It's 7:15pm, we should be getting ready for bed on this school night of crabby children who have cried over spilled water, unfair game play, markers, biting her own finger while eating a brownie, and several other meltdown worthy catastrophes that have happened since I walked back in the door at 6. Instead of bed time routine they are jumping on the trampoline in our buggy end of summer back yard while I write and listen to the cicadas making their evening racket.
This is my perfect bliss evening, if only Sean was home not at work. However, sometimes I rush them to bed in my desire to get a few snatches of time with Sean instead of enjoying this sweetness.
I have had small floods of gratefulness as well as sentimentality this last week.
Exiting a space in my life where I've felt if not doubtful, at least a little bitter over the gifts I perceived were being given only to be snatched back.
It can be an easy thing to doubt the goodness of God when things feel anything but good. When trying to to figure out how to parent and work through depression, loss, exhaustion, I admit this failing comes to me often.
For a week now in my mindful quiet I've challenged myself to acknowledge God's goodness in any small thing I could find and one thing has come back over and over, the goodness and sweetness of being loved by others. In particular there are a handful of people I've been loved by simply because Sean chose and loved me.
My mother in law who, before she ever met me, chose to love me with such openness only because her son did. She wrote me a letter the first time we dated that contained some of the most open acceptance I think anyone had ever approached me with, and this was a theme in my relationship with her. Even though her son moved far from her, she sent him with prayer, blessing, and a joy mixed sadness to Philadelphia. I never knew I could miss someone that we didn't get to see often so much, but in all sorts of little ways I miss her in our days. I miss my kids not knowing what an amazing loving grandmother she was to them.
There's a long list of friends we hardly ever get to see, but when we do it feels like our home away from home. I am grateful for the family and friends I gained when I married Sean.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
8 Weeks of Summer
There is one week of summer break left before we send Hank to second grade, Archie to Kindergarten, and Elsie to a TBD school of choice 2 times a week. Twice a week this nest will feel empty for the first time since our first wedding anniversary.
While I am pinning bento box meals, searching for the right back packs, and gawking at the absurd school supply list, I am also taking stock of our summer. We chose for all three kids to be home, not to have a set plan for each day; to fill our 8 weeks with $1 movies, park outings, pool swimming, home days, lego building, trampoline jumping, firefly catching, and in general the luxury and bliss of not having to have any plan at all. The kids have happily started a morning routine of granola, yogurt, and pound puppies. It has been perfect, as perfect as an imperfect family could wish for. Not instagram lovely, or pinterest perfect, but messy real life perfect.
I have watched our kids grow and stretch emotionally and physically. We've struggled to support Hank to find his way as a sensitive kid in a noisy and insensitive world, and battled decisions on counseling, medication, how much we are able to help vs. how much he needs. I think he grew 3 feet this summer, and weathered emotions of Hemingway proportions. We chose to start an antidepressant this summer, which was a decision heavy with worry, doubt, and even some self reflective guilt over the things we pass down to our kids. It feels like a taboo subject, children who need more mental help than hugs and home love can give, but if anyone wants a soft heart and open ear to discuss it, we've skirted around it for a couple years in our home.
Archie has grown into something the same and wholly different than what I expected. The same confident silly boy at home, and this unexpected shy little man when out at a friends or in a class. His oft uttered request for confirmation on any given thing is, "Right Hanky?" He is long and lanky, which reminds me of my brothers, because I swear he eats twice his body weight each day, and I can still see his spine through his shirts. He is fearless and bashful all at once.
Elsie. Is. A. Pistol. She is a sharp witted, strong willed, force of a girl to be reckoned with. She defies us at every turn with a toss of her curls, a stamping foot, and the phrase "are you kidding me?!" I can't discipline her without laughing, and once she knows you are laughing she is already aware she has won. Most of the time when I choose a stance or a hard line, two hours later I regret it. I don't know if I will ever get her to apologize for anything. Ever. I hope she speeds through life with fire and fury unapologetically, like she does now.
It is 8o'clock, we're off our nighttime schedule by an hour because while I have been sitting outside writing, they have been jumping on the trampoline and catching fireflies in cups. This is the sweetness of summer nights without plans or obligations. The sweetness I always hope to preserve through the school year, but that usually gives way to lunch packing, school prepping, and general needs for sleep before spending a day out of home learning. Thank goodness for 8 weeks of summer...
While I am pinning bento box meals, searching for the right back packs, and gawking at the absurd school supply list, I am also taking stock of our summer. We chose for all three kids to be home, not to have a set plan for each day; to fill our 8 weeks with $1 movies, park outings, pool swimming, home days, lego building, trampoline jumping, firefly catching, and in general the luxury and bliss of not having to have any plan at all. The kids have happily started a morning routine of granola, yogurt, and pound puppies. It has been perfect, as perfect as an imperfect family could wish for. Not instagram lovely, or pinterest perfect, but messy real life perfect.
I have watched our kids grow and stretch emotionally and physically. We've struggled to support Hank to find his way as a sensitive kid in a noisy and insensitive world, and battled decisions on counseling, medication, how much we are able to help vs. how much he needs. I think he grew 3 feet this summer, and weathered emotions of Hemingway proportions. We chose to start an antidepressant this summer, which was a decision heavy with worry, doubt, and even some self reflective guilt over the things we pass down to our kids. It feels like a taboo subject, children who need more mental help than hugs and home love can give, but if anyone wants a soft heart and open ear to discuss it, we've skirted around it for a couple years in our home.
Archie has grown into something the same and wholly different than what I expected. The same confident silly boy at home, and this unexpected shy little man when out at a friends or in a class. His oft uttered request for confirmation on any given thing is, "Right Hanky?" He is long and lanky, which reminds me of my brothers, because I swear he eats twice his body weight each day, and I can still see his spine through his shirts. He is fearless and bashful all at once.
Elsie. Is. A. Pistol. She is a sharp witted, strong willed, force of a girl to be reckoned with. She defies us at every turn with a toss of her curls, a stamping foot, and the phrase "are you kidding me?!" I can't discipline her without laughing, and once she knows you are laughing she is already aware she has won. Most of the time when I choose a stance or a hard line, two hours later I regret it. I don't know if I will ever get her to apologize for anything. Ever. I hope she speeds through life with fire and fury unapologetically, like she does now.
It is 8o'clock, we're off our nighttime schedule by an hour because while I have been sitting outside writing, they have been jumping on the trampoline and catching fireflies in cups. This is the sweetness of summer nights without plans or obligations. The sweetness I always hope to preserve through the school year, but that usually gives way to lunch packing, school prepping, and general needs for sleep before spending a day out of home learning. Thank goodness for 8 weeks of summer...
Thursday, June 30, 2016
My body fails me all the time
It is a frustrating thing to feel your own body betrays you. Not in an aging way, or in a broken down aches and pain way, but in an integral, basic function sort of way.
My body doesn't like to stay pregnant. It doesn't matter with what sort of desperation I desire the baby, it doesn't matter when I bruise my body over and over every day with the appropriate blood thinners, it doesn't seem to matter what I do at all. I have jokingly said before that I have no problem getting pregnant, it's the holding the pregnancy I can't seem to do, and like a car reservation, it's the holding on that really counts isn't it.
I have three lovely kids, I am happy to have them. I remember my OBGYN in Philadelphia telling me he was not sure how my placenta managed to support poor Hank, but here he is, and I am appropriately grateful. I am grateful for postpartum hemorrhages, postpartum Lovenox, and even the postpartum depression that has gotten me the three sweet faces I own. I hope my frustration is not mistaken for not counting my blessings.
They don't fill this fourth little void I feel in my heart and in my family. They don't take the space of what I was holding in my mind and my arms ten months from now.
The truth is, I wanted this baby. I wanted it with such a fierce desperation that I gave myself a lot of false hope over this last week. I fooled myself into thinking it was meant to be, because the only way we would have a fourth baby was by complete chance and mistake. And for that reason alone, I felt it just might stick.
Unlike other times, this one was particularly drawn out and painful as I twice witnessed the slowest little beat, then came home and prayed each day that it would get stronger not weaker, and I silently telepathically urged that baby to get stronger each night in the quiet of my bed. I held my husbands hand and wept when it didn't, then I held my friends hands in the O.R. and wept while they removed this tiny thing I never wanted to let go of and felt guilty for letting it be gently drawn out of my body. When you are all emptied out, it is a different kind of grief. It's one most people don't talk about much, because it is awkward and hard to verbalize what it feels like to lose something so small that no one saw with their eyes or held with their hands. I held it in my bones and my blood, in my very inner self. While I am grateful for the relief, I still grieve the loss of morning sickness and nausea at every turn of my day. I grieve drinking and enjoying coffee again, and I feel guilty for my grief. It is an awkward thing to impose on the people around you. This is why women don't talk about their miscarriages I think.
My body doesn't like to stay pregnant. It doesn't matter with what sort of desperation I desire the baby, it doesn't matter when I bruise my body over and over every day with the appropriate blood thinners, it doesn't seem to matter what I do at all. I have jokingly said before that I have no problem getting pregnant, it's the holding the pregnancy I can't seem to do, and like a car reservation, it's the holding on that really counts isn't it.
I have three lovely kids, I am happy to have them. I remember my OBGYN in Philadelphia telling me he was not sure how my placenta managed to support poor Hank, but here he is, and I am appropriately grateful. I am grateful for postpartum hemorrhages, postpartum Lovenox, and even the postpartum depression that has gotten me the three sweet faces I own. I hope my frustration is not mistaken for not counting my blessings.
They don't fill this fourth little void I feel in my heart and in my family. They don't take the space of what I was holding in my mind and my arms ten months from now.
The truth is, I wanted this baby. I wanted it with such a fierce desperation that I gave myself a lot of false hope over this last week. I fooled myself into thinking it was meant to be, because the only way we would have a fourth baby was by complete chance and mistake. And for that reason alone, I felt it just might stick.
Unlike other times, this one was particularly drawn out and painful as I twice witnessed the slowest little beat, then came home and prayed each day that it would get stronger not weaker, and I silently telepathically urged that baby to get stronger each night in the quiet of my bed. I held my husbands hand and wept when it didn't, then I held my friends hands in the O.R. and wept while they removed this tiny thing I never wanted to let go of and felt guilty for letting it be gently drawn out of my body. When you are all emptied out, it is a different kind of grief. It's one most people don't talk about much, because it is awkward and hard to verbalize what it feels like to lose something so small that no one saw with their eyes or held with their hands. I held it in my bones and my blood, in my very inner self. While I am grateful for the relief, I still grieve the loss of morning sickness and nausea at every turn of my day. I grieve drinking and enjoying coffee again, and I feel guilty for my grief. It is an awkward thing to impose on the people around you. This is why women don't talk about their miscarriages I think.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
The Great Purge
Undertaking a simplifying of our life and a purge of our belongings sounds refreshing. The kitchen was pared down with ease, clothing didn't pose as much of a problem as I had imagined; then came the books. Oh, the books, laden with love and memories. Heavy with knowledge imparted, solace afforded, and companionship during my loneliest times. I thumb through them, first only keeping what I hope my kids will read and expand with, praying they love to read the way I love to read, knowing it can open a whole world of possiblities to them. How do I thank and release something that can mean and give so much. I automatically move Ayn Rand as far from the give away pile as possible, I linger over my Atwood and Murakami collection with angst flowing out of my fingertips. Keep the classics, allow them to find their way through literature as I did, blind a little, eager always. But, what if they never decide to read the Chosen because it never crosses their paths, or they think We the Living outdated for our times. What if they never pick these up on their own but would have read them readily available on the shelves at home.
I am reminded, books on shelves are dormant. Sadly depriving others their gifts as they collect dust in my living room. We keep our Steinbeck collection as our literary common ground. Sean and I often like opposite circles of music and literature, but I relish the sweet spots where our passions overlap, I enjoy them much more knowing we've read or listened together.
I am egged on by this need for our lives and home to be simplistic, as our schedules and everything else surrounding us feels chaotic most the time. I dream of an easily tidied home, a place for everything, even the plastic army men the boys had long forgotten they had, but which are now strewn across the kitchen floor. This may be an exercise in futility, but one I am sure we ought to undertake. Surely Marie Kondo did not mean for us to rid ourselves of C.S. Lewis!!!
I am reminded, books on shelves are dormant. Sadly depriving others their gifts as they collect dust in my living room. We keep our Steinbeck collection as our literary common ground. Sean and I often like opposite circles of music and literature, but I relish the sweet spots where our passions overlap, I enjoy them much more knowing we've read or listened together.
I am egged on by this need for our lives and home to be simplistic, as our schedules and everything else surrounding us feels chaotic most the time. I dream of an easily tidied home, a place for everything, even the plastic army men the boys had long forgotten they had, but which are now strewn across the kitchen floor. This may be an exercise in futility, but one I am sure we ought to undertake. Surely Marie Kondo did not mean for us to rid ourselves of C.S. Lewis!!!
Friday, December 4, 2015
I get by with a post once a year...
I miss writing, I miss a lot of things about myself from before I had kids. I don't miss not having kids. These days my two greatest pleasures are the few moments that I get to connect with Sean by ourselves and watching this little trio of humans grow.
It is an incredible sight that I've been watching since they were inside me, tangles of arms and legs that grow and grow at alarming rates.
Extrauterine life has not slowed them a bit, they are changing as they sleep and breath, as they wake and eat bountiful amounts of food that we are lucky to provide for them.
I find myself content and somewhat relieved that each time I have Sean to myself I find all the reasons I fell in love with him are still present in addition to a million more. He is still my favourite person to be around, and the trio is an extension of that. A sort of familial love I never knew I could experience one that I am grateful for more and more each day.
Hank is about to turn 7, a look back at my first musings on him as a child shows me he has always had this cautious, pensive, perfect personality he was born with; it is a frightful thing to send a sensitive soul out into the world and to hope each day he is not so wounded that he cannot be patched up at home for the next day.
Archie is gloriously 4.5 years old, and in same is still rambunctious, head strong, and completely deaf to instruction or reprimand. However, he garners the biggest laughs and is almost impossible to discipline without cracking a smile. He is fast, compact, creative, perfect in his own right.
Elsie is 2.5 and each day I look in wonder at her and the fact that we have a daughter
not a third son. I awe at the innate femininity of her, the playful and glibness of her, I am amazed by her. She is a mass of curls, fire, and fun. I see a future that is so different for me because I had a daughter and not another son. I love her for the tenderness she receives from all three boys in this family, the joy she brings, and the promises her little life holds.
As the trio grows I realize I am finding myself again. Finding my passion for missions foreign and personal are still a part of me. Finding myself in a new work that is more and better than any job I ever knew I could find. Finding I am still happy for the choices that have all led into this beautiful, tired, happy, messy family I call mine.
It is an incredible sight that I've been watching since they were inside me, tangles of arms and legs that grow and grow at alarming rates.
Extrauterine life has not slowed them a bit, they are changing as they sleep and breath, as they wake and eat bountiful amounts of food that we are lucky to provide for them.
I find myself content and somewhat relieved that each time I have Sean to myself I find all the reasons I fell in love with him are still present in addition to a million more. He is still my favourite person to be around, and the trio is an extension of that. A sort of familial love I never knew I could experience one that I am grateful for more and more each day.
Hank is about to turn 7, a look back at my first musings on him as a child shows me he has always had this cautious, pensive, perfect personality he was born with; it is a frightful thing to send a sensitive soul out into the world and to hope each day he is not so wounded that he cannot be patched up at home for the next day.
Archie is gloriously 4.5 years old, and in same is still rambunctious, head strong, and completely deaf to instruction or reprimand. However, he garners the biggest laughs and is almost impossible to discipline without cracking a smile. He is fast, compact, creative, perfect in his own right.
Elsie is 2.5 and each day I look in wonder at her and the fact that we have a daughter
not a third son. I awe at the innate femininity of her, the playful and glibness of her, I am amazed by her. She is a mass of curls, fire, and fun. I see a future that is so different for me because I had a daughter and not another son. I love her for the tenderness she receives from all three boys in this family, the joy she brings, and the promises her little life holds.
As the trio grows I realize I am finding myself again. Finding my passion for missions foreign and personal are still a part of me. Finding myself in a new work that is more and better than any job I ever knew I could find. Finding I am still happy for the choices that have all led into this beautiful, tired, happy, messy family I call mine.
 |
| Archie and Elsie finally bonding |
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| Hank finally seeing the space needle |
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| pretending to be robbers on the ferry |
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| ferry surfing |
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Only 5 and 3....
Lately parenting has gotten the best of us. The best of our patience is exhausted, the best of our play time is beaten down and tired. That does not stop the need for play time and the ever greater need for patience. The other day Sean said, "they are still so small, just 5 and 3, so little still." I've been trying so hard to look at them through that lens of life, only 5 and 3 years of life to know all the rules of whats annoying, whats safe, whats funny vs. whats obnoxious. In the large scheme of life I know Hanks sensitive nature is going to make him the sweetest, kindest man. His neurotic perfectionism and attention to detail will make him such and intelligent creative person. Archie's head strong nature and stubbornness will be such an asset when he is older. However, right now it looks like Hank throwing up his dinner and crying because I told him I was making chicken for supper, but forgot to mention I was also making potatoes and veggies, and it looks like Archie not listening to a damn word that is said to him, and crying loudly over any instructions given so he can ignore you and do it his way anyways. It looks like two tired beaten down adults at the end of the day who dread being left alone with their children.... What will it look like for us when they are not 5, 3, and 1?
Monday, November 10, 2014
pinterest perfect
My life is not the pinterest board picture I want it to be. I could probably post a few timely taken photos that would make it all look pretty, but what it really looks like is my 5 year old crying because I wont let him wear red from head to toe, my three year old crying because he doesn't think he needs a jacket in 50 degree weather, and my the 16 month old screaming because the 3 year old is touching her baby. My house is a mess, and it's not from crafting cute banners, or sensory play with they kids. It's a mess from living, and it's always a mess unless my dear husband stays up way too late cleaning it. I could probably post some photos that were taken at just the right time, but who am I kidding. It really looks like this...
When it does't look like a huge mess, I'm pretty sure it's because the kids are in bed. The only reason there's time to blog this is because the baby is nursing after her colossal tantrum over me putting the groceries away.
The last time I posted anything on here we only had one child!
The last time I posted anything on here we only had one child!
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