Six Years

To my Zachary on the occasion of his 6th birthday.

Six years ago, he was born - our second child, a son, Zachary John, which means “remembered by a gracious God”. We were in awe of this precious boy - crying softly, hand tightly clenching Jerry’s finger. He cooed and sighed in his sleep foreshadowing the loud, joyous, boyish sounds we now hear every day.

He preferred one of us snuggling him to sleep instead of a lovey, thumb, or pacifier. A whole year of nights he only wanted Jerry. He smiled at everyone, everywhere, always looking for a smile back. Every picture in his baby book is a grin. To my astonishment, he laughed at 10 days old, on Valentine’s Day. A precious love gift for this exhausted mama. I’m still in love with him today.

His first steps were terrifying to him, but that dimpled smirk and sigh of relief boosted his confidence. Now, he never stops running.

When I’m angry and tired, he gently comes to me and says, “I love you, mama.” My heart melts. He likes to listen to us read to him, but yesterday he read his first sentence.

This mama aches for that little baby boy, but loves this delightful, six year old boy in front of me. Time marches forward, ignoring my pain, but gifting me with the joy and discovery of my Zachary.

Love Personified

I keep listening to the Jars of Clay song Skin and Bones from the Inland album which speaks of love being people - both the object of love and the action of love.  Recently I read that love is a person and his name is Jesus.  This means that love is not a feeling or action – but a person.  A person embodied in what love really is – all actions flowed from love of others, love of the Father, love always at the forefront, love as the focus, love personified.  And isn’t that what we all need to learn?  Love is who we should aspire to be – love is “skin and bones”.  It’s not a theory or a concept, science or philosophy, but an embodiment of us acting out our highest calling. 

 

I think of my days at home.  I express love through doing things for others – “acts of service” as a famous author describes it.  Checking off the to do list all in the name of love.  But are these tasks received as acts of love? 

Maybe it is not enough to show love in the lists, but to be present and hear and touch and hold and whisper into a little ear and play “This Little Piggy”.  For my children, being present – “quality time” is likely one of the few love languages they understand.  Love towards my children is my presence fully engaged and focused on them in the midst of the everyday tasks and experiences.  And as I come to this realization, I remember how much I have to learn. 

Stretched Before Us

It is the end of August and we are holding desperately to the last days of summer.  We sat by the fire last night and in the twilight and flickering fire, I studied these three faces of ours.  I couldn’t take my eyes off Kayla.  Freckled face, long hair spilling down her shoulders, eyes fixed on a book, legs curled up into the chair.  At eight years old I ponder that in a mere ten years, she could be spreading her wings for the first time.  I can’t bear the thought; I look up to the stars, squinting to see the first ones appear.

I remember my own childhood – it seems – in snapshots…sledding down a hill in preschool, a yarn and burlap sewing project in kindergarten, making ice cream in second grade, relearning to hold a pencil in fourth grade, confirmation class in eighth grade.  In between those times were summer – somehow rolled together into hours of living outside, riding my bike, listening to rain under the metal awning.  When I ponder it all, the years mesh together into this rapid playing silent movie a lifetime ago.  

Today friends dropped their kids off at college for the first time – realizing that their years of preparing come down to this moment.  Letting them go free – hours from home, in undiscovered places.  I remember leaving home – I recall the mixed emotions of new found freedom, homesickness, anxiety, and looking forward to this new, strange life away from home.

Others said good-bye to twenty-something kids, driving cross country to new homes.  Miles of space and time opening into a chasm of separation.  It seems that as I look through my friends, I see the same road stretched before me – one that my own children are walking down since they left my womb – one where they slowly move away from me.  

I glance back at Kayla’s sweet face; she is smiling over her book – adventures found in her imagination.  I’m praying that I get this right – that they will remember these days with me.  I hope that in our hunting for green things in the spring, and discovering crickets in the summer, reading books near silent snow falling in winter that I have taught them how to view the world in wonder.  I’m overwhelmed by this ache rising in me that somehow grows stronger each year – discomfort realizing that I have such limited time.  And how am I using that time?  

I was a terrible babysitter growing up, but despite that, I had a few regulars.  When I think back to those days, I remember the kids, but I don’t remember experiences or bonding with them. I remember watching TV or cleaning the kitchen – I never took the time to really get to know them.  In my early teen mind, I was just there to watch over them, but somehow not become involved.  I’m sure that I was the sitter they didn’t like.

 

I can’t help but thinking that there is a little bit of that teen babysitter left in me…that I don’t cultivate memories, but perform tasks instead.  This thought tugs at my heart making me realize that every action I choose while the kids are still with me is a chance to say yes or no to them.  I look at our days and I’m afraid to admit that in saying yes to chores and checklists that I unwittingly am saying no to them.  

Another day goes by and I see the twisting turning path leading them away from me and I know that every shred of me wants to do something drastic, but drastic measures are not needed.  Small, everyday changes need to be embraced…more yesses and less noes.  Only one week until school starts.  What kind of memories can we create in one week?

Holding Time

I’ve written before about the fleeting moments of childhood rushing by me.  I was reminded of it again today as I watched my preschooler almost turned big kid.

 

He’s all boy, my Zachary.  Always smiling his dimpled grin – big blue eyes sparkling.  Today he was so hungry at the restaurant that he ate his spaghetti and his two sister’s also – using two forks to shovel everything in – grinning ear to ear, mouth stuffed.

He took his first shower today and laughed in delight at the water running down on him – inching further and further under it.  Shaking, wiggling, shimmying around.  

I forget that even at five there is so much for him to discover.  Yesterday a neighbor let him ride his battery powered car with real gear shifter, accelerator and brake.  He hit the accelerator for the first time, bubbling cackle infectious.  

Preschool is almost over and big kid school looms on the horizon.  I can’t imagine him not home with me…can’t imagine him all spiffed up in his school uniform, backpack, and lunchbox in tow and yet this reality is a few months away.  How can I hold onto this time?  I feel helpless under its ever flowing current.  

God puts us here to care for these small ones for such a short time and yet the day-to-day can swallow us up if we allow it – I have often and too easily allowed it.  Today I aim for consistency in capturing the wonder, recording the moments, priceless memories and gratitude for this gift of motherhood – even if fleeting.

Streams of Starbucksness

I am at Starbucks with my sweet three year old Abby.  She’s been really cranky today, but she is quiet right now.  She is eating a pink cake pop and people watching.  We are making the mermaids on our cups talk. I’m the mommy and she’s the baby.  She looks out the window and says, “The cars are going fast!”  Jazz pulsates and slides out of the speakers.

Abby is hunched over her chair backwards watching the manager interviewing someone.  I’m admiring my gold purse and pondering the purple stainless and ceramic mug that is on my wish list.  I sip the sweet, rich foam off the top of my latte – nectar of the coffee warming my insides.  I look into her adorable face – hair a mess, smiling, dimple shown, big blue eyes laughing. 

 

Abby plays a game, “Can you sit in this position, mommy?” Leaning forward, on the edge, on her knees, legs spread apart, sideways with legs crossed.  She says, “It’s a little table!  That one is a little table!  It’s a baby!”

She climbs on my lap.  She says, “You have to write, mama.  Why?”  I say, “I must!” She says, “You so cute.”  I kiss her still pudgy, toddler cheek. How I wish all of my moments with her were like this – coming off lunch time with her tantrums and my yelling.  Night and day.

The music slows and saddens, tranquil trumpet.  This moment fleeting, the clock signaling the end.  She bonks my head with hers grabbing my pen and clicking it so I cannot write – snapping me back to reality. 

This Spot

I’m sitting on our small couch, feet up on the ottoman, lights out, Christmas tree on.  From this spot, I can see the TV, the fireplace, outside through one of the small windows, the whole living room – all of those things now quiet and dark.  From this spot I have rested, nursed three babies, cried, slept, laughed, worked, and watched.  Gazed out at children running around the room, the seasons changing outside, and my life passing by faster than I can imagine.

From this spot I have sat very still with three sleeping babies in my arms (each at different times), looking down at their cherub faces, curled up fists, and listening to their sweet sighs.  As I sat here in this spot, I looked outside and observed every season change.  Marveling at bare trees showing fuzzy patches of green, bursting forth in swaying leaves, turning gold, yellow, red and blowing away.  Squinting hard to find the first snowflakes of winter silently floating down.  Gazing down at my youngest child – messy toddler hair sticking to her sweet cheeks, thumb in her mouth, hard sleep weighing on my arm. 

In this spot, the moments of my life are performed before me as I struggle to grasp them.  Snapshots in my mind play out – if I am still enough to capture them.  Yet I am not usually still.  I spend less and less time here in this spot and somehow, I am sure that I am missing it all.  Someone please tell me it is not too late…not too late to sit here quietly, smiling, holding on to these three.  For in this spot – this quiet, comfortable, ordinary spot, I have experienced more life than I have ever before and wonder if I will ever again.