Post Category → motherhood

in bullets

Thinking about…

:: God being this kind of God, and not just a god of my own imagination, the importance of the family table, and other really good Dad sermons.

:: how, when we’re at the end of our rope and can only hold onto one thing, we choose fear instead of hope, worry instead of peace, death instead of life. Why not hold onto Jesus?

:: fleeting days. Summer days, winter days; baby days, boys days — they’re all fleeting, and I don’t want to waste them or wish them away. Today is the day the Lord has made, today is the day of salvation, today is what I’ve been given to sow my life into.

:: a baby coming, and how much I can’t believe it. A baby. A real, live baby. And how amazing this process is. Does it ever cease to be amazing? (I think not.) We’re all so excited.

:: how, as I approach the birthing event, I derive so much confidence from knowing that God made me to do this. Actually, pretty much all of my confidence. Belief in a creative, loving, wise God makes all the difference in how I live and approach my life’s callings. Because God said.

:: the fun weekend I just had with Ryan, celebrating our anniversary. Just a couple days away, but so fun to spend it walking, talking, eating, and just being together. It was such a treat.

being mama

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.

I still don’t quite feel like I qualify as “Mother.” More like, “Girl With Babies.”

But mother I am.

Last night my baby grabbed a sweatshirt and stood before his adored daddy, eager to go outside and do something special. But my baby was tall and slim and boyish, his hair already sun-kissed bronze and tousled, his cheeks and nose no longer rounded with the chubbiness of a toddler, his cut-off shorts and freckles screaming: BOY. Growing boy. On his way to young man. My heart squeezed. I love him. I’m proud of him. And I miss my baby.

This morning kicks and flutters woke me, and I patted my tummy in response. Our secret little code that says, “I know you’re in there, and I love you!” My mind absently turned to weeks and months and due dates and I suddenly realized, I’ve got three months left. Three months! Didn’t I just begin the second trimester? Where did it go? Only three months before this becomes more than just pregnancy’s anticipation, and there is a new baby. And I am a mother times three.

And then a little hand rubbed my back: the chubby boy who is still the baby, for now. I roll over and smile at my little bed-mate, the one who still comes in every single night, the one who is like a heat-seeking missile, stirring over and over all night long, wedging his little body as close to mine as he can manage. He smiles at me, caresses my face, gives me a kiss. He talks so much, telling me about “one time, Mama…,” making up his own little jokes, and he follows close behind his brother’s heels, happy to explore the meadow and woods and play Star Wars with the big boys. Somehow, right under my nose, he grew from my sweet baby William into a little boy, and I don’t know when or how.

Mama. Mother. That’s me. And I feel like it should be Mother-in-Training, but to these little people, there’s no training about it: it’s real life. Every day, I’m really their mama. And they grow. And I grow.

And it’s the best thing in the world.

30

thirty

A very poor night’s sleep, thanks to a bad head cold, ended quite pleasantly when a certain four year old snuck into bed next to me early this morning. After a long time of cuddling and trying to sleep, he finally whispered, “Can I watch videos on your iPhone?” Treat of all treats: laying all warm and snuggly in Mama’s bed watching all the Little Bear that youtube has to offer. William joined us, too, and we three made a happy lazy bunch. (Ryan slept on the couch. He said he didn’t want to disrupt the head-cold-sleeper, but I have a sneaking suspicion he was the one avoiding disrupted sleep!)

I made cornmeal mush. It’s my birthday, and not much sounds better when you’re just feeling crummy. I enjoyed my coffee alongside William, who’d pulled out playmobil pirates as soon as his feet hit the ground.

I found a lovely little birthday gift of springtime promise on the kitchen counter (SEEDS!), left by the very thoughtful and sweet Olivia.

I buried myself under an afghan on the couch, and two boys played pirates ON TOP of me. I’m not complaining. I like being loved, what can I say?

I read 100+ kind birthday wishes on my FB page. They made me smile.

I made a fort for the boys out of blankets+kitchen table. They played cowboys, then knights, then cowboys, then a strange futuristic combo. I watched from the couch and soaked up all the wonderfulness of having children who enjoy one another. (BTW: the fact that I was noting and enjoying this should imply that it’s not always the case. Ha!)

I heated up leftovers for lunch. Jameson declared how much he loved it. William, in true William-style, ate all the flavorful sauce and left the rice. We told jokes and sang songs and observed that I’d never gotten them dressed that morning. Jameson said “that’s because it’s a cuddly day.”

I tucked them into their beds, then sat and sang two songs (Twinkle Twinkle and Amazing Grace — new songs!!). William fell asleep while I read Heidi.

And now I’m tucked into my own bed with burning eyes and a fuzzy head, and wondering if maybe I’m actually turning 80, ’cause that’s how I feel.

But no, I’m 30. And I’m not sad about that, or negative or depressed or any of the above. I have no issue with growing older, so long as God continues to give grace to live faithfully for Him (and He will.) I won’t miss being in my twenties, though I’ll get choked up when I look at certain pictures, because memories are dear. The future isn’t known to me, but it’s far from uncertain, and it comes to me a day at a time. I don’t have to be scared.

In fact, the prevailing thought I have this year, as I try to pause and take note of passing time more than I usually do (who pays attention to their 27th birthday, for example?) is the promise of Proverbs 4:

But the path of the just is like the shining sun,
That shines ever brighter unto the perfect day.

Not easier, necessarily; not smoother, or lacking greater challenges. But brighter… unto the Perfect Day (a Day I can’t wait for.)

And since I’ve wandered into the realm of exhortation, I’ll just tack on the end of Proverbs 4, too, which is such wonderful wisdom for how to continue on that path of the just:

My son, give attention to my words;
Incline your ear to my sayings.
Do not let them depart from your eyes;
Keep them in the midst of your heart;
For they are life to those who find them,
And health to all their flesh.
Keep your heart with all diligence,
For out of it spring the issues of life.
Put away from you a deceitful mouth,
And put perverse lips far from you.
Let your eyes look straight ahead,
And your eyelids look right before you.
Ponder the path of your feet,
And let all your ways be established.
Do not turn to the right or the left;
Remove your foot from evil.

I am bound and determined that growing old is going to equal knowing Jesus more. Me decreasing, Him increasing. Finding what it means to have my strength supernaturally renewed. Outward perishing, inward renewed every day.

snapshots

It’s funny how daily life seems, and then suddenly, it’s a year or two later, and I can’t even remember those details that I thought would make up my life for the rest of forever. You know? Like, Jameson used to toddle around after me? I tripped over him for a year, maybe more, and now I can’t even remember what it was like. He’s a long-legged, independent, running all over the house with hardly a dull moment 4 year old, you know.

So, for my own memory’s sake, a snapshot:

This is how our nights go, every single night after night. We tuck two boys into their matching twin beds, read a story, and sing “Angels We Have Heard on High” and “Jesus Loves Me”. We pray, remind them not to get off their beds, cry, or continually call for Mama. We leave — and they either get off their beds, cry, call for Mama, or all of the above simultaneously. My little night owls are usually sound asleep by 9pm, when I slip back in and cover them with the quilts they’ve already managed to kick off. Their little arms are always wrapped around a favorite stuffed animal — Jameson loves Baxter the bunny, and William loves Puppy. Their faces are always sweeter than I remembered from the night before, and my heart always catches. They are perfect.

Hours later, Ryan and I are asleep. Somewhere between 2 and 4am, little footsteps wake Ryan and then me. William somehow manages to safely make his way to my side of the bed, in spite of the fact that I never remember to NOT throw pillows all over the floor when I get into bed. I pull him up between us, and he’s already fast asleep. We sleep.

Until.

Until William works his way to his favorite sleeping position: horizontal. The three of us make a lovely H, and we manage, until. Until he starts head-butting Ryan’s ribs and kicking mine. Ryan’s out of there. Why would he sleep with a head-butting toddler when there’s an empty twin bed down the hall?

We sleep again.

Until.

Jameson climbs into Ryan’s side of the bed around 5 or 6am. Sometimes he falls asleep. Sometimes he proceeds to squirm for an hour or more while I resolutely determine to ignore him and get more sleep. After all, I didn’t go to bed at 8pm, as he did. I was up far too late watching who knows what with Ryan. I do not have 5am wake up times in mind.

But when I can no longer put him off, or he’s driving me completely insane (and making me laugh, too), I slip with Jameson out of my room and we start our day.

And a year from now I’ll read this, and it will seem a foggy memory, at best.

Just like the way William runs with his little shoulders all hunched, and sits at the kitchen table with his little feet dangling and swinging. And the way they giggle and laugh together and follow each other around the house playing soldiers.

I love it.

new year, new day

One year ago, our purchase offer was accepted. The boys and I were recovering from a violent tummy bug, and our little California house was topsy-turvy with the remains of a cross-country visit.

What a difference a year makes.

Lately, though, I’ve mostly been thinking about what a difference a day makes, as I ride the waves of nausea and exhaustion and not feeling myself. I wake each morning and wonder, what will this day be? Will the simple acts of breakfast and shower completely wipe me out till evening? Will I be forced to sit perfectly still, hoping to keep my stomach from sloshing, upsetting? Or will there be the gift of energy spurts, and a lifting of the “I just don’t care” that seems to be my constant feeling these days?

What a difference each day makes.

Everyone around me is talking about new years, fresh starts, new seasons, and I try to not feel severely lacking as I continue to simply process days. I have no exciting game plans, no fresh excitement for routines. Instead, I’m trying to let go of everything but bare essentials. Trying not to feel bad that the routines I so enjoy are having to go by the wayside for a bit. Trying to combat a sense of guilt for letting a New Year go a bit uncelebrated and unprocessed. Instead, being thankful for two little boys who are so happy these days, who have not once been demanding when I needed rest, but instead are almost always delightful. Thankful for a husband who is happy with clean socks and sandwiches. Mostly, thankful that, although God grants us the newness of seasons and years, He moves in our lives day by day.

Morning by morning, new mercies I see.

Strength for today.

Bright hope for tomorrow.

Blessings all mine.

william is 2

My baby William is a little boy. Granted, he’s a little boy who still has chubby little arms, who barely talks, and who still loves to nurse, but he’s not the baby he used to be.

Our little boy William quietly mimics everything Jameson — or Merrick, or Aubrey — does. He wears a holster carrying a red plastic cap gun almost all day long. He is not intent on becoming Leader of the Known World, but neither is he at all a push-over. Recently, he can be heard at any given moment sternly and adamantly telling Jameson, “Na! Na, na, na, na!” (No.) I wonder sometimes if getting bent out of shape is his passion in life, since he seems to go out of his way to be upset by anything and everything! He hugs me oh so tightly and loves for me to cuddle him close whenever he’s sad. He’s started giving great big kisses, too, which is the sweetest of surprises. He absolutely LOVES the worship time at church, and dances, claps, and waves his chubby arms the whole time. (He also hates the nursery. Oh well.) He adores Ryan. If there’s any indication that anyone is leaving the house, he goes into panic mode, desperately concerned that he may be left at home. Watching him run down our long hallway is one of the most amusing things I’ve ever seen — especially if he rounds a corner, at which point he steers with his arms.

He is such a blessing to our family. And as much as I can’t get over how old he is, and how much I miss that little baby, I am absolutely enthralled by these unique, fun, oh-so-adorable little boys that I have the joy of mothering.