Teach Me To Pick Stawberries

I tried to be a good mom today.

 Last week, Uriah's class studied about plants, and the sign at Reeves Peach Farm said "YO APRIL, REMEMBER LAST YEAR WHEN YOU PICKED OUR STRAWBERRIES AND THEY WERE DELICIOUS? WE'VE GOT MORE WAITING ON YOU!" or something like that. I immediately knew that the boys would love going back, and Uriah was very excited when I mentioned it. So, this week at the grocery store I skipped the strawberry cartons and made plans to go to the strawberry fields. 

I decided I wanted to take one kid at a time. I'd take Uriah today, and Ezra next week. I picked up Uriah from school, asked if he wanted to go pick strawberries (Resounding YES!) and drove a few miles down the road to Reeves'. Uriah and I cut up for a few minutes, and talked about all sorts of things. I asked him questions about what all the strawberry plants needed to grow, and he answered them quickly. We talked about who provided all of the things the strawberry needed to grow (Sunday School answer-JESUS!). 

As the conversation went on, he began to talk about how hot he was. Next, he was sleepy. Matter of fact, he informed me he may go to sleep right there in the field. He kept dropping his Legos (the ones I tried to convince him to leave in the car). He asked to go home over and over. 

"Is our bucket full yet?" 

"This is taking a long time." 

I tried to explain, if he would continue to help pick them, the bucket would fill faster. 

As I tried to reason with him and realize my quality time was being rushed, it occurred to me how much he is like me. 

His mother's son. 

How often do I walk in the garden with Jesus, telling Him how long He is taking? "This could go a whole lot quicker if you'd just.." 

"Man, it sure is UNCOMFORTABLE where you've brought me."

"This sounded like fun, but it's a lot of work!"

I won't look up from my Legos long enough to realize He is teaching me in this moment.

I just want to be along for the ride, not helping fill the bucket, and then pose for a picture later. Let the world know, I was there! I just didn't do anything when I was.

Who knew I'd need boots instead of my sandals for all the toe stomping getting done at the strawberry patch. 

I truly believe God teaches me through my children. Some days, I think one of the only reasons He gave them to me is to teach me more about Himself. My prayer is that I always hear him over my own big mouth. 

Lord, help me put down my Legos, shut up about the heat, and let you teach me to pick strawberries. 

Trust no bae(by)

Most people know that I am easily scared. 

I have to "halfway" watch suspensful movies and TV to let myself be distracted so I don't lose my mind. This was one of Tobi's favorite things he found out when we got married. (I'm sure he knew before, but marriage provided him unlimited access to scare me in any way he deemed fit.)

It ranged from "innocently" following me outside to the laundry room, to convincing me with refrigerator magnets that our house was haunted.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. 

Now, he has taken my sweet children, and turned them against me too. 

This morning, after brushing my teeth, I exited the bathroom into what I assumed was a safe zone.

Unbeknownst to me, there was a two year old laying in wait, ready to pounce on his mother's weakness. 

Before I even had time to notice him, he shouted "BANG!!"

And SHOT ME. 

In my own home. 

Ok, so it was a nerf gun. I still screamed like a little girl. 

And he LAUGHED.

My once precious baby, scared his mama and laughed hysterically. 

I don't even know what to do with that.

I am unsure how a two year old knows how to play a prank like this, but I'm a little afraid of what it means for his future. 

A Letter To My First Son

Uriah, Ironman, Wolverine, Batman, Captain America, "bow and arrow guy", or whoever you are today,

Today is your fourth birthday. I woke up like most mornings, with your feet in my ribs...much like the day you were born, just now you are about forty pounds heavier and beside me instead of in my stomach.We complain about you landing in our bed in the early morning hours but I secretly love waking up to you rubbing your hand on my cheek or patting my back.On this morning, before my eyes even open, my heart is breaking. And at the same time it is overflowing with joy. Motherhood is a complex thing. Absolutely torturous and absolutely breathtaking. It's full of staring at sleeping babies and running out of the nursery the second the baby begins to stir. It's full of kissing booboos and wishing fevers away, while longing to keep the sick snuggles. It's a mixture of correcting an ugly mouth, yet laughing later because its so funny to hear you call someone an "iriot" instead of idiot. It's a mixture of being really impressed you can put 17 animal crackers in your mouth at once, but forbidding you from doing that because I don't want you to choke to death. It includes being so proud you and your brother are playing nicely, wearing capes inside a fort you made. It also includes turning into a total momster and freaking out that the fort is made of my couch cushions and my living room is turned upside down. It's loving watching your imagination grow and you having the freedom to play, but hating my house being destroyed all the time. It's spending four hours making a superhero cake because you asked for it for your birthday. It's loving getting to curl up and read you a book (that we've read a hundred times) but also really wanting to hurry and put you to bed. It's wanting to move to an island without telling anyone where I went, but also missing you like crazy when you're gone for two hours. It's full of contradictions but always, always full of love. It's longing to watch you grow into who you are meant to be, yet wishing with everything I have that I could freeze time and keep you small forever.

You are growing bigger and taller each day.
Sometimes, I look at you and see how big you are like its the first time I have noticed. And just when I don't think I can handle it, you crawl in my lap and say "Mama, I'm a baby".
Sometimes, I hold you down and beg you to be my baby while you laugh and laugh and yell "I'm a big boy!"
Maybe you're conflicted too about your growing up. Maybe you just humor me and know I need you to be small a while longer.

You've been my best friend for four years, and I cannot even remember life before you. You are learning all the time, and sometimes you shock me with the things you know. You tell us stories about your friends, and teachers, and about the things you've learned about Jesus. I pray daily that God calls you to Himself at an early age, and that your dad and I can be godly examples to you. We fail. A lot. But God's grace never does. Just when we think we haven't taught you enough, clarified that the bible isn't a story book like Llama Llama, you blindside me with bedtime statements like "Mama, did you know that Jesus can live in our hearts?"

The truth is, God does not need me. Or your daddy. Or your teachers. Or anyone to tell you enough about him. He can call you to Himself without the help of anyone. It is a privilege to get to teach you about Him. I am not worthy to do so, but somehow He lets me. Maybe He puts me here to correct you when you think you're bigger than you are. Like at Easter when you told me that Jesus didn't have to die on the cross because you would save Him. You're a little obsessed with super heroes. Your dad and I will keep teaching you, and we will pray that God will open your heart and that it will click and that you will understand. Until then, we will keep talking, keep telling you who the real super hero is. And He loves you so much more than we ever could. And we love you a lot. I hope you always feel it. 

 Happy Birthday, to the first son I ever loved. Happy birthday to the boy who will roll in the grass but will not paint your hands to make your mama an art project. I hope you always hold strong on the things you oppose. But hopefully, you'll move on from painted hands to more important things. I pray your strong will turns you into an excellent leader. Happy birthday to the kid who keeps us laughing, because you change your name every day. Happy birthday, to the kid who taught me just how big love could grow. 

Happy birthday to my sweet boy, each day I spend with you fills me with much joy. And frustration. There's another contradiction for you.

Love, 

Mom

 

 

Who Says Boys Are Nicer?

It's no secret that I wanted girls. 

The gut-wrenching pain when I see baby girl clothes has gone, and I am finally loving being a mama to wild little men. Many people told me when I would express my desire for a baby girl to stick giant bows on, that I should be thankful for my boys..because boys are nicer to their mothers. 

 I'd like to take you on a little journey of our household, to see just how nice boys can be.

This morning, as I was getting dressed for work, Uriah was playing the I-don't-love-you-I-love-daddy game. When Daddy is home, Mama is invisible (until someone gets hurt then suddenly they can see me again). I usually play along, telling them it's okay to love Daddy too. Sometimes I pretend to be sad and secretly enjoy that they aren't driving me crazy. 

During this morning's shenanigans I asked Uriah if he thought I was pretty. I got a resounding "NO!". We giggled, and I offered him a piece of advice. "Son, when a girl asks if she's pretty, you always say yes. Even if she's not. You always say yes." I then went on through naming all of his peers that are girls and saying each time, "if she asks if she looks pretty, you say YES."

We went along, and a few minutes later I asked him again how I looked. Same answer. I pretended to cry, and he patted me on the back, saying "It's okay Mama, I love you. I do love you."

"But I want you to say I'm pretty!"

"Well, your hair is pretty. Your hair is, but not your face."

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.. this man cub needs a lot of work.

I'll be spending the next twenty years writing my apology letter to my future daughter-in-law. 

There's always hope for Ezra.

 

Life lessons from a three year old

Christmas is my favorite time of the year. It's also my least favorite.

Wrap your head around that one.

I love it, I love it, I love it. But it makes me cuh-razy.

It's stressful for me. Gifts and gatherings and tight finances and crazy schedules make me want to scream. 

My kids can tell you. Well, the one that talks can. 

Lately I can feel myself spinning out of control. Snapping at small things. Heck, this morning I raised my voice at a Verizon call tech and called their policies ridiculous. Sorry, Verizon lady. 

Anyway, this afternoon at nap time Uriah was going insane. Crying because he wanted his pants off, but then when I took them off he cried because HE wanted to be the one to do it. Cried that the sound machine was on the wrong sound, then it was too loud, then he wanted it back. Yada, yada, yada. 

And I lost it.

Big time. 

Big, ugly, screaming, insane, lost it. 

 And then I slammed his door and left him crying and scared in his room. 

(Hold off on calling the authorities, there's a twist coming.)

I plopped down in the chair and felt terrible. Sick, even. How could I lose it like that on him? It's nap time and he was up late last night with no nap.. He is tired. And even if he wasn't, he is three years old. He isn't in control of his emotions and I am supposed to show him how to be. And I blew it. He needs discipline, not terror. He shouldn't cry himself to sleep after I scared the heck out of him. I could have handled it so much better. And my heart felt heavy. So, heavy. 

So I made a decision, to set the example. I asked Jesus to forgive me, then I got up, walked back in his room and knelt by his bed. I looked in his scared eyes and I told him I was sorry. I explained how I acted badly and should not have reacted that way. He made bad decisions, but so did I. And I asked him to forgive me. 

And he said yes. 

And I cried.

And he HELD ME. 

He held me. I cried and told him I love him. He said he loves me back, and he rubbed his hand up and down my back just like I do to him when he's hurt or when he is sad. 

I felt free. 

Forgiveness is freeing. 

I don't care what you believe, forgiveness is freeing. Whether it comes from your child or spouse or friend. You feel better when someone forgives you. 

But nothing compares to the forgiveness that comes from the only one who hasn't had to ask for it. I screw up. A lot. You wouldn't want to be my friend if you knew how much. (You may not want to be my friend anyway, ha) but I am so grateful to not have to be bogged down by the guilt that accompanies those actions. It is freeing. And beautiful.

Thank you, Jesus. For making me forgiven, and free. 

Pillow Talk

I love my children. If you're friends with me on facebook you may doubt that, seeing as most of my posts are just keepin it real on how life with boys really is.  It's loud. And dirty. And violent. Someone is always hitting his brother and crying that he pulled his hair in retaliation. It's rather exhausting. And frankly, I get annoyed by the people who always post things about their perfect children. No kid is perfect, and my children's imperfections make for good stories. 

I am so not always patient. Some nights I check out when Tobi gets home and I lose it when they don't behave the way I think they should. But I try to find the humor in every hiccup of our days because I know there are mamas of crazy little boys out there, aching to know that they aren't alone. Like I said, I try to keep it real.

Sometimes though, I have moments of weakness and I spend an evening soaking in every giggle. I notice how sweet the smoosh of a chubby baby cheek feels when you kiss it. So I kiss him three  more times. I immediately get up when a rowdy little boy bounds into the living room in the middle of the farewell season of Parenthood and says "I want you to put me to bed instead of daddy". 

And then two hours later when I peer into his bedroom to stare at his sleeping face, he grins at me with ninja turtles in his hands. Instead of ripping his toys away and yelling for him to go to sleep, I climb into the bed with him and tell him stories of when the headboard of his big boy bed was the crib he slept in as a baby. I tell him how I am so glad I get to be his mama, and how he is my best friend in the whole world. "And Ezra?" He asks. 

"And Ezra." 

I ask  if he will love me forever and ever, even when he's big enough to drive a car. 

"Yep. Hey look, this is my armpit."

This is my life. Beautiful moments, covered in spit, pee, fart noises and armpits. 

And I wouldn't change it for all the girly girls in the world. 

In the future I hope he learns that when a woman pours her heart out to you, you don't barely respond and then show her your armpit. 

Rainbow Baby

It rained on my wedding day.

I remember freaking out because I had always heard the wives tale "each raindrop is a tear you'll cry in your marriage." It couldn't rain. We were happy! It didn't rain long, but I remember my sister-in-law, Marianne saying something beautiful to me that day. Something to the effects of "After the rain, there comes a rainbow. And that's a symbol of God's promise. What a beautiful way to start your marriage." 

She probably doesn't even remember saying that. But I do. 

It's been two years since we lost our second baby. 

Last year, I didn't even acknowledge it. I had just had Ezra, and I was so preoccupied (and thankful) that I just let it pass. I feel guilty for not thinking of that baby as often as I should. I didn't have long to grieve it, because I was pregnant with Ezra so soon after.  

Don't get me wrong, I cried. And cried. And prayed. And cried. 

But then I had Ez. 

This year, I'm not sure what's different. Maybe life is a little slower ( doesn't feel like it)  but the past week has been hard for me. Which is probably why I'm blogging. I don't know why, but it's therapeutic. Probably because I will write things that I would never say. 

I've been writing this blog in my head since July 2nd, not knowing whether or not the publish button would ever be hit.  July 2nd came and my heart hurt. That's the day we found out I was pregnant.  Tobi announced the next day on Twitter (it was his birthday he can do what he wants) so I followed him. Uriah's cute little shirt popped up on my TimeHop app on the 3rd. "I am batman. Sidekick coming in March."

That sidekick never came. 

I've been wondering lately who that baby would have been.  Was it my girl I so wanted? Would it have had red hair too? 

I don't think I ever let myself go there.  I never really "what if"ed when it happened.. Here I am "what if"ing two years later. 

I guess everyone is different. 

I believe in God's divine timing. Like I said, this week has been difficult for me. I'm missing the baby I only knew for a few weeks inside me.  But, because God is good, I found out this week, this very hard week, that the baby conceived after a loss is called a rainbow baby.. 

A symbol of a promise.

My sweet Ezra. 

A promise from the only one who can heal a hurting heart. 

I haven't forgotten you.

And He still hasn't.

I'll never know here why my baby was taken. But I know God is good. And I know He keeps His promises. 

My Ezra couldn't be a better fit for us. He's been smiling his entire life, and anyone who has been around him will tell you how sweet he is. He knows when to crawl up and melt into my chest with a sweet cuddle. His laugh is contagious. He is tough enough to survive having Uriah as a brother. He thinks he is big, but not too big to give kisses on demand. 

He is my rainbow baby. 

A gift from God.

And he is so loved.

It rained on our wedding day and it's rained in our marriage. It will rain more , I am sure of it. 

But when it rains, we will look for our rainbow. For our sign that God isn't finished. For a sign he hasn't forgotten us. We will cling to our hope.  Hope in a God who is a consuming fire. Hope in a God who chases after us. Hope in a God who catches us when we fall, who binds up our wounds and who loves us. 

And we will thank Him. For who He is, and for what He's done.