And he turns two

He replies "YES!" excitedly and closes his tiny, chunky hand around two of my fingers. His grasp is firm, and he is ready for adventure. Of course, we both know that we are doing nothing more than feeding our sheep- the daily work of nourishment.

But when you are two, is not everything an adventure? (Isn't it too bad we lose that?)

We walk along in silence, hand in hand, and I wonder back to when the last time was that it was just he and I- not he, I, and big brother. What a different world this second one has- always in community. I marvel at how different our communication is- he with the excited one-word exclamations, me, with returned delight and awe, and then more silence.

A contrast from 4yo brother, who chatters along contentedly like a regular teenager, recounting the day that has been and the day yet to come (and the reason planes fly in the air and do they come in the day and the night like Hallie says they do? And did I know that the beans were now in the garden, also tomatoes? What should we name that cat?).

But today brother stayed inside- a rare experience for the little guy and I. Perhaps, on this birthday of his, a perfect moment. A moment to reflect on him, and the joy that he brings.

"Ooooh, wow!" he stoops down low, his entire body curled around his knees, and peers at a bee working on a bud of clover. I stay and look too, noticing new things yet again (don't we always when we slow?). For a moment, he is taken with the swing, swaying idly by and calling for us- "Wing! Wing!" He lets go of my hand and runs to it- old friends reuniting. I implore him "But Davey, we need to feed those sheep- they are hungry. Maybe another time." And he and friend part ways and he again clasps my hand.

We reach the barn and I lift down a bale of hay. He stands back, wide-eyed, looking for his chance. I untie it and he grabs a handful of dried grass and strides over to the door. He is still too short to see on the other side, to reach over with that hand, and so he stands on tip-toes and tries his best. I see him and lift him up to toss it over. He watches those "steeps" intently, eyes darting from one to another, checking, noting; farmer in training.

'Tis the work of my life as a mom: encourage, guide, correct, support. Today it looks like a trip out to the sheep barn, but it is a precursor- we are both practicing for those bigger walks, those larger lessons of life to come. Me, learning how to encourage, guide, correct and support, and he learning how to listen, learning what matters, learning how to persevere. A small dance that started back before that first birthday- foundations for something greater.

Chores done, we again match hands and start the long walk back to the house. This time when we pass the swing, he looks at me questioningly and I nod. And quietly, I push him and he flies back and forth with that wide smile that melts hearts and I take time to delight in this boy given to us two years ago today. We feel like bandits, not having to share "turns"- just he and I, I and he (and the swing, of course).

We run to the house and there is a piece of me that wonders if it's fair, this always having another around- always having brother and never just being one alone. It's not something I even consciously think, really, just a question lingering in the back of my heart.

When we hit that door, I hear the clomp clomp clomp of boots over kitchen floor and a squeal "RYYYYAN! STEEPS! WING!" And that smile of delight stretches across his face. His face is flushed and he is out of breath for all of the excitement. Ryan watches his brother closely and David again recounts our journey to his big brother, and I realize that most of the fun was coming back together with that brother of his. He's not really missing out at all- he's getting more- mom, dad, and big brother

.

They say that after you have kids, it is hard to remember what life was like before them. I can remember a bit- I remember quiet, reading for hours, the freedom to come and go without carseats and sippy-cups and extra changes of clothes (or babysitters). I remember long nights of uninterrupted sleep. But then I remember two kids. It's as if they have always been here together. There is life before- and then life with kids. And I love the relationship I have with each of them, decidedly different and each delightful. And no, I can't imagine life without either one of them.

You see, I need that reminder that a trip out to feed sheep is an adventure.

Among many, many other lessons, they have taught me that slowing down brings more joy, more appreciation, more gratitude. And where there is gratitude, you can't help but feel abundantly blessed.

And sometimes, it's best to run full speed ahead, with wild abandon and without care or cause (they are boys, after all)

.

Pictures: David getting boots on for chorin'; David 2 weeks old, and toy that Ryan thought he would like to play with placed carefully so he could "reach it"; David today, two years old and full of spunk.

Let us not forsake the time we have

A few thoughts on the brevity of life, the downfall of distraction, and the sweet delights of the ordinary.

May I not forsake the time I have
A fleeting moment…a catching breath is all we have (in the grand scheme of things)
Let me not squander, waste, sit idly by and leave behind even a moment
Which I can never capture again

There are times
When being a mother of young children seems endless
(of course, that’s what I think I’m getting- endless time- though this has not been promised)
For no man knows his hour-
We know not when we will be called home

And I am reminded by this fact that though I must live like I will see generations to come,
I must also live as if tomorrow will see my last hours here.
During these moments of clarity,
I realize that my calling to motherhood is so much greater than sippy cups and dump trucks (although it is this, too)

So Lord, I pray…remind me to live each moment
Each hour
Each day
With purpose, passion, commitment, love
Renew me each morning
And don’t let that wane or fade as the days pass

Help me to step back, to take note.
To adore chubby hands and jam-smeared faces
To delight in mispronounced words
To wonder at the way a mind develops and grows, bit by bit
Oh, what an Artist you are!

Let each moment here be marked with intention
Keep in the forefront of my mind that which is known
(who You are, who I am, what is my purpose here)
And that which is not known
(when it will be over)
And might You give me the strength to daily, hourly even, live in light of these truths.

On Mothering

To Mother
is to learn the art of self-sacrifice
To give of yourself when you feel it least within you
To deny yourself when those cravings come
And with thanksgiving for the privilege,
serve.
Not for notoriety
Or fame
Or fortune
And often at the cost of such things.
One does not mother with the intent of greatness
But simply because it is what we do.
The fibers of our being start to change,
and we learn the beauty of giving, of sacrifice, of love.
Love, to a child calling when it is night
And sleep calls to your weary body
Love, to a child angry with circumstance
when your patience threatens to cut and run
Love, to those eyes, ready to learn and watch
when your desire is to be alone.
It is the art of sacrifice we get to learn first.
Laying down our most treasured strongholds for something so much greater.
Oh Lord, let me learn to love like You do.
For your ways are not my ways, and my bones ache to do less than justice to this calling.
Give me grace for a new day, for each precious moment I am given here.
Give me eyes to see those hearts, ears to hear those words, wisdom to guide those souls.
And thank you for giving me the blessing of this beautiful name,
Mom.
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Thoughts as I am pulled from that sweet moment between the waking and sleeping world by my wonderful children- thankful that God meets me even here, at midnight, weary though I may be.

The Tradition of the Stupid Jello

We love family traditions.

One thing we want to both continue and create for our kids is that sense of family that comes through tradition. This year, with Ryan being old enough to really remember Christmas and Thanksgiving, we felt that we needed to decide on some basics for our home's holidays. We listed out some of the things that had been special to us growing up. This is a process, and I know we will be adding to it as we go along. Some of my favorite family traditions are the accidental ones- unplanned and wonderful, they rank among our most cherished.

The Tradition of the Stupid Jello is one of those in my family. I don't know when it started, but it was by accident. The beautiful jello salad molded into a ring, complete with layers, has adorned our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables for as long as I can remember. But the treat in this salad is how it always goes wrong.

My mother and my aunt are both wonderful cooks- with skill they were always able to create meals that were delicious, comforting, and artistically thoughtful. But there was always something wrong with this jello salad. The top layer would slide from the bottom, or the nuts would appear brown and unappetizing. The fruit layer wouldn't set up properly or it would jiggle and smash upon unmolding. Every year, without fail, it was a delight to watch the unmolding of the Jello Salad, the more folly it contained, the more fun the event. I remember watching with rapt attention the unmolding, and squealing with delight as it slid to one side in it's imperfect glory. From two cooks who were so accurate and precise, it was the one dish that they were not ashamed to have fail.

(Or maybe they were embarrassed, but they never let it show.)

This Jello Salad took on a mind of its own when I was first married to Phil, and we explained the tradition to him over dinner one Christmas. Being a boy, with horrible boy thoughts, he started coming up with ideas for new flavors to try. And of course the other boys, loving the idea of ruining the appetites of their women counterparts, dove in with relish. As a come-uppons, someday I think it would be delightful to actually serve an Anchovy and Sauerkraut jello salad...if I could stomach it's creation.

This year, since my parents were here for Thanksgiving, I had the privilege of learning how to make this molded, layered salad from my mom. I loved the idea that three tables this Thanksgiving were to dawn their own SJS: Iowa, California, and Washington, and it didn't take me long to have thoughts of our kid's and their kid's tables multiplied with their own concoctions and mishaps. Thus the beauty of tradition.

The Thanksgiving Stupid Jello Salad: unmolded on a bare plate. The lettuce? An afterthought. The layers? Half mingled, half separated. Ah, imperfect glory!
For Christmas, I was on my own. To start with, I forgot that I was making this and told Phil to go ahead and use up all of the cream cheese. But! It was supposed to be imperfect- so great! I improvised with orange jello, tiny marshmallows, and pineapple chunks. So far, so good.

But then, upon unmoding- do you see it? I opened the mold the wrong way, leaving the plastic turquoise lid underneath the fragile, wriggly jello. I thought maybe I could slide it off, hence the broken side piece. Instead, I ended up sprinkling coconut over the top...snow? Camouflage.

Can I tell you how I love this? Being quite imperfect myself, it is a delight to make things that are more fun when they go wrong.

And, as David's inability to wait shows, no matter how ugly the salad, it always tastes good!

Big Dreams

We sit curled together on the couch, Ryan and I, reading book after book on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I pause between books and smile at him "You are getting so big, kid. I don't know what I am going to do..." As I trail off, threatening to get lost in thought, Ryan doesn't miss a beat.
"Yeah," he says, bright-eyed, "and I will drive a lawnmower and have an ax and drive a car and have a tractor and a combine!"
From the speed and clarity with which he blurts all this out, I can assume he has been thinking about this.
"Yep," he concludes, 'when I get older, that's what I'm gonna do!'
And thus he leaves me in the dust- I was only thinking about the time when he would curl up on his own to read a book instead of next to myself, and here he is already tilling fields.

Moments in the Chaos

The morning air has been pierced with wails. Not enough milk. He's nor sharing. I want this not that. Why can't I eat crayons? Fists clenched and jaw set there is no debating his thoughts on these matters.
My nerves twinge with over stimulation and I scoop him up and pull him close. We head upstairs to the boy's bedroom where older brother has been playing quietly.
It's naptime, I singsong, intentionally sweet, for it has been a rough few hours. Older brother nods and is generous with hugs and kisses and "goodnight" and "we'll see you in a little while" and "sleep well". In a rush of words he leaves and the room echoes quiet. I take that small bear of David's and hold him up. A smile creeps up and he sighs contentedly, wrapping his arm tightly around the furry bear-neck. He cuddles down under the warm blanket I have wrapped around him and we rock...quiet, silent, listening to small breaths and letting that sweet peace come over us both. What a gift, this silence following such strife.
A low rumble outside pulls and makes my heart leap- who is it coming down that road of ours? I lay down child, still awake but calm and ready to fall asleep, and head to search windows.
No one.
Immediately I am sad I put him down, for all of the busy-ness of a one-point-five-year old those times to simply sit and wonder at the beauty of him are so fleeting and small. These gifts, this enormous gift of precious child and smaller gift of the moment to cherish him, are both profound and simple.
While we are called to rush about and do more and more, there is that small (sometimes loud) voice calling us to slow, to enjoy, to simply be, experiencing His grace, His love, His peace once more.
Blessings to you - may you savor the simple that surrounds you today.

Home for Christmas

Her words strike through to my heart.
She, too, is a mom of two young boys. She, too, is a wife of few but meaningful years. She, too, is displaced from all she has known and held dear.
In a strange new land her heart cries out for normalcy, constancy, familiarity. She yearns for home...and struggles with the reality that she is to create one here.
Immediately I am drawn to her- her light, her transparency, the way I know that story- that history.
She is me, minus three years in Iowa.
I watch her and can scarcely believe my eyes. Her struggles are ones I know intimately- the fears and frustrations and hurts and joys and guilt and love and triumph and overwhelm...I can speak her language and she also, can speak mine.
And my soul thanks the Lord that I have something to offer her, that she has something to offer me.
---------------------------
"How was it?" I asked her, wondering about her first trip back "home" since she and her husband moved here three months earlier.
"It was good. Both easier and harder than I had expected."
And then she recounts the moment, this moment that reminded me of how far I have yet to come. For none of us, not one, has arrived.
"T. told me how much he missed home. And here I thought he meant his previous home, the one I long for always. But no, he missed this new home, the one I have worked so hard to make him. And that warmed my heart, settled my fears, and allowed me to start settling in myself."
And I stand back in marvel.
How? How does that wisdom sink in so quickly? She went on to tell me of how she had been so pouring her time and efforts into creating a home for her two sons, that when this two year old told her he missed that place, she wept. It was all she wanted- for him to feel at home.
So often I get wrapped up in what I need. What I want. What would make me more comfortable here. And I lose perspective that I am a mom- I create, I serve, I inspire, I build for my family what someday my own kids will think back on as "home." I want them to remember not what this place was to their mom, but what this place meant to them. I want them to aspire to create wonderful Christmas mornings of their own, filled with joy and peace and goodness; days foreshadowed by those we hold in this house for them.
But this means turning my idea of home on its head. Letting go of my longings and desires to the extent that it allows me to build up for them...and for myself...a place worthy of being called home. And that goes so far beyond this furnishing or that meal. No, a home is built with the heart- the wholehearted love and care of a mom not clinging desperately in her deepest being to someplace else.
That sounds strange, you may say.
I know. It would, until you have been so far, wept for home, yearned for that place. And then you would know how that piece of you, though invisible for most days, does show itself in strange ways. Pictures don't get hung on the walls. I don't plant trees. Permanence, they mean permanence: these nails in walls and roots in ground. Friendships are shallow and meant for temporary happiness instead of deep, lasting growth. Whether or not I know it there is that piece of me that works against my whole self being here. And that creeps into how I build this place for my kids, for my husband, for myself.
I watch her yearn to create that sense of home for her kids and I want to have that heart for my family. To worry more about the home I am making for them than for my own comfort. Because this place, any earthly home, is here for but a breath of time. A sanctuary, a resting place. It is not the ultimate. It is not the end. We are but travelers, each one, setting our hearts toward the one true Home worthy of our unabashed longing. Here, on this journey, I am called to build up this home in Iowa worthy of comforting, teaching, transforming souls, and that doesn't happen one foot in and one foot out.
And I can say it and know it in my mind, but to live it out in my heart- that is where the battle takes place.
And so, in this month of Christmas, she gave me an unexpected gift. She renewed my focus, reminding me that I am here not for myself but for others. And I am setting out ready to create "home" for those boys in my life closest to me.
Truly, my prayer is that we will be home for the holidays this year. And that you will be, too, wherever you are.

Simple Abundance

Wednesday morning dawns, and I rise, ready to create, nourish, renew.

Baking day. In days gone by, this was arduous, all-consuming. But like many of the overwhelming tasks of old, it has since shed its arduous nature, becoming a work of pleasure rather than duty or necessity (as the stores carry many loaves of bread). It has been distilled to only the blessings that come from such a routine task, one that is chosen and stems from only a desire to nourish family through the most basic forms- time, teaching, and full tummies.

I stir simple elements- yeast, sugar, water. Tiny hands reach forward to help, and I hold out the measuring spoon, letting those 1 year old hands turn it upside down into the bowl. He, delighted, bounces for more, and each time over, he rewards me with such sweet enjoyment of the simple.

We push the small bowl aside, and the other ingredients are poured into a large bowl- oil, water, salt, flour. Again the tiny hands long for involvement and again I slow, reminding myself that there is purpose here beyond outcome- that process matters just as much, if not more, than the finished product. His older brother, at three, is a "seasoned" helper, able to measure and pour ingredients without spilling, stir without splashing and sploshing. But those hands, too, started out unsteadily. The spoon jabbed and splashed and dumped. I must again remember patience in process for the small one, giving him the same opportunity to develop and learn.

And still, here is the calm before the storm. All elements remain in bowls, not yet mingling with table or hands. We pour all the pieces together, a mere six ingredients, and stir, the dough stiffening and resisting, taking form and pulling together. At last I turn it onto the floured table, sticky and flat. Immediately my helpers notice we have moved on to the most delightful stage of any bread baking (the most delightful stage of cookie-dough making, of course, is the tasting) But this? This unfettered ability to indulge in mess, to roll and create and pinch and smash in little hands? I might have offered them a trip to CandyLand, for the sparkle in their eyes. They delight in the process. Process, mom, I remind myself, noticeably calming my hurried nature, gearing up for the flour dust-storm on the horizon.

Once a week. And they learn. At first, it's mess- unhindered and all out destruction. Then comes imitation, then form. Fingers and hands and coordination all strengthen through process, and someday, they will know the measurements and steps in their bones. Purpose will collide with ability and then creation will become natural.

Perseverance and patience follow: Perseverance to clean sweet helpers, sweep and mop and shine, and patience to wait for the rising, the punching down, the forming, the second rising, and baking. Patience to await sweet aromas and warm butter spread across fluffy warmth. In all honesty, past this first amazing mess, the patience isn't all that hard to muster.

A glimpse into my heart- I read it and it sounds polished, like maybe the mess is pretty, or not so bad. But know this: though there is purpose, it is still, in all actuality, quite imperfect in practice: Memory-building at its best.

And here, each Wednesday, thirty-four cents is poured, stirred, mashed, kneaded and transformed into abundance.

Growing up, my sister and I were always in cahoots. This teamwork and delightful companionship is one of my greatest desires for my boys. I know that I need to be careful what I ask for, as that teamwork could work against their mother.

This morning, while I was making coffee (i.e. I was absent from view for two minutes, tops) the boys decided to reorganize for me. Brother Cahoots, I tell you, is unfair before morning coffee. I should call foul.

When I saw what they were up to, I informed Ryan that we were not going to empty the entire pantry into the playpen. Nossir. He needed to stop.

Plaintively he looked at me, sweetly and said "OK mom."

Seconds later I looked back and this was happening. Upon first reaction I thought "Argh!" But, admittedly, it was the beginning of the day, and I had far less frustration built up than I do at the end of a day, meaning I am also a bit more easygoing. I asked him plainly "What are you doing? Didn't mom ask you to stop?"

"I'm just helping Davey."

And true to his words, HE was not throwing anything in the playpen. You can see him stop himself a few times in this video, and that is the result of thinking he would get in trouble if HE were to do such a deed. The last container he wants to throw is sugar, and I tell you, the MESS if I were to let that be tossed over. Canned goods are one thing, flour, sugar, baking soda? There are limits, even before my morning coffee.

I also had to share this small snippet, which was filmed a few minutes before the above video. David, upon first coming downstairs, became fascinated with his shadow. Stand still, wave, grab, bob-up-and-down fascinated. It's so neat watching their little minds explore. Often, I get moving so fast I don't notice small moments like this, and it was such a treat to see him try and figure it all out.

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Speaking of comprehension:

While I was typing this, my phone rang. The cordless phone ran out of batteries and it went to the answering machine. It was my mom-in-law. In her message, she gave some detailed questions about Christmas gifts, asking about appropriate ages and a specific toy. Ryan was standing here and when she hung up here is what he said to me, in an excited, wide-eyed tone:

"A Noah's Ark! For me? Is she going to bring that for me? COOL!"

"Who?"

"Gramma Calli? Is she going to bring me clothes and a Noah's Ark?"

I'm telling you, I had no idea I would have to start hushed Christmas conversations so early.

Growing Pains.

So, we've reached another milestone. I knew, instinctively, we had to get here at some point, but I did not know it would come so soon. Most milestones our kids reach are met with a bittersweet feeling- our loyalties drawn to both camps: one for our kids to grow up, one for them to stay at the very spot they are now. So, we practice practice practice for them to roll over. And when they do, we lament that no longer can they be left alone. Anywhere. Same with crawling, walking, climbing, running, jumping. And I am sure there are more I haven't yet reached with my oldest (bike riding, driving aaahh I did not just type that!).

These universal and well-known milestones are ones we work on developing in our children. But there are those we don't even know exist until we stumble upon them unexpectedly. For example, when Ryan was finally old enough to face forward in his car seat, I was thrilled! Yay milestone! But what I hadn't factored in to the equation was that he could now see what I was doing. Was I eating a treat? Now he needed some. Was I drinking something? He would also like a drink. No longer could I quietly enjoy a milkshake without his knowledge. My days of private and solitary car-food decisions were over.

I have noticed lately that his vocabulary and sentence structure have quite improved. I had not expected that it would be around this time he would start asking me in-depth questions about conversations I was having in his presence. After a phone call he will ask me "Are we going to see Amanda tomorrow instead of today because you still need to finish your work?" And instead of answering the only thing I can register is HE IS LISTENING TO EVERYTHING YOU ARE SAYING! AND HE UNDERSTANDS!

The other night we were coming home from The Big City and I had picked up a small milkshake for each of the family members (see above) who would not readily end up with said milkshake drenched about their person before we reached the interstate (so, everyone but David got one). About halfway through his small shake, Ryan handed his to me and said "I'm all done, I want to save it for later."

Mind you, it's 8pm. And we're talking milkshake here. Let's keep this in perspective.

We got home and he headed up to bed without so much as a peep about the milkshake. And at this point, I did what any self-respecting chocolate lover would do. I drank his milkshake.

The next morning, he stumbled down the stairs blurry-eyed and flushed from a warm night of sleep. He walked into the kitchen and mumbled a greeting to me, and then continued into the pantry-room, then to the living room, dining room, and eventually back to the kitchen. With a big sigh he exclaimed "I'm just looking for my milkshake."

My back was to him, and, a bit taken aback, I responded "Oh, honey, its all gone." Neutral, non-incriminating, safe. No one wants to be in the way of a three year old who's just woken up.

"Did you drink my milkshake all gone?!" He asks accusingly. Like he knew already what had happened to his precious goodness.

But How? That kid has eyes in the back of his head, I tell you! (Does that trait skip a generation?) Up until now, if he decided to "save something for later" it was basically put in the fridge and forgotten until I pulled it out, soured and sad, a week later. But this? Oh no. And on the week of Halloween, too.

"Yes, honey. I did. Sorry." What else do you say? I mean, I drank the kid's shake. Guilty as charged.

"Don't drink my stuff Mom! You are not sposs'd to do that!" (I warned you about those groggy three year-olds.)

So, now I can no longer eat contraband in my car unnoticed, have private conversations, and my last holdout- munching on leftover goodies, has been stripped from me.

I'm sitting next to his bag of Halloween candy as I write this. Oh, the restraint* I tell you, it's painful. Have you ever had those moments where you realize your child is suddenly older or wiser than you thought?

*About restraint: I have none. I am still eating his chocolate candy. Some have peanuts in it (that was how my transgressions started, upright and true- keeping my kiddo safe from his allergens! Admittedly, those were a gateway sweet for me, and I have since taken the slippery slide into non-peanut goodies). BUT! Before you send me to the place where bad parents go- know that I'm leaving the good stuff- suckers and skittles and fruit roll-ups and gummy ghosts and pumpkins. Oh, this new stage is going to take some getting used to.