Post Category → william

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.

doings.

I’ve been:

to Maine and back for a fast and furious and very fun weekend with Ryan’s mom and sister.

sewing a ball gown for Cinderella. It’s awfully fun to work on something so detailed and beautiful (for someone who usually is just cutting up old polos to make play pants!)

bundling up to go outside, even though it’s mid-April. The only problem with this extremely slow season change is that somehow I have the sensation that time is standing still, waiting for the sun. It’s not.

marveling at the imaginations of my two boys that have suddenly come alive. All at once, in the last month or so, they are best buddies who will play for hours.

thankful for how joyful those two little boys are. They smile and dance and laugh and cheerfully anticipate almost every moment of the day. It’s pretty amazing, and I don’t want to take it for granted.

thinking about the basics: faith in God (and Him alone), digging into this moment and not missing the opportunity to find Jesus, serving my family with a smile, honoring my husband and being mindful of him every moment, praying continually.

anticipating several nights of presbytery at church, followed by a Good Friday celebration and then, of course, the Best Sunday Of All.

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.

right now:

I’m sitting in a cozy chair while a quiet 4 year old boy builds Lego spaceships at my feet. Every once in awhile he tells me something: “Dis is da hallway. ‘Paceships need a have hallways, Mom.” (We’ve been sitting like this for almost an hour. So relaxing.)

William is sleeping. He loves to sleep in. Isn’t that funny?

The snow on the woods outside my window is beautiful. In February, it will still be beautiful, even if I’m ready for something new (read: no more snow.) I remind myself of this, because I don’t want to be a grumbler come late winter.

Two little chickadees are flitting and fluttering right up to my windows. Aren’t they the sweetest little birds?

My phone’s timer is going off. Jameson says, “Mom, you need to do jumping jacks.” He’s right. It’s my lame attempt to get my body moving on these winter days. Every hour, do something.

Right now, I’m thinking that I’m going to be thankful for this day and enjoy every calm, crazy, happy, sad, organized, and chaotic moment.

over the river

We were away for 5 days, visiting Maine and people we love. Aunties, cousins, a puppy dog, and grandparents — does it get any better? Jameson brought dress up (which he wanted to wear every day), got a new “big boy” car seat, tried his hand at dunking for apples (and got thoroughly water-logged in the process), and played golf all day long at his Papa’s house. William got late birthday gifts (staggering presents really should happen every year; isn’t it way fun?), went out alone for sushi with Daddy (turns out he doesn’t love chunks of raw fish the way his brother does), and got to hand out candy on Sunday night with Jameson (the two of them sitting on a bench by the door, looking out the window? Adorable.)

We had fun.

We also managed to fit adventure into our drives: on the way there, Ryan almost ran out of gas, and we were driving down New Hampshire country roads late at night, hoping for a gas station. On the way back, I helped out by driving for a couple of hours — except that one of those hours, I was on the wrong highway, heading in the wrong direction. Lot of help I am.

But we got home.

I love coming home.

And I don’t care how local and organic the restaurants in Burlington are, I’d rather eat at home. (My local, organic Swiss chard is just as good.)