The Hardships of Being Four

It was family night and Cameron had just led the kids on a clever re-enactment of the scene from Mark 2 where the people open up the roof to let a sick man down to Jesus. We followed it up with cake, ice cream, and a discussion about how some things (like climbing through the roof of a house to reach the Savior) require good old-fashioned hard work.

Cameron: Abby, have you ever had to do anything hard?

Abby: Yeah. Clean my room.

Who knew being four was fraught with such difficulty?

Grace

Sometimes the change seems slow and imperceptible. Sometimes, because she is my third, it is painfully clear: Grace is growing up. Some days I look at her sweet little face and I notice that she is losing more baby fat and looking more like a little kid than a baby.

Soon she will turn two. She talks more, asserts more independence, and reveals more of what she is thinking. It is oh so sweet.

Recently I had a day when Jake was at school, Abby was at a friend's house, and it was just me and my happy little chatterbox. What a joy to just focus on her--talk to her, play with her, rejoice in having her as my child.

Of course she will not always be my baby. When our new baby comes Grace will instantaneously seem so big, just as Abby did when Grace was born. It's a bittersweet loss. But every day I am so grateful for this sweet little girl. So grateful I chose to follow God's plan for my life, ignore what some doctors might have advised, and muster the faith, strength, and courage to have another child after my cancer. So grateful for God's gift of Grace.

My Last Encounter with Green Smoothies

Saturday night, approximately 10 o'clock. I was feeling seriously hungry, and nothing in the house appealed to me. So my sweet husband ran to the store for salad and smoothie ingredients--two things that pretty much always sound good.

Unfortunately, he ran into a neighbor at the store who convinced him that spinach is good in smoothies. He came home raving about all the iron I would be consuming courtesy of the spinach.

I refrained from making gagging noises as Cameron whipped up a peach-banana-spinach concoction.

Cameron told me it was going to be so good I would need to apologize to our neighbor for all the disparaging remarks I was making about his culinary ideas.

"Bring it on," I said.

But as Cameron poured this lovely swamp-colored sludge for me, even he admitted it looked like something from a Calvin &Hobbes strip.

"Apologize" is not quite the word to describe the next conversation I plan to have with my neighbor.

Life's True Treasures

My kitchen floor looked like this.

 But my girls looked like this.

An immaculate home is a sign of a wasted life.

I should probably make a sign and post it somewhere in my house to explain to some of my guests.

Abby lovingly helped Grace step into her tutu. I grabbed a scarf and turned on some music. We twirled, swayed, and danced through the living room.

Life isn't about the number of breaths you take. 

It's about the moments that take your breath away.

I never want to choose having a spotless house over showing my children that they are my real treasures. My house may be messier than I'd really like. I may be pregnant and tired. But my kids' cute little faces take my breath away.

And as long as the local ant population doesn't move inside to claim my crumbs, my kitchen floor can wait a while.

To Each Their Own Disorder

Grace is enjoying all the delightful mobility of toddlerhood this spring as she climbs to the top of the highest slide at every park we visit. I have always been a bit afraid of heights, and I usually stand nearby wringing my hands and encouraging her to come down the slide instead of lingering near the top where she could topple down the nearest ladder or climbing wall.

Sometimes I wonder what disorders my children will develop courtesy of my idiosyncrasies. But it seems that my fear of heights isn't yet one of them.

Grace was at the top of the play set in our backyard one day. She got a little too close (for my comfort) to the edge. "Back up a bit, Gracie. That's not safe," I called from the ground.

Grace obediently stepped back, then leaned over and whispered, "Monsters."

Monsters. Fear of heights. To each their own disorder.

Motherhood Is...

It was Jake's birthday, and the basement was crammed with relatives who had come for his birthday dinner. After dinner and cake Jake started opening the presents, and his favorite was definitely this little fellow.

OK, I have to be really honest here. Jake's pet is completely nocturnal, I am not, and my attempts to catch a shot of our little guy have been completely unsuccessful. This pic was stolen from the internet. So just imagine this one is ours, because this is what he looks like. 

Yes, Jake is now the proud owner of a Madagascar hissing cockroach. And as I watched different relatives take turns letting this lovely little friend crawl all over them, I couldn't help musing about what motherhood is.

Motherhood is boldly going where you've never gone before...like to the pet store to inquire after the needs of your cockroach. (Yes, I am quite sure I never saw this coming back in my single days when I started tiara-wearing trends at work and actually paid attention to how my toenail polish was faring.)

Motherhood is full of amazing discoveries...like how low-quality crepe paper dye is. You get to discover this sort of thing when your kids leave their library art projects on the floor and then step on them with their nice wet feet after their bath. For good measure, they spread some of the dye to their towels which were unceremoniously forgotten on the floor rather than hung up or placed responsibly in a laundry hamper.

Motherhood is courage and strength when it's needed most...like when you are five months pregnant with your fourth child, your husband has to work 12 and 13 hour days (plus an 8-hour Saturday at school), and you are left home to care for your puking children and all the laundry and stains they generate.

Motherhood is sacrifice and wisdom...like when your family goes to the fun center and instead of mini golfing you try to keep your toddler out of the water, rocks, and bushes while everyone else golfs. But you realize that when you go to a fun center with your kids, you do it so they (and not you) can have fun. And you're OK with that.

Motherhood is full of discoveries you never thought you'd make--discoveries of strength, love, sacrifice, and joy you didn't know were possible...which reminds me, I need to go help Jake clean out his cockroach's cage.

That Infernal Racket

One thing we love about our house is the fact that we are less than a mile from the local library. That means lots of trips walking to the library in the summer and driving in the winter. We go to lots of story times, puppet shows, magic shows, or art opportunities. And we love, love, love exposing our kids to oodles of good books.It also means that we help Jake feed his John Deere obsession by putting lots of John Deere books, CDs, and movies on hold.

One night we went to the library and Jake picked up this CD that Cameron had placed on hold for him. When we got home Jake went running into the house clutching his treasure. Full of end-of-the-day, third-trimester levels of energy, I lagged behind helping the girls out of the car.

By the time I got inside the house redneck children's music could be heard in every room. Grace was dancing to it in the hallway.

I quelled my first instinct, which was to march in and tell him to turn down that infernal racket. (Such authoritarian measures aren't really good for a loving, respectful parent-child relationship.)

I reminded myself that he was only 6 and not 16 and there actually wasn't anything morally objectionable in the music.

I noted that the urge to blare music at top levels from the nearest sound system is apparently hard wired rather than acquired sometime between the ages of 10 and 12. How unfortunate.

I was rescued by Cameron, who walked down the hall, glanced into the messy, music-filled room, and casually asked Jake to start cleaning to the tunes.

If I must listen to John Deere musical propaganda resonating through the house, at least I can comfort myself with the knowledge that our house is being cleaned.