He Told You So

So the previous owner was kind enough to leave a warning hanging on the walls of our soon to be home. He didn't mince words.  What that means for you, is that once we find ourselves knee deep in soggy popcorn and the sinking feeling that we may have bitten off more than we can chew, you don't have to feel sorry for us. We were warned. And in keeping with our obsession for doing everything the hard way, we tossed well-meaning caution aside and did this to ourselves! So if it's not as easy as it looks, takes longer than we expect, and goes wrong at the WORST POSSIBLE MOMENT, you can officially say, "He told you so."

Diamond in the Rough

It clearly wasn't the lush green grass that caught our attention. Nor was it the seductive whisper of a turn-key cottage, but we couldn't be more excited. There's something so exhilarating about transformation. The wide-eyed anticipation of potential. The embodied experience of getting hands dirty and working furiously to create in the real world that which only exists in the imagination! And so here we go. April 1st we close Escrow on this beauty. The one that made our youngest cry as he realized that his excitement was not going to be matched by his buddies'. Eight-year-olds don't quite know how to respond to bathrooms with brown carpet and  popcorn ceilings.  You may not either, but that's why we thought we'd invite you along on our journey to discover our diamond in the rough. We can't wait to share this fun new experience with you!

An Invisible Backpack

Trekking up Garcia Trail, my pace was a bit slower.  In place of a small backpack and a bottle of water was my nearly 40 pound toddler strapped to my back.  I was desperate for some exercise but not so eager to leave the little guy.  I prepared myself by committing to only go as far as I could, one step at a time.

Before long, my chest was heaving, doing its best to provide sufficient oxygen for my screaming legs.  My skin washed with sheets of sweat.  Stopping frequently to rest, the difference between walking and standing, at times felt negligible.

The brutal part was watching others race past me.  Men, women, children, and even a few that categorically could be referred to as "the elderly."

It would have been quite easy to give up except I knew that what I was doing was really hard.  And if I were to forget, there were the countless people who stopped me to commend my efforts.  "You're crazy!!  I can't even imagine trying to do something so difficult."  Even men looked at me with a sense of respect and admiration.

Dragging myself and my son up the trail at a snail's pace left me with plenty of time to reflect.  My mind was struck by the great disparity between my typical hike and the one I now attempted to complete.  My pace was 1/2 of what it normally is, I was twice as sweaty, and my legs felt shaky and lacking in agility.  I stumbled past even small rocks in my path.

As I considered the dramatic differences in effort required to complete the hike, I also considered, isn't it true that we all go through life with a backpack on?  And doesn't this pack have a dramatic impact on the way we travel?  Our pacing, agility, and distance all reflect what's in our pack.

The difference between hiking and life is that, in life, our packs are invisible.  We don't know all of what is in our own pack and we definitely aren't aware of what is contained in the packs of our fellow sojourners. These packs are filled with personal histories, genetic endowment, family background, economic realities, the various relationships we've had...  Some of our experiences add to our agility while others are like boulders in our backpack, slowing our pace  and  compomising our gait.  Alcoholic mothers, caring neighbors, athletic prowess, academic facility, parental conflict, and the list goes on.

I was humbled by my reflections.  How often have a raced past a fellow hiker only to judge their slow pace and awkward form?  Quick to gaze critically at another, I have neglected to even begin to consider their backpack.  They are carrying a pack and perhaps it's a really heavy one.  Maybe what they need more than my judgment is my encouragement and admiration for all that they are accomplishing with such a heavy load.   Maybe the biggest gift that I can give them (and even myself sometimes) is the simple permission to take things one step at a time and an ample dose of encouragement. Way to go!  Keeping doing your best.  And if you need me to lend a helping hand, let me know!  This hike can be really tough!

Would You Whisper In My Ear?

I surveyed the many messes around the house as I contemplated the chaos which would drive me through the afternoon and evening.  Two soccer practices, birthday shopping, baking cupcakes, making dinner, 90 minutes of carpool spanning three schools and seven children.  My heart felt heavy and my spirit felt bound by many obligations.  The heat in the house was rising on this late summer day as quickly as my feelings of dread.  I decided to turn on the air so that at least I wouldn’t be overwhelmed and sweaty.  As I leaned over the dining table to close the window, I heard the air conditioning unit turn on and I felt the cool air begin to blast through the vent on to my face.  And my heart was hit with a sentiment of gratitude.  Thank you, Lord, for the gift of air conditioning.  I didn’t just say the words.  I felt them.  I felt them as a tangible expression of God’s grace to me.  He whispered in my ear and his words quickly trickled to my heart, and I knew it wasn’t me doing the right thing.  I wasn’t acting grateful, but God had given me the gift of gratitude.  He placed his hand under my chin and gently lifted my face.  He shifted my gaze to show me something sweet like a parent who kneels down next to their child to help them see something really neat.  In this simple gesture I was redirected from my troubled place. 

Hit by the reality that I don't do so well when left to my own.  I am humbled with the awareness that I need Him each day to whisper in my ear.  To show me what he sees.  To save me from my own self which often feels so feeble.  To do it with compassion.  To be unexpected.  Simply because he loves me. 

Thank you, Pinterest!

No sooner have I put the last pair of folded socks away in my drawer, I pivot to see a leg of jammies cascading down the side of the hallway hamper announcing, "It's full again!"  I clean the kitchen to make room to cook.  On my way back from dumping the trash, I deposit the used tissues that were scattered across the living room floor, an old homework assignment, and some junk mail.   The waste basket is already half full.  My life feels like the movie Groundhog Day as I do the same things over and over and over again.  There's something taxing about investing so much time and energy into things that feel so dreadfully impermanent, vanishing into thin air as if they never were.  And so I long for anything that feels like forward movement. Like sharing mango salsa with my good friend in the middle of two days worth of dirty dishes.  Jumping off the merry-go-round of obligation every now and then to share life with my heart. 

Enter Pinterest! Bite size pieces of moving forward.  Maybe it's a new idea for dinner, a small craft, or a new organizational tip.  Sometimes, it's simply mind candy as I imagine giving some little piece of my life a makeover.  Every now and again it's something I actually DO!  Tonight, I reorganized my linen closet after looking at a picture of a cabinet full of sheets where each set of sheets is stored inside a pillow case.  No big deal, and yet as I introduced a new kind of order to this itty bitty corner of my life, I felt a soft breeze flutter somewhere deep inside of me.    And I realize...  I really needed this.  

The Cruise Ship Baby and His Speed Boat Momma

The sun was warm.  The breeze blew mild.  The air felt fresh.  We sat on a bench, my four-year-old and I.  Having succumbed to his request to "watch the water," we marveled at the spontaneity of the fountain as we enjoyed a shared moment together.  Shooting out of the ground with little to no warning, sometimes the fountain danced with dramatic flair, high into the sky.  Other times, it hovered low to the ground.  Jonas squealed with delight as he settled his keen eyes on the choreographed wonder.  After several minutes of being entertained, I offered, "Are you ready to go?"  to which Jonas responded, "Can we watch two more times?"  I checked my watch.  I told him, "Sure!  We can watch two more times but then we should go."  He agreed.  We watched.  We assigned familial titles to the spurts of water.  "Whoa!! Now that's a big daddy fountain!"  Jonas giggled as he assigned new names to different spouts.  After "two times," he jumped up.  We headed for the escalator.  No trouble.  No tantrums.  Great conversation ensued as we made our way to the car.  I couldn't help but notice.  Such a nice time together.  What made the difference?  I'm pretty sure the difference was me.  I slowed down.  Left margins.  Gave him time to transition.  Let him feel heard. 

As a working mom, I am forever tempted to trample my kids under foot.  These little people who flourish in the rain of gentle playfulness, who do much better with a more tender rhythm find themselves subjected to my governing sense of urgency.  They don't do so well with my constant bark that testifies yet again, to the fact that we are running late.  The image of a speed boat came to mind.  I race to and fro attempting to manage the breadth of responsibilities that weigh so heavy upon me.  And yet, I am reminded.  My little side-kick isn't as speedy as I am.  Resembling more of a cruise ship, his turns are slow and the party isn't somewhere else.  It's right where he is.  

My Home is Wall-Papered with Good Intentions

Ok... so I'm always on the lookout for a blog or two that will validate that "working mom" is in fact a valid mothering category.  A blog that will concede and maybe even embrace that there are many women, in fact the majority of mothers, who both have careers AND are fully invested in the precious role of loving and raising children, even if it doesn't include scrapbooking.  If I had a dollar, scratch that... a nickel... for every blog written about/for/by homeschooling, crafting, stay-at-home moms, I could, at least, consider quitting my job.  But for those of us who both work and mother, the supportive resources can be quite skimpy.  

I giggled today when I ran across workingmother.blogspot.com.  Eureka!  A working mom blog!!  I eagerly poured over the website to discover a whopping two entries, 8/26/2001 and 9/2/2001.  Of course that is what you would find at a working mom's blog!  No time to write. The poor woman had enough heart to design the blog but only made it through two entries before calling it quits.  I have to say, as a working mom blogger whose words are few and far between (or at least far between...), workingmother.blogspot.com, your words (or rather lack thereof) brought comfort to my heart!  You  are familiar with the working mom's dilemma.  You know what it feels like to straddle the gap between all that we'd like to be and the reality of what can happen in a given day.  Thank you, WorkingMother.blogspot.com!  I owe ya one!