To my 8-year-old on her birthday

March 23, 2012 By 7 Comments

Dear Audrey,

You’re the one who started all of this for me, this mothering, this new identity that sometimes seems to swallow all the others whole. We had wanted a baby for a year — more — by the time we learned you were coming, and now (of course) I’m so glad that God had us wait. We had to wait a bit just so we could have you.

You were born sometime after 1 a.m., and I’d already been up for 30 hours in labor with you, but after you were here I couldn’t sleep. While Daddy snored at my side in the little chair-bed, I laid there, mind racing, and I kept propping myself up for another look at you. I wanted to wake you up, to snuggle with you, to disturb you so we could be close. It wouldn’t be the last time.

As a baby, you were the perfect ease-in to motherhood, taking it easy on me (though I didn’t know it until your brother came along, because I was so worried about doing everything right that I missed the fact that you slept forever and everything could be solved by nursing). You soon filled out, getting impossibly chunky with all those rolls and rolls and it wasn’t easy to get into allllll those neck folds during bath. You were happy. We were happy.

I was also terrified.

Not about the big wide world, though those fears would come later, too. I was scared because you had me. (Thank God and baby Jesus for Daddy, shall we just say that now?)

You brought blaring and to the surface all my fears about imperfection and failure. It was one thing when it was just me and Daddy, but now there was you and I was responsible and what if? What if my failures hurt you? I knew they would. I knew I couldn’t protect you from myself, from all the times I would lose my temper, or yell, or shame you when that’s the last thing I wanted to do.

All my fears have been realized, as every mother knows. But what I hadn’t accounted for was grace. A deep, everlasting grace from God who seemed to pour the same gift into you. And we are making it. You make me want to be better, and isn’t that what this life and these relationships are all about? Leaning into the One who has all the answers and all the hope and coming out better, more accepting? I pray that for you, my sweet girl.

Because you. You are brave and loyal and kind and you have a servant’s heart. (Did you know that Jesus did, too?) I’m so proud when you stand up for your friends, and even for kids who aren’t your friends, and my heart nearly bursts when I see how natural you are with Benjamin and Owen, so caring, so protective. You also have a power there that I pray you’ll use wisely.

You have a keen sense of injustice, and I smile when I imagine what you’ll do with that. You are passionate and sometimes explode like  your mama, but other times you keep me even, like yesterday when I was frustrated as we worked on your pasta school project and you said, “It’s OKAY, Mom. A solution will come.” I blinked. (Thank you, Mr. Miyagi.)

But that’s the thing. You do teach me things, all the time. You’ve taught me about love and about failure. You sometimes act like a mirror and I have to pick my heart up off the floor because you’re so like me, and I know the struggles coming, but I also know the joy and passion and hope and love. You are a spectacular human being, and I thank God every day that I get to be your mom.

Love you, beaner.

Filed Under: kids, parenting

To my brightly burning gift, at five and a half

February 8, 2012 By 3 Comments

Dear Owen,

I can only imagine the twinkle God had in his eye when he thought up you. He was on a wild hare that day. Something amazing happened, he was in a boisterous mood and felt inspired to create something out-of-the-box. It’s like he decided to improve on an older model. He was going to give you every bell and whistle, then a few more quirks just for fun and to keep me guessing.

You are whip-smart, handsome as a prince and boy howdy, full of passion. Just today, you yell-cried for a full six minutes because a wheel fell off a remote control car I’m sure you hadn’t played with for a year. We don’t even know where the remote is. “BUT I WAS JUST STARTING TO PLAY WITH IT!” you wailed.

Earlier today, I could see your face fall when Target Guest Services didn’t have your camouflage tank car in their lost-and-found, the one you had lost when you were walking along with me on grocery day, driving it behind boxes and containers on the shelf until you forgot where you had parked it. I swear we looked behind every box of pasta and bag of rice they had, but it had just disappeared. “We’ll check the lost and found next time,” I’d said, which helped you ease off your gathering storm. But today when they didn’t have it, you were sad, then embarrassed for feeling sad, then mad, then angry, then defiant. You pushed the cart, got in the way, growled. We stopped for a big hug between the two automatic doors while Benjamin kicked his shoes off again, then I changed the subject and kept on rambling until something caught your attention and you took a deep breath and moved on. Because that’s often what you need now — redirection. You tend to dwell. I think you get that from me. (Sorry.)

I wonder if the remote control car incident all started at Target today. I wish it was always so easy to trace your behavior back to a hurt, because I know that’s where all your big, emotion-filled behaviors start. I wish I could make it better.

I wish it were easier on you, but the fact is you’re still vying for your spot as the baby of the family. You had nearly five years in that spot, and you’re not giving it up without a long, drawn-out fight. I know you’re just asking who you are to us, where you fit, if there’s still enough love for you. I’m still figuring out how to be a mom to three humans, and honestly, you’ve been the toughest nut to crack in the whole equation. You’ve had the most adjustment, and you get the most misunderstanding from me.

I’m praying for a greater wisdom, for both of our sakes. For God to remind me to shrink down, crawl into your five-and-a-half-year-old mind, to bend low to enter into the heart of a boy who’s just longing to know his momma still loves him, who needs consistency and love and affection maybe more than anyone. I’ll ask our friend Jesus to help me connect with you first — with eyes, with gentle hands — before I talk at you or address your behavior.

One of my greatest hopes is that you’ll grow into a man of integrity who still retains the wild passion that has defined your boyhood so far. I hope God helps you let go of the perfectionism I’ve accidentally passed on to you, and that we both learn what God really means when he says that his grace is really and truly free, and all we have to do is ask for it. I hope we both learn how to ask, and then to really, really receive it deep down.

Thanks for being you. Jesus is going to help me be thankful for even the stuff I don’t get about you. I really love that I get to keep getting to know you our whole lives long.

I love you, buddy. Always.

Linking with Heather and Kristina.
Filed Under: Just Write, kids, parenting

Unwrapping the gift of interruption (early morning)

December 6, 2011 By 5 Comments

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“The truth is of course that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life – the life God is sending one day by day…”
C.S. Lewis

“Still too early, bud, still too early, go back and snuggle with Daddy,” I half-whisper to him, shooing him back into our bed where he loves to sleep best. He had just stumbled into my office again during my early-morning writing time, hand shielding his sleepy eyes from the bright light.

He’s never been an early riser, but he has always, since the tiniest infant, wanted to be close. He co-slept more than his sister or brother ever did, actually sleeping better between us than in his own bed. When he’s having trouble transitioning or angry about my instruction, stopping for a moment to embrace him melts his defenses at least a little. Until recently, he wanted to constantly touch, touch, touch.

He’s never woken as early as his sister always does, but lately, it’s been around 6 a.m. The funny thing is that he really could sleep for another two hours — and he would, if I were there next to him. He can’t get used to my morning writing routine, so he climbs into my lap once I let him, sweetly whining that “I just want to play with you” or “I just want to be with you.” How do you deny that kind of request?

But I know this time I spend early, inviting the muse, before the distraction of the day, is as vital to me as sleep is to him, so I send him back out, for now, promising to snuggle later, to play soon, to be with him fully after I’ve written what I need to write.

But I know it won’t always be so, and his needs will change with age. He won’t always climb into my lap and say so plainly that he needs a little dose of me. He won’t wake up early just to be close. He won’t prefer my company over all others. (Well, most others. Grandma’s a pretty strong draw.)

So I’ll unwrap the gift of interruptions and the quirks and needs and requests that come with them. These are fleeting times. I don’t want to miss the interruptions.

I’m linking up at Chatting at the Sky today for Tuesdays Unwrapped. Join me there and unwrap more of today’s little gifts.

Filed Under: God, kids, parenting, Tuesdays Unwrapped, writing

Creating imperfect memories

December 5, 2011 By 1 Comment

>I’ve never been crafty. I’ve dabbled here and there, and there was that stint where I thought I was into stamping cards, but then I realized I hated it and it made me feel uncreative and bad about myself. Then I also realized that I don’t love the look of most crafty projects; many are too cutesy for my modern sensibilities. (ahem.)

Then for the last few months I’ve been looking for some activity or book to go through with my kids, since we’re not going to a traditional church anymore and I want to show them what a vibrant, active, living faith looks like. (And I think that learning and thinking about Jesus and what he did and said are part of that, along with other daily life stuff.)

So when I saw Truth in the Tinsel was coming out for Advent, I thought it looked pretty good — hands-on activities and short lessons for the littles. Perfect application of the Christmas story for my older kids’ ages.

There was one catch: It features one craft per day, an ornament that illustrates an aspect of the Christmas story, for the entire month of December. It’s a great idea because almost without exception, kids love crafts and they’ll remember the story better because they’re making something with their hands about it. And it’s a terrible idea because almost without exception, I do not love crafts.

But I sacrificed for the children and dug out some supplies from the basement bins, found household stuff we could use, and purchased a few things to round out the list.

We’re on Day 5. The kids absolutely love it and eat it up every day. They ask when we’re going to do it, and then beg to do it RIGHT NOW. It’s actually fun for me, too, to see how they’re understanding the stories (for the most part) and having fun making stuff. But it’s also shone a light on some of my not-so-great traits. (Parenting: If you think you’re so great, having kids will prove otherwise. To yourself and everyone around you.)

First, I’m impatient. I knew this, but for some reason trying to manage a craft while reading a three-sentence reflection on the bible verse we just read can send me over the edge. You wanted the googly eye that Audrey picked? Here, let’s use this one. Yes it is good enough. JUST USE IT. Please stop smearing your glue stick EVERYwhere and just do the project. Do we really have to paint the newspaper and the counter, guys? STOP POURING THE GLUE ON THE COUNTER.  *sigh*

And then there’s my need to make everything perfect — even crafts created by my children. I’m smoothing out Owen’s paint, I’m straightening the hair on Audrey’s Zechariah face. I’m repositioning their tissue paper so it looks better. And at the time, I can even see what I’m doing and still, it’s hard to stop myself.

What is this drive for perfection that is more deeply important to me than respecting my kids’ creativity and ideas? Why do I insist on order and quiet from two rather small children? What is the need that’s driving me to make this project all about me?

I want it to be meaningful for them. I want it so badly that I push and prod and shush and even raise my voice. I WANT TO CREATE MEMORIES, dammit.

But I see what’s happening, what I’m doing. If I want to instill a love of Jesus’ story in them, this isn’t the way to do it. Although God will work through me anyway (such grace!), I don’t want to also have the side effects of sending them the message that their art isn’t good enough for me. I don’t want to instill in them the idea that their wiggly, distracted nature needs to be tamed for God.

I already see in Owen the tendency to give up and ask me to do it if he feels he’s not doing it perfectly. (He was the youngest child for nearly five years, so he’s had a lot of practice having stuff done for him.) It’s easy to rescue, especially when my fingers are itching to straighten this or help with that, but I also want him to know it’s good to fail. That he needs to do it imperfectly first. That it’s OK to accept your abilities and your art for what they are now, knowing they will grow and change — but also believing they have beauty and value right now, too.

And will you look at that? God’s teaching me the lesson I’m trying to teach my son. If parenting exposes all my faults, one of the saving graces is that I get to see how God is parenting me into maturity just as I’m parenting my kids. Sometimes their lessons are mine. Actually, that’s most of the time.

So starting today, I promise to be hands-off and “go with the flow,” as Owen’s kindergarten teacher says. I promise to let them be who they are and trust that God will teach through an imperfect vessel like me. After all, it doesn’t have to be perfect to be good.

Filed Under: God, home, kids, parenting

Love over stuff

November 21, 2011 By Leave a Comment

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My niece playing with my daughter’s Christmas shoes, 2010

Last year, my brothers and I decided to exchange names for Christmas, like we’ve done for the past several years. But this time, we agreed to try to purchase a gift that would benefit someone else. It wasn’t always easy to find just the right thing for some people within our fairly limited price point, but I really loved it when everyone opened their gifts. The giver would tell us all of the company, or the artisan, or the group of people who were supported with that purchase.

My sister-in-law bought me a Rwandan basket and my husband got a scarf from my brother.  We were working with a fairly limited number of websites we knew about, but over the past year I’ve heard about more and more companies that create and sell products for the purpose of giving people in need a living wage, or providing funding for a worthy social justice cause.

Last year for our own little family Christmas celebration, I wanted one more gift for my then-four-year-old son (to make it fair with his sister), and I found myself wandering the aisles of Target. It was last-minute and I was out of options. I got stuck in the bargain aisle filled with available-at-Christmas-only toys, and I kept coming back to a certain construction set. There were 80 (80!) total pieces for only! twenty! dollars! It did look like pretty cheap plastic, but I thought wow — it has a dump truck AND a loader AND a cement mixer AND a bunch of worker dudes and caution cones and look! It’s even got a remote control semi. There were so many items on his list included in one package, which is why the price point gave me pause — it probably shouldn’t be that cheap, I thought. But I needed a gift and I was out of time, so I went for it.

Guess how long he played with it before it broke?

You know these toys, because maybe you’ve purchased them yourself, or your kids have gotten them from someone else. They are EVERYwhere during the Christmas buying frenzy. Some pieces were broken the same day he opened them. Over this last year, I keep throwing pieces of the set away, broken or unusable. The doors fell off. The hitch busted. The remote control semi went way too fast and was basically unusable from the start, but I had to wait until the bumper broke and the front wheels fell off and got lost before I could toss it.

That’s not what I want to do this year.

Though I’m a social justice novice, I know that it feels good to spend our money on things of eternal significance rather than at the bargain-basement aisle at Target, filled with toys that will fall apart in about a week. No more! This year, I’m going for quality over quantity, value over price and love over stuff.

Check back here in the next couple of days for my own compilation of links to companies, web pages, shopping sites and handmade gifts that benefit someone in need, help fund an adoption, give a living wage to an artisan or help lift someone out of poverty. See you soon!

Filed Under: home, kids, shop for a cause

To breathe for her

October 14, 2011 By 3 Comments

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My oldest, my beautiful slender little woman, who I still remember as a 97th percentile-all-the-way-around baby, the one who waited until 16 months to walk because the risk of falling was too much, the one who eats up the chance to be on stage and then frets in embarrassment to show anyone her talent — that one. She is on day four of a merciless virus. A completely blocked nose and congested head followed 48 hours of lethargy and dulled senses. While I can now see a glimmer of the girl I know fighting to shine through, the virus still holds her back, stealing her appetite, socking her eyes with dark circles, teasing her with the prospect of a day at home and then no energy to play or do or perform.

Mercifully, she is sleeping now, just as her baby brother in the next room over. She drifted off unintentionally while he sucked down his bottle and lulled to sleep. In her slumber, she keeps trying to breathe normally. Every few seconds, her throat closes and her lungs try to force air in and out of that dainty nose, still completely blocked up. I watch her chest struggle to rise up and down under the weight of effort until finally, her mouth opens again, noisy, and snores in sweet oxygen. A few seconds later, the cycle repeats.

And oh, I want to breathe for her.

I sit next to her, watching, and then notice that I’m breathing hard through my mouth. I try to adjust her position on the pillow, open the airway, but it’s no good. I’ll let her sleep, though fitfully, finally deciding to trust that her body will know what to do.

I wish I could be so trusting when she’s well. To trust that she’ll know what to do, that something deep inside will guide her into truth and grace.

When another kid knocks her down or holds her back.

When she buys the lie that she needs adornment to be beautiful.

When a friend makes her feel less-than.

When she fails.

I know the impulse will always be there, to steer, to push her in the right way, to breathe for her. I’m her mother. But she’s already seven years wise, only a decade away from getting college acceptance letters, then out of my home. Out where my breath won’t reach, my arms can’t catch. If I’m honest, letting go began the moment I first held her in my arms.

Even now, I could try to breathe for her, but she’d choke. Instead, I choose trust. Over and over again.

Filed Under: home, kids, parenting

Being home again

March 23, 2011 By 9 Comments

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It’s Audrey’s 7th birthday today, the end of March, and there’s snow swirling outside my window. Apparently tropical baby skin immediately develops eczema upon arrival in this arid climate. Oh, and also he’ll pick up the latest virus circulating. But he’s also surrounded by more love every minute than ever before. My two older kids have more love and patience and delight in the new baby than even I thought they would, and a family of five feels loud, crazy, and somehow very right.


All of this, together, welcomes Benjamin home. And me.

While I was in Uganda, I did long for home — mostly my two kids at home, but also my own space, the ability to spread out, my favorite foods and my “real” life. But I knew I would miss Africa.

As I was falling in love with my son in Uganda, I also fell in love with his culture and people. There’s a saying that Americans have all the watches, but Africans have all the time. While it was an adjustment to get used to getting one thing done in a day (or rarely, three!) instead of 10, I found that the pace of life there invites all kinds of beauty. They really honor one another. There is always time for a conversation or an impromptu dinner with new friends. They make room — and take time — for the people that cross their path. Back at home, I have my own space, but I’m also in it alone. And I feel ruled once again by the calendar and schedule. It’s so ingrained in the culture, but how do I translate African time to a Minnesota spring (winter)?

A baby helps, actually. A baby’s demands are right-now, whereas teaching patience and other-centeredness in older kids involves asking them to wait. But a baby needs his bottle right now. He needs his diaper changed, now. He needs to be picked up and snuggled, now, so he learns once again, over and over, that we are permanent fixtures in his until-now-ever-changing life. No matter if I’m in the middle of dinner-making or routines, his demands are primary and they affect the whole family.

So Benjamin, along with his birth culture, invites me to slow down once again. And I do. If I want a home environment that promotes love and patience and kindness, I need to build in margin. Wide margins of time, of patience, of flexibility.


And oh, it is sweet to be home. There is a baby filling the once-waiting crib and there is a lightness in my spirit. As I first squeezed my kids and kissed my husband, I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. We made it. We went to Africa and it became a part of us — and tangibly, a part of our family in Benjamin. We carried our new son home, and now. Now, the real adventure begins.

First image credit Stacey Montgomery, who blogs and posts other beautiful photos on her blog.

For more photos of our airport homecoming as it happened, go to Stacey’s post here.

And more photos, posted today!

Filed Under: adoption, attachment, home, kids, parenting, time, Uganda

Coming home

March 15, 2011 By 4 Comments

>Monday, the Embassy was closed. It had been confirmed. Yet, I never got a call canceling my appointment. As the morning wore on, I wondered if I was supposed to go in.


At 11 a.m., I was notified: though the embassy was closed, they were working, and they wanted me to be there in 2 hours for my interview. Yes, I said. Of course I’ll be there. Everything seemed to align: my driver was available. Other key factors clicked into place. I arrived at the embassy 1 hour and 45 minutes later (after having to turn around to get the paperwork I’d forgotten), nervous. The normally very crowded waiting room was empty save a couple other adoptive families. I learned I didn’t need to be nervous after I spoke with a nice woman for 10 minutes, leaving with the promise that they’d try to have Benjamin’s visa ready Wednesday, but no promises.

I waited all day today, until I heard the magical words at 5 p.m. local time: The visa will be ready tomorrow.

Benjamin and I will be on the flight I had booked a couple months ago, on what I’d pegged as our “earliest possible” date out. In less than 48 hours (God willing, our flights are not delayed), we will be reunited as a family, plus one new member. After my visa appointment yesterday, I was in such good spirits that I packed one of my suitcases. I guess that grace or not, I’m ready to go home.


The day was bittersweet though. As we heard good news, a friend who has been stuck in Uganda for way too long hit another roadblock when her judge again refused to hear her case. She’s had a long, hard road in Uganda, much beyond what anyone else has experienced. Though God has used her while she’s here (she found us a foster family for Benjamin, for one), it’s got to be time for her to go home. That’s what I’m telling God, anyway. Please pray for Melissa, Cody, Mercy and the rest of their family. I so want them to get the good news I got today.

Now my mind is racing ahead to squeezing my kids’ necks, kissing my husband, being mom to three kids, being home as a family and embracing the chaos that we’ve created. I cannot wait.

Filed Under: adoption, Africa, attachment, home, kids

Falling in love

March 7, 2011 By 9 Comments

>Nathan is on the other side of the computer now for skype conversations, and Audrey and Owen’s faces have changed. With Daddy home, their smiles are bigger, their snuggles longer. They are thrilled to have Daddy home. On one hand, this puts my heart at ease — and on the other, it makes my heart long for home like never before. The best case scenario is that I have another 10 days here. A brief eternity.

But beyond logistics and jobs and arranging our schedules, I think God knew I needed this time with Benjamin. Just the two of us.

I needed some extra time to fall in love.

In a couple other posts, I’ve brought up the non-magical quality of my adoption journey. Now I see what I meant: I was expecting a fairy tale. I’d heard it in so many other adoption stories: Seeing a face and just knowing. Holding for the first time and miraculously “getting it.” Comparing it to childbirth, saying it felt exactly the same.

Days after meeting my baby, staring into his eyes and loving on him, I couldn’t shake a feeling: This didn’t feel the same. In a long list of fears, this was a big one, so scary that I didn’t want to write about it. I didn’t even want to say it out loud.

I could see the look on Nathan’s face when he was with Benjamin — it was the same he had with our first two. Enraptured. I, on the other hand, held Benjamin at a figurative arm’s length. At first, I reasoned, it was because of the uncertainty of the court hearing and the judge’s decision. What if it all fell apart? But when there was no perceptible change after court, I wondered what was wrong with me. What kind of mother was I?

Finally Nathan coaxed it out of me and reassured that we could never expect this to be the same. Travel, court, paperwork, missing the first 8 months — these are all hurdles to jump and mountains to climb in making this child our own. But even then, I was envious of the bond that Nathan made so easily, so readily. What was I protecting my heart from, I wondered? I anguished at the thought: Benjamin deserves better than me.

I’ve read volumes on attachment, one of the key factors in a successful adoption and an emotionally healthy adopted child. I was prepared to help Benjamin’s attachment to us. I was blindsided when I discovered that I was the one in need of help in attaching to him.

But now, after just two weeks with him, I find my heart swelling as I stare into his face. My kisses and snuggles feel more natural. The “I love yous” flow more easily. And I know if I’ve made these strides in just two weeks, our future is bright. And I’m going to do my best to be faithful to God’s purposes in these next 10 days, to strengthen a bond that will change his world and mine.

I know I will look back on all of this in a year’s time and wonder what our lives were like before Benjamin. And the love of this mother — imperfect, fierce, flawed and never-ending — will grow and change. After this, it will never be the same.

Filed Under: adoption, attachment, benjamin, kids, parenting

>One more: Audrey the songwriter

January 10, 2010 By Leave a Comment

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Whoa, three blog posts in one day. Let me assure you, this is NOT the new norm.
Just wanted to remember this scene from this morning. After brunch, we were relaxing in the living room and Audrey came in, announcing that she was going to sing some songs. Turns out, they were originals. First, she was bundled up in a coat, scarf and gloves, singing about living at the North Pole, and how when she gets cold she just puts on her swimsuit and goes swimming in the sea. For the second song, she took off the outerwear and sang (in tune, with a surprisingly good melodic line) about summer, with the final lyric, “summer… is the best season of my life.”
The concert ended with a rousing singalong of “Happy Birthday,” which we sang to Cooper (our dog) for no apparent reason. Yes, our guests sang, too.
She’s quite a girl.
Filed Under: kids