day.  Don't get me wrong, Sweetheart.  It was a good book.  It was beautifully written, but it was terrifying.  I read the last third of the book with my jaw dropped in disbelief and tears of horror mixed with sadness about to spill from my eyes.  Then, finally, in the last three pages, they did spill.  And I knew I needed to go to you and hold you and whisper a prayer over you.

There are many truths I want to impart to you while you are mine to mold and shape.  And there are truths I want to hide from you while you are mine to protect.  Last night I crawled in bed with you because I needed to tell you one of each.  First, one I wish you didn't know, though I suspect one day you will.  In fact, I imagine one day you will grow and marry and have children of your own.  And then you will need to know it, because it will be true for you, too.

Dear one, I am terrified you will learn that I have absolutely no clue how to be your mother.  I started a journal for you--and any future siblings--on the first break I took from you after you were born.  The first time I left you out of my care.  I was terrified then, too.  ee cumings has a poem that is apparently nothing about having a new baby, but I discovered it when you were mine.  The first lines read

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff I was
careful of her . . .

See, I was terrified that I would break you.  I didn't know how to protect you, and I was certain I would break you.  So here is the secret: I still am.  I don't know how to protect you, my beautiful daughter, and I  am certain I will break you.  And if I don't, if I manage somehow to maintain a relationship with you (that I'm not even sure we have now), and I don't damage you, I know this world can.  Girls are mean, honey.  Boys can be selfish and cruel and demeaning.  Pressures for sex and drugs and giving more of your heart away than you can afford to someone who doesn't deserve it . . . I want to shelter you from all of it, and I can't.  I don't know how.  And, you being brand new and you know consequently a little stiff and fragile and precious and beautiful--I want to be careful of you and I want the world to be careful of you.  Because I'm terrified you will break.

But there's another truth, too.  This is one you must know.  You simply must.  And I will whisper it to you and I will shout it to you and I will write it for you and I will pray that it is tucked into your heart and your beautiful mind and that you live it every day.  You are worth more than gold.  You are beautiful.  You are treasured.  You are fearfully and wonderfully made.  And the only reason I am not a bundle of anxiety every moment you are out of my sight--and every second you are in it, because remember I have no idea how to be a mom--is because you are never, not for one breath of a second, out of the care of the One who knit you together in my womb.  The One who knew you before the dawn of creation.  The One who died on a cross and fought against death so you can live forever.  He won't keep everything bad from happening to you.  I know that.  But He will keep you together.  He will keep me and the world from breaking you.  I know that to be true, and I need that to be true.

And so, last night, as you slept peacefully, and I held you with tears streaming down my face and memories of bullies and pain and harassment and mean girls and lies and nightmares of everything bad that could happen to you flooding my mind, I took a deep breath.  And I whispered a promise to you.  And my promise was also a prayer to God, a desperate plea that I need Him to hear.

My beautiful, beautiful daughter.   I am here for you.  I am here.  And I am not too busy.  I will never again be too busy to hear you and to see you.  I want to know you, Love.  Like I knew you when I carried you inside me.  When my heart beat with yours.  Everything I did then, I did knowing I needed to protect you.  I was your safe place then.  I want to be your safe place forever, Heart of mine.  I am here, with ears to listen to you and eyes to see you.  With a heart that is open to whatever you have to share and whomever you are.  I want to hear what you say.  I want to hear about your day and your dreams and your fears and your joys.  And I want to hear what you don't say.  See what you don't want to show anyone.  My darling girl, I love being your mother.  Even when it's hard.  Even when I need a break.  Even when we fight.  Even when I'm hard on you.  So, give me grace enough to help me see you when I'm blinded by what is happening around us.  I want to ask the questions you need me to ask, but, Baby, I'm scared I won't know them.  So, please, give me a hint.  Give me a chance.  Because you are too important to me to lose . . . even for a moment.  I love you, my beautiful girl.

With all my heart,
Your Mom





* Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight
If you have children, read it.  If you love children, read it.  It's hard to read.  It's not tidy.  The language is bad, and there are many, many hard moments.  But our kids are worth it.

Why Am I Watching This?!

Beau thinks I have too many TV shows on our DVR (it's possible that's true, but it should be noted that there is still 79% remaining space, so he can record 334 hours of TV), so I'm working hard to watch what I have there.  This is all happening while another show is recording, so I'm positive I'm defeating the purpose here, but it's the thought, right?

Tonight's show of choice: Killer Kids on Bio.  This particular episode is "Family Killers," and I recorded it several weeks ago.  For obvious reasons, I have been putting off watching it--mostly I just didn't feel like ending the day with such a heavy subject.  I have no idea what made me turn it on tonight, but I did.  And now I'm glued to it.

True crime is my favorite genre of book, film, and television show.  I've always been fascinated by the glimpse into the mind of the criminals and the motives behind the crime.  I think there is never just one motive, and I think that very few crimes happen with absolutely no warning signs.  In the murder cases that they have featured on this show, all of that is true.  But warning signs are always easy to see in the rear view mirror.

Teenagers are some of my favorite people, too.  I love the angsty, sullen attitudes they adopt at that age.  I love their honesty.  I love them.  They make my heart sing, and they make my heart break.

Killer Kids.  What a horrific thought.  These kids are all teenagers--12, 13, 16--who snapped on a given afternoon or evening and murdered their families, always beginning with their parents.  Obviously that's wrong.  I'm not going to dispute that--there comes a point where you have to take ownership of your actions, and I think you can begin to do that at a very young age.  These kids were all out of line, and they needed to be punished.

But what makes a kid a killer?  Sometimes there is a psychiatric break, but for these kids that wasn't the case.  For these kids there was a premeditated moment where they decided the best option would be to kill their parents, "driven by mindless rage . . . disconnected from himself and with no feelings for those he is mowing down" (taken from the narrator's remarks in the show).  The show goes on to ask that same question: if there isn't any mental break, how can we make sense of why this happened?  I'm just not sure we can.

The only thing I can see is that none of these kids had a good relationship with their parents.  At least one of their parents is overly controlling.  There isn't a lot of grace.  There isn't room to be themselves, to be creative, to make mistakes, to be kids. 

God, it is hard to be a parent.  It is hard to lay down rules for safety and to teach children responsibility.  It is hard to be gracious and forgiving, especially in the middle of the daily frustrations of being disobeyed and disrespected.  It is hard to love unconditionally in the midst of angsty, sullen attitudes and hurtful raging.  But they need us to do it.  They need us to love them and forgive them and give them rules and discipline them and hold them and cry with them and talk to them.  Give us the strength to do it.

And, man, I am glad these murders took place in Canada and Norway, and kids in the United States don't do stuff like this.

Strange Whom He Chooses to Use

This morning was a rough time.  Ellie and I really struggle in the morning--she's too much like me for me to handle in a mature manner, and she's too much like her dad to be a morning person.  That combination leads to most mornings beginning with a fight and tears from at least one of us.  This morning it ended up being both of us.

As I cried my way through most of my morning shower--alternating between complaining to God and pleading with Him--it dawned on me (again) how hard it is to be a parent.  Many days I'm not even positive that I enjoy parenting, and most days I'm confident that I don't have what it takes.  I think most mornings I allow the arguing and the nagging and the crying and yelling (all of which come from both of us most days) to settle into my brain with a resounding, "Beka, you are a shitty mom."  Forgive the language, but that's where I settle.  Today was one of those days.  I prayed that God would help me love my job of mothering His precious girls and that He would help me figure out how to be good at it.

After searching for shoes, getting stuck combs out of hair, and reminding everyone that there isn't really time to chat while we're brushing our teeth, we left the house a bit late.  The rain made it clear we wouldn't arrive to school on time (every tardy Ellie gets is a reflection on my ineptitude as a mother, you know), so  I was still grumbling in my spirit.  Then, traffic slowed to a standstill on the highway, and my battery light popped on.  No. Time. For. This.  I pulled off at the next exit, drove around for a couple of minutes, and the light went off.  Deciding not to drive on the highway in monsoon conditions, I opted to take the back roads.  As we stopped at our first traffic light, the battery light popped on again.  I said a quick prayer that we'd make it to both of the girls' schools before the van stalled completely and continued on with our morning routine.

After we dropped Meg off, Addie and I headed to AutoZone to get the battery tested and replaced.  I was still feeling like a royal failure at everything and felt on the verge of tears.  We've discussed Addie's obsessive question-asking in the past, so it should surprise no one that she had to touch every item in the display under the cash register and ask--several times--what each item was.  I can't count the number of deep breaths I took as I patiently attempted to answer each question with both the identification and an example of use in our lives (only because she asked for it, mind you--my high school Geometry teacher could have used my question-answering skills!). 

As I handed my debit card to Tony, the kind AutoZone man, he said, "You're a great mom, by the way."

Me?  A great mom?  How did you know I needed to hear that?  He went on to explain that most parents just tell their kids they don't need to know the answer and swat their hands away.  So there was his answer.  The world's answer.  But I know that he could just as easily have said, "Huh.  Most parents don't answer their kids' questions in here.  Good work, Mom."  Instead, he used the exact words I needed to hear: "You're a great mom, by the way."

Thank you, Tony.  God used you to answer the cry of my heart. 

And thank you, God.  For both the message through Tony and for the reminder that I, too, could be the person You use to answer the cry of a mother's--or a father's or a teenager's or a stressed-out worker's--heart around me.

Things I Think I Think #49-61

A "mothering" edition, because it is just so appropriate today . . . even though it would be better suited in May.

49. I don't actually need Ellie to tell me that she hates to clean.  I remember that from the last time.

50. There comes a point where the whining needs to stop.  Even if it's by me putting my fingers in my ears and shouting "La-la-la-la" in my head.

51. My kids make me laugh.  Every day.  And it catches me off guard almost every time, because I can't figure out how they are so funny.

52. My kids also make me cry.  Almost as often.

53. I check on my sleeping girls every night when I go to bed, and I kiss my finger and put it on their noses.  I've done the same thing nearly every night of their lives.

54. One of these nights I'm going to crawl in bed with Meg and sleep there until morning.  Mostly because I can't fit in Addie's crib, and I'm concerned about climbing up onto Ellie's top bunk.

55. I'm pretty sure that I love one of my girls more than the others . . . and the one changes by the minute.

56. I hope that one of my girls sings, one of my girls plays soccer, one of my girls writes, and one of my girls goes to the University of Notre Dame.  They can all be the same one.

57. It makes me tear up every time someone tells me my kids are kind and good friends to other children.

58. I really hope that my girls are good friends to each other as they grow up as well and that the four of us enjoy spending time together when they are grown.

59. The hardest thing about being a mom is having your heart walk around outside of your body in the form of a little person.  The second hardest thing is patiently saying something for the hundredth time.

60. When I look at my girls I see the negative things they have inherited from me and none of the positive things.

61. I would happily give up all of my dreams for my kids as long as they serve God and follow Him with all of their hearts.

A Tender Day

I've been a bit tender ever since I opened the letter this afternoon.  It was a normal day, and it was a normal letter.  We often get letters from the principal over the listserv, so I started to open it without really thinking.  But then the subject caught me off guard this time: "Death of a Student."  I thought it was an accident--a high school student or someone from one of the other schools.  I figured it would hurt as I thought about it, but I never dreamed it would hit me this hard.

A 7th grader at a local middle school passed away yesterday.  He committed suicide.  He went to the same elementary where my oldest daughter is a student.  If we stay in West Michigan, then in a few years she'll be at that same middle school--with most of the same kids she started school with in Kindergarten.

I don't know why this young man, this baby really, decided to end his life.  I pray that some day his parents get answers and find hope again.  As I think about what happened, though, my heart breaks--for him, for his parents, for his friends, for his classmates, for his teachers, for my daughter.

Middle school sucks.  There's no way around it.  It's so, so hard being a teenager.  But it gets better.  It sounds trite, or perhaps it just sounds like I'm stealing it from something different, something that this might not have been.  All I know is that it's true.  And when I walked in my daughter's classroom to read to her class this afternoon, I was tender.  I looked at their little faces and wondered what middle school holds for them.  They have a little better than five years before they get there, and so much can happen in that time.  But all the same, I wonder.  These are Ellie's classmates.  They're beautiful children learning to read and be friends and eat from all of the food groups.  And I love them.

So this is a tender day.  May God wrap His arms of peace around this young man's parents and his teachers and his friends and his classmates.  May God protect those kids, those babies, from themselves and from the only choice that can't be fixed.  And may God help all of us know what to say, how to help, what to see, how to be tender.

God, I love those kids.  The big ones and the little ones . . . please keep them safe tonight.

Giving Them Back

This morning I started the book of I Samuel.  As a mother, I am always moved to read of Hannah's longing for a child.  She is picked on, mocked, and driven to great depression over her barrenness.  She begs, pleads, and cries out to God.  Her agony in the temple was so intense that the priest even believes she must be drunk--nobody sober would act like that before God.

God hears her, and he grants her deepest desire.  He gives her not only a child but a son.  The part I so often miss in the story is that she said to God, "[Give me a son, and] I'll give him completely, unreservedly to you."  And then she does just that.  This woman who, more than anything in the world, wanted a child, gets one, and then leaves him in the temple to grow up. 

As a mother, it's hard to imagine.  As a Christian who struggles on my sojourn, it's even harder to comprehend.  First of all, she makes a promise to God--and then she keeps it.  Even when it must have destroyed part of her to do so.  How often do I want something badly, and I say to God, "If you just give me this, then I'll X"?  Whether the "X" is be happy, tell everyone what you did, never ask for anything more, not screw it up . . . whatever it is, how often do I really do it?  I can answer that for you: almost never. 

But as a mother . . . as a mother who has never had trouble conceiving, as a mother who conceived twins only to have one die, as a mother who is often overwhelmed by my three living children, as a mother who still grieves the (now) two-year-old baby I long to hold in my arms . . . how do you long for a child, have it long enough to wean it, and then drop it off at the temple to live? 

Now, this isn't like it would be for us.  We go to church at the end of our road.  There are plenty of days that I think it might be nice to drop by kids off at Pastor Tim and "Miss Ruth's" house for a while.  Shoot, there are days that I do that (and thanks for generously taking them Ruthie!)--for a few hours at least.  But I can always go pick them up, and the trip takes me only about 1 minute.  Five if I walk.  For Hannah it's a long journey that she takes once a year.  Huh?  How do you do that?  How do you long for something to the point of your heart breaking and then turn it completely over to God?

But then how do you not?

I remember once in college when I was going off with my Christian fellowship group to do some evangelism thing that made my dad pretty nervous.  He sent me a letter after we discussed it on the phone, and his letter is something that I'll keep forever.  In it he wrote, "We have always known that you aren't our child.  You are God's.  And we knew the time would come when He took you places that we didn't understand and didn't like.  But you are His.  You were never ours to keep."

As a mom I'm grateful that I get to see my children nearly every day.  I'm grateful that I don't have to send them miles and miles away and see them only once a year for them to truly be God's.  But I also know that just as my sweet Baby Zion is sitting on God's lap and belongs solely to Him, Ellie Grace, Meggity Leigh, and DeeDee also belong solely to God.  They may not be literally sitting on His lap, but they are held in the palm of His hand.  They are no less His than Zion is, than I am.  While they may live in my house for a time and in my heart forever, they have never really been mine. 

So, yes.  I have longed for them to the point of my heart breaking.  I have watched out for them and cared for them and loved them to the point of my heart breaking.  But I have also--and need to continue to--given them completely over to God.  Today may I care for them as children that God has entrusted to me, and women who will change this world forever because of their Father, and sisters who will sojourn Home alongside me and the rest of our brothers and sisters.  Today may I see them as they are: dedicated to God for life.

Kairos Moments

I discovered another blog yesterday, via a Huffington Post article that a mom I know posted.  "Don't Carpe Diem" it said.  Don't carpe diem?  This is for moms?  So don't carpe diem a parenting moment?  I have several I'd like to not sieze.  There are many I'd like to brush under the rug or into a corner in the closet so that no one ever finds out about them.  Maybe those are the skeletons in my closet, since I've lived a fairly mundane and safe life.  Look into the darkest recesses of my life, and you'll find all the parenting moments I chose to pretend never existed.  Like, oh say the last six years.

Kidding. 

It hasn't been that bad.  There have surely been good moments.  But, for the most part, if I'm being honest, if I'm telling my deep secrets, if you promise not to call Children's Protective Services on me (I work with some of them, and they're on my speed dial, so just try it), if we're going to shed light in the corners of my closets and lift up all the rugs in my house, if you promise not to tell anyone . . .

I really don't like parenting toddlers.  Or first graders, apparently.

Back when I was simply babysitting, I discovered that I really don't like 4 year olds.  I thought it would change when I actually had a real attachment to the child, but then my nieces hit four.  Didn't like them either.  Well, maybe it will change when they were birthed by me and call me mom.  Nope.  Even worse.  Now that my youngest has been wholly consumed by the terrible twos, I've discovered that the truth is all these 2-6 years are something I could do without.

I don't like cutting up food.  I don't like getting up from my computer or my book or my moment to breathe or my moment to sit on the toilet peeing allbymyselfforjustasecondplease in order to get a snack or find a toy or stop another fight or get a drink or get another snack or put the skirt on your mini Cinderella or find your Littlest Pet Shop purse.  (Could toys possibly be bigger, please?  Maybe all toys could be like those magical Snap 'N' Style dolls that even my two year old can maneuver.)  I don't like wiping butts either.  And I don't like all that whining.  I don't mind zipping up coats and tying shoes, but I'll be honest and say that it gets a bit annoying when they're dancing around like a pretty, pretty princess fairies while I'm doing it. 

But I'll also be honest about something else.  They really are a pretty, pretty princess fairies.  They are my joy.  They are my hope that there are bright spots in the future.  They are my I love you.  Because, even in the middle of my wishing for a second to myself prior to passing out to the world at 10:30 p.m. (hopefully in my bed and not my onesecondtomyselfonthetoilet), even in the middle of my fear that I won't actually like any stage of parenting and my kids will grow up to hate me for it, I have another secret:

I love parenting toddlers.  And I love parenting first graders, apparently.

It's hard, hard work.  I know that middle schoolers and tweens and teens will also be hard, hard work.  Or a challenge.  But I'm excited to get there.  So I hope that my kids forgive me for speeding us through a few of the rough patches, for losing my temper when my second in the bathroom is interrupted by a third little voice whining "Can you get me a piece of candy?" (Really?  From the bathroom?  Let me know how that goes.), for listening to Maroon 5 in the van when all they want is "Silly Songs!!!!!" (For. The. Fifteenth. Time...Today.).  I hope that we share a mutual respect and love and admiration when they grow up and move out and I realize that these years went too fast and wish I had less time to myself and wonder why the juice boxes and Fruit Nuggets start lasting longer than two days.  I hope I don't screw them up too much.  And I hope, that like Glennon says, I don't forget to notice the Kairos Moments.  I can seize those.

Yesterday's moments:
* Reading "Little House in the Big Woods" with Ellie
* Addie walking around the kitchen with her baby on her shoulders while I was making dinner
* Ellie's stunningly gorgeous face after she's been outside playing in the cold
* Megan's big blue eyes peeking at me from under a blanket
* Addie asking where the seat is at the table for her baby and then remembering that she only drinks milk
* Megan exclaming, "Oh my chinny-chin-chins!" when all the marbles from the marble run fell off the table in the dining room

It was such a good day.

Parenting

When I entered the title of this entry, it looked more like "pARenTing." That's been my reality lately.

I'm writing with a Boppy pillow (how do you parent without one?!) on my lap and a baby (how do you parent without one?!) on top of that. The baby is sleeping--thankfully--with her fist clenched around my necklace--a wedding present from my husband--and her face tucked into the inside of my left elbow.

The pillow is on my lap so the baby can be on my lap while allowing me to continue working on the computer. The baby is on my lap so she will sleep. Again allowing me to continue working on the computer. I'm mostly successful, though I don't have full mobility of my left hand. Hence the extra capitalization, and my inability to easily stretch for the keys outside of "Home" for that hand. It's the best I can do when she won't sleep anywhere else.

I certainly wouldn't be naive enough to state that Sweet Baby has colic. I wouldn't want to belittle the pain of parents who have really had to endure that nightmare. I hear they walk for hours snuggling their young ones to no avail. We get the break. Sweet Baby sleeps from time to time and when she hasn't given way to precious rest she is mostly just fussy, whimpering and occasionally crying out in her kitty cat voice. We just have to hold her to get her there.

And that means we do what can be done with a Boppy pillow and a baby on our laps. Reading. Watching TV. Vegging out. Cleaning is impossible. Folding laundry is buried somewhere underneath the piles of clothes that get washed in the morning before the gassy nights begin. Computer time is designated for work because typing is a challenge at best.

It hurts to see and hear her discomfort and pain. I wonder if we will give unwrapped gifts for Christmas this year. I imagine Ruth will bang on my door soon for my Fourth Focus article. And I'm pretty sure the hearing damage caused by pain too severe to sleep or "Meow" through is permanent.

But it is worth it all, Sweet Baby. Unspeakably worth it.

Day Two of What Should Be Day Five

Me again. Trying to rise up and meet WMW's challenge . . . it shouldn't really be this hard. I had about five posts in mind last night, and the time to write them, and the capability to not post them all on one day. It was tempting, but I'm trying hard to learn to overcome temptation. So here I am. With a blank page. And that d*@$ cursor again.

I'm watching the news, though it's hard to call it that. They do about two minutes of news once every hour. After that, it's mostly political agendas and stories about sensational activities. I have to check out CNN.com to find any real news. And thank goodness I have that insider in Iraq where I can get REAL news on the war.

The media is frustrating to me. It tells me what to think while only presenting one side of the story. Not only am I told what to think, but I'm also told what to feel about any given story. It's hard to imagine crying that hard over a dolphin, albeit a sad story, when we just ignore what is happening to children the world over. But the media and "celebrity" seem to be on the same page. So am I the one who's missing something?

And how do I keep my daughter from it all?

There's so much to protect her from:
* the monkey who visited her in her dreams on Friday night . . . and bit her!
* the heartbreak of having her cow snatched from her bed, all because he couldn't be washed and was getting gross after two years of love
* the fact that the monkey may come back, even though Mommy picked out this new cow (who could be washed) because the monkey doesn't like him

It's hard being a mom. No wonder God works so hard to try to convince us to stay away from sin . . . he understands the heartache it will cause, and He's desperate to protect us from it all. Any parent would be.

Heaven, honey. Heaven. That's Home. No dolphins will be slaughtered there, but no children will be neglected or violated or betrayed either. Oh, and only the good monkeys make it in. And both cows.