Here's my story. The reason behind my designs. The reason behind my whole life.

(Me, clearing my throat, waiting for you to run.) *ahem*

Several years ago, I had developed an addiction.

My addiction was to the word "victim." I was so accustomed to sadness in my life, that I let it define me. It started off innocently enough. I would bring up my sufferings at neighborhood parks and scare the local children. Occasionally I would disperse a party by bringing up sad subjects when people were trying to celebrate. (Hurt people have filters that don't work too well.) Eventually one of my friends decided that she couldn't be my friend anymore; I was too broken. Being hurt has a domino effect.

My sufferings were real. Five miscarriages all in a row. Five babies I will never meet.
And then a job loss and the divorce of my parents. All within years so close together that they didn't have time to cast a shadow. Waves of sorrow.
My body swelled and shrunk. My pregnancy hormones rose and dropped.
My family felt shaped by shards.

I cried so much that one day I woke up and said, "I've had enough crying, thank you. I won't be defined by crying and breaking up parties anymore."Or maybe I said, "Sweet mercy, I am only thirty some years old. I cannot do this the rest of my life."

In any case, I reached into the recesses of my brain and remembered that I loved art. And then I took a page from my marketing background and squished all my experiences together, the same way my 4 year old takes all her new colored Play-Doh® and makes a big rainbow lump. I made my first calendar.

I gave it away as Christmas presents. I showed my friends. Some friends asked to buy some. So I printed extra.

The next year some more friends asked for the calendars.

And this year... this year I printed more. I did so in faith that there are other people out there who might enjoy a calendar made from a stay at home mother who loves designing. Or from a woman who will not let suffering define her. Or from a lady who has a dream to take the little minutes of life and turn them into something tangible and joyful.

The message of the art is this: You get to choose your story. You get to choose what defines you.  And please, for the love of life, don't define yourself by sorrow and loss and ashes.

This calendar is for every occasion, for every person.
For the lonely and the life-full.
For the wanderlusters and the hearth-fires-burningers. (I'm sure that's a word.)
For those who mourn and those who laugh.

Enjoy--

www.sweetmercydesign.com

Fractions

I was in fourth grade when my teacher, Mr. Liu, taught fractions.

He drew a pie shape on the chalkboard. (Yes, CHALKBOARD.) He asked us if we would prefer to have ONE THIRD of a pie or ONE FOURTH. His impish smile should have forewarned us that our answers would probably go against our normal train of thought. An entire classroom greedily exclaimed, "ONE FOURTH! ONE FOURTH!" With a swift flick of his wrist, he divided the pie shape into thirds and fourths, showing us that when the number 4 was a denominator, it took on a whole new meaning.

Over the years my math classes built on those fractions.

Two halves equals one whole.

Four quarters equals one whole.

All wholes can be broken into fractions of itself and then added back together to be a magical whole.

In everyday life, fractions are amazing: A quarter point in our mortgage allows for thousands of dollars in savings.

Further down the road I tried to apply mathematics to myself as a mother, as a wife and as a contributing member to the human race and this is what I found: Numbers apply to things, not people.

Allow me to illustrate: If I do not have enough time in one day to join a PTA meeting, make dinner for a friend, drive my children to various activities and write thank yous to a half dozen people, then if I divide myself (mentally) into four pieces and attempt to achieve all of these things, I will find myself not cloned but crumbling.

Four quarters of a person do not a whole make.

Human beings are not divisible.

They do not have replacement parts.

They're not made on a conveyor belt, one piece at a time. They're knit together carefully and mysteriously in the womb, all cells attaching to one another, building on each other.

 

You can't send your scalp to your hair stylist without your head and body attached. If you need to eat lunch, it's preferable to not just have your digestive system sitting on the kitchen table. Best to arrive with hands and and heart and head as well. Gross, but true.

More practically: I have found myself giving wide girth to people on the road who think they can text and drive at the same time. I see their eyes in the rearview mirror looking down at their lap and up again repeatedly. Down and up. Down and up. Unless there is something immensely interesting on their seat... like a tarantula... I see no reason to not keep eyes on the road, straight ahead, minding the two ton vehicle they steer with their hands. In fact, I'm thinking about starting a petition to have texting drivers pass a breathalizer test (text-alizer test?) before they can operate a vehicle. Seriously.

Recently I had 3 hours to myself in which I spent every last blessed one of them setting up a bank account and ecommerce for my boutique design company. At the end of the 3 hours, I marveled that I actually got it done. But ever more than that, I realized that I had thought I could do ALL that work with my preschooler in tow and maintain some level of mental acuity. It took all my brain power to listen carefully to all my financial institutions about passwords and credit card information and setting up websites; how on earth did I think I could dole out lollipops and granola bars to my preschooler while securing internet passwords at my local bank?

It's a budgeting issue, really. I have to ask myself: Do I want to be a whole person today or do I want to mince my day into indecipherable fragments, allowing no margin, no joy and no fun?

Perhaps my internal clock is a little louder lately, but I have no joy in showing up to life with half of me missing.

I'm here. And I'm striving to be wholly so.

Gospel for the Mother

Recently my husband was home on a Saturday which he found particularly difficult. The weather was rainy; we were stuck inside. He tried to keep busy but the children were bored and cranky. He was all too glad to put us to bed that night.

The reality of motherhood for me is that a lot of days are about taking something particularly bland or small or seemingly insignificant and choosing to make it enough for that day. Some days seem to drag on so I try to break up each day into sections. Some days I only have enough energy to schedule breakfast, lunch and a nap time in the afternoon. Other days I begin the day with coffee and a three mile run. Then I take the children to the zoo followed by a movie at home in the afternoon. Those days I feel amazing and energetic and worthwhile. The bland days? Not so much.

Because of these experiences, I am more impressed with people who faithfully show up every day (even if life offers mediocrity) rather than people who drink Red Bull, bench press twice their weight and own three companies.

The joy of motherhood is this: If you lay down your life, you will find it again. If you give your life for another, you will find that a seed is planted.

If you find yourself crying in the bathroom because your ears are ringing with mayhem and monotony, I have good news: That is death. And the good news about death is that it has no hold on the person who follows Jesus the grave-spurner. Death heralds resurrection.

Many people try to paint Jesus as an ascetic. Plain. Boring. Too heavenly minded for any earthly good.

But here is how I see Jesus: He took corneas which refused to refract light and opened the floodgates of the spectrum.

He took suffering and made it into compost. Then he planted a seed and watched it grow even more lovely than without the suffering.

He turned scars into beauty marks.

He turned victims into vivacious, life-loving people.

His creation doesn't stop ever. Ever the Creator, ever the Renewer.

He takes autistic children and uses their quirky sense of communication to change the world, turning it topsy turvy.

He takes tired churches and breathes new life into them.

He tells retired people to roll up their sleeves because he has some amazing adventures planned.

He has done marvelous things in my life.
He spared my husband when he was on a plane from Baltimore to Chicago on the morning of September 11th.
He has given me strength during post-partum depression.
He has given me two lovely, interesting, fantastic daughters even though when I was in college I prayed that I would never have children. (Thank God he didn't answer that prayer with a yes.)
He has taught me how to love difficult people, how to stay during a crisis and how to choose life even though my body bore death.
He has kept the fire of dreams in my heart.

I tried to embrace death, but it doesn't stick to people who love Jesus.

Because for me the Christian faith is not about one big momentous death. It's about a thousand tiny deaths, a thousand miniscule disappointments, a hundred thousand irritants and a myriad of sadnesses turned into countless "do-overs" and redemptions and resurrections.

If you go into today wondering what you will create, that is something admirable.
But if you go into a day which looks bleak and wearisome and wonder what redemptions will take place, that is celebratory.

It's a day which has held bickering children and cranky mothers and threadbare fathers getting indigestion over a burnt dinner and deciding to stop everything, make ice cream cones and go swing on the outside playset.

It's a man who has no hope left in his resume and little hope of getting a job take a portion of his unemployment check, smile cheekily and give it away. "If we're going down, let's go down in a blaze of glory."

It's artistic me, shunning the mediocrity of laundry and doing it anyway. 

A thousand deaths, a thousand resurrections.

It's why our Creator is also our Redeemer and our Friend.

Why I Wouldn't Recognize Jesus

The Jesus I know is not one who I would recognize.

He doesn't choose to be in the spotlight.

And when he catches someone in a scandalous place, he compassionately loves.

He hates for people to carry burdens.

He takes a lot of walks. A lot.

He smiles at children and loves to hang out with them. He blesses them.

He is like the craziest lawyer I know. He has memorized the entire Torah just for the purpose of exposing its emptiness. For the purpose of knowing the law so he can find a way through it to show grace. He is the defense attorney, the judge, and the prisoner all in one. He loves to turn a story on its head.

He hung out with all the wrong crowd. The people with the worst reputation... He liked them the best.

He chose the poorest people to be his parents. And the most annoying people to be his disciples. I'm sure he was constantly rolling his eyes about their shenanigans. One time he found them arguing about who was the best. Seriously.

He spent his days teaching, loving, healing, hiking, fishing and marveling.

As a weary parental figure, he found that he needed times to get away. So he escaped to the lake. To catch his breath. To pray. To converse with the Father. And then he came saw his squabbling, hungry people on the shore, eager to tattle on one another; he had compassion.

He didn't hate government.

He didn't put anyone in their place unless they really needed it.

He used his power for good. The ultimate superhero.

He allowed himself to be poor and hungry and tired. He didn't elude suffering; he engaged in it and showed it how to turn into redemption and power and life.

People said a lot of lies about Jesus. They still do. Because no one understands how a deity so steeped in human history would have chosen to live in such conditions.

I have tried to not believe in Jesus. But the stories of his humility and power and simplicity and trust bring me back to the mystery.

I have tried to make marriage my god, but Dan is not strong enough.
I have tried to make wealth my god, but it has no floor; it's a pit.
I've tried to make image my god, but I'm too weary to hold up the mask for long.
I enjoyed a season of life where I chose to be a victim, but my healed heart could not wear it.
I've tried to be the kindest, most honest person I can be, but I am by nature a woman of wrath.

So I come to lowly Jesus. And the bizarre stories of him with his comrades who walked great lengths to tell simple stories of love to ordinary people.

I long for him to snap, to go "gangster" on someone snarky, to crack the whip on crimes.

But his annoying faithfulness continues. And beckons.
And stirs the mystery of Christ in me.

Summer, Baby!

Summer vacation started this week for both my girls. Every year before my munchkins come home, I envision us holding hands, going to the park, doing cutesie, simple crafts and having loads of picnics. This year was no exception.

It has been 4 hours since my third grader-- um--fourth grader?-- came home from school. I was armed with a picnic basket packed a la Eve. The car keys were not far as I anticipated saying, "Hi, Morgan. Welcome home from school. Hop in the car-- we're going to the zoo."

Which is exactly what I did.

It was a test run. I wanted to dip my toes in the edge of summer vacation and see how much my children will call my name. Or how well they will play with each other. Or how many snacks they would ask for in a half hour period. For the record, they only said "Mom" one hundred and thirty seven times at the zoo this morning. Which made me breathe deeply knowing that summer was going to be a cinch. *ha*

Truthfully, I somewhat fear summer vacation. For 9 months my offsprings' schedules have been filled with a veritable army of teachers who come to the classroom equipped with techniques and curriculums (curricula?) and scheduled activities. It is unfortunate for my munchkins that I am not naturally an organized person. Anything "organized" inside my brain is put there on purpose by watching other parents. If you're one of my organized friends, please know that I am totally mooching off of your ideas. Idea robbery. You've been warned.

So on the first day home for summer vacation, they look at me with big blue eyes and say, "What now, Mom?"

I have a few crafts. And movies. And a few adventures planned.

If the weather is nice this weekend, I hope to take my children camping. For those of you who know my dis-inclination towards this event, rest assured that I am referring to backyard camping, where the toilet is only 15 yards away and not covered with mosquitoes. Also, when I say "I" will take them camping, I am referring to my husband. I will be in bed, resting well. This is only fair that he take them camping because I have the immense pleasure of giving them "the talk" one day.

He takes them camping.
I tell them how babies are made.
We're both happy.

Also, I have finally succumbed to the notion that I might be living in Chicagoland all my life. And since my children were born here, I might want to teach them a few things about Navy Pier and Chicago Jazz and maybe the mafia. Some day trips to the city are planned.

Eve is at a brilliant age for exerting energy. We plan on running her like a Kentucky Derby race horse: full throttle. Think canoeing, biking and swimming.

Most of the activities I have planned for them are immensely simple or cheap. The reason for this stems back to the summer of 2008. I spent $75 on a Ralph's World concert (for kids) and another $12 for beer for Dan. I was pregnant and hot, but I enjoyed it. Halfway through the concert both my companions were begging me to take them home. The next day I took Morgan to the park (for free) and she said it was the best day of her life. I have never forgotten that moment.

Most kids want to go to Disney World.
My muffins will be happy finding worms in the garden.

I do have some sanity strategies for my summer:
There will be a mandatory quiet time every blessed day.
And there will be chores as well.

Overall, I plan on keeping their little buns so busy that by the time school starts up, they'll be begging me to let them go. And when that day comes, I'll wipe the tears from my eyes, tell them to have a nice day at school and take a 4 hour nap.

Summer? Bring it.

Eve's First Movie Theater Experience

When my children are old enough to go to the BIG theater to see a movie, it's difficult to put into words what a huge rite of passage this is for them. Essentially I am telling the world that I am ready to truly bring them into the public light. That maybe they won't bounce from seat to seat for 2 hours straight. And maybe they won't point out the girth of a pregnant woman who... oopsie daisy... wasn't pregnant after all.

When Dan and I recognize that our child MIGHT be able to sit through an entire movie, there's no question: We always start them off at the discount theater. The reasons for this are numerous, but it mostly comes down to: "IF our child started howling like a hyena in the middle of a film and we had to leave, how much dough would we lose?" Followed closely by, "IF our child spilled an entire soda or scattered 6 ounces of Skittles merrily down the slanted floor of the theater, WHICH venue has the creepiest, stickiest floor?"

For Eve's first theater experience, we took her to see "The Croods."

We went to the movie theater to see a movie, but most of my entertainment was found in the wide eyes of my 4 year old.

We walked into the theater and gave our tickets to the gentleman taking them. "This is her first movie in the theater," I explained. Eve blushed a grin and hurriedly grabbed her ticket stub. We arrived at the theater a full 30 minutes early because, well, it's the "cheap" theater so you never know how full it will get and it was a rainy-ish day. Plus, Dan is religious about getting good seats.

A word about Dan: Dan was probably expecting a more serene movie experience.
He was probably expecting to sit in the aisle seat.
And to have Eve sit quietly next to him.
And to not have Eve get up and need to leave the theater three times before the movie started.

I, on the other hand, was expecting complete chaos.
So when Eve dropped her entire bucket of popcorn on the floor immediately upon sitting at our seats, I wasn't surprised.
And when she began to dance on the fallen popcorn pieces, I was just glad that I didn't have to clean it up.
And when she was frightened by the scary parts of the movie and began kicking the seat in front of her repeatedly, I understood.

When we found our seats, Eve promptly asked for popcorn.
Did we NEED popcorn? No. Three bags of candy were plenty.
But wait... we NEEDED popcorn because, well, we were teaching her about culture. We HAD to teach her the proper junk food to eat while watching animation on the big screen and to teach her the right ratio of sugary candy to salty popcorn. It was a necessary evil.

All those days of saying "No dessert before dinner" and "Let's find a healthy snack" were meant to build up their immune system so that on THESE occasions we could throw the rule book out the window and say, "How about POPCORN with GUMMY WORMS and M&MS?" and watch their eyes twitch as they contemplated if the question was a trick.

As parents it's immensely important to make rules so that when you teach your children to break them they'll have fun.

If you're an offended health nut, take heart: Eve's continuous bouncing on the retractable theater seats burned 473 calories. I counted.

By the way, I know it's considered wrong, but we smuggle candy into theaters. It goes against every fiber of my being to pay $5.00 for twenty Junior Mints. I just won't do it. I refuse. I'll buy the overpriced popcorn, but not the candy. And until they institute a theater "pat down" for rule breaking ticket holders, I intend to continue this tradition and teach it to my children.

For friends of mine who would prefer to have a review of the movie "The Croods," here's what I can tell you: If you like Pixar movies, you'll dig this. If you prefer the more demure and old fashioned "Snow White" flicks, then you should pass on this or go back in time and live in the 1950s.

This whole experience wasn't really about the movie anyway. It was about Eve, growing up, having fun and being a big girl.

I was not disappointed.

Language Lessons

A little fictional writing exercise I did to convey the way I feel about autism and learning about Eve.

________________________________________________

I am on an island. It's a beautiful island. It has two residents. Me and Eve.

On this island, I need to communicate to her that I have some food for her. But whenever I speak, she doesn't understand my words and she bawks. She screams. She runs.

When I see a storm coming, I warn her of the darkness and rain. She bawks more. She squawks like a parrot.

In fact, everything I do causes her to scream "no" and bawk and cry.

One day a lone boat comes and a single person is on the boat. The person on the boat tells me that they have the answer to communicating better with Eve. They tell me that all I have to do is talk backwards.

"You mean," I clarify, "If I want her to eat food I call it 'doof' instead."

The person smiles. "Actually, if you want her to 'eat food,' you'll tell her to 'doof tea.' All your sentences and words need to be completely backwards."

For days I sit in frustration and continue my own way of communication with her, but it's not working. I call for help, but there are only insurance monkeys and labrador pediatricians on the island. No one speaks in words I understand.

When I see my daughter crying for an hour because she wants to wear plaid shorts and not pink ones, I finally tell myself that the stranger from the boat might be right.

I sit on the beach. With my finger in the sand, I begin writing sentences and then translating them backwards.

Love you.
Uoy evol.

Please come.
Emoc esaelp.

I try the phrases out on my daughter. My daughter is calmer. She's responding well. She comes when I call her. Sometimes she skips and does a little dance before she comes, but she comes without bawking, without crying.

The language before me is not one I know, but I will learn it because I love her and I want to connect with her. And because one day, we may be able to get off this island.

Epoh i.

Mount Everest

 Author's Note: I wrote this blog post last fall, but didn't have the ability to post it until now. While we are gratefully employed, I thought maybe someone else might benefit from reading it. If nothing else, it was cathartic to write.

Also, my husband gave me permission to write this. Especially the part about the dishwasher. :)
  ________________________________________

Every week some well meaning friends ask, rather timidly, "How is 'it' going?"

What they mean is, "How are you faring with unemployment?" Their eyes reveal that they want to care but they don't want to pry. They want to "be there" for us but they don't want to burden us by having us retell our story again and again.

I've never climbed Mt. Everest, but I imagine that climbing that majestic mountain is a lot like unemployment. You can't really see the destination, but you're constantly going in a direction which you believe will lead you there. Along the way, people ask, "How are you  getting there?" and you say, "Well, I walk that way..." and you point up. There's a general adrenaline rush at the beginning and a sweet pep talk and then, I imagine, there's a lot of ho-hum step, step, stepping. Nobody asks, "Are we there yet" because, sweet mercy, wouldn't you know when you reached the summit? Some inquire, "Do you have a guide?" and you point to your Sherpa. Unemployment is a lot like that. Except without the Sherpa.

When I was a post-college grad, I heard a speaker tell a story about "letting go." He had been on a whitewater rafting trip and had gotten caught in the current under a log. He kept trying to climb over the log, but the water was too strong from him. When his strength was spent, he let go and the water's current sucked him out from under the log into the main current. He just had to let go.

I wobble between letting go and holding on.

I don't look at our bank account because 1) Savings are there for these type of emergencies and 2) I will not feel better by looking.

I have a new perspective on people who are poor but who spend money they don't have. I'm starting to understand that angle.

I have found that I am prouder that I thought I was.

I have determined that I am so tired of this economy and seeing my sweet, strong, talented husband being disrespected by this faceless entity, that I will sell everything and move in with my mother in North Carolina if it doesn't improve. I have not told my mother about this, so maybe you shouldn't either. But I have told Dan and his eyes droop playfully as he says, "Please don't make me move to the south."

I find that I wane in patience more than usual. My boiling point is reached faster. I'm much more protective and proud of my children than I have ever been. And my husband is simultaneously a saint and the most irritable man I have ever met. He keeps loading my dishwasher (saint) but he loads it the wrong way (grrr)... And this revelation makes me feel incredibly small, like a woman who is complaining that her ruby slippers aren't red enough.

I vacillate between being extremely efficient and then spending some days playing with Eve, napping, playing with Eve, napping. If we're honest, we know that the days spent being efficient feel more successful and less like we're trapped.

God is not allowing for depression to set into my life. I launched my small business last month. And by small business, I mean: It's so small that I only sell one thing. One. Thing. It's a calendar and it seems to be faring well in the marketplace. That marketplace is largely my sphere of friends, but I swear that they bought the calendars of their own freewill. In any case, it helps my mind stay nimble.

And two sweet pixies who call me "Mom" keep making my day brighter and busier.

I have amazing friends and some of them happen to be blood relatives which makes life feel more stable.

It's not all wine and roses, but none of life is, so I'll strap on my hiking boots; I'm climbing Everest.

New Happiness

If you read his resume, you would think you were meeting the golden child of marketing.

He worked for BP for ten years.
He attended, arguably, the best marketing school in the United States: Kellogg.
He worked for Google. It took 7 months of interviewing to land the job, but he got it.
He worked for Navistar in their International Trucks division. He made them money hand over fist.

So why is a man who is amply qualified to market ice cubes to eskimos without work?
We have asked that question for 180 days. Six months. Half a year.
Why?

Because, quite simply, God allowed it to be.

And during this time of unknown, God has allowed it to be a time of incubation, to develop in us new standards of living and loving and knowing.

When we have lacked the energy or enthusiasm to lead with any strength, others have stepped up. We have allowed ourselves to be weak, to serve with the strength God provides; sometimes that strength is but a mite.

We have held our heads strong when our daughter told a friend, "Sorry, my parents said we can't do anything money related right now." Which is a little hard for a parent to hear. But we smiled at her young acceptance.

We are deliberate.

We are pruned.

We are weary but focused.

We are living on a spiritual dimension which can only be called faith.

Because money is not our God. Money is a tool used to serve people, but it is not God.

We are recipients of wonderful things which we did not earn and do not deserve because people have opened their hearts and lives to us.

We see a smaller community at work. We see our wonderful, flexing, growing, redeeming city of Aurora. We see small, local businesses pushing for life.

We see time as a gift, a resource.

We have taken up bowling as a family. Because it is winter and because ALL of us can participate.

We have taken each day, accepted its plate, eaten its bread and digested its simplicity.

I'm not talking about a financial simplicity. Not necessarily.

I'm speaking of me accepting my role as Home Manager. As Mother. As Friend.

I'm speaking of me seeing my mind as a field in which I can sow bad thoughts or life giving thoughts.

I'm taking care of my home and my family and my kitchen and my body and my mind in a much more efficient way than I ever thought imaginable. Because I am focused and pruned and made new.

I don't want to go back to my former life 6 months ago. I want my husband employed, yes. But I don't want the excess mind chatter.

When an apple tree is pruned, it is so that the fruit will be stronger and bigger and better.

When this pruning is finished, I look forward to its results.

Because I'm already seeing some good, good stuff.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm enjoying playing blocks with my daughter while listening to Chicago jazz. I'm baking happiness.

To Me

Single Me:
Dear Married Me, I'm really lonely. I'm tired of meeting weird guys and fragments of friends. I want to belong. To a career. To a person. Does it get better in the future?

Married Me: 
Dear Single Me, Yes it does. Your wedding will be magical. Your honeymoon will be unforgettable. And the man you marry will remind you that you're glad you waited. You will have a constant friend. And then, amazingly, you will give birth to people who will also become your friends. 

You will be so filled with people that quite the opposite will happen. You'll wish you had a little more breathing room. More time to think. And pray. And do. Remind me: What is it like to do that?

Single Me:
Prayer times are really special. They're not scheduled. They're very organic and natural, like grabbing coffee with a friend. I read a lot of head-y art books. Go to museums and such. 

I'm really frustrated artistically. My employment choices leave a lot to be desired. I'm really confused about who I am. Do I ever find relief from this mediocrity?

Married Me:
Your statement about being "unscheduled" left me daydreaming. :) 

Okay, since you want to know: Your career starts off really bumpy. You learn what you want to do by doing things that you don't want to do. Don't be discouraged. That lesson acts as a springboard to help drive you to be more determined. You eventually work for some really swanky companies. You learn that "playing well with others" is just as important as artistic talent in your field. Prima donnas aren't appreciated. All these lessons are important.

Single Me:
What about art? Do I keep it up?

Married Me:
Yes. It takes a while, but by blending your branding experience with art, you'll find your way. You stop thinking and you just do. You trust your instincts. You play. You learn. It's great. The only problem is that you don't have much time for it, so you feel stifled and somewhat tired a lot. 

Remind me what it's like to go to the beach, fall asleep in the sand and wake up tan.

Single Me:
Laughing... So you miss the beach, huh? The beach is amazing. I can have a huge day of work and then go the beach for 2 hours and totally rejuvenate. Love it.

Married Me:
Rejuvenate, huh? You stink.

Single Me:
Yep. :) And then I have time to serve others in the way I want. Babysit. Stuff like that.

And I love to go running. I can't quite lose these last few pounds, but I guess I'll just have to accept it.

Married Me:
You'll be doing a LOT of serving in the future. Raising a family is a full time job of service. It's very rewarding in a tiring sort of way. :)

Look: About the weight: Just be grateful for the life God gave you. Don't obsess over weight. No woman is ever happy about her weight unless she is obsessing about it night and day and working out 24/7. So unless you want to spend every waking minute making yourself perfect, just relax.

You'll discover that there are other things in life that make you more glad than trying to live up to some ridiculous Photoshopped image in Redbook. 

What's more: You are going to give birth to TWO daughters and you want them to have a healthy image of themselves. They're beautiful, by the way. They're totally opposite-- they're feminine in two different ways. The way you think about the world will change 100% as a result of them.

Single Me:
I'm not sure I want children. I mean... Do you have to cash in your brain to be a parent? Is life a lot more mediocre and "Lands End"?

Married Me:
Hey, don't bust on Lands End... they have very warm clothing. :)

Yeah, I know about your reservations. I know you're afraid of having children. And I know you hate mediocrity.

You will have to simplify your life in a lot of ways. At first it will feel awful, like you're giving up huge chunks of happiness. But then, when you settle into a more focused lifestyle, you'll realize that you're more in tune with your instinct and your art and your choices to love God and your family than ever before. 

Losing self gains self, somehow. 

Single Me:
Weird.

Married Me:
Yeah, I know.

Single Me:
Okay, well thanks for the info. I'll see you in a few years. 

Married Me:
Keep your head about you, girl. :)

Momma Joy

When I was in college, I reached a point in my "enlightenment" when I saw children as a hindrance to knowing... A hindrance to knowing God, knowing self, enjoying the vast, amazing universe. And, in one of my less wise moves, I actually prayed that God would never grant me children.

I can barely type those words for the mist in my eyes; I'm so sad that I prayed those words.

But thankfully God didn't see fit to acknowledge that prayer.

Last night I had a sleepover with my precious Eve. The sleepover was not planned. My sweet preschooler was swept with a mad rash of influenza which rendered her weak and helpless. Her body became a ragdoll as I cleaned her face from each bout of sickness. I was truly concerned for her and it was no sacrifice for me to walk with her through this. She's my daughter and she's also my friend.

But pulling an all-nighter leaves one a big foggy-brained and perhaps a bit more fragile. I started the morning with 6 loads of laundry and a well-loved kitchen. My daughter was begging me for water which I could only issue in teaspoon amounts until her stomach settled. Everything seemed louder and harsher.

I ran the water in my kitchen sink. This was immensely satisfying. The smell of fresh bubbles. The warmth of clean water. I smiled at its simple joy.

I lit a candle. Whenever I light candles, I feel like my mother is with me. There's something almost spiritual about lighting a candle. The kitchen can be a wreck but the candle welcomes peace in its low flickering light.

And then, when my brain fog lifted, I smiled at other things in my home which give me peace which I thought I'd like to share.

My Amaryllis bulbs are brilliant. I try to buy them every year so that I have something beautiful growing in January.

My reading chair. Do you have a reading chair? I can't tell you how much joy this corner of my universe gives me. A blanket, a comfy seat, a gentle light and some fun reads.

I bought this side table from a thrift store several years ago. It was the "placeholder" table until I could find one that I truly loved. It is no longer the placeholder table; I'm keeping this puppy. It's big and round and fits all my lovely reading chair needs.

My "Go To" books are kind of like my friends who remind me who I am. Besides the Bible, I keep "Gifts from the Sea" by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, some Shauna Niequist books, Molly Wizenberg's "A Homemade Life", some art books, a few "self helpers" and some classics.

I keep a swanky Campbell's soup pen holder. I only keep magazines which truly bring me joy. If they make me all cranky inside about what I don't have they go the way of the dodo bird.

Every mother should have a little slice of peace in her home. It might be the kitchen sink or a sewing room. It might be gardening or a bench by a bright window. It might only be 3 square inches where a candle is lit.

And on days where the evening and morning meet entirely too quickly, it certainly helps bring joy.

Evey Wonder, Part 2

If you haven't guessed already, I am working through learning to love the way Eve learns by writing about her. So forgive the frequent theme. Sometimes therapy comes in the form of creativity. :)

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I am in the store looking for shoes for my 4 year old. I see the shoes I want her to wear. They're bright fuchsia. They have ruffles. They're ballet flats.

But I know her stipulations:
- Nothing too tight
- No slides; it must have a strap
- It's a good idea to have a rubber sole, or something that won't slide on hardwood floors; don't ask

And while I'm at it: I'm pretty sure she won't wear something too frilly, too girly, too pretty.

She won't wear tights. She writhes in them like a snake on a rock when I put them on her. Since she was two years old she hates things that are too tight. I've never seen a child wail on the floor for 20 minutes because she hates such clothing.

She won't wear jeans; they're too stiff.

As I am shopping for her, I can feel the anxiety mounting in my stomach.

"Excuse me," I imagine myself talking to a salesperson, "Do you have any shoes which a little girl can wear to both a wedding and while hiking through mud?"

"I was a perfect parent before I had children," the saying goes. I was no exception. I heard of mothers fighting with their daughters to, say, not wear sweatpants everyday. In my mind I thought, "Well, MY child will do what I say."

I've had the meeting of our wills. They clash like the sound of bucks rutting, head-hitting-head, entwining points and racks into a no-win situation. I don't want that.

So I put the sensible shoes on the conveyor belt at the store... the ones which she'll wear for certain.

I have friends whose children wear those cute coordinating outfits that you find in stores. The kind where the shoes match the socks match the skirt match the shirt. And while I know that I don't even particularly like matchy-matchy, I do fantasize about having a dressing session with my child which doesn't end in me thinking, "Good enough."

But I can't give up on my daughter. I can't say, "Fine. If you won't be feminine-- at all-- then I will just leave you to your hobo ways."

I can't give up on her. She didn't give up on me. I can't say, "If you won't do what I want you do, be who I want you to be, then I won't even try to mother you."

This child was the answer to my prayer when my heart could only whisper, "Spoil me, God" on the way to the fertility doctor. We have pictures of the THREE implanted eggs, just EIGHT CELLS formed, which they placed inside me. They look like underformed raspberries, nothing close to human beings.

Still, I prayed over that picture. I prayed for health over those creatures.
My husband prayed that there would be just one.

We watched as the doctor said, "Now there are two eggs, not three."
And then, "Now there is just one."
We gulped. Hope, hope, hope.

When she was born, heaven cracked open and the Hallelujah Chorus broke the curse of my womb. She was beautiful, perfect. She was healing for my soul.

I can't give up on her. So I try again. I look at the knotting hair of my daughter. She screams when I brush her hair.

So I remember her favorite movie, the one about Rapunzel-- the one called "Tangled"... and I say to my daughter, "Let's sing the song that Rapunzel's mother sang to her when she brushed her hair."

I clear my throat and being to brush her hair while singing,
"Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine..."
My daughter is very still. She likes this.
"... make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine..."
It's a very high song; the octaves are not really in my range, but I sing anyway.
"...what once was mine."

In a scant 30 seconds she has brushed hair with a small ponytail perched on top. My daughter looks beautiful. Not because of her hair. But because of her hair AND her smile AND my smile.

"You look so pretty," I tell her. She hops off the chair and bounds into the play room.

I feel brilliant. Like I unlocked a piece of her world, learned a new language, earned a Nobel Peace Prize.

If I can learn to bring out the best in this child, maybe she will bring out the best in me. Maybe there are other dreams I thought I couldn't do. Maybe there are other things I told myself, "Don't even bother. It's not worth it. Just quit."

I can do this. It will be work. But I can do this. I won't give up.

That Lovin' Feeling

My two daughters are playing together. They're playing nicely and since this is such a beautiful (and sometimes rare) occurrence, I don't even care that the game that they are playing is called "war."

The older daughter (she is 9 years old) has decided that she and her sister will be in hiding and dodge all sorts of perils. They are running and giggling and laughing. To her, this is war. I'm not sure where her images of war have gestated.

She turns to her 4 year old sister and says, "Hey, Eve, don't forget your white flag of surrender."

My husband nearly dropped his coffee. "White flag of surrender?" he whispered harshly to me, "What are they? French?"

Our daughters are tromping around the house, hiding in places together, pretending to avoid very scary things and donning "white flags of surrender" in the event of defeat.

And me? I have mixed feelings about this whole thing. I know it's pure play. It's innocence. And, sweet mercy, it's SO nice to have them play together, not teasing one another. Playing in unison. The theme of war leaves a bit to be desired as does the defeatist flag.

If this happened, say, seven years ago, I would have assembled a United Nations meeting with my children and maybe gone to the library to research... I don't know... something about NOT surrendering. But I am a changed woman.

I have learned that children playing harmoniously together is such a gift. Just like sleeping babies are a gift. And a preteen girl who says "I love you" to her mother is a gift.

And it is a gift. My husband and I are standing around our peninsula talking, drinking coffee and watching our children laugh together. Forget Santa Claus... I'd rather have this kind of joy shoved down my chimney.

There's other joy, too... My children have taught me new languages.

In our house we can no longer say "wasps" without smirking because when Morgan was three years old she read a book about wasps and kept calling them "wasp-ps-ps-ps."

"Movie" was "moomie."
Dinner knives were called "ouchies."

And in an ever-so awkward teaching moment, a preschool-aged Morgan desperately wanted to know what the two dots on her chest were. In true mispronunciation, she called them "nickels" and we will never look at those five cent pieces the same way.

Being a parent is truly mind bending. Everything I ever expected has been almost the opposite.

Children love the most simple toys, much to the chagrin of Hasbro.

I can set up boundaries and purchase a "water table" for outside play, and still be surprised if the fun makes its way into my upstairs bathroom and through my kitchen ceiling.

I can choose to battle what my child wears, but if she's safe, modest and happy, that's what really matters.

A friend will call later and tell me that she's having trouble sleeping at night due to the perils of retired life *yawn* and I'll shamelessly smile because I have never slept better in my life.

There are some changes I'd like to make, though: In almost every single pic of me since being a mother, I know exactly what I was thinking in that moment. And almost every time it wasn't, "I'm so glad to be here." It was more like, "I am so tired" or "Did I pick up toilet paper from the grocery store?" When I look back on the pics, I can see the invisible thought bubbles above my head. And because of that, I'm trying to make a change. To do the ever-trendy "be in the moment" exercise. Ignore the phone. That sort of thing. Very hard for me.

So to commemorate my journey, I'm taking pics of life without staging.
And I'm trying to just accept who I am, what my house looks like... all the stuff desperate housefolk normally obsess about.

I'm trying to be okay right here in the midst of it.

For me, that means accepting the "gifts" that come with the unscheduled life of unemployment.

Example: The other day my husband and I found a random tap house in an industrial park and ordered a flight of some good and not-so-good brews. He pontificated with a local there about different hops and yeasts and I stood beside him feeling like Lands End met Abercrombie. But I accepted it. The whole moment. Me, feeling like his dorky side-kick. Him and me having a 1pm lunch date.

Life unstaged.
Learning new ways to say bug names.
Taking whatever I've been given and recycling it into something special.
Pickled in joy with a white flag of surrender.

Again

Over a dozen years ago I was a Sunday School Teacher to first graders. The gig only lasted a year or two and it was incredibly educational and entertaining for me. I volunteered for the position because I thought they were cute and I thought I could make a difference in their little worlds.

I'm not sure if I made a difference, but I learned a heap about human nature from that stint. I won't weigh you down with the full stories but the bullet points would be something like this:

1. Don't dress up children in shiny silver fabric, tell them that they are the "glory of God" from a Bible Story you are reenacting and expect them to somberly act like deity; instead, delight that the aforementioned "glory of God" has a sense of humor as it screams and chases little girls.
2. Do not ask open ended questions; ask "yes" or "no" questions to stories. Because if you ask for a review of a Bible Story you will hear about how someone's goldfish, also known as "Flipper", made it's swirly, flushy entrance into goldfish heaven. And then all the class will want to tell stories of their dead pets.
3. Before you tell a Bible Story, expect half the class to raise their hand and say, "We've already heard this story." Anticipate saying, "Well, we're going to hear it again."

This last point, about hearing something AGAIN is actually of immense value throughout life, not just in first grade. 

I spend most of my life surprised that I'm re-learning something or experiencing some trial in life which I had previously mastered, or thought I had.

When I gave birth to my second daughter, Eve, the nurses at the hospital laid her on my chest and I honestly thought that I gave birth to my first daughter, Morgan, again; they looked almost identical. If deja vu met pregnancy hormones... that's what I experienced. I gave birth to Morgan.
"Again."

When my children ask for lunch I tease them, "Again? I just gave you a sandwich yesterday." And I'll give them a sandwich again tomorrow.
"Again."

The BEST joy from "again" comes when you sing a song to a happy toddler and at the end of the song they squeal with delirious delight, "Again! Again!" It's fantastic.

There are situations for which "Again" is not so much exclaimed as uttered with a sigh.

Like when the sump pump broke twice. I was too angry to say "Again?" but I screamed it in my head.

Or when I go to the grocery store for the third time in a week. Not sure how this happened but I'm here.
"Again"

The most deafening cries of "Again?" come from angst.

From a family car that keeps breaking down and there is no money to fix it.

From a marriage where shouting is the normal mode of communication.

From a military family who must move. Again.

After I go through a particularly difficult season in life I often find myself saying, "Whew! I made it. I'm so glad I don't have to go through that again."

I'm entirely unclear as to why I think that God has a clipboard of tribulations which he administers in a "check the box" sort of fashion to make me a well-rounded individual. But somewhere in my cranium is some bizarre theology which says that God doesn't do "AGAIN's"... Once you go through something bad you get a "Get out of Jail Free Card." God puts a memo in His file that you've already DONE that so you don't have to do it again.

And this is immensely bad theological footing because if wasn't for God's "again" love we would have ONE shot at doing something right, we would fail and we would have no more chances.

I am painfully aware of this because I am working through forgiveness towards people in my life and I want to say, "but they did this offense 27 times in a row... I'm done with forgiving them" and God helps me to my feet and says, "C'mon. Again." And if weren't for God giving me "again" strength then I may not have been able to submit my body to IVF to conceive my daughter Eve. Again is important to me.

I distinctly remember thinking this two years ago when my husband lost his job. It was only 2 months of unemployment, but it was hell and I hated it. When we emerged from unemployment, I sighed deeply and thought, "Well, I'm glad THAT's over with."

And then, two years later, a massive mistake made by a CEO causes my husband-- along with TONS of other people at the same company-- to be unemployed again through no fault of his own. Again? Oh, how I hate that word.

So we accepted Unemployment Insurance. Again.
And condolences from friends. Again.
And wrestled sadness. Again.
Again, again, again.

But... When I turn my gaze to God's mercies, I see the positive side of "again."

I see that the sun came up today. Just like yesterday. And the day before.
I see that my eyes are blinking. Hundreds of times a day. Over and over.
I see the seasons changing and the children growing and the fridge emptying and filling with the effects of the children growing.
I hear the toilet flushing as my preschooler learns to use the bathroom. And how does she learn? By doing it again and again and again.

There is an entire chorus of "Again's" that refresh my eyes and fill my lungs and tell my heart that God is good again.
And that forgiveness heals again.
And that my marriage partner of 12 years can not only make me smile still, but smile again.

It's cathartic in the best broken-record sort of way.
Watching the repeats of life.
Smiling at the joy they bring.
And knowing that God's love is chocked full--like a coffee cup topped with cream when there was no room for cream in the first place-- spilling over full of "again's."
Amen and again amen.

Words

As I grow older I realize that one of the best gifts someone can give me is the gift of words.

Not just any words.
Life-giving. Well-chosen. Not too showy, either.
Kind and truthful.
Bonus points if they're funny.
Words.

I am extremely sentimental. When my husband goes out the door to give the car an oil change I make sure I say something nice before he leaves. I try not to say, "Oh and pick up some apples before you return, would you?" I always want the last words I leave my family to be something kind, something which will make them want to return home again. Instead I'll say, "Hey babe, can you pick up some apples on your way home? Thanks for all you do."

I've watched too many movies, read too many stories about "last words" that people have said to each other and I never know when my last words will be, so I want them to count. I have this latent fear that my last words to someone will be something ridiculous like "dill pickles" or "mow the lawn."

The same goes for greetings. Say hello. Smile. Show some joy towards the other person. 

Now throughout the day-- the time BETWEEN my "first" and "last" words-- I reserve the right to be silly: I will exchange playful barbs with my husband, rant cynical about something I saw in a store and make monkey sounds while chasing my daughters. I also have a sarcastic tongue which I'm learning to tame for the sake of my daughters.

But first words and last words are kind of special to me. Hallowed. Holy. Special.

This morning was the first day of the first month of the new year and, believe me, I wanted to make sure that the words I chose were special.

My husband was making coffee downstairs. "Happy New Year," I offered. He returned the greeting.

I heard my daughter Morgan getting out of bed upstairs. Wanting to wish her the same I climbed the stairs just in time to see her coming out of her room.

"Gah. You SCARED me, Mom."
A look of annoyance filled her face. She huffed and ran into the bathroom.

What? No. We can't start the new year with huffing.
Fail.
Do over.
Boo.
Terrible.
If FIRST WORDS are that important, then FIRST WORDS on the FIRST MONTH of a BRAND NEW YEAR are exponentially so.

In fact, I sometimes fantasize that if you take the first and last word you say each year and string them together over a period of many decades, you could make an amazing poem. It would have a Dada-ist flair, but still... Wouldn't that be fantastic?

Mine would sound like this:

Year 1997: Huh? Night.
Year 1998: Labrador. Picnic.
Year 1999: Shhh. Kind.
Year 2000: Dan? Turquoise.

Shall I go on?

Point is: Make your words count.
They're free. They're fantastic.
They make the best gifts.

And on that note: Happy New Year. :)