My Own Sun

Here's the truth (you guys know by now that you'll always get it from me) : Most days, I'd even say 5 out of 7, I feel like the biggest farce in the universe. I feel guilty when my kids say things like, "Mom, you are the best mom in the world!" Because I know it isn't true. And I know that one day, they'll know it isn't true. 
The truth is, most days I look around me, at the book bags and the shoes, at the Lala Loopsy toys and the Play-Doh, the inside out underwear and socks, and think to myself, "This is not what I signed up for." Okay, let's be even more honest. I didn't really "sign up" at all. But if I had, it most likely wouldn't have been for this. It wouldn't have been for the mess and the stress and the yelling and the refereeing. Sometimes, a lot of times, I am just so shocked by it all. That I have kids. That I'm a mom. That, roughly 10 years ago, I became the center of a small person's universe. Oh come on, moms, you know what I'm saying. It's not conceited. It's the God honest truth. When I pushed that small person from my body, I became my own sun. His sun. And later, my daughters' sun, as well. Completely equipped with my own gravitational pull, my own orbit. It's a force that I doubt will ever be outgrown. 
A few months ago, I observed a mother with her grown daughters- one in college, one newly married. They were home for a holiday, and I watched. They orbited her. When she wasn't near them, they wandered the house looking for her. When she sat, they sat. When she shifted, they shifted. Their shoulders touched. Their hips. Their heads rested against hers. They were pulled to her, pulled by her. They needed her like they needed the sun. They were little planets, caught up in her path, spinning, spinning around her. 
I haven't really outgrown this innate planet instinct either. My mom lives in Florida now, and even from hundreds of miles away, I feel the pull. I'm always gravitating toward her, longing for that Sunshine State, to be back in that orbit. 
We mothers... That cord we grow, when we grow our babies, it's never completely cut. There's this pulsing thread between us, feeding back and forth. 
I've felt this more and more, as my own children have gotten older. You would think I'd realize it more when they're younger, when they're these little involuntary planets, revolving around me, helpless. But I've never felt that pull stronger than I have over the last year or two, as I've seen them instinctively shift and gravitate and function around me. I remember one time I told a friend how claustrophobic it made me feel sometimes. To be walking through a grocery store, or down a hallway, and to not only see but to FEEL them around me. It's like when you attach an inner tube to a boat. (Or for an occasionally more accurate description, imagine Shir Kahn  in Jungle Book with the torch tied to his tail). I turn a corner and I can feel them float behind me in my wake, a little delayed, maybe a little wider path, but undoubtedly shadowing my every move. 
These invisible cords that still tie them to me, this gravitational pull, this mini galaxy that I'm at the center of, it's wearying sometimes. There's a lot of pressure and little rest. Is this how the sun feels, I wonder? Surrounded by all these planets, no matter where he turns, always someone dependent on his energy, his life force, absorbing him in, breathing him out, NEEDING him? Let them get too far away, and they freeze. Pull them in too close, and they burn up. They must exist with you and without you, all the time. Everyday. Such a fine, tense balance to maintain. 

But oh, isn't it glorious? To be the sun. To be life and light and nourishment. To feel them orbiting around you-  living their own lives, maintaining their own ecosystems, true- but always, always pulled to you. And you hold them. You embrace them in that gravity, you hold tight for dear, dear life, watching them spin and twirl around you, rejoicing as they absorb you. Does the sun need the planets as much as the planets need the sun?
In our case, even more so. 

Exhausting, yes. 
Exhilarating, even more so. 
Worth it, worth it, worth it. 

I'm tired. I'm worn out. I'm overwhelmed and underwhelmed, I'm the center of this universe that is the center of MY universe. I'm my own sun. I'm a mother. 

Happy Mother's Day, to all my fellow suns. 

Trending Now at the Box House

As my kids are growing more and more, there are things that are popular with them now that, as an elderly mother, I obviously can't comprehend (obvious to them, I mean. Not so much to me). For instance: Justin Bieber. My girls are not the most hardcore Beliebers. We don't know his birthday or his shoe size. But they both agree he must marry one of them. They argue frequently over which one of them it will be. They are 7 and 4, friends. I mean. Really. They don't even know what marriage is. Especially Atleigh. I try to tell them, "Justin is way older than you. The chances of him marrying you are very small." But they won't listen. Of course, no one could talk me out of my Billy Ray Cyrus obsession at their age. That's right. I said Billy Ray Cyrus. People, I had a massive crush. Poster and t-shirt and Some Gave All at the top of your lungs crush. Tell your sister you're never speaking to her again because she said his hair was dumb and drew a mustache and goatee on said poster crush. And I won't lie. If I could find that t-shirt I got on the Christmas I was 9, you better believe I would find a way to wear it today. In fact, on my Kindle the other night, I saw an ad for a Billy Ray autobiography. I immediately had a heart attack. An achy breaky heart attack.

So. Bieber Fever is always on tap at The Box House. But I've gradually worked in some things from my own childhood that my kids are buying into. The Sandlot. "You're killin' me, Smalls!" Little Rascals. "I got a dollar, I got a dollar! I got a dollar, hey hey hey hey!" (These are legitimate things I've overheard my kids saying.) Here's my personal favorite: I Believe I Can Fly. Now, no 90's child worth their salt would miss out on that classic R. Kelly song. One day, my kids came home from school singing it. I don't know why. They can't pinpoint where they heard it. But it immediately became one of Atleigh's favorite songs. I hear her all day through the house, singing under her breath, "I weeeve I can fwyyy. I weeeeve I can touch da kyyyy." (We're still working on her lazy diction.) So, about a week ago, I found Space Jam on the $5 shelf at Target (By the way. Why are all of our generation's movies winding up in the cheapo bin? That's classic stuff right there. They don't put the Baby Boomers' stuff on the $5 shelf!). That was one of those "toss it in the cart don't care whether I have the money or not" instances. I couldn't wait to watch it with the kids. Couldn't wait for Ashton to see Michael Jordan pretend to act. Couldn't wait for Atleigh to put a "face" to her current favorite song. Well, it turns out Ashton watched it the other day while I was at my Bible study and he was confined to his room. I was so disappointed. He loved it, of course. I knew he would. I just wanted to see him love it.

Another thing trending right now: Baseball. Ashton is midway through his little league season, as pitcher for the Mets. I won't lie, folks. It's bad. He's a good player, he really is. But every time we've put him in sports, he's been landed on mediocre (if not downright bad) teams. That's not just biased, proud mama speaking. The kid has talent. But he's easily hyped, easily frustrated, and easily discouraged. So when his team lost big tonight, I had a really distraught 9 year old on my hands. A 9 year old who crawled into my lap and sobbed like he hasn't done in 5 years. What do I say? How do I handle this? All I could do was hug him and pray with him, and try to convince him that he is only 9 and nobody started out perfect when they were 9. I don't think I'm quite cut out to be mother to a kid as high strung as I am. I cried almost as much as he did. Not because he lost. But because he felt like a loser. What mom wants that for her kid?

Also currently big in our house: Les Misérables. You know from previous posts my obsession. I haven't stopped listening to the musical soundtrack since January, when I finished the book. No kidding. At least (at least) twice a week I'm listening to it and singing I Dreamed a Dream, or some other song, at the top of my lungs. So much so that I even heard Chloe, playing on the front porch this evening, humming "On My Own". My heart about burst. Last Friday, I went to see Les Mis (the Broadway tour) with my dad and sister. Amazing. Absolutely enthralling. I found myself, over and over, thanking God for the gifts that He's given to people. I don't care if you're "Christian" or not. Gifts are gifts. And all good things come from Him. So when I heard Jean Valjean sing "Bring Him Home" in that flawless falsetto, all I could do was praise God for it, with goosebumps all along my arms. I felt like Anne Shirley on the day she went to church by herself and saw The Lake of Shining Waters through the window: and she prayed her own prayer, "Thank You for it, God", two or three times, while Marilla said anxiously, "Not out loud, I hope." Well, I may actually have said it out loud. I don't remember. I just remember rarely being so sucked into something in my entire life. I wanted it to go on forever. To sit in that seat and watch the show over and over, and sing along until one of the cast members got laryngitis and they needed an able bodied and able voiced female who knew the play front and back to rise up out of the audience and save the day. That would be me (she said with a mixture of pride and embarrassment). One of these days. Whether it's community theater, or I have to force my entire family to stage the play for me (oh and don't think I haven't already got all their roles picked out. I'm already equipped with my own personal Gavroche and little Cosette).

Maybe the real trend in the Box House lately (and this isn't what I started out writing at all) is that dreams are worthwhile, even when they don't come true. Whether you want to marry your childhood idol, or believe you can fly. Whether you want to pitch the perfect game or sing pitch perfectly the role you feel you're destined to play. God is the author of dreams, great and small. Even a 4 year old can dream big. Even an "elderly" mother can dream big.

What trends are you seeing right now? What dreams are you dreaming? Hold onto them. Dream the dream. Nothing is too big or too small for the One who placed those dreams in your heart.

-M

Ugly Friday

 

Finale of The Living Passover at Crosswalk Community Church

Confession time: I am not a fan of Easter. I'm sorry. I know. It's bad. I especially don't like Easter plays, as a rule. I know what their purpose is. I honor the thought and passion and prayer that goes into them. But I don't like them. Now, Christmas? I love. I'll take any Christmas play. I love the sweetness of Christmas. The gift, the joy, the hope, I love it all. It's beautiful.
 
Tonight I went to an Easter play at the church that most of my family goes to- my "church-in-law" as I like to call it, Crosswalk Community Church. They put on a huge Easter production every year. Beautifully done, really professional, so passionate, with a large, dedicated cast. My dad is always in it, my oldest brother runs tech. So I feel a sort of family obligation to attend, even though quite a few years I've managed to finagle my way out of it (I'm sorry, family! Probably not the best way to confess to you my Easter phobia, but I promise I felt guilty every time!). I'm always really tense. No matter how many moments are in the play, how many acts, how many characters, you know it's all leading up to that one scene. I clench my teeth. I twist my fingers. I take deep breaths. But every time I cringe and cry and look away. I say to myself so many times, "It's almost over. Just a few more minutes. It's almost done." And when it's done, I heave a relieved sigh and uncurl my toes and say, "Okay. It's okay. You made it through." Why do I hate it so much? I don't hate the reason for Easter. I'm everyday aware of the price that was paid for me. I'm everyday grateful for the grace that was given me.
 
The truth? Easter is ugly. However beautiful the result, the process is hideous. Heartache, betrayal, death- it is most bitter to watch again and again. And I hate all the ugly. Oh, I writhe with it. I twist in my seat uncomfortably, hating myself for hating it, feeling guilty that I can't love the ugly.
 
Saying all that, confessing all that, leads me to this: Good Friday is not one of my favorite days. I see all over the place the saying, "It's Friday- but Sunday's coming." But I spend much of the day thinking of what that day meant then, as opposed to what it means now.
 
Can you imagine what they must have thought? What they must have felt? Can you fathom it? The despair. The shock. The numb repetition of, "I don't understand. What's happened? What's happened? I was so sure." Can you comprehend it? What those two days must have been like for them?
 
Sometimes my life feels like an endless "Good Friday". An Ugly Friday, truthfully. God, I was so sure. I don't understand what's happened here. I was so sure I had heard You on this. I was so convinced I knew what the next step was. What's happened? I'm steeped in the ugly. The death, the bitter. I see the dream, the future, crucified in front of me as I watch in numb confusion. I was so sure.
 
But tonight, watching that Easter play,  I let myself think of Sunday. Those two days of despair must have felt like an eternity to them. Hiding out, trying to figure out what on earth had happened. But on Sunday, oh, on Sunday! I imagine those two ugly, dark days turned into a dimly lit dream. Can you see it? Can you fathom it? That puzzle piece that was gone, that missing link, fell into place. Everything made sense. My heart leaps just thinking of it. The laughter. The tears. The homecoming. Oh, I bet they were so homesick for Him. Two days of complete homelessness and loss. And then, Sunday. Light upon light. Song upon song. Can you hear it? We're still singing it.
 
Tonight, my heart is singing over Ugly Friday. My ugly, my confusion, my bitter, my "What's happened?" - it may seem like an eternity now. But when my Sunday comes, it will be just a memory. Seen through a glass darkly. The joy set before me... Sunday. It's coming.

Sad Truths

I was driving to work last week, listening to music, singing along, when all of a sudden the words, "God, I'm hurting here", came out of my mouth. Out of nowhere. Just bubbled up, a little bit of sad truth that escaped and fell out of my mouth. It wasn't on purpose. It wasn't a conscious thought before it became words. It was just there. Sitting, waiting.
I am hurting. Always. But what can I expect, when I hold onto all my little broken pieces? Whose fault is it if I cut myself on them? Not the fault of the pieces themselves. Mine. For not letting go. Mine. For hugging them closer to myself like their brokenness will somehow protect me from breaking again. Mine. Mea culpa.

This has been one of those weeks where I'm spending every night staring at my darkened ceiling asking God what it is I've done wrong.
The answer I've been hearing is a resounding "Everything."

Now I know that isn't God's answer to me. More than likely it's my answer to myself. But the sad truth is, usually my voice is louder in my own head than God's is. The sad truth is, most days I don't even know what He says about me. Because the sad truth is, I don't listen.

I've spent all this week rehashing all my weaknesses. Family, friends, hobbies, goals, things I've let go, things I've dropped the ball on, things I've outright given up on. I've stared at that dark ceiling, my eyes as wide open as if I could see every detail of every failure playing in slow motion.
Crying out in frustration and weariness and, yes, let's be honest, since we're speaking the sad truth, anger. Loads and loads of deep, heartfelt, sorry for myself anger.
Crying out in the midst of all those things,
"Somebody!!! God. Please. Throw me a bone here. Just one."

But why do I need to beg God for bones? The sad truth is, He's given me every bone I'll ever need to get through all of this, and I've either buried them, afraid to use them, or thrown them away because they're not what I wanted. Sad truth. I'm full of them right now. I need some glad truth. I don't need someone else to tell it to me. I need to know it. I need to see it. I need to feel it.

Winds-Day

It has definitely been a very blustery day today. While Northern Virginia has been getting pounded with snow, we here on the Peninsula have seen our usual counterpart to winter weather: drippy, droppy, dreary rain. Sideways rain, sleety rain, spitting rain, every variety of rain you can think of. Except the nice, soft, gentle rain of spring. Don’t think of that rain, because it for sure isn’t happening on the Virginia Peninsula right now, friends.

The heat just kicked on full blast in my house. Side note- we have a gas heater. Not gas heat. A gas HEATER. One heater, in the form of a grate in the wall in the far right side of our boxy living room. This heater is meant to warm our whole house in the throes of winter. From the bone chilling cold of January to the blustery days of March. I shouldn’t sound so cynical. I actually love that heater. When it kicks on and you stand in front of it, it’s like a full body hair dryer. And, if we leave the bedroom doors wide open and turn the ceiling fans on to circulate air, we get a decent warmish cross breeze that is equal parts comforting and frustrating. There are some joys to living in an old house. The different quirks you learn, placing your feet just so in the hallway to diminish the creak in the floors; putting just this much weight behind your arm to slide the pocket door closed... all these little things that become a part of you without you realizing it, and before you know it, the old house has put down roots in your soul and your steps and your door sliding are as natural as breathing.

A few weeks ago, a violent windstorm blew the handle right off of our storm door. I don’t know how it happened. It was surreal. We woke up the following morning, and ‘lo and behold, the handle was gone. It took us a little while to figure out how to get in and out of the house. At first we just yanked on the frame of the glass, but that mostly resulted in red fingers and muttered cursing. Then, one day, we actually got locked IN. We couldn’t get out the front door at all. We finally found a screwdriver to jimmy in the hole where the handle was, to use as a sort of poor man’s handle (Hey... this is how we do it around here!). The wind tonight has yanked the door from any pitiful latch it may have retained, and is slamming it open and shut repeatedly. Creak. Open. Bang! Shut. I can’t invent a single contraption to keep it pulled to. I need the person who invented handles to come and fix mine. Or, you know. I bet my husband could fix it.

Speaking of husbands, mine is obsessed with Netflix. Our schedules are fine tuned down to a science. He takes the kids to school on Mondays and Tuesdays: my days off. I take them Wednesdays through Fridays: my work days. This makes our bedtime schedules flip flop. On the nights before I work, I go to bed super early. As I kiss him goodnight, I see his eyes stray to the Playstation controller. I know his thoughts are already gone. Lately he’s been getting frustrated with Netflix’s selection. Everything looks “boring” or “lame”. I’ve told him over and over, “You should start watching a series. There are plenty on there! We could pick one and watch it together!” “I don’t want to get all involved in a series!”, he’d reply. Well, the other night I came home from my women’s bible study, to find him lying in bed in the dark, headphones plugged into his phone, avidly staring at the screen.

“What are you doing?”, I asked.

“Shh!”, he responds, his eyes darting back and forth between me and his phone. I watch the blue lights flicker on his face. “I finally took your advice. I started a show.”

“Oh!” I say, interested now. “What show??”

“Sons of Anarchy.”

What.

Um. No. That is not what I meant.

“Babe! When I said you should pick a show, I meant something like How I Met Your Mother. I even SAID, ‘Babe, we should watch How I Met Your Mother’!”

“Shhhh!”

And that was that. I have lost my husband to the Sons of Anarchy. But if he tries to sell my car to buy himself a Harley, I’m putting my foot down.


I’m happy tonight. I’m writing about it to savor the feeling, so that the next time I’m feeling ungrateful and unhappy, I can come back and read this. And remember that I’m happy. Whether I feel it or not, I am happy.

I just finished packing the kids’ lunches for tomorrow. Now. I’ll be honest. I detest packing lunches. I don’t know why. There’s no reason for it. It doesn’t take even 10 minutes. It just seems like such a chore to me. On Sunday we made a ham for dinner, a good sized ham that would never have gotten eaten in one sitting by our family. I’m not really what you would call a Ham Fan. I wouldn’t wear it on a t-shirt or anything. Jeremy and Ashton are Ham Fans. Every day this week, I have sent in Ashton’s lunch huge, man-sized, thick slices of ham in a Ziploc baggie, along with a hot dog roll, for him to make huge, man-sized ham sandwiches. He is in heaven. Manly, Ham Fan shirt wearing heaven. Maybe it gives him bragging rights among his peanut butter sandwich friends. Maybe it makes him the Alpha male. Maybe he beats his chest and hollers in his protein high. I don’t know. I only know, I have ended every evening smelling like ham, and he has gone to school every morning glorying in the riches of his ham filled lunch box.

Chloe is the opposite. I love that girl. I really do. She is so winsome, and sweet, and full of life and love. She often reminds me of my very own little Anne Shirley, living in her own world, skipping to her own tune. I just love her. But. She is the world’s pickiest eater. Well, maybe not the world’s. But definitely our family’s. Chloe eats very little meat. She’s been known to eat Chick-fil-A chicken nuggets. I’ve watched her eat an occasional slice of bacon under extreme duress. But she doesn’t enjoy it. She doesn’t like fruits or vegetables. She likes carbs. She loves spaghetti. Bread. Macaroni and cheese. Mashed potatoes. And she’ll eat eggs, yogurt, and drink milk. That’s it. We’ve tried everything. Bribery. Threats. Trickery. Nothing works. So, in the end, we feed her. She would eat cinnamon toast for every meal if I let her. Here is what Chloe will accept in her lunchbox: Spaghettios. Chef Boyardee Beefaroni (as long as she can eat around the “meatballs”, which we all know aren’t even real meat, so she needn’t worry), and her favorite: “Chocolate Sandwiches”. This consists of none other than two slices of bread smeared with Nutella. I know. I’m so ashamed. I know that it’s basically like letting her eat a cake sandwich everyday for lunch. “Here you are, my child, have these two thin slices of cake slathered in chocolate icing, and let’s call it lunch.” But, the fact is, she eats it. And at this point, that’s all I’m going for. I finished packing lunches tonight reeking of ham and Nutella. Meat and chocolate. That is so gross. It’s like... Willy Wonka meets Sweeney Todd. Which, I guess, they kind of did, if you count Johnny Depp as the true Willy Wonka.

In closing, here is a list of the music I listened to today (and yes, some of them are listed in my previous blog. You can check out my Spotify playlists under my username, mbsmoot--- I think. If that doesn’t work, let me know) :

The Hunger Games: Songs From District 12 and Beyond (which has lately left me with a burning question: With the impending approach of Catching Fire, is there any way possible that the second soundtrack can live up to the first? Opinions, please.)
Sleeping At Last: Atlas
James Vincent McMorrow: Early In The Morning
Wicked: Original Broadway Cast
Death Cab For Cutie: Codes and Keys

If you happen to see on my profile that I’ve been listening to the Sons of Anarchy season one soundtrack, IT WAS NOT ME.

Happy Winds-Day, friends.

M

Marching On

There have been so many times over the past three months (three MONTHS? How is that even possible?!)  that I’ve sat down at my kitchen table, or on my couch, or on my bed, opened my laptop, and stared at the cursor blinking accusingly back at me, challenging me to write. Blaming me for backing out. Stupid cursor.

I could list a million things that have kept me from writing these past few months. The hectic pace of the holidays, wretched sicknesses just being passed back and forth between my kids for 6 solid weeks, extra hours at work. While all of those played a part, the truth is, I’ve been suffering from a massive case of mental laziness, which lead to a massive case of writer’s block. I’d stare at the screen, all these thoughts swirling around in my head, and nothing would translate into words. I can’t even tell if it’s going to work this time.

So, that said, here are some of the things I’ve been up to this winter.

Like I said, all the kids have been sick. Chloe started it all, with a stomach bug two days after Christmas. After about 5 days with no one else catching it, I figured we were in the clear. I even told my mom, “It’s been almost a week, I guess we’re safe now.” Wrong. That night, while the two older kids were at Awanas, Atleigh comes meandering down the hallway saying, “My belly hurts...” I barely had time to turn around before she puked all over the carpet (she couldn’t make it the extra step onto the kitchen tile, I suppose), all over her dress, jeans, skirt, and socks - Yes. She was wearing all of those items at the same time. Don’t ask me. Then Ashton came home later, saying he had thrown up all over his shoes at church. Two days later, Chloe had the bug again, forcing me to cancel her birthday party and sit at home with a very depressed little brand new 7 year old. Then she got impetigo. Then Ashton got strep. Then Chloe got a sinus infection. Then I got a cold. This went on for the entire month of January. The entire month.

Towards the end of the month I tried to take Chloe out for her birthday pictures. We had a warm day that I wanted to take advantage of. I picked her up from school, rushed her home to change and grab my camera, and rushed back out the door, only to have the temperatures drop 20 degrees in the 15 minutes it took us to get to the location. We tried to take the photos anyway, me being the cruel mother/photographer that I am, telling her “Just one more! Try not to look so cold!” (I feel like I should add that she was no longer sick at this point. And that she didn’t get sick again after.) We were out there all of 20 minutes before I finally took pity on her and gave up. In that 20 minutes, I took 57 pictures. Of the 57 pictures, only 8 were worth keeping, I only like 3 of those 8, 2 of those 3 she wasn’t wearing her Rapunzel wig (which was the costume she wanted to wear) and one of those 3 she wasn’t even looking at the camera. All in all, a mostly dismal failure. It isn’t her fault she was born in January. Maybe next year we’ll embrace the cold and go a snow bunny route.

Here are "The Three" pictures.

February went by in a blur, with a short visit from my aunt and cousin who live out of state, dental appointments for the kids, which led to scheduling an ortho consultation for Ashton (let’s not even open that can of worms this time), an absolutely hellacious eye appointment for Atleigh in which she refused to read the picture charts and kicked and thrashed and screamed during the eye dilation portion, then spent the next 40 minutes breaking my heart with her confused whimperings about not being able to see even when she had her glasses on. Good news on that front though: Her eyes are no worse, and if she continues as she is, she’ll be able to go to yearly appointments by the time she’s 6.

March is a new month. And in many ways, a new season. Winter is petering out (I hope), spring will come creeping in sooner than later. The cold, dull drudgery of January and February, my two absolute least favorite months of the whole year, has been gotten over. March is the month of hope for me. The month of letting out that breath I’ve been holding, of peeking around the corner and catching new life and fresh air unawares. I’m so ready. So ready.

In the meantime, I’ve been keeping myself sane in various ways.

I read a lot. A lot a lot. I probably can’t even count how many books I’ve read just since the last time I blogged, but two of my favorites from the past three months are Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, and Austenland by Shannon Hale.

I’d wanted to read Les Mis for years, and never gotten around to it. With the movie being released at Christmas, I knew I had to read the book first (pet peeve of mine). It took me 5 weeks. 2 of those 5 weeks I didn’t read at all because of general Christmas busyness. I finished it on New Year’s Day at 5am. I sat on my bathroom floor sobbing into a towel for 10 minutes after I read the last page. I’m not kidding. As I said, I read a lot. And not just fluff books. Les Miserables is hands down one of the best books I’ve ever read. Ever. The depth of the characters, the thread of redemption woven through the whole book is a miracle. I’ve never read anything like it. It has gotten so much under my skin and into my heart that even now, two months later, I still find myself thinking about it. Crying about it. Applying its principles to myself.

On the other hand, Austenland is the complete opposite, in that it’s a light, quick, easy read, but it’s so fun. And again, I can say I read the book before the movie came out.

Another thing getting me through has been music. Last summer I subscribed to Spotify Premium, and I’m not kidding when I say it was the absolute best decision I made in 2012. So, so worth my $10 a month. For a confessed music junkie, there is nothing better. I’ve been getting reacquainted with old favorites, and making some new friends. Here’s a [long] list, in no particular order, of some of the music that I love and loves me back.

Glen Hansard: Rhythm and Repose
Benjamin Gibbard: Former Lives
The Avett Brothers: The Once and Future Carpenter, Emotionalism
Twenty-One Pilots: (Self Titled)
James Vincent McMorrow: Early in the Morning
Lamb: II
Sleeping at Last: Atlas
The Lone Bellow: (Self Titled)
Mumford and Sons: Babel
Iron and Wine: Our Endless Numbered Days
Les Miserables Live: The 2010 Cast Album
Gungor: Ghosts Upon the Earth
The Alabama Shakes: Boys & Girls
Emile Pandolfi: (Just pick an album- they’re all breathtaking)
Keith Green: So You Wanna Go Back to Egypt
Death Cab for Cutie: Plans, Transatlanticism
The Lumineers: (Self Titled)
The Sound of Music: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
Birdy: (Self Titled)
Fun: Some Nights
mewithoutYou: It’s All Crazy, It’s All False, It’s All A Dream, It’s Alright
Lana Del Rey: Born to Die

The list could go on, I’m sure. If you love music, and are willing to give up Starbucks twice a month, there’s nothing I can more highly recommend to you than Spotify. Check it out.

I’d like to end this blog saying that I’ll do better. That it won’t be another three months before I’m back. But even as I typed that my eyebrow quirked of its own accord in a “yeah right” motion. I didn’t make any goals this new year. I won’t lay groundwork for guilt if I don’t meet standards. So, I’ll just say this: that I’ll keep marching on.

Happy [Almost] Spring, friends.

-M

If you miss me so very much, you can always check out my life in pictures on Instagram and Twitter @mbsmoot.

Where My Heart Is

I know I'm not the only one who has been reeling in the wake of this terrible tragedy in Connecticut. I've seen multiple posts on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram... Broken words of a country, a people, trying to understand what has happened here. It's easy for us, isn't it? Easy to spew out words of comfort, words of explanation, words of anger. Platitudes and diatribes. Gun control and mental health. Calls to arms and calls to prayer. "Turn to God, he'll comfort you." "Turn away from God, he's the one who let this happen."

In my mind, what it comes down to is this: Words are easy. The truth is, no words will bring those victims back. It's easy to sit in front of the computer and tell the country what needs to happen, quote reams of scripture, copy mediocre poetry that is almost a mockery of what happened.

I can't do any of those things. Because I can never, in any world this side of heaven, pretend to understand. Here's what I can do: I can weep with those who weep. I can let my heart swell and puddle with grief and love for those who have lost, and gratitude for the ability to fold my babies in my arms every night. I can let it change the way I interact with my children, each night, each morning. Instead of loudly proclaiming what I think has happened or what needs to happen, I can quietly let it transform what happens with my everydays.

I've tended to be ungrateful for my life. Frustrated with what I don't have, what I think I need. Wanting to be somewhere else, instead of where I am.
I'm not saying there won't be times when I feel that way again. But I hope that after this, I can remember. Remember that whatever it is, above all, my life is just that: LIFE. It's full of it.

Today, my heart is full, too. Full of awareness. Full to the point of breaking. And today, with all my discontent laid aside, I can see clearly where my heart lies. Where it's always been, pointing like a compass to the things that matter most to me- the things that make my heart beat. My heart is here. 
 

- m

A Lost Month, or: The Hospital, The Great Shoe Hunt, The Troublemaker, The Squirrel, The Laundry, and The Redeeming Qualities

I won’t make any pretenses that this blog won’t be mercilessly long. I suppose I have a whole month to make up for.

November passed me by completely, and I wasn’t sad to see it go. It was kind of a wretched month for me, honestly, and with very few redeeming qualities, although I promise to list them, as well as the bad. As I’ve said before, I don’t handle stress well. I don’t deal with busyness. I get overwhelmed easily. I’m like a person who can’t swim who has just taken two steps too far into the water and loses her footing. All I really need to do is take two steps back. But you can’t tell a drowning person not to panic. And so when the holidays start nearing, and I see my schedule start filling up, my tension builds accordingly. Here are some (just some, mind you!) of the things that pushed me those two steps too deep.

My stepdad was admitted to the hospital at the beginning of the month with severe heart problems that took a week to diagnose, at which point it was decided he needed a triple bypass. The doctors told my mom it would have been a matter of days if she hadn’t brought him in. I hate that I wasn’t able to be there with them. I hate it. I looked at it every which way, trying to figure out if I could make it to Florida, but it was impossible. And so I stayed home. And tensed. He is home now, and recovering, and I still hate that I can’t be there to help them.

Ashton has been (or had been- hopefully it’s past tense) having problems at school with his attitude. To be completely truthful, I’m at a complete loss as to how to deal with him. He isn’t your average 9 year old. He’s too smart for his own good. Except, apparently, when it comes to going over possible consequences for his behavior at school. The Friday before his birthday I scoured the mall for two hours looking for a pair of Michael Jordan basketball shoes for him. He started playing basketball a few weeks ago and is already in love with it. Anyway, I searched every single store in that mall that sold name brand shoes. I started out at Kids’ Foot Locker, and worked my way systematically through each store. I don’t know why I couldn’t just settle for something different. I just had it set in my mind that I HAD to have those shoes. In desperation I finally went back to Kids’ Foot Locker to beg the salesperson to double check. She asked, “Have you looked over at Foot Locker?” Mental head slap. No, I hadn’t. I hadn’t because I thought the two stores were separate, therefore implying that regular Foot Locker didn’t sell kids’ shoes. I hiked back over to Foot Locker, and asked if they had the shoe. Sure enough, they did. And I got quite the gentle scolding from the cashier telling me I should have come to them first.

I left the mall that afternoon, late for picking the kids up from school, so excited and happy that I had gotten the shoes he really wanted, so stoked that I was going to get to be the cool mom, so full of love for him. He gets in the car and hands me a pink slip from his teacher, stating an incident where he had displayed a terrible attitude and blatant disrespect and disobedience. Well. There went my happy little bubble. This is what I get, is it, for spending two hours and $65 on a pair of shoes for this ungrateful little...?? I was so angry. And hurt. And disappointed. And humiliated. This is my son. A reflection of me, of my successes or my failures. And I felt that all people would see was where I had failed. Let me explain a little something: I am already at a bit of a disadvantage as a school mom. Ashton is the oldest kid in his class- I am the youngest mom. The perks of teen pregnancy, I suppose. I’m sure most of it is in my head, but I feel like some of the teachers and other moms may look down on me a little. I’m young. I don’t dress or act like them. My kids don’t dress like their kids. There is something to be said for being “cool”, but in a conservative Christian school it could be considered a disadvantage. A sign of immaturity. All of this ran through my head in the space of 30 seconds when he handed me that paper. To my credit, I didn’t say anything to him at the moment. Sometimes, since I had Ashton so young, and since he was my almost sole companion for so long, I forget he is still a kid. I never talked to him like a baby. I carried on regular conversations with him from the time he was born. He spoke full sentences and had comprehensive conversations with me by the time he was 1. I tend to be too hard on him, to treat him like a peer, instead of a child. I knew if I opened my mouth in that moment I would regret it. I would wound him, and possibly contribute to brokenness in him.

Two days later was his birthday. We let him open his presents while his guests were there. But he didn’t get to have them. He is earning them back with continued good behavior at school and at home. So far he’s earned two gifts. Jeremy and I take a cruel pleasure in this particular discipline.

There are other, smaller things that have been stressing me out.

For instance, we had a dead squirrel on our curb for almost the entire month of November. I don’t know how it got there, if it got hit by a car, or killed by a neighborhood cat. Whichever way, it was there. Dead. I begged Jeremy remove it. Here’s the thing: I don’t do dead. Not at all. I don’t like dead bugs even. I drive by roadkill and get a shiver stuck in my spine. I used to lay my head on my lap when my parents drove by graveyards. I hate death. In any form. Even in a squirrel. Well, Jeremy didn’t want to touch it either. I just tried to ignore it when I had to go out to my car. I hoped the kids wouldn’t notice it, but of course they did. I was worried it would traumatize them, but it actually became a “thing”. A “let’s see what The Squirrel looks like today!” thing. An “if you don’t stop that I’m going to make you touch The Squirrel!” thing. In other words, The Squirrel became pronounced with capitals. One day as I was loading the kids into the car I stepped on The Squirrel. I really had to stop myself from screaming. I know I’m ridiculous. The quickest resolution would have been to pick up The Squirrel and dispose of it. I could NOT bring myself to do it. I told Jeremy dead things were his jurisdiction, and he chose for it to NOT be his. And so it sat there. For a few weeks. Then, The Squirrel started to stink. I mean. REALLY stink. That was a whole new adventure. An “ewwww I can smell The Squirrel from here!” adventure. A “Bubba said my breath smells like The Squirrel!” adventure. This past weekend, The Squirrel was gone. Carried off by vultures? Picked up by a neighbor who simply couldn’t stand the smell anymore? I know not, and I care not. It is gone. It is enough. Then! THEN! Yesterday morning when we arrived at church, we beheld a dog and his owner on a walk. The dog chased down a squirrel and proceeded to rip it to shreds right within view of our car windows. The kids watched in silent fascination. I mean, what can you do, but watch? Like a train wreck. I sincerely hope that was my final dead squirrel experience. Ever.

About a week ago, Jeremy decided he was going to help me with some of my laundry issues. Feel free to insert large air quotes around the word HELP. You all know laundry is my Waterloo. I can never win. In truth, I’ve given up. I attempt to keep the main rooms of the house clean and just hide the mounting piles of clothes in the bedrooms. All we do is sleep in them. You don’t need to be able to cross the floor to sleep. You just hop onto the bed island in the sea of clothes. It works. It’s a fire hazard, of course, but it works. Enter my knight in shining armor with his burning desire to help. While I was at work on Wednesday, he moved every single article of clothing that was not in a drawer or hanging in a closet, and put it on my living room floor. This.... this is a lot of clothes, friends. A lot. I’m talking, almost an entire wall. Inches below the window sill. 5 feet wide... 3 feet tall.... a lot of clothes. So many clothes. I walked in the door and beheld Atleigh in front of me, smiling from ear to ear, saying, “We have a surprise for you!” I took one look at the living, breathing, hateful monster that is my laundry and burst into tears. Needless to say, not the reaction Jeremy was expecting. To his credit, and I mean this so much, he really was helping. He organized our closets and vacuumed the bedroom floors. He said, “I thought you would be glad. You always say you’re so overwhelmed by it. Now it’s all right here where you can work on it!” My interpretation: “You’re always saying you’re going to do it and you never do. Now I’ve shoved it all out here in your face where you can’t avoid it.” I haven’t been sleeping at night thanks to that laundry. It haunts me in my dreams like I'm in an episode of Doug. The shirt sleeves reach out to strangle me. The mismatched socks kick me in the face. They say to me over and over “You’ve failed, you’ve failed, you’ve failed!” I feel guilty doing anything else other than tackling that laundry. Eating, sleeping, using the bathroom, editing photos, yes, blogging. The mass of laundry is staring at me accusingly even as I type, demanding my attention. It will be a miracle on par with the parting of the Red Sea if I can get it done in time to get our Christmas tree up. Which is another stress entirely, and one I won’t start in on right now.

But. I promised happy things too.

My stepdad lived. He is now scarred up like Frankenstein, but, by the grace of God, and I do NOT say that lightly, he is alive. He will recover. I am so grateful for that.

My closets got cleaned out. This is a novel concept. I am very grateful for that, although I may not have let Jeremy see it as much as I should have. The laundry WILL get done. Eventually. I hope. If not, we can simply build it into a tree shape and string it with lights.

My Ashton turned nine. This is almost unfathomable to me. My little boy, halfway grown. Of all my kids, he and I butt heads the most. He has just enough of me and Jeremy both in his personality to drive me sufficiently crazy. He’s a know it all (me). He’s aggressive and antagonistic (Jeremy). He’s sarcastic (me), and hard headed (Jeremy). But he’s also intuitive (me) and tender (Jeremy). He’s got good and bad, and over the past few years, he’s developed into his own complete person. He’s no longer just an extension of us. He is himself. For better or for worse.

He is also behaving better than he has all school year, hoping to get hold of those video games and Legos. Maybe I’ll carry it on over to Christmas too.

The highlight of my month was taking pictures of him for his birthday. I mentioned at Atleigh’s birthday that I wanted to make a habit of doing birthday sessions with my kids every year. Ashton cooperated far better than I expected him to (again, with the Legos ever before his eyes). This shoot saved the whole month of November from my scorn. My son's smile saved me. 

 

If you read all of this blog, you deserve an award. I don’t have one for you- sorry- other than the satisfaction of perseverance in the face of diatribe. I understand the irony of this blog being immediately after my last blog about breathing. I’m still working on it. Maybe it shouldn’t be so hard, but I am working on it. November beat me down some. But I made it through. Hopefully I won’t lose December, too.

Breathe

This past weekend, I went on a retreat with the women’s group I’m honored to be a part of, and to serve on as one of the board members. It’s my favorite event we do all year, one I  count down to starting at the end of summer. I always know something life changing, or at least perspective changing, will happen to me. This year I got both. Right now I’ll focus on the perspective change.

Many of you who know me, and some of you who don’t but have followed What If I Said long enough to notice my emotional trends, will know that I have a pretty low stress threshold. I get overwhelmed easily. By stupid little things that to normal people wouldn’t make one lick of difference. And once something small happens, every subsequent thing looms larger and larger, until I’m spiraling out of control on a wave of crazy.

I’ve had a rough October. With a wedding, various family crises, birthdays, planning for a women’s retreat, kids falling into a firm school routine, emotional upheaval... And when I say rough, I obviously just mean rough for someone like me, who absorbs stress, others’ troubles, and even normal everyday occurrences, like a dishrag, letting them weigh me down like dirty water. Someone like me, whose biggest accomplishment is getting laundry folded. Not put away. Just folded, and, if I’m lucky, into a basket. A basket that will sit in a corner of my living room for 2 weeks while we dig through it looking for clothes, until eventually it all needs to be folded again. And again. So you see, even my accomplishments have the hamster on a wheel quality.

This weekend, God spoke to me, through many different mediums, the word “Breathe”. That’s it. Just breathe, which in my mind, can be loosely interpreted as “Be. Just be.” Actually He’s been speaking it to me almost all year, and in my frenzied, out of control perception, it has been impossible for me to breathe. I say that frequently- “I don’t even have time to breathe!” I actually got quite offended with God earlier this year, and with the person He spoke to me through, when he told me that I needed to “Stop looking ahead to what the future holds, and enjoy where you are. Take a minute to notice your surroundings. Breathe.” Well! I was so angry I wanted to scream. One more item to add to my list of things I couldn’t possibly handle: Breathing, of all things!

When I try to sit back and make a mental list of all the things that make me feel like I can’t breathe, there’s never even anything concrete. All the things I list seem trivial, and something that most “normal” wives, mothers- stay at home or otherwise- could handle. And I just can’t. I’m ashamed of my freak-outs, embarrassed by the fact that I can’t seem to deal with what- to most people- is a normal life.

I came home from the retreat this year in the middle of Hurricane Sandy. Wet, clammy, miserable, with a head cold that I’d acquired over the weekend, to boot. My house was a disaster. My kids were out of school because of the storm. My husband and I were at each others’ throats all day, cooped up in the said disastrous house, with the three rampaging kids. Came home to stress and discord and mess and storms. It was one of my ruder awakenings, as we always get upon every return from vacation. I lost my ability to keep things in perspective rather quickly. Today was no better, with fights over homework, Atleigh catching my cold, realizing that Ashton never got his Halloween costume and making a last minute run to the packed, picked-over aisles of K-Mart to find him a costume that he didn’t even really want. Tonight, my accomplishment was getting my kids into bed unharmed. No teeth brushing. Chloe, as I type this, is sleeping with Nutella smeared across her upper lip. Atleigh, who is still awake and howling from her bed that she “Can’t go to sleeeeeep”, has strawberry jelly up her nose. Obviously, dinner was not one of my accomplishments tonight, either.

So did I breathe through all of this? The answer is probably more no than yes. But I did try. Some of it may have been breathing through gritted teeth, or through my nose as I counted to 10. And honestly, some of it was probably breathing in deeply so I could get enough power behind my yell. It will take practice.

But.

Here are a few things I’ve embraced this weekend, and can focus on now that I’m sitting alone in my living room, just breathing. Just... being.

- I have Christ in me. The hope of glory. Hope. Of glory. Not the “already attained” glory. Hope. Which means I will always have room to grow, room to make mistakes in, room to BE. Because I will always have hope that tomorrow, I will be better.

- I can do all of this hoping with a good attitude. Hope without a good attitude isn’t hope at all, it’s malcontent. It’s just waiting for something better to come along without being satisfied where you are. And so we carry that dissatisfaction into our next “something better”, until we’ve exhausted them all and left ourselves with nothing but hope deferred and a heart made sick.

“I pray that you’ll have the strength to stick it out over the long haul- not the grim strength of gritting your teeth, but the glory-strength God gives.” Colossians 1, MSG

And following that,

“This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike, ‘What’s next, Papa?’” Romans 8, MSG
While I’m sitting here, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself to BE, I can wait with expectation. See, He’s not just telling me to breathe for survival. He’s telling me to breathe in all the promises He’s made me, to breathe in and hold within myself the “What’s next?” It goes hand in hand with the hope of glory thing.

And so, for now, for tonight, I can hope.

 I can breathe.

I can be.

And if I can do those three things, I’ve accomplished a lot more than that basket of laundry.

I bought this book today- two chapters in and I've cried probably every three pages. If you're struggling with some of the things I've just written about, I'd recommend it to you.

And here are some songs that help me get through those moments when I feel like breathing is the last possible thing I can do (keep in mind I tend towards more melancholy music. Maybe you prefer "I Will Survive". That's perfectly fine) :

Glen Hansard- Bird of Sorrow

Eden's Bridge- Shadow of Your Hand

David Crowder* Band- Sometimes

Waterdeep- Hush

Mumford & Sons- After the Storm

Jenn Johnson- Come to Me

The Third's Fourth

My baby turned four yesterday. You would think that each year of seeing them grow up would make it a little easier, but it never does.

I didn’t cry over her this weekend.

I didn’t have time. And the magic hour between three and four is so gradual, you don’t even notice it’s happening- that true change from a toddler to a child. When does it happen? In the dead of night, while she’s sleeping? Do her dreams change from images and impressions to concrete stories of princesses and friends? Does it happen during the day, while she prances around pretending, while she’s learning to write her name and draw a dog? The answers to those questions, I don’t know. I only know it’s happened before my eyes, and my very last baby is no longer a baby. The realization has struck me hard over the past few weeks: noticing her lengthening limbs, the faded bruises all over her bony shins the same as mine were. Her knobby knees. The thinning in her cheeks, the way she moves her head and hands while she talks. The way she looks me in the eye while we’re having a conversation instead of wandering around distractedly.
I’ll miss her. My last little baby that I never asked for, and God gave her to me anyway; knowing I needed her. Someone told me a few weeks ago that they’ve always heard the third child is magic. That’s what my Atleigh is. Magic, pure and simple. She’s the purest form of magic, in that she is a gift that was so unexpected, so completely outside of the box, that she had to be everything I wanted before I even knew I wanted it. And so He handed her to me, the tiniest gift imaginable, with the biggest personality I’ve ever seen. He handed her to me, trusting that I would love her, rejoice over her, laugh with her, weep over her, pour my heart’s blood into her, just as I have with all of my children. Just as He has for me.

And so, happy fourth, littlest. I’m crying over you now.

  
Here are some photos I took of Atleigh for her birthday- I'm trying to make it a practice to do a special shoot with each one of my kids on their special day. Atleigh's party theme this year was Lalaloopsy, so, as you can see, we totally went for it.

 

Atleigh's made quite a few appearances on What If I Said. You can read more about her here:

On Raising Grace-Challenged Daughters
Terrible, Terrible, Terrible
A Happy "Accident"
Our Many Little Days