A little bit closer to fine...

My mother died when I was seventeen years old and it rocked my world.  I am now thirty seven years old and my world is still shaking.  I walk around most days perfectly put together.  I have made great effort to make sure that (for the most part) none of my aftershocks occur in public or that none of my unfinished edges show.  But, lately I’ve been thinking.  I feel like a cake that somebody took out of the oven before it was done baking.  It looks done on the outside so you take it out and you take the time and effort to beautifully decorate it, but what no one is aware of is that underneath all of that frosting lies a shaky mess.  I am that shaky mess. 

I liken it to when my mother died life took me out of the oven.  I wasn’t quite done baking, but it didn’t matter-my time was up.  And in many ways, I’ve stayed in that state of mind for the last twenty years.  Oh sure, I’ve put myself back together, but nothing can ever replace that time in the oven that was missed.  And I’m starting to wonder, how many of the rest of us are walking around unfinished?  How many of the rest of us didn’t get enough time in the great proverbial oven?

I had a shaky day yesterday.  I feel like I’ve been having a lot of those lately.  I had to put myself out there in ways that made me feel vulnerable and insecure.  Those are two of my triggers.  But, putting yourself out there is just part of life (especially when you’re a mother, because-hello, you have to go to bat for your kids).  But, my goodness, does that make my weak spots feel even weaker.

Usually when I write I feel like I have a point to get across.  But, today I’m not sure that I do.  I think I just want to be bold.  I want to admit that I am weak.  And in doing so, maybe I can become strong.  I want to be public with my state of uncooked batter, haha.  I want people to know that if you yourself feel this same way, you’re not alone. 

And so, if you are reading this and you ever have a day where there’s just not enough frosting in the world to cover up your vulnerability, think of me-because, maybe-just maybe-if we can generate enough love, it could replace the warmth of the oven and get us a little bit closer to fine.

God lives close to the floor.

When Jackson was born, my grandmother said, “Well, children are the best thing that will ever happen to you, but you’ve slept your last good night.”  At that point I thought she was probably kidding (I hoped) or at least exaggerating (I prayed), but now-almost 14 years later, I can vouch for her-she was 100% correct. 

Oh sure, there’s a night here and there where I might fall asleep at a normal hour and actually wake up the next morning in the same place.  But, it’s rare.  It’s more often that I wander and bed hop.  The sounds of bad dreams, sniffles, drinks of water and covers that “need fixing” have replaced REM, and man, do I miss it. 

Last night, it was Charlotte who woke me up.  Technically, not her fault, but I awoke to the sounds of her in the midst of a terrible coughing fit.  She wasn’t crying, so I didn’t rush in to her room.  But, she could never quite settle back in.  I found myself sitting in the floor outside of her bedroom door.  She was having a terrible time off and on, but she never called for me, so I wanted to wait and see.  And as I sat there and listened to her, I felt an overwhelming closeness to God.  It was as if I could feel him nudging my heart, It’s hard to watch her struggle, isn’t it? That’s how I feel waiting for you.  

And so, as I sat there with tears running down my face at 3 o’clock in the morning, I knew that God was close to the floor.  And He was right.  If I never call out to my Father-if I never invite him in when I’m struggling, He’s just as helpless as I felt in that moment with Charlotte.  I am good at saying, Father, take this cross from me, but boy do I love to take it back.  I love to feel like I’m strong enough to manage on my own, but as usual, God knows best. 

For today, that is my prayer.  Lord, when I’m feeling weak.  When I’m struggling, help me remember to invite you in and help me remember that asking for help is what makes you strongest of all. 

But, Nana was right.  Lightning strikes of wisdom and moments with Jesus or not-I really had slept my last good night.  

The wind up hurts less

And alas, here we are...the last morning of quiet sips of coffee and 'what shall we do' today's. The wind-down of summer. Tomorrow will be first day photos and arm loads of tissues and glue sticks. It will be emergency contact forms and permission slips-homework and book covers. And, I'm sorry, but I'm sad. I'm not the least bit sad for them. This is a pity party for one and I've RSVP'd favorably.

Tomorrow we'll begin the fast loop around another year of their life and this year we'll have a new rider-our last rider. I've cried so many times when she's not looking. She is so excited and I'm excited for her. You see, I'm just a little sad for me. Because, here we go. I know this ride. I know how fast it goes. And then we're off. There is joy in having your children so far apart because you know how time slips away, but oh there is melancholy, too. Because you KNOW how time slips away. I love these little people. I love being their mother and while I know it's not I title I have to relegate, I know it's work that has to be out grown.

So, if you see me over the next few days and I have a tear in my eye, don't worry, it's just growing pains. Be good to them, world. And I'll try to teach them to be good to you.

All that and a jar of peanut butter...

When a couple joins their lives together in marriage, there are bound to be some compromises.  Who likes to sleep on what side of the bed?  Crest or Colgate?  Mayo or Miracle Whip?  And lord save you if you find yourselves on different ends of the political spectrum.  But, eventually, you find yourselves and the little nuances of personalities and quirks right themselves and it’s just a part of your every day lives. 

But, in doing so, in compromising for another person, you can lose a bit of yourself.  You can sometimes forget that there were things that you loved before you were fifty percent of a “we”.  You can forget that there were preferences and favorites that had to be pushed aside in the name of practicality.  Heck, in the name of peace.  Still, every once in a while, something will peek out at you-a reminder that you’re still in there.

I overheard a mom at the pool the other day talking about how she has to buy two jars of peanut butter-crunchy and creamy because each of her kids like a different kind. 

“Ewwww, my son piped up.  What’s crunchy peanut butter?” 

Somewhere something in me woke up. 

What do you mean, ewwww?  Have you ever even tried it?  (Knowing he hadn’t because his daddy hates it so it hadn’t been purchased in all the years of our marriage--One of those fore-mentioned compromises that you forget about until suddenly you can’t). 

Well, friends.  That day I knew.  The next time I went to the grocery store I was going to purchase two jars of peanut butter.  Because just like that other mom, if my kids liked different kinds, it would be a no-brainer.  But, somehow because it was ME that liked crunchy peanut butter, it didn’t matter.  Why do we do that to ourselves?  Am I seriously under the delusion that I’m not worth a JAR OF PEANUT BUTTER?  (Yes, I’m yelling.  It’s *that* serious, haha).

The beauty of this story would lie in the miracle that after that jar of crunchy peanut butter was purchased the kids discovered that it was actually their favorite, too.  But, sadly, that’s just not the case.  They agree with their father that it’s completely disgusting.  But, guess what?  I’m STILL buying it.  Because that second jar of peanut butter purchased just for me, well, it feels symbolic.  I am worth a jar of peanut butter.  And at almost 37 years old, it’s about time I realized it.  

Striking out and stepping up

Aaaah, life.  I’ve never seen anything more capable of throwing a more perfect curve ball.  And somehow, it always feels like I’m the batter that’s up next with the bases loaded.  No pressure.  (Except lots of pressure.  Game winning pressure).  And lately I feel like I’ve been striking out pretty consistently and letting my team down.  I haven’t liked my attitude and I haven’t been terribly proud of my performance in the face of adversity. 

I’ve been discouraged and I’ve been down.  I’ve been remembering that old saying about being at the end of your rope and using it to make a noose, haha.  Not really, obviously, but when it seems like everything you touch turns to Fool’s Gold, you tend to grow a bit weary. 

I was sitting in Church on Sunday and from the time the lights went down and the worship came on, I cried.  My heart was so worn out and Church has always been the place that I come to in order to recharge.  I think there is something very beautiful about laying yourself and your burdens at the throne of the one who already knows.  I’m lucky that I have a place to feed my soul and find a moment of rest.  Everyone deserves that.

As I sat in the silence and the stillness, a thought washed over me.  It was almost as though a voice whispered into my subconscious.  It said, this is all so temporary.  Why are you worried? 

I left Church that day (after crying an embarrassing number of tears throughout the rest of the service, prompting my nervous 8 year old to inquire about my mental stability) and that has remained on my mind all week.  This is all so temporary.  Friends, in the grand scheme of things, our troubles here on Earth are just a blip on the screen of time.  It’s so easy to get caught up in the moment, caught up in the day, but trust in Him.  Trust that His plan is better and He can see the whole picture.  When you’re having the kind of day, the kind of game, if you will, where all you can see is curve balls, trust that the pitcher knows best. 

This life is temporary.  Eternity, well, that’s the game to dwell on.

Always loving, always loved.

Yesterday was a day like any other.  Charlotte and I took Nana to Target to get a new cordless phone (YES, a house phone!  People still have those) and had taken a break in the Café to feed everyone some lunch.  (I had a banana because this lifestyle of a diet frowns upon personal pan pizzas.  I know-Rude).

But, anyway, Char had wandered over to Nana’s side of the table and I was showing them pictures I had taken on my phone. I got to one of some flowers that we had taken out to my mom’s grave on Mother’s Day.  I held it out to show her and Charlotte looked up at Nana and said, “That’s for my Grandma Sherry.  She died.”  My breath caught a bit.  I wasn’t sure what to say.  Nana, being ever wise and graceful, pulled her into a tighter hug and said, “I know.  She was my little girl.’ 

Somehow, in that moments, listening to my grandmother speak of her little girl while watching her hold mine, my eyes got a little glassy. 

I surely lost something amazing that December day almost 20  years ago, but as I was so beautifully reminded yesterday, I wasn’t the only one. We're fast approaching what would have been her 67th birthday and between that and Mother's Day, May can be a bitter sweet month.  But, I hope she knows that we still celebrate and honor her.  I hope she feels the love that stretched all the way from Heaven to a table in a busy Target cafe and back again.  I know we did.  

A mother, a daughter, a wife, a friend-the life of one woman, but the loss of so many. 

More of the same.

As a mother, particularly one of the stay at home variety, people ask me a lot what I want to do when the kids are grown.  I tend to hem and haw at this question.  Oh, sure I make a few tentative plans in my head.  I think about how I’d like to teach preschool or find a position at an elementary school that would keep me close to my kids.  I think about how I want to write.  Heck, I even try to imagine social activities that I might enjoy.  Nope, still no great ideas.  My life is so tied to theirs; it’s just next to impossible. 

Until today. 

Today, I saw something that I want more than I can express to you in words.

My friend posted a blog post about what their family had done over Easter.  It was a lovely post.  She always does such a good job of sharing the things that her sweet family does together, and this post was no different.  But, as I scrolled down, something caught my eye and took my breath. 

There she had posted a picture of her mother and father sitting down on some brick steps with all of their grandchildren surrounding them.  Her mother had her hand on her dad’s leg and they just looked so happy, so blessed-all of their grandchildren sitting at their feet-a legacy that a lifetime of love and commitment had granted them. 

That, my friends-that is what I want.  I want it so badly that I have tears in my eyes.  I want to see the happily ever after. I want to see my kids become parents. I want to know their children. I want to hold their babies and see the features that I saw in them so many years before.  I want to bandage their skinned knees and watch their school plays.  I want to give them cookies before dinner and chocolate cake after dessert.  I want to be part of their journey.  

And deep down, I know why I want it so badly.  I want it because I know it’s not promised.  I know it’s what my own mother wanted and was denied.  Life is a gift.  In fact, birthdays are a present all unto themselves.  We are not promised tomorrow.  But, when you ask me what I want, I want time.  I want age.  I want tomorrow and the next day and the next.  I want to sit on some brick stairs with my husband and see what the future has brought us.  I want more of the same, please,  More of the same.