On Building Boats and Going Great Places (and why our boats often never set sail)

"If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery 

I'm guilty of it.

In my mothering, in my teaching, in my writing, in my work, even in my marriage, I'm constantly trying to drum up other people to come together, collect wood all while handing out instructions on how to build whatever boat I'm trying to set sail.

Some days the only boat I'm trying to set sail is the one that leaves on time with book bags, tea and laptops in hand ready to weather the rough waters of traffic so we arrive promptly at school/co-op/work meetings

and other days the boat I'm try to build and launch looks more like the one where my husband and I are simply on the same deck sailing into the endless waters of molding our hooligan boys into loving, strong and passionate men

and other days I'm trying to construct a crew big enough to build a ship of some sorts that can charter the mysterious and beautiful and hard waters of orphan care.

Whatever it is, you know, daily we're all building boats that we intend to get us somewhere.

In each of our respective boat buildings, one thing is certain: none of us can do it alone, and we find we really need others to get on board, throw in their hammers, build steadily and then jump onto the boat and set sail.

Here's what I have realized about building ships, though: if you pay or reward someone enough, they'll do the hard work of building the ship. They'll put in the sweat, tears and long hours of laboring over its detailed construction.

But oftentimes, when it comes to building these boats to really big, really wonderful, really vast and unknown places, I've found I can't offer enough of a reason to start building because I cannot explain the reward adequately enough to get the crew started or keep the workers motivated.

So the problem of building a boat really isn't about the actual building of the boat; the problem with building a boat to somewhere great and unknown is a problem of adequately building a vision of where we're going so that anyone wants to invest time and effort into the boat building.

I run into this while trying to construct all of these various boats I'm building.

Have you ever tried to explain the beauty of the ocean to someone who's never experienced it with his or her own eyes?

It's really hard.

Photo by Hyacynth Worth. All rights reserved.

We try our best to explain the way sand softly gives beneath the weight of toes, the lulling sound of ocean waves careening into the beach, the clean scent of soft ocean breezes, the brilliant blue hues of of water sparkling beneath sun.

When all is said, when all has been explained as best as humanly possible, there's just no way to help someone understand the vastness of the sea. The only way to teach someone to long for the sea is to cast a vision of its vastness, it's beauty, its greatness or, if you possibly can, show them the sea.

It's then, and only then, that we can start giving building instructions and impressing upon our builders' hearts and minds the need for following the rules of construction. The passion, the desire, the vision almost always proceeds the building.

I'm learning to apply this in all of my various boat-building efforts.

I'm learning to cast a vision of what could be in store for my children in their futures should they walk with the Lord, trusting Him and committing their ways to Him.

I'm learning to help my children dream of the beauty of marriages founded on love, respect, trust and compassion.

I'm learning to share the dreams and visions in my heart with my husband for how our lives could look in 15 years in we follow steadily the passions God's laid on our hearts.

And I'm learning to share as authentically as I can what happens in the aftermath of taking leaps of faith in the direction God is moving us.

While building the boat is entirely important and carefully constructing it is paramount to success, we never even get off the shore if we don't first cast the vision.

We never even have a chance of setting sail, if first, we don't show them the beauty and vastness of the sea and teach the ones we love to long for it.

Everyday Life: Like Training Wheels

A few days ago, my oldest son was riding his bike, and he lost one of his training wheels.

But he didn't notice.

He just kept peddling.

His little brother stopped and picked up the wheel and told me, "I guess he doesn't need it anymore?"

I shrugged and told him I guessed he was right because that oldest boy of mine -- he was off and riding.

When we arrived home, I asked if he noticed the wheel had fallen off. He hadn't, and he asked me to take off the other one. Without a wrench, though, I couldn't get the thing to budge so I told him it would have to wait until John could get to it.

The next day at the first mention of a walk, that oldest boy of mine hopped on his bike and was ready to speed away down the street.

He climbed onto the bike and rode down the driveway, only to crash at the end and hurt his foot, ankle and knee.

Apparently, that other training wheel had been good for something: getting going.

After I nursed his wounds, I helped him learn how to take off while balancing, and after a few tries, he mostly had it down.

My husband asked that night if he wanted the other wheel off because hubs finally had his wrench set out.

My oldest, his eyes darted around as he thought for a split second before he said, "I don't know if I'm ready."

So he's been riding with one training wheel on.

Just in case.

Because sometimes, he'd summed up, it's nice to have a little bit of backup when you're riding along and suddenly you lose your balance.

I smiled at him, and told him, I get it.

Because honestly?

I really do. And I'd love to have a training wheel right now as we figure out how to ride this rehosting-to-a******* bike.

Most of the time, it's fun and exciting and glorious and free-feeling. But there are bumps in the road where I feel a lot like my oldest boy -- it'd be nice to have that training wheel.

Everyday Life: Low Battery Warning

Lately, in my mothering, I've been feeling like a laptop whose battery has been pretty well zapped.

It's like no amount of charging keeps me going; I'm completely drained ten minutes after I'm unplugged from whatever source I was finding power to keep on mothering these beautifully challenging souls.

Maybe it's a phase {oh, please tell me it's a phase}, but lately, one of my boys has two switches: emo and high octane emo.

Um, so do boys enter the pre-teen years now starting at age almost 6? {Related: I buy organic dairy and meat, free of hormones, so I thought I was taking care of this whole early on-set puberty thing ...}

Also, if boys are this emo, then really having two sons is not a consolation for not having a daughter who is emotionally charged, so the next person who tells me that, well, they're in for an earful. Because, friends, I can personally attest to a boy being quite moody over the Light Saber he's sporting or, consequently, not sporting. It's nothing short of a full-fledge trauma here.

Maybe it's summer {oh, please DON'T tell me it's summer!} that's brought my formerly helpful 5.75 year old into a fit of emotionally driven turmoil over a certain pair of shorts not being clean?

{Yes, please tell me again about that daughter thing?}

Or, perhaps, it's a developmental leap nearing? Maybe his quickly approaching summer birthday is sending us him into fits of heavy emotion?

Whatever it is, it was wearing thin on my patience before my husband left for Paris last weekend.

So you can imagine what kind of ice everyone is skating on now, right?

If you said "NO ICE because it's SUMMER and your husband is in Paris" ... well, now you're tracking with me.

My friends, there's no ice left here. NO PROVERBIAL ICE!

We're hanging on here ONLY because God graciously gave me the best in laws and mother a girl who currently has no battery life could ask for and multiple friends who have extended hands of care and offers of dinner and play and rescue and cinnamon rolls. Reread that part before you send reinforcements or try to "save" my children from their crazy mother. We have been cared for! I repeat. We have been cared for above and beyond, and it's enough to get us all through safely to ....

the home stretch now, yes. We are close. We are closing in on John's re-entry to the real world where the Effiel Tower is 4,140 miles away {what? like you don't measure how far away your husband is when he's gone?} and the only things that are really towering above anyone in this house are two little boys will be giggling while standing over the mother who is lying on the floor, waving her white flag of surrender to the phase or the summer or the developmental leap or whatever it was that reared its ugly head these past few weeks.

And probably the only thing that sweet hubby of mine will hear from my lips that are smooshed against the wood floor are pleas for

a glass of wine without any accompanying whine

and begging that those piano lessons we're going to be forking out money for will at least lead to us having a *good* emo band practicing in our garage in the near future here.

Motherhood: Paris

I wake up to a small face inches away from my own, big blue eyes searching me, a long whine escaping his mouth, pulling me out of peaceful sleep and into the reality of Thursday morning:

He's not the only one who woke up on the wrong side of bed.

Maybe it's stemming from being jarred out of sleep so early.

Or maybe it's from feeling like I'm walking a never-ending road of healing.

But most likely, it's all about Paris.

John is leaving for Paris soon on a work-related trip ... and I am not.

So, currently, I detest Paris. Or maybe I just detest what Paris is doing to me.

I'm staying home with the boys and likely waking up to mornings like this every morning, which would be sweet if we could forgo the whine {and I'm embarrassed to admit that most of the whining comes from my own lips} but

I'm tired.

I'm still climbing my way out of the post-miscarriage anxiety and depression haze

I'm still trying to heal from this balance issue.

And I'm not ready.

Here's the thing about motherhood in this season of life:

I desperately want to mother, but I suck at doing it alone.

And here's the thing about Paris:

I want to go to Paris, but I am in a season so drenched in mothering that I cannot see past its thickness.

I told myself a few months ago when John first asked if I wanted to come along riding on his coat tails of frequent flyer miles that Paris could wait but the kids couldn't; they wouldn't be 3 and 5 forever.

A few months ago, fresh from the loss of a third baby during pregnancy, I thought that was a travesty. I wanted to soak up every ever-loving minute that these boys were small and mine to keep safely in the nest. Savor every moment, you know.

Today, with Paris looming in the near distance, I think it's a darn good thing 3 and 5 don't last forever, because my patience with 3 and 5 lately has been slim ... and I can only imagine what it will look like when I'm alone with 3 and 5.

We weren't meant to mother alone, and I know this keenly during times John is home and I am feeling well.

But when he's away and I'm still sporting tender wounds, the magnifying glass sharply focuses on my intolerance and my impatience and my limits.

Enjoyment and savoring? Those come harder when I'm simply in survival mode.

My writing off of Paris was a little short sighted. Because here's the thing about Paris and motherhood and this season of life and the intersection of all three I didn't know to put together:

there's only so much tolerance, so much patience and so much enjoyment a mother can experience when she hasn't set her own limits well.

So I'm taking a lesson from Paris, setting aside my grievances and setting my limits; I'm giving myself permission to receive the help I'll need and abide within these margins I've set.

I'm coming to understand that what I need to be a good mother isn't really a trip to Paris.

And what I need to be a good mother isn't simply to survive mothering in Paris' wake.

Rather, what I need is to recognize my own limitations, accept them and gracefully allow the gift of help from those who also know the importance of me staying within the lines right now so that there's enjoyment and savoring in the surviving.

Bigger Picture Moments: Pushing Away from the Table {I Lost It}

In the early-morning rush of getting the boys out the door, I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

I lost it amid the heat rising from the hot bowl of breakfast he irritably pushed away from his place setting at the table, amid the heat rising from my own flushed and rushed body, fluttering about in a hurried shuffle to get in the car and begin an over-scheduled day.

From the moment I pressed my feet on the ground beside my bed, I felt a like a whirlwind of movement and thought, and despite trying to order my day by sinking myself into the the Word in the morning, I could not quiet myself enough to stand still let along sink and soak.

When tears of outrage came over the cinnamon apples being mixed IN the oatmeal instead of being served one the side

when the refusal to even try this breakfast came

when the thought of him having to sit through two hours of class in the morning and then the dentist, thus likely ensuing a meltdown before we made it to lunch,

steam began rising from my hot-headed rush

and words began firing out of my heated mouth

and I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

The heat of irritation, fueled by rush and movement, left my body so quickly through raised voice and regretful words that it left me solid frozen in my steps shortly after I huffed out of the dining room while my oldest cried about how it was "just oatmeal, mom."

It took fire burning strong and hot and fast and furious to bring me into stillness, an icicle of realization grounded in my kitchen that though I've long given care to never ever ever feed the bears spaghetti on days the hard days, the tough days

but have never given really thought to not overfilling my own plate

and making those days more likely.

And, so, today, I scoop onto the plate only what is necessary to sustain life

and tonight, we'll all push away from the table for a longer pause, fasting and resting in what is necessary for life only in the moments spread out before us.

{Oh the humbling experiences that parenting brings; shortly after my flames burned out, I got to eat some humble pie, apologize and reinforce that even when we are piping hot, we still treat each other with love and kindness and respect. I call this lessons from the trenches.}

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week HERE! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

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Everyday Life: The Fight I Will Keep Fighting

Our battle begins early in the morning the first day of school on the shaky ground of school snacks.

At G's school, each child in the class brings snack for the entire class a few times a year.

I love the concept.

In theory.

In practice, it doesn't work for us ... mostly because I know too much and believe what I know so passionately that I can't erase it. At all.

While goldfish crackers and colorful yogurt tubes look innocent, I know these foods beyond the simple breakdowns of calories and macronutrients and ingredient labels. I know what vegetable oils heavy in omega-6s do to the heart muscle and yogurt loaded with processed sugars and dyes can do to the body at the cellular level as well as chemically.

And because I now know all of this {I mean, as well as I can know it without having a degree}, I simply cannot fathom allowing my little ones to eat these foods daily. Now, I'm not totally crazy; we normally follow an 80/20 rule where 80 percent of the time we eat whole foods dense in nutrients while 20 percent of the time we let kids be kids. Or adults be adults, as we would be the case for John and his affinity for cherry-flavored pops.

But every day? Well, I can't stomach it.

So neither will he, even to his dismay.

His deep irritation rises while I'm in the thick of cooking eggs on the stove.

He grunts and groans and huffs and sighs and elaborates a well orchestrated argument. Normally, my ears are all his, but to this particular oration, they may as well be deaf.

There are few things for which I will dig a thick stake into the ground and then sink my heels into the soil just as firmly.

The first is that God is good all of the time. No matter what.

The second is that John and I love each other and them relentlessly and whole heartedly.

The third is that food is more than calories and carbs {and the like} and taste; it's meant to connect us to the soil and each other, to nourish, heal, sustain.

And there's nothing about goldfish and graham crackers or the like that connect or nourish, heal or sustain. There's just not. And those foods have popped up often enough in past daily snack itineraries that even friends who are much less rigid have questioned why we are serving what we are serving in school and other child-centric settings.

Once he's said his peace, he stares at me and stomps one foot on the ground as if to put the exclamation mark on his action-pack deposition; I see the buddings of a lawyer emerge in the satisfied smirk on his face.

But what he doesn't know is that even the world's best orator attorney couldn't sway a jury against a passionately honest mother bear who knows what she knows with every fiber of her being.

I crouch down, and I give my closing statement, feet firmly planted in the soil I know to be truth, concluding that he will be choosing healthy snacks from our pantry, fridge or counter daily and bringing them to school for his snack every day,

and I round out my closing statement with the one truth I know best

-- the one that fuels my fire beyond any knowledge or research or biology or chemistry --

"because I love you."

With that the jury is sold.

And I can even see in the cross-examining attorney's eyes that he, too, has been won.

UPDATE: If you're reading this in the archives, you'll definitely want to read the update to this post because the cross-examining attorney ended up only being sold momentarily! We learned a really important lesson from this that I'd hate for anyone to have to go through. 

Everyday Life: Carry You

It seems like I don't carry you much any more.

At freshly five, you are long and lanky and beyond a comfortable hip seat.

So I settle for snuggling you to sleep. Tonight, I practically have to beg you to let me be the one to see you off to your dreams, but you finally oblige.

And I breathe gratitude at having these minutes.

We lay in the dark, wrapped tight beneath blankets shielding our skin from cool of night-time lake air.

We whisper back and forth, and I tell you the story of five years ago today.

How we waited long and we waited patient for you to come. {"How long, mom?" Nine whole months!}

How I labored hours and then days. {"Did you eat? Did you sleep?" Not really.}

How I pushed you out of my belly. {"How!?" With strong muscles.}

And how all you wanted to do was sleep in my arms and nurse, which was good

because that's exactly all I wanted to do, too -- exhaustion set deep in my body, we both faded in and out of sleep for five glorious hours that first night.

You smile, and I remember the you from five years ago, tiny and snuggled against my chest, legs still shaking from the shear labor of your entrance.

We are still in thought, still in bed, snuggling

and I linger in the very effort, remembering the endurance,

how my muscles worked long

and hard

and well

to grow you,

carry you,

deliver you into arms that spent hours cradling and rocking your small self.

How these muscles fatigued and pushed beyond what I thought I could muster.

How I was so much stronger than I knew.

And how I didn't even have a clue that that would be the easy part.

That carrying you in belly and in arms and bearing down and bringing forth your life was only training for the muscle that would bear the real load.



How I couldn't have known that my heart would need all the training in strength it could build to wrap you up in this weight of heavy love and carry you long beyond what my arms ever could. Linking with The MOB society's Let's Hear it for the Boys.

Bigger Picture Moment / Five for Five: Age

I felt it again last night.

Like I was superman with all my superpowers drained from my body.

The kryptonite -- stretching of skin over lengthening bones and shedding of babyness for childhood.

The super powers I'd had wrapped up in my mother's body only a mere memory amid the screams of an inconsolable 2.5 year old, shrieking in the darkness of my bedroom at 12:15 a.m.

When both boys weaned, there was that sense of power-comfort loss, too. And then again when I could no longer pick up my lanky oldest son and walk rhythmically with him up and down the long hallways after he'd had a bad dream or a badly skinned knee.

And there it was again in the fullness of my inky-black room, only a tiny section illuminated by soft-glowing nightlight.

No milk. No baby carrier in which he could find rest amid the steady bounce of my pace, against the beating of my heart, in the security of being snugged right against my frame. No swaddling blanket large enough to comfort his toddler body.

Just me fumbling in the dark for new the bag of motherhood superpowers I haven't quite yet mastered -- the right words, the right melody of soothing song for his ears, the right touch to his skin, the right calm for his wild, wordless upset.

I stumbled hard into thinking in the sleeplessness of midnight about growing in my own mother skin. About what I have now to offer little boys who are no longer little babies and are growing quickly into little men.

What is there apart from a breast of comfort and arms like entwined branches and the calm of my heart thumping in time with their own now that they've grown out of the supermom powers I'd relied on most.

We finally all drifted to sleep, exhausted and teeming with frustration after riding out the crystorm together of what I can only assume is emerging molars, snuggled in the same bed.

I slept hard-crazy-dream sleep where I found myself struggling against intruders in my home, unfaced villains who were trying to harm my babies. In my dream, I was conniving and fearless, strong beyond my own knowing and I protected my growing flock with super-natural God-given mother fierceness of heart.

I carried this fierce-love into total consciousness, woken by smiles and babble mixed with toddler-crafted words followed by the happy sounds of a preschooler coming to say hello.

There were wrapped-up words, oh so many words from my preschooler and tackle hugs, so many tackle hugs wrapped around my neck by my toddler.

And with these word spoken, hugs given, tantrums thrown, ideas shared, tears shed, the emerging super powers of a mother who ages with her children, the sheer weight and depth of that strong-ocean-current-fierce love manifests itself in listening well, in embraces fully returned and in pausing to pay the captors of this soul-love my fullest attention even when I feel like I'm fumbling around in the dark.

Every Thursday we come together to share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week, and this week we are teeming with Momalom's Five for Five to find the Bigger Picture wrapped up in AGE. Don't forget to link at both Jade's and Momalom's to support each other and find new friends!

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Jade's!Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Bigger Picture Moment: The Kind of Day

We're having the kind of day where

a cuddly almost-two-year-old boy wakes up smiling and cooperative, giving his mama false hope of a peaceful day.

The kind of day where

nurses at the doctors office look at you with a mixture of pity and compassion welling in their eyes as your two year old slides ala a wet noodle onto the floor and begins screaming at the mere sight of the scale.

The type where the big brother screams at his little brother, and then the mother turns and yells at the older one for screaming.

The kind of day where peeling an adventurous toddler off of the dining room chair obstacle course he's created has culminated in more spills and falls and tears and bruises than can be counted on one hand.

And the kind of day where just as the clock clicks over to 4:00 p.m. and mama is about to sigh a breath of relief that her husband will soon be home, a text message flashes onto the phone saying he's running late ...

just as the toddler nose dives straight onto the floor from scaling the chair on which she's sitting on the edge.

One where I -- the mother, the adult here -- throw my hands up in the air, declare I need five minutes to myself, turn on the TV guilt free and all but crawl to the simple retreat that is an empty white page on my computer screen, flowing with the simple lyrics of a Sufjan Stevens song, wrapped int the late afternoon sun streaming through a cracked window that's offering a warm breeze.

I'm having the kind of day that makes me

thankful for song that carries me to calm

thankful for little whispers of creation that speak to my soul

thankful for small escapes

thankful that tomorrow will be birthed brand new by morning sun

and that it carries the hope of being the good kind of day that often comes after the storm rages and then passes.

I'm having the kind of day that makes me grateful that not every day is like this one.

Thank.God.



Have you seen a glimpse of the bigger picture through a simple moment this week? Share it! Link up at Melissa's this week.

Bigger Picture Moments: Loud and Clear

I call his name.

He doesn't look up from hammering his blocks into the spaces they fit.

Though my voice is filled with intent, uncertainty fills my heart, sits heavy in my throat.

I call him again.

He doesn't even flinch at the sound of my voice.

He's 16 months old, and he's barely uttered the sounds mmmm and aaaahhh together.

And I wonder, I wonder, if he's really heard me all the months of his life.

Or if he's been navigating in the silence, watching moving pictures with no sound.

****
We try simple tests, my husband and me.

We try sneaking up on him and making a loud sound to see if he snaps his head toward commotion.

Once or twice he does. Other times he doesn't. Mostly, he doesn't.

At 17 months, I wonder, again, if I've totally neglected a hearing loss in my youngest.

Is that why he's not talking? Can he just not hear us? How could I have missed something like that?

I chide myself for not having his hearing tested as a newborn, wonder what exactly he's been missing his whole life.

****

My mother in law, a speech pathologist, wonders, too, when he approaches almost 18 months and has said nary of a word and made very few vocalizations, if he's taking his time or if there's something we've missed in the hearing realm.

She suggests an audiology screening.

****

During the threes weeks until E's test, I ponder in my heart the implications of him, perhaps, being different.

The possiblity of never actually hearing music and feeling it in the deepest places of his soul.

The reality of being labled as impaired or disabled.

The complications a hearing loss could have on his life, his confidence, his opportunities.

John reminds me of a few of my favorite family members on his side of the family who have hearing loss and who are all {honestly} brilliant and successful and perfectly imperfect.

Perfectly imperfect.

I let the phrase roll around in my heart, like a seed tossed in spring wind.

It finds soil, takes root, begins to grow.

We're all perfectly imperfect.

Hearing or lack of hearing is just a detail of life. It's not THE detail of life.

Be it a hearing loss or being uncomfortable in crowds or being unable to walk or whatever -- we've all got something that could be considered a confidence drain, a hinderance for success.

But those perfectly imperfect details are not what define our lives. Rather, what defines our lives is how we take our building blocks and stack them -- what the building blocks look like just give character or style to the architecture.

{I won't even go into how our perceived weaknesses can actually morph into strengths.}

****
It's the morning of the audiology test.

I determine in my mind, my heart that if E cannot hear, if he has a hearing loss, he hasn't been missing something his whole life. I resign that if he's unable to hear or hear well, his life will be no less full -- of joy or understanding or opportunity or enjoyment.

That no matter the results of the hearing test or, well, really anything, he has always been and always will be perfectly imperfect.

Just like all of us.

{For those of you who are wondering, E doesn't have any hearing loss that's detectable at this point. He's just a master at focusing and ignoring the "noise" around him. Though, we will have to monitor the way his eardrum allows for movement as that could, for periods of time during fluid build up, affect the quality of what he hears.}

Every Thursday, we share the harvest of intentional living by capturing the bigger picture through a simple moment {or series of simple moments.}

Visit Alita, to share your own or read others.

Bigger Picture Moments: Like Zumba

Mirrors stretch from the floor to the ceiling of one long wall.

Bass thumping, music bounces off the brick walls; I'm keenly aware of my body in this space.

As the instructor begins moving, swiveling her hips in a circle, moving her feet to the ryhthm of the beat, I struggle to see her amid the sleek, slender bodies of the other women who are dancing almost effortlessly.

And though I try, I really, really try, I just cannot see well enough to imitate what she's doing amid all the other experienced dancers.

So I do my best to shake my hips to the beat, move in the right direction.

By the end of the second song, I'm frustrated.

I feel simultaneously invisible and on display, and finally, somewhere around song four, as sweat is dripping down forehead, I resign to simply do my best and enjoy the music.

I somehow catch the instructor's eye in the mirror. And though I'm void of ryhthm at that moment, and my right foot is moving when my left leg should, she winks and smiles, encouraging me in my great effort, though I'm showing little signs of improvement.

Her smile gives me the confidence to move my own body a little more swiftly, a little more to the beat of her drum.

As the last few songs echo, ricochet against the brick walls, I smile and move into the ryhthm gaining comfort with my own body, enjoying the last bit of my first all-Zumba class.

When I arrive home, I hear my 3.5 year old scurry down the hall way toward the door, feet thumping against the ceramic tile. I hear him exclaim that he's so happy to see me he can barely wait for my grandfather to unlock the door.

G. throws his little arms around my leg and declares that he's been waiting for me to get dressed in his pajamas. We scurry off to bed, pull the covers over feet, and he snuggles against my neck as we recap the day and pray.

As I think about his day -- like when he couldn't quite get the soap out of the dispenser, though he really, really tried -- my heart reels a little. I think about how I, trying to juggle holding his squirmy brother while manipulating the soap bottle, sighed under my breath and told him to focus on the task, try harder.

Those types of moments happen more than I'd like to admit.

As he drifts to sleep, I wonder if maybe being 3.5 years old is kind of like being the new girl at Zumba.

And I resign in my heart that next time I'll slow down, catch his eye in the mirror and smile instead.

If you've seen the bigger picture in a simple moment this week, link up with Alita.
Also linked with Mrs. 4444.

Bigger Picture Moments: Rebuilding

The glass that's been teetering on the edge of the table for the past few minutes tumbles to the floor, erupting into an orange juice volcano.

Thud, clank, clank -- sticky, orange puddles coat the floor, and before I can grab a towel, the toddler runs through it, barefoot.

Deep breathe on the outside, internal scream of frustration inside my head.

I lend a smile to a sheepish-looking preschooler, who clearly sees the error of his breakfast glass placement now that its liquid is no longer safely concealed inside.

As I spring to action, grabbing a towel, I can hear inside my head all the things I want to say.

I told you so.

I asked you to be careful.

I warned you that would happen.

Look at this mess!

Because I've had enough sleep, food, water, I can shoo those thoughts away and regroup my thoughts.

What do I really want to say about this, I ask myself. What do I want him to remember me saying.

I look at the hazel eyes staring up at me, waiting to see my reaction, soften and say, "Accidents happen."

But I so easily could've gone a road I've taken so many times before, exploding volcano style with huffs and groans and ashy black words that mar my little one's mind.

Here's the thing -- a few weeks ago, I didn't even notice how I was reacting, but as I've been reading Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves* and applying the author's method of response {NOT reaction}, I've witnessed my very selfish, very immature reactions to frustrations.

And I've noticed that G.'s reactions to frustration {you know, the ones I'm always trying to change -- like when he huffs or yells or groans?} are mirrors of my own reactions to situations I don't like.

{Yes, you read that right; I've been reacting to my toddlers like a toddler. Groan.}

And today, I doubt the OJ scene would have stuck out so clearly had I not witnessed the most beautiful moment between G., his toddler brother and me.

G. and I were building a fortress, a lair for his lions.

We were stacking the colorful, vibrant Duplos carefully, strategically {so the lions wouldn't escape}.

It turned into a labor of love that took us about 20 minutes to create.

No sooner than G. had placed all the lions inside, 17-month-old E. {affectionately referred to as Babyzilla} scurried over to the fortress and tore it apart when his brother and I took a quick water break.

Our masterpiece was ruined.

G.'s face fell, clearly disappointed.

I braced myself for screaming and yells of frustration.

But instead he looked at me, smiled and said, "Well, I guess we'll have to rebuild it."

I looked at the colorful blocks, totally scattered everywhere and said, "Yup. I guess we will."

And so we rebuild, restructure, one block at a time.

{* by Naomi Aldort}

Have you seen the Bigger Picture through a Simple Moment? Link up with Sarah!

Everyday Life: Eyes Wide Shut

Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a weekly writing meme intended to foster creativity and help busy moms actively seek every-day moments that show us a glimpse of the bigger picture.

Amid fast-paced lives, sometimes we lose sight of the grander scheme; won't you join us in consciously trying to embrace and remember these moments - however small or large?

The thermometer spiked today* at a whopping 16 degrees.

We layered shirts with heavy pants and wool socks.

We bundled under the cover of gloves, scarves, hats and heavy coats.

We hurried into the car from the house and out of the car to the preschool.

And then a few hours later we did that in reverse.

Instead of taking all of the layers off, we kept some on our bodies.

Though there were places I needed to go before Christmas, I just couldn't muster the will to rebundle, recoat, reglove and reboot each time I peaked at the thermometer and pondered leaving the house again.

So we busied ourselves with playing and cooking and reading and cleaning, and I tried really hard not to completely sulk about feeling like a self-imposed prisoner within our four walls.

I gave myself pep talks, prayed, laughed with the kids and tried to ignore my freezing toes encased in woolen socks.

The day wore on, and I sunk into the recliner, exhausted both mentally and physically, around 3 p.m.

As I sat down, it was like opening my eyes for the very first time that day.

Bright and brilliant. Warm and inviting.

I'd almost totally missed winter's most elusive and welcomed special guest because I'd been so busy layering and bundling, so tunnel-visioned about the cold.

And I could not help but wonder what else I'm so stuck on -- the unflushed toilets, the toys splayed across the floor, the dirty clothes piled just inches away from the hamper.

What here in the everyday doldrums has kept me from really basking in the awesome gift right before my face during this season of life where my boys are small and innocent, tickleable and excitable, spirited and openly loving?

The laundry? The messes? The dishes?

None are worthy.

I know this time is fast. I know it's fleeting. I know it could be so fruitful.

And I know I don't want to miss the sunshine there, in parenting my boys, especially.

*Written Tuesday in anticipation of Bigger Picture Moments.

To read other Bigger Picture Moments or link your own, visit Melissa.

Everyday Life: Peanuts

A few of my favorite quotables from my favorite 3.5 year old ...

As we're decorating the Christmas tree ...

"Mommy, I need some h**kers," G. says excitedly.

"Huh?!" I ask.

"I can't hang the ornaments without the h**kers," he replies. "So where's that bag?"

Key explanation that we call them simply "hooks."

He nods his head, says OK and continues to decorate the tree.

Five minutes pass and ten more ornaments are hanging before he calls again,
"Mommy, I'm out of h**kers again!"

Good thing we only decorate our tree in the privacy of our home.

****

I walk in the living room only to discover G. trying on John's jeans.

As he's trying to find his foot in John's tall pant legs, I cannot help but ask the obvious.

"G.," I begin, "why are you wearing those jeans?"

"I want to wear his belt," he shares, as he continues pulling the material up toward his nose.



I can't really think of anything else to say until he adds, "Do you know why I want to wear the belt?"

"Nope," I admit.

"I wear the belt so that it holds my pants up so that no one sees my peanuts, mommy."

I try to hold back my laughter, but I cannot contain the huge totally amused smile creeping across my face.

"You're what?" I manage to ask.

"You know, my peanuts," he says. "You call it a w**nie, mom."

Ah, yes. Note to self: use appropriate words in future.

{Sorry, I had to edit so many words here ... you wouldn't believe the types of searches that bring people to my page if I don't.}

Bigger Picture Moment: Goose Poop

Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a weekly writing meme intended to foster creativity and help busy moms actively seek every-day moments that show us a glimpse of the bigger picture.

Amid fast-paced lives, sometimes we lose sight of the grander scheme; won't you join us in consciously trying to embrace and remember these moments - however small or large?

It was a recipe for Christmas-Card-Photo-Session success.

The temperature was still hovering around 66 degrees, and the perfect-picture afternoon sun was just gently beginning to sweep down toward the western horizon.

So we forfeited play clothes for collared shirts, scrubbed peanut-butter-and-jelly coated faces, smoothed hair that was sticking up like wild turkey feathers on the boys' noggins and headed to the park to capture a beautiful shot amid the lingering fall foliage.

My sister and I even loaded the car with a few cute, photo-worthy toys, some treats {bribery} and a few other props to ensure Operation: Capture a Christmas Card Photo would be a surefire success.

As we began the second leg of our mission, arrival at the park, I had the highest of hopes ... until the moment we freed the boys from their car seat prisons and they began running around like wild squirrels who had just been let of a cage on the first day of spring.

My plan for capturing the perfect picture -- ask boys to sit next to each other and smile in exchange for a bag of pretzels -- imploded.

They ran in opposite directions, squealing gleefully.

OK, I'd thought to my self. I can do candid, action shots.

They were completely entranced by the geese, laughing and herding them like a Shepard would sheep.

I grew a little frustrated at trying to keep up with them, keep up with my camera settings and keep up with those stinkin' fast-moving honkers.

Then they wanted to chase the ducks, G. quacking alongside his little brother who was exclaiming, "Duuuhhhk Duuuuhhhk!"

They were having so much fun, but I suddenly wasn't.

I can do this, I told myself. I love capturing raw, unfiltered emotion in my photos.

Except for when that raw, unfiltered emotion comes in the form of joyful squeals as my 14 month old and 3 year old simultaneously pick up goose poop and begin mashing it in between their fingers.

That, I just can't do.

Enter mommy's raw, unfiltered emotion: "NO! NO! That's GOOSE POOP! Put it down, for the love of all things CLEAN! DON'T SMASH IT UP ... OH, YUCK! NO! For my SANITY'S SAKE, put the GOOSEPOOPDOWN! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!?"

Their smiles and giggles gave way to wide-eyes and stunned faces.

I scooped up Baby E., grabbed G.'s non-pooped smeared hand and began hauling them to the bathrooms, nearly dragging G. behind me.

A few quick steps into our mad dash to the nearest sink and soap, I looked down at G.'s face and saw his chin quivering as he stammered, "I will nevereverever pick up goose poop again, mommy. I promise. Neverevereever."

My heart sank into my gut as he apologized, and I knew that I had so blown things out of proportion regarding the {icky stinky germy} goose poop partly because I'd been frustrated about not getting any good shots.

"Oh, I think mommy needs to apologize," I said as we scrubbed the living daylights out of their hands. "I shouldn't have gotten so upset and yelled. I know you guys didn't know what it was."

"I thought it was a stick, " G. said. "I'm sorry. I will never never NEVER pick up goose poop again."

"I know," I said. "Let's go play now."

We emerged from the bathroom with new understandings, each of us, about goose poop.

G. realized he shouldn't touch it because it's disgusting.

And I realized that my boys find goose poop, like most anything else outside, extremely fascinating and interesting because they are 14 months old and 3 years old.

And that being said, I can't expect them to understand how to sit and pose for the perfect, smiling Christmas card picture at such young ages. I mean, they are so little they don't even know not to touch the goose poop because they don't even know what it is.

We continued along with our afternoon, them focused again on fun and me focused on just capturing who they are in tiny moments on screen.



And while I may not have captured the traditional, Christmas-card perfect shots, I did perfectly capture them at their ages.
There will be plenty of time for traditional, posed Christmas pictures as they grow up and become less enamoured by water foul and goose poop no longer has the same allure.

But for now, we're going to enjoy the candid moments brought on by these germy fascinations -- but from a less intimate distance from here on out.

Link your Bigger Picture Moment up over at Melissa's place this week.

Everyday Life: Dehydrated

Sometimes when I'm at the end of my rope, and I think my kids are totally going to turn out to be juvenile delinquents because the older one is chasing the dog around with a stick in the backyard while militantly ordering him to get to time out NOW and the little one laughs when he jams his fingers up my nose while tears stream down my face from the sting and I'm pretty sure that one or both of them threw their bath toys in the toilet after *not* flushing just to see if I will run out of the house crying and pulling my hair out {deep breathe in!} ...

my three year old reminds me that he is only three by saying something during an overheard conversation like, "Aunt Jill, I broke my leg."

"Oh, no!" Aunt Jill says. "How did you do that?"

"Well, Aunt Jill, my leg was dehydrated ... it doesn't have hydrates, so I broke it, and now I have a cast."

{Deep breathe out.}

And I remember that I should wait, at least, until they both turn five to decide whether or not they are both going to have permanent seats with name plates in detention {either here at home if we homeschool or at away-from-home school.}