Bubble Violence and Sunday Morning Demons

The 3 Irrefutable Laws of Motherhood are:

1. It is harder and better than you think.

2. People only stop by unannounced when your house is STRAIGHT NASTY and you are bra-less at 3:00 in the afternoon.

3. The entire universe conspires to keep you out of church on Sunday mornings.  Sunday mornings are, ironically, the sixth circle of hell.

However much hitting, punching, glass-shattering, appliance-breaking, things exploding, tantrum-throwing, food-spilling, and violent diarrhea you think is inherent in parenthood, triple it.  And on Sunday mornings, triple it again.

My children are overachievers.  They adopt their Sunday morning alter-egos on Saturday night, like overly ambitious Black Friday shoppers.  They want to make sure they have time to fit in ALL THEIR CRAZY.

A few weeks ago, Henry went to church with a large Band-aid straight across his forehead, connecting his eyebrows.  It was covering up the fresh gash that maybe could have used a stitch, but we judgment called it and figured he’d be fine (third kid).

Tonight, we were blowing bubbles when things got violent.  If you don’t understand how bubbles can turn violent you have less than or equal to one child.

So my kids are inching closer and closer - in order to be the first in line cluster to pop all the bubbles before his/her siblings - until they are all standing there with their fingers shoved INSIDE the bubble wand, and soapy syrup is running down their arms and all over my legs, and they are giggling like scary little Christopher Nolan versions of The Joker.

So I said, “EVERY ONE BACK. UP.”

And they did.

Until I blew the next wand-ful of bubbles and they stampeded towards me, shrieking and waving their hands in the air like they just didn’t care.  And Henry, Henry is one year old by the skin of his teeth.  I saw it happen in slow motion, like watching Mufasa get sucked under the hooves of crazed wildebeests.  They knocked him over forwards, then straight trampled him as they leapt around in their unbreakable bubble-trance, COMPLETELY UNAWARE that a LITTLE PERSON was underfoot.

That was the end of bubbles, and now Henry has a cut on his eyelid.   His left eye is all puffed up and pink, and he’s going to church AGAIN looking like Rocky Balboa.

You should also know that Madeline had to give herself a schizophrenic pep-talk to pipe down during story time tonight.  I am not making this up.  After the fifth interjection on the FIRST PAGE, I snapped, “MADELINE.  STOP TALKING.”

And she said,

“Okay, I can do this.

No, I can’t.

Yes, yes I can.   I can do hard things.

No, I can’t do this.

Yes, I can be quiet.”

I stared at her, unable to make sense of what was happening in front of me.   She has to have a conversation WITH HERSELF to mentally prepare herself to stop saying every single thing that pops into her brain.  You don’t even know.

The moral of this story is that I need something warm and chocolatey in the most serious way.   And that moms with herds of offspring should get preferential parking at church.  Because we have done mighty battle.  We have exorcised the Sunday morning demons.  We SHOWED UP.

And also, the childcare workers should just turn a blind eye (PUN INTENDED) to my little boxer tomorrow.  He's fine.  He just had a nice Saturday evening blowing bubbles.

Are Sunday mornings your craziest mornings too?   Why do you think that is?    What keeps you showing up?  

Because He Lives (& Yoga Bird)

In light of Easter, I wanted to share with you a meditation I wrote for Yoga Bird last month. The significance of the resurrection is so infinite - we can talk about the love of Jesus, the cost of sin, Jesus in our place, God's power over death, the ultimate apologetic on which hinges the entirety of the Christian faith...

...but for me, this is where the rubber meets the road.  The resurrection doesn't just matter because it was miraculous.  It matters because Jesus is alive.  A dead god can't help you any more than a box of rocks can.   But a living God - a living God sees and loves and sustains.  Easter is the biggest deal because a living God is the biggest deal.

"The days are uncertain, to be sure.  When I think too long on Hollywood, or the beauty industry, or sex-trafficking, or congress, it is difficult to feel much of anything but despair.  I can’t imagine anything more daunting than being asked to raise a girl in our culture – until I think of raising boys.   And vice versa.

Then I realize that I believe Christ to be big enough for anybody, anywhere, no matter their plight or their hurt or their sin – but not big enough for me.

Not big enough for my parenting deficiency, not big enough for my immaturity, for my short-sightedness, for my brokenness and pride.

Of course he can redeem a life shattered by abuse. Of course He can sustain through unimaginable loss. Of course He can bring joy and peace to a life entrenched in the daily ache of poverty. Of course He can lift the drug addict out of the pit, He can lift the alcoholic out of the mire, and set their feet on solid rock.

But me?  And my kids?  And my depressingly average, messed up life?  I don’t know if He is big enough for that.

This is, of course, insanity.  It is illogical and untrue, but I believe it – my worries betray me.  My despair tattles.

“In what way am I damaging my children?”  I wonder.  “What will they say about me in therapy?  Will they turn out okay, in these uncertain days?  Will I?”

There is a song – a hymn – that I sang in a little Baptist church in Alabama.  I sing it now, too.  On almost every single one of these uncertain days:

“How sweet to hold a newborn baby To feel the pride and joy he gives But sweeter still the calm assurance This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

Because He lives I can face tomorrow. Because He lives all fear is gone. Because I know He holds the future, Life is worth the living just because He lives.”

Corrie Ten Boom said, “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.”   The days are uncertain, but God -  God is certain.  He is the most certain thing there ever was.  He is the Rock of Ages.  Immutable and unchanging and certain.

And He is for me.

He is alive, full of power and grace.  His arm is not too short to save.  He is for me, and this child can face uncertain days because He lives.  Some days “this child” is my child, and some days it’s me.  But here’s what I know – we can face uncertain days.  Oh, what blessed power and hope!  We can face uncertain days!

We can face uncertain days because He lives."

(You can listen to the meditation here.  My words have been put to original music, and every meditation includes a time of silence and reflection.)

//

Besides blog and books, I have a few other projects going, one of which is writing meditations like this one for Yoga Bird.  Yoga Bird is a wellness website that offers on-demand yoga classes with Christian meditation.  I first subscribed a few months ago and poked around the site for over an hour - there is a huge library of poses, beginner and advanced classes, quick office breaks, a blog, and a library full of meditations (which are nice for a quiet time too, if you want to switch things up).

If you want to go exploring, here is a coupon for 10 free days!

Other cool thing:  They beautiful heart behind Yoga Bird is my very dear aunt.  You will love her. And for the curious, this welcome video explains what they're about:

We can face uncertain days because He lives.  Happy Easter. Kate

We Keep Our Children's Secrets

 My middle child is my sensitive child.  Sam feels things first.  Changes in his environment, tweaks to his schedule, tensions in relationship - they're all palpable to Sam.  He notices and responds. Whenever I visit with someone I love, I think,

"I hope they get to see the real Sam."

They usually don't.  A new person in the vicinity is just enough change for Sam to holster his magic.  He keeps it close to the vest.

I used to feel sad, because I knew the world was missing out.  It was difficult to know that I had this treasure of a child and that even those closest to me would never really know him.  When you have great joy, you want to share it.  It's why we photograph and Instagram, it's why we call and text and "guess what!"  It's why we shout love from the rooftops.  Sam is the greatest joy, and I so wanted the world to know him.

But these days, instead of feeling sad , I choose honored.  I've begun to understand that all mothers keep their children's secrets.  I am the guardian of the great joy that is Sam at his most free, most comfortable, most true.  I have the blessed privilege of being the human with whom he feels at home.  It's hard sometimes, to choose honored over sad, because the compulsion to shout him out and show him off is still so great.  So I think of Mary, the young mother of Jesus, who "treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart" (Luke 2).

The shepherds were out shouting the glories of God and angels and the infant King Jesus, because great joy wants to be shared, but Mary treasured and pondered.  A young mother, just like me, keeping her baby's secrets.

I suspect this secret-keeping, this guarding of beautiful little selves, is how the universe pays us back for stretch marks.  Oh, did we ever get the good end of that deal.

(all photos by Brooke Courtney Photography) 

On Art and Hope and Washi Tape

I spent my afternoon listening to Leigh Nash's Hymns and Sacred Songs, sipping espresso, and hanging up all of Madeline's artwork from our beach week.  The rainy days yielded lots of drawing, plus Brooke was there, or as Madeline calls her, The Best Artist In The World. I can't argue.

I started to Instagram this picture, but there was too much I wanted to say about it.  Then I was all, "Wait, I HAVE A BLOG."

Here are my 5 would-be Instagram captions:

1. When Madeline was 4 months old, I could not have imagined this glory.  Darling, do not fear what you don't really know.  Vision loss, hearing loss, down syndrome, cerebral palsy, autism - whatever the diagnosis, whatever the life-changing, dream-changing, scary unknown, do not assume what your child will not be able to do.  Just wait and see.  If there are things they cannot do - that's okay.  Who they are is enough.  But what they can do - WHAT THEY CAN DO - will surprise you every day.  Kids are brilliant, resilient, spectacular little people.  Dear special needs parent, do not fear what you don't really know.  Madeline the hope-giver wants to be an artist and and astronaut.  Who ever would have thought.  There is so much hope.

2. I need a new phone, STAT.  Here's a game: let's pretend this is really bright and clear and happy and gorgeous!

3.  It is so important to display kids' artwork in their home.  I remember the wall above my parents' headboard, filled with pictures from my brother and I, and I remember how proud it made me feel.  There were some really beautiful ideas of how to display kids' art at apartment therapy a few months ago.

4. I am rich.  When my heart fails within me, I only  have to look at this wall to remember.  I am rich.  Parenting matters SO MUCH.  If I only ever get two things right in life, I want those things to be loving Jesus, and raising Madeline, Sam, and Henry Conner.

5. I will sing its praises again - y'all, $2 for a roll of washi tape is worth it times a billion.  (I loved this ode to washi tape on the walk in love. blog.)

(This one isn't on Madeline's wall.  It's going in my room:)

Mind Bank

When my mom left the beach yesterday, she said, "I wanted more." It rained from Saturday to Wednesday, which was okay,  since we are pretty good at hanging around and just being with one another, but it was okay in a "choose to be happy because the alternative sucks worse" kind of way.  And we both knew it.

We took this picture, in our own words, to prove we were there.

When my mom and brother pulled out of the driveway, it was like the clouds hitched a ride in their back seat.  They drove west, and immediately, gloriously, from the east came the sun - right on their heels.  In just a few hours the island warmed up by 20 degrees.  Sorry, guys.

And today.  Today was everything we could have dreamed.  It was the More.

Today there were sand castles; both bucket and dribble style.  We dug giant holes, so deep that I looked down the beach once and panicked - where's Madeline?!?  Then she popped up like a prairie dog and we laughed.   We saw bottlenose seal blah blah blah's playing in the surf - diving slowly, lolling over the breakers - only waist-deep in the water.  We made sand cakes, decorated with shells and reed-candles, OBVIOUSLY.  We drew in the sand.  We inspected dead crabs.

At one point, Henry was sleeping in a mass of patterned blankets, the kids were playing afar off in the giant hole, and I was able to lay so still that the little conch snail we found eased his way out of his shell right in front of me.  Straight-up magical.

We snacked on granola bars and healthy amounts of sand.  Sam terrorized sea gulls.

And I have not one single picture of this perfect day.

My phone did a weird thing, as ancient-artifact phones tend to do, and right before we stepped outside it was like, "Oh wait, did you need me to work today?  MY BAD."

And listen.  Before you think that this is going to be a holier-than-thou "I was liberated from technology and lived in the moment!" post - it's not.

I did not feel even a little bit enlightened.  I wish I'd had my phone.  If I could change that part, I would.  My heart does an achy thing when I think about all the sandy, happy freeze-frames I don't have.

I had to add this day to my mind bank.

I have a treasure box in my mind full of perfect moments uncaptured by film.  They'll only last as long as my mind does; when I'm gone, I'll take them with me.

-In my mind bank is a day in the Tuileries Garden in Paris with my little cousins, pushing sailboats around that iconic fountain with a stick.  I'd used up all 13 rolls of 35mm film, and since digital cameras only existed in a think tank somewhere and not in the possession of 13-year-old girls, I was out of luck.

-There is also an endangered red hawk, perched feet from me on a fence post, as we were driving home from horseback riding.

-There is the night I felt mother-love for the first time.  It wasn't in the hospital, for me.  It was at home a week later, at 2:30 am.  I didn't want to put Madeline down, and I didn't understand why.  I should have wanted to sleep, but I didn't; I wanted to be awake with her.  I can still see everything about that moment.

And now there is a perfect beach day with my three children.  It was everything a beach day should be, and it's our secret.  It is safe in my treasure box with the other moments I've preserved on mind-film.

 

Do you have a mind bank?  What is a moment that's inside?  Do you wish you'd had a camera, or are you glad it will only ever be your secret?