Sink Your Teeth In

We're all about not choking at our house.

You're probably all about not choking, too, but I doubt your paranoia can rival that of a preschool teacher and a former pediatric chaplain.  We've been trained and scared with worst-case scenarios, and we're not taking any chances.  Our son, Soren, enjoys applesauce but has never really been into apples. When I give the girls apple slices for snack, I always peel a few extra slices and then cut them into impossibly small pieces to put on the high chair tray for Soren.  He puts a small fistful of tidbits in his mouth and then lets them fall off of his tongue back onto the tray.  Okaaayy... the boy doesn't like apples, I guess.

But the other day, I had this wild idea to do it differently.  I had only cut a small section out of an apple, and Soren was eyeing the remainder with interest from his high chair.  Since he has recently begun to reject every vegetable in every possible form, my move was one of desperation to try to get him to eat something just as it was picked.  [Yes, I am aware that apples are not vegetables.  I was desperate, I tell you.]  I peeled the skin off the giant chunk of apple and, ignoring every impulse that told me this was a choking hazard, I handed the apple to Soren.  I stood hovering over him, ready to jump into action and perform the Heimlich at any moment.

But my worst fears weren't realized.  Instead, something absolutely magical happened.

Soren sunk his little teeth into that apple, and a look of pure amazement came over his precious little face.  As juice ran down his sweet chin, he began to laugh as he truly tasted a fresh apple for the first time.  The minutes that followed will be forever burned into my memory.  Just joy.  Pure joy.  That baby boy could not believe that he was so lucky.  He took another bite, then another, and each bite produced as much enthusiasm as the first.  Smiles, laughter, eyes dancing, juice running down.  Look at me!  I'm eating an apple!  Did you KNOW these things exist?!

I stood watching him eat, and all I could do was cry.  I felt so honored to be present for that magical moment, so humbled to get to bear witness to such unadulterated joy, so glad I had taken the risk and given him that apple.

The whole thing got me thinking - how am I living my life?  Am I experiencing life in impossibly small, flavorless tidbits because I'm afraid to choke?  Are my decisions too calculated, too safe?  What would it be like if I were to start taking risks, to really sink my teeth into life?  Maybe safe, calculated decisions require no risk, no faith.  Maybe to become my truest self, I'll have to step out in faith and do things that scare me.  Maybe to feel truly alive, we have to be willing to do things that scare us to death. Maybe in those places of unknowns and risk is where joy resides, just waiting to be bitten into by those who will dare.

As great as that experience was, we have now found a happy medium of peeled, reasonably-sized apple slices to serve our son.  I want him to enjoy his food, of course, but I also want him to live to eat another day.

Obviously, I'm not advocating throwing caution to the wind when it comes to safety.  For heaven's sake, keep cutting up those grapes and hotdogs - but if you want to taste life as it was meant to be tasted, if you want to experience the pure joy of juice running down your chin, sometimes you have to bite off more than you can chew.

Beautiful Things

When you found out today

That the spring blossoms would soon turn to green

You cried

Not silent, weepy tears

But the loud, wailing kind

I joined you in your lament

Isn't it sad, little one

That the blossoms we so enjoy

Will soon fade from view?

We sat together in sadness

Mourning the inevitable loss

The changing of the seasons

The impermanence of everything

And through your tears

You said it best

I just want beautiful things to stay

Me, too, I agreed

Me, too

Only I wasn't thinking of the trees 

I was thinking of the dimples that still cling to your elbows

A faint trace of the baby inside my little girl

And the way I will one day look to that spot

And see only the bone beneath your porcelain skin

Such fleeting changes, these

In both the child and the trees

I must pay attention, I remind myself

Pay attention

As if my willful watching will slow the pace of change

The summer leaves hold beauty, too,

We assured one another once the tears subsided

And the blossoms will return again 

Next year in their time

Same with you, sweet child

Each stage will hold a beauty of its own

And that pang of sadness you felt 

When you found out your beloved "purple tree"

Will soon turn green

Well, now you know 

The beautiful ache

Of motherhood

Of life

Of love

Me, too, precious child

Me, too

I just want beautiful things to stay

For Chuck

Does not every mighty oak tree 
Strong branches point to heaven above? 
All creation in Thine image
Is it not true of this one we love?

Creatures winged and water worthy 
Those who move on four legs all 
In their motion draw us to you 
Breath and life in big and small

How stillness aches when motion ceases 
Our hearts refined like gold in flame 
This glimpse of you through your creation 
This one we’ve loved and called by name

Now see we in a mirror dimly 
But in time’s fullness, pray we, Lord 
Giver of life, divine creator 
That all creation be restored 

Ode to an Old Friend

I do not know from whence you came, or of your short-lived past

You searched for a way out in vain, your prison - walls of glass.

You did not find your way to freedom, water, and fresh air

Instead you lay upon my dash and drew your last breath there.

And when at last I noticed you, I was too lazy, far

Too dust you off, dispose of you (I never clean my car).

And so the days turned into months, and months to nigh a year

And always you accompanied me, a constant presence here.

Some days I thought of you as George, and other times as Gus

My withered mascot on the dash all covered up in dust.

I’d think of all your ancestors caught in an amber trap

Their fate much prettier than yours, preserved in golden sap.

Your death was not illustrious; your life, a fragile state

You flew in never knowing that the door would seal your fate.

But in a twist of irony your death preserved you, see?

For how many mosquitoes dwell a year in one’s memory?

We’d never have been friends if you had tried to suck my blood

I surely would have swatted you and washed you off at once

But since you suffocated and your needle ne’er took root

You got to keep me company each day on my commute

And then at last, on this spring day, it finally was time

To clean my car, inside and out, get rid of all the grime.

I did not take it lightly as I held the vacuum up,

And saw you, fragile mascot, disappear with just one suck.

And then my car was clean at last, at least for a small while

But when I looked to where you lay I quickly lost my smile

I know that I will miss your presence laying on my dash

So goodbye, George, goodbye sweet Gus, you’re gone for good – alas!

Reposted from my previous blog, AmusingMyself.blogspot.com

Homesick

We're approaching the two-year mark since we've moved to our new home in Nashville.  Anyone who has talked to me since that time knows how much I love it here.  I have even described it as "my true hometown."  The sloping hills, the blossoms in spring, the leaves in fall, the almost year-round green grass, the concerts, the restaurants, the steeples that dot the landscape, the small-town feel.  It is easily the most beautiful place I've ever lived.  We've reconnected with some old friends and been blessed with wonderful new ones.  My favorite thing about living here has been how small our little world feels, how neatly all of our circles overlap.  Our church friends are our neighbors are our school friends are our soccer teammates - it's just a small world here in Nashville, and I'm a fan of knowing and being known.

But it's the knowing and being known that is also making me homesick for the first time since making that cross-country trek in our Penske truck nearly two years ago.  In some ways, making new friends is easy when you have children.  But it's really just the meeting people part that is easy.  You see other parents at soccer practice, in the carpool line, you make a playdate for your children, and therefore, yourselves.  But I've found that the actual process of getting to KNOW people has become more difficult in this season of our lives.  Gone are the days when we could plop down on a friend's couch and linger for hours just eating and talking.  Telling stories, listening to stories, learning the tapestry of someone's life and finding how we can become part of the thread that is woven through that tapestry, savoring the way that this new thread is being woven into our own.  I find that friendships are best forged in hours around the table, in late nights that turn into later nights because we just can't tear ourselves away.  

And then there are the children.  They are wonderful and beautiful and oh so loved, and it's hard to complete a blessed sentence when they are around - much less an entire story.  Mealtime with friends feels more harried and functional - counting out the number of bites that must be consumed before the children can be excused, and then hopping up from the table every few minutes once they have been excused to see what loud drama is unfolding in the other room as they play, to ensure that the crying of the visiting child hasn't been incited by some injustice on the part of my own child. The time that I long to linger on at the table and pour another glass of wine for my guests is the time that the children are pushing the limits of their energy and need to be tucked into bed, so we stretch it out just twenty more minutes in an effort to be with our guests - to get to know and to be known - and then the children have reached meltdown point and we still have the bedtime routine looming ahead of us after we wave our goodbyes.  I often replay the conversations of the evening once the children are sleeping and the kitchen is cleaned (or not), and so many times I realize I answered a question but, in my distracted state, didn't reciprocate the question.  Or it occurs to me that there were things I wanted to know about my friends - life events I wanted to check in on, deeper questions I wanted to ask, but I was called away from the table at that moment to get another glass of milk or assist a child in the restroom.  I'm not a believer in multi-tasking.  I can't do it well, and I don't think our brains were made to do it.  If I'm talking with someone, I want to sit down and TALK WITH THEM.  I want to look in their eyes and see their expressions, not just to listen but to hear, not just to talk but to actually say something.  Without distractions, I want to communicate to them their importance to me.  And then there are the children.  I realize this is a season of life, and it's a season I'm enjoying for so many reasons.  I absolutely adore being the mother of young children.  And yet, I find that it's a difficult season in which to forge new friendships.

And so I am homesick.  I'm homesick for the friends who already know me, the ones whose thread is already so beautifully woven into the tapestry of my life, whose presence has made it richer.  I'm homesick for the friends who already know my stories, so that when I have to get up from the table for the umpteenth time to help a precious child, there is still no gap in the knowing.  Things are already understood.  We are all already at home, no matter whose house we are in.  I'm homesick for the familiar and the traditions.  I'm homesick for my bookclub girls and our post-kid-bedtime conversations.  I'm homesick for the birthday celebrations.  I'm homesick for the standing date for the Oscar's party and the peanut M&Ms I inhale while we compete to guess the results.  I'm homesick for the soul-filling singing of my old church.  For parents and brothers who lived close enough to come for Sunday lunch.  I'm homesick for the life group friends we used to see each Sunday evening.  For the friends who share our history, who know our stories, who have walked beside us as life has unfolded.  The ones we logged hours with before the sweet interruptions of children, whose couches we helped to make a little saggier, whose sleep we stole without apology as we stayed just one more hour, and then just a few minutes more.  

I trust that in time, we will forge these same friendships in any place we call home.  We will find a way to log the hours and tell the stories and welcome new threads into our tapestries.  But for now, I will savor this ache inside, because it means that I have loved and been loved, have known and been known.  I love so many things about where we are now, but were I the owner of red glittery shoes, today you would find me clicking my heels. 

Teflon Mom

I place my lips upon her fevered brow
May I absorb her sickness all, somehow
Not to join, but to replace hers, see?
May all her pain come rather into me

I breathe a prayer, a mother's prayer

I will myself a Teflon mom to be
Her germs slip off rather than stick to me
So then I may continue to be there
With water cool, my hand upon her hair

I breathe a prayer, a mother's prayer

An honor to hold back her tender curls
As she her stomach swiftly empties out
For in this moment, I am emptied, too
As my mother was for me, and hers for her

And on and on it goes, throughout all time
I feel the strength of Mama's hand in mine
Then in my weary state, I am renewed
With courage and new strength I am imbued

Years from now and in the hours wee
My daughter may then find herself to be
Washing the back of one so young and fair
And holding back her tender curls of hair

And though I may be gone or far away
I will be there with her that tiresome day
My voice of comfort echo in her head
To calm the voice of fear, the sense of dread

And on and on it goes throughout all time
I breathe a prayer, a mother's prayer for this sweet child of mine

To My Daughter, On Her First Day of Kindergarten

Sweet Marin,

There are so many things I want to say to you right now.  I've done it in bits and pieces over the past five years and increasingly over the past few days, but since it embarrasses you when I gush over you, I'll just do it in this letter and trust that it finds its way into your heart.

First of all, you are ready.  You know your letters, sounds, and numbers, of course, but that's not what I'm talking about here.  You know how to notice when a friend is feeling sad or scared and are quick with a hug and a sympathetic word.  I love the way you are able to come up with a story to identify with just about any situation someone is facing.  At the age of five, you are able to put yourself in someone else's shoes and then walk alongside them as a friend with encouragement and tenderness. That's a gift, sweet girl, so thank you for using it.  You know how to get excited about life and how to bring others along with you into that excitement.

I think you know how very loved you are and how crazy I am about you.

There are also some things you probably don't know.  You don't know that I've been sneaking into your room at night when you're asleep and praying over you.  You don't know that I even prayed over your new school clothes as I took them from the dryer - imagining you in them and hoping you would feel safe and loved whatever you experience in them through the course of the coming days and months.  You don't know how scared I am to have so little control over what you will experience in this new setting - how you will be treated by those around you and how you will come to view yourself through those interactions, what you will hear and wonder about.  You don't know how absolutely terrified I am by the random school shootings that are happening across our nation and how I can barely breathe in the moments when I allow myself to consider the possibility that this type of terror could come to our neighborhood as well, how much I hate it that guns even exist.  [Side note for when you're older - if I had a time machine, I'd go back to the moment in time when someone set out to invent a gun, each time someone set out to do so, and I'd bring a warm batch of chocolate chips cookies and take that person to watch a sunset or listen to a symphony or dig their toes into the sand.]  You can't know how very proud I am of the person that you are and the raw emotions that mothers experience as their children experience them.  It's almost like E.T. and Elliott, another thing you don't yet know about. You don't know how desperately I want to really know you and be let into your world, how much I will really want to know when I ask you about what happened that day at school.  You don't know how deeply I am going to miss you every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and how excited I am going to be to see your precious face again at the end of each day.  How I am going to long for the school holidays to roll around so I can have you with me again to run mundane errands and talk my ear off all day long with your wonderful ideas and scientific perspective on life.  How I am going to ache a little bit inside when I realize there is silence where your beautiful singing used to resound.  How I may even begin to miss the trail of clothes scattered across the floor from all of your costume changes.

Finally, a few things I want you to know.

I want you to know that you are beautiful.  Of course, you know what we always say is the most important thing about people: the way they treat others.  You know that we don't dwell on outward appearances much and that we talk about how people don't get to choose how they look and how little that actually matters.  You know that we value your kindness and sharp mind and sensitivity and sense of humor a lot more than we value how you look, and for that reason you may not even know that we think you are beautiful.  You just haven't heard us say it very often.  But despite our best intentions, you are going to want to feel beautiful because that's something that everyone wants for themselves, and so I want you to know that you are.  And here's something that's just as important to know: everyone else is beautiful, too.  Every single person you will encounter at school and everywhere else you go is just so stinkin beautiful.  Not because of what they are wearing or because of how their skin looks or the shape of their nose or the style of their hair or the size of their waist, but because they are the only person God created that looks the way they do.  Isn't that beautiful?  Let me let you in on a little secret: if you can figure out how to be comfortable with yourself, you can teach others to see themselves as beautiful, too.  That's another good gift you can give to the world.

I want you to know that you are not alone.  However you are feeling, I can guarantee you there is someone else who is feeling that, too.  Sometimes people are mean and they don't feel beautiful and they don't act beautiful and they unleash a bunch of ugly onto those around them.  It's not always their fault - and in the case of children, probably rarely is - but their ugly actions and words will hurt you the same whether or not we understand their true source.  When people hurt us, we have a tendency to harden, to turn our collars up against the cold wind, to shield ourselves in whatever way we know how, to close ourselves off so that it won't hurt so much the next time.  Please don't do that, precious daughter. Please stay open to life and to love and to people and to friendships.  There is so much beauty and hope and love to be found, so seek those things out and remember who you are.

I want you to know that I love you just because you are you.  You seem like the kind of kid who will apply yourself and make good grades, and unfortunately you have inherited a perfectionistic streak from both your father and me.  But even if you make good grades and achieve and succeed, we won't love you because of those things.  We won't require that you continue to perform at the same level all of the time, and we won't love you any less if you succeed in unconventional ways instead of conventional ones.  We just love you.  The real you.  The one who cries for a super long time when you get hurt, the one who experiences every aspect of life with great intensity, the one who has a song in your heart and a gleam in your eye.  Please keep being you, sweet girl.  Be you when it's easy and you when it's hard.  Whether or not it makes you popular and whether or not it measures up to whatever measuring stick people will try to hold up to you along the way.  [To hell with the measuring sticks!]  Just be you and remember how very loved you are and will always be.  No matter what.

Happy first day of school, sweetheart!

Love,
Mama