Relax Your Butt

Sam fell asleep in the car this afternoon, and I opted to try to transfer him to his bed instead of following my traditional course of action, which is to listen to music and text and generally avoid responsibilities in my car until he wakes up. Bringing a sleeping child inside is a risk - the parental version of Russian Roulette.  There are so many factors working against you:

-Seat belt maneuvering -Car door noises -Cold -Wind -The darn birds

Each obstacle that doesn't yield a screaming baby is a Russian-Roulette-caliber sigh of relief; it is hope and life and an hour of nap time to accomplish things.

I lifted Sam onto my shoulder without incident; he was exhausted, and all 30 lbs of his two year old self pressed heavy into my chest.  I laid his blanket over his back to shield him from the elements - one of my hands tenderly, protectively on the back of his head, and the other bearing his weight under his thighs.

Halfway between the car and the house, I felt Sam stir.  I felt him flexing and releasing his legs, his butt, over and over, fighting for sleep.

Now here is the delicate balance, the dangerous dance:  You must get to the bed ASAP, but without increasing your heart rate enough for the child to sense it.  You have to move quickly, fluidly, and silently with a little bit of a waddle, so that your bent knees absorb all the bumps and jostles.

When Sam started to squirm, I picked up the pace and whispered, "Shh, shh, shh, don't wiggle."

He kept on flexing and squirming, trying to carve out a warm, safe space in the crook of my arm.  "Shh, shh, shh.  Relax your little butt.  I've got you."

Then I said, " Trust my arms.  Trust my strength.  Trust my love."

And I felt a familiar surge in my chest.  The God-speaking-surge.

How many times has He whispered those words to me TODAY?

"Kate, stop wiggling.  Relax your little butt.  (How glorious that in relation to all the cosmos in the hollow of His hand my butt is very, very small.)  Trust my arms.  Trust my strength.  Trust my love."

I am a strategist and an energy-preserver and I work really well within structure and flounder outside of it - and that makes me a wiggler.  That makes me want to know what's going on and why - not so that I can control it (I tell myself), but so that I can prepare for it.  I'm very flexible as long as I know exactly what is going on.  (So, about as flexible as an anvil.)  I say, "Jesus, your will be done.  But give me a heads up as to exactly what your will is, so that I can adjust my attitude and my expectations and generally get on board."  I get agitated when God does not consult me about His plans, or at least update me.  A little common courtesy is all I ask.

But that's not how faith works.  For who has known the mind of the Lord?  And who has been his counselor?  Oh the depths of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God.  How unsearchable his judgments and his paths beyond tracing out.  (Romans 11:34 & 33)  Faith is not for the faint of heart.  And God tells me, every day, some days more patiently than others, every time I stop for long enough to listen:

 Stop wiggling.  Relax your butt.  Trust my arms.  Trust my strength.  Trust my love.  I can carry you.

The Good Stuff Sticks

In case you missed it, I wrote a post over at the walk in love. blog earlier this week.   It's something I've been thinking about a lot lately, and something for which I'm desperately grateful:  the good stuff sticks.

"The chancellor of the university I attended used to say, "You have more bad days than good ones."

I love that.

Because, if not bad days, then at least blah days, right?   Or side-tracked days, or I Yelled At My Kids Again days.

But remarkably, even with all the blah, frustrating, and downright awful days, people keep on doing extraordinary things.  Dreams stay alive.  Hard work - creative work - keeps happening.  Marriages hold fast.

People keep climbing Everest and keep having babies EVEN AFTER THEY KNOW HOW HARD IT IS.  Like, they know about running out of oxygen, and excruciating cramps, and pushing bodies past their physical limits,  and wondering why they thought this was such a good idea in the first place - and I've heard Everest is tough too.

Last month I took my daughter to Snow Mountain for her birthday.  It was 58° outside.  Y'all, don't hate, that fake snow was magical.  There was tubing and sledding and snowman-building.  There were Christmas tree s, lights, snowballs, train rides, and hot chocolate.  It was straight out of a freaking postcard ...until..."

You can read the rest of the story here!

Letter to 22-Year-Old Me

It has been almost six years since a doctor told me that Madeline was blind. I remember everything.  What I was wearing.  What he said, exactly.  The 6,704,870 thoughts I had on the drive home.  Some traumas turn into blurs; this one is emblazoned on my memory.

In my wildest hopes I would not have dared to image Madeline as she is today.

This is what I would tell six-years-ago-me, if I could.

Kate,

Everything is going to be okay.

Right now, in the future, Madeline is watching The Magic School Bus episode about outer space.  That's right - she can watch TV.  She sits really close on her little red footstool, and she has two younger brothers, with perfect vision, who also sit close because that's how their big sister taught them to do it.  (They also took their first steps with a white cane, which was adorable.)

Here is what I want you to know, young, scared Kate.

Madeline is going to have friends.  She is going to run - fast and hard and fearless.  She knows braille.  You know braille.  It is hard, and you're going to cry and quit for a little while, but when Madeline is in kindergarten, you help her with her homework and you both read it pretty effortlessly and everything is okay.  (Incidentally, Madeline is going to surprise you all the time with the things she can see.  Even when she is six, she will still be surprising you - and every doctor and teacher she has.)

You've never cried in an IEP meeting, or after one.  Only before - because fear of a thing is almost always worse than reality.  Try not to worry.

Madeline is incredibly bright.  Her vocabulary is enormous - annoyingly so.  But she's not just smart-bright; she's a sparkle.  Everything in her whole life is over-the-top big.  She says things like:

"I know I have a lot of days left to live, but I know that no day could possibly be better than this day."

"I will listen to you, I will listen to teachers, I will listen to anyone, even after I DIE I WILL LISTEN."

"The only thing better than your painting is GOD."

And "Pluto is the most important planet in my life." 

She is some kind of special; people are drawn to her.

There are so many bright, happy things about your life.  Here is the most important thing:

Darling, do not fear what you don't really know.  Do not grieve for things you have not lost yet; you may not end up losing them at all.

Madeline's middle name is Hope - you had no way of knowing how perfect a christening that was for her, but I am here to tell you she has lived up to it in every way.  She has been spreading hope, warm in the hearts everyone who has the privilege to watch her, for six years now.  For six years, just sparkling and hope-spreading: hope to families touched by ONH, hope to teachers, hope to doctors, hope to friends - hope to everyone.

Don't worry.  Don't be afraid.  It gets better.  You get better.  You are carried on rhythms of grace, on the backs of friends, and on prayers of the faithful the whole way - every step.  Every hard-fought step, every uncertain step, every hail-mary, God-save-us step, you are carried.

Life is brutal and it is beautiful; Glennon Melton calls it brutiful.  And, God, is it ever.

But you can do this.  You are doing it, and you are doing a good job. Darling, do not fear what you don't really know. 

love, present Kate

P.S.  She does eventually learn to buckle her seat belt and put on her own socks, so don't sell her; she pulls through.

 (All photos by Brooke Courtney Photography)

Life, Inch by Inch

My two best friends from high school both had babies this month, just a few days apart. I've been thinking about my friends and their babies, wishing I could hop a flight.  I wish I could go cook and clean and do the grocery shopping and the laundry.  I wish I could come bearing lots of lavender soap and a dozen new, clean tank tops.  I wish I could sit on their couches with them, sleepy and happy and staring at babies.  I wish I could rock fussy babies to sleep, walking laps around the living room, while my friends max out their 2-hour between-feeding sleep window.  I've been the tired mom; now I want to be the helper.

But I can't; not yet.  Not this time.

If I were sitting on the happy, sleepy couches this week, this is what I would tell my friends:

We are in a season of life that is marked by small goals, little benchmarks that indicate survival.

Your baby will force you to stop measuring yourself by your to-do list.  You may be an idealist; you may not think that you find your identity in your work, in what you accomplish, but you do.  We all do.  That baby will force you to stop calculating your value by how much you do, how chic your house is, how you look, and how many people are impressed with you.  You will adapt or die.  You'll find your value somewhere deeper, truer, or the insecurity will kill you.  You either give up your long to-do lists, or you'll drown in a sea of unmet expectations.  

The secret is small goals.

Make a list of tiny things you want to accomplish today.  Things that, before you had kids, didn't even seem like things.  Things like:

1. Text Mom 2. Unload and reload dishwasher 3. Shower 4. Do  jumping jacks 5. Get the mail

Those are your goals for the next 24 hours.  Your little list grounds you.  It puts you in control instead of at the mercy of the wiggly little dictator that needs to be held and fed and changed and cleaned around the clock.  You'll feel progress instead of powerless.  When you meet your goals, you'll feel like you have your crap together.  And on the days you take a shower you'll be like,

"I DID ALL THE THINGS!" *drops mic*

When my babies were new and squishy dictators, I tried to set a realistic, achievable goal in each category: physically, relationally, spiritually, professionally, and housework-ily.  I still have a note on my phone where I jotted down my goals for a day in May - Henry was 2 months old.  It says:

Small Goals: -Make green smoothie for breakfast -email David (my agent) -Fold 1 load of laundry -Post something, anything, to FB author page -Go to Madeline's teacher meeting @2:30

New Mom, you can't go to the gym now, but you can do 50 jumping jacks every time you change a diaper.

You can't go out for coffee yet, but you can text one friend every day, while you're nursing the baby, just to connect to another person.

You can't do a Beth Moore bible study, but you can leave your bible open on the kitchen counter all day.

Super-mom isn't found in accomplishing everything; it's found in living well. For me, super-mom just means having a Kindergartener, a toddler, a baby, and liking it.  

Women who appear to have it all together never have it all together, they just have the right things together.  They have just enough together to to enjoy this season instead of merely surviving it, though there is some of that.

Of course you'll keep moving towards your big plans and dreams and your creative work, but in this sweet season you will move inch-by-inch, not stride-by-stride.

Inch by inch.  Kiss by kiss.  Nap by nap.  Chinese take-out by Chinese take-out.

And send me lots of baby pictures.  Every day.  Just keep 'em coming.   Megan, if you're reading this, stop right now and go take a picture of your baby and text it to me.

Rest and peace and joy, Kate

[vimeo]http://vimeo.com/76834417[/vimeo]

Related: Motherhood 101, The First Year There is Room

Viva Vacation

Last week, Dan and I sent in the last of our 3 manuscripts.  The last 45,000 word-batch of our thoughts. We don't pull out all the stops for birthdays or anniversaries or Christmases, but this was an accomplishment that we wanted to celebrate.  To be clear, we are not celebrating writing books; we are celebrating surviving this year.

8,760 hours have passed; Henry slept for 6 of them.  

There was the catastrophic week Henry came home from the hospital, when everyone in the house had a stomach virus for 2 weeks.  When I was breastfeeding a two-day-old infant, jealous Sam was screaming at my feet, and Madeline was throwing up in the corner.  And then Sam busted his face open on a chair and we had to put him in his STILL COVERED IN VOMIT car seat and drive him to the emergency room.  We survived that.

There was the two-week period the last book was due, when the kids got chicken pox.  And our babysitter broke her foot.   And Madeline had fall break and was home with all her effervescence and her words.  And Dan had a fall retreat with the college students and was gone for a million billion years, which is what four days feels like to a mom of three tiny humans.  We survived that.

We survived other stuff too, so we celebrated.

My handsome, hero-husband of mine and I left the tiny humans in the care of their grandmother and we peaced out to the beach.  Dan's grandparents sent a package for the kids, which we stole on our way out the door, elbowing each other and giggling maniacally, like drunk hamburglars.   His saintly, saintly grandparents took an empty mini-muffin package and stuffed each muffin-hole with good Halloween candy; they then layered M&Ms on top of them, then layered three nutter butter packets on top of the M&Ms and snapped it shut.  YOU KNOW WE TOOK THAT BIZ TO THE BEACH.

We were drunk with freedom and delirious by the time we hit the highway.  When we went through a drive-thru for dinner, Dan was all, "I'll have the six-pound triple-bacon burger," and I was all, "ME TOO."

We slept in, we ate out, we walked, we shopped, I got my nose pierced.  It was the best.

Also, this:

VIVA VACATION