Of Walking Away

By the time my husband's alarm sounded this morning, I was in shock - there was no way that sleepless night was over already. Surely it was only 2am and his poor clock was just confused.

Unfortunately that was not the case. And my poor brain has been suffering the consequences of its own inability to rest. As evidenced by the fact of my sitting up in bed (entirely too early), rubbing my hand over my swollen belly and thinking, "I sure am getting fat." It was maybe a full two seconds before I remembered there was life growing in that belly, not just a stash of chocolate chip cookies.

Thus, after pouring milk on the cereal of a daughter who loathes milk on her cereal (though loves it in her cup) and dealing with the apocalyptic outcome of that brain-fogged action, as I listened to the chorus of my two eldest arguing over who would be allowed to open the fridge so the boy could put his un-finished cup of milk inside, I sighed. Trying once, unsuccessfully, to supersede the volume of his irrational sobs, to offer some sort of resolution (or, perhaps, a solid, "Stop crying and put your milk in the fridge! Sissy already has it open for you!"), I simply shook my head and walked away.

This was way below my pay-grade.

I recognized this issue was, in fact, one that could be settled by young children, and the value of my sanity was much higher than the fairness of whatever outcome they could manage.

And I left. I entered my room, closed the door, and started to get dressed, feeling slightly guilty over my inability and unwillingness to fix it.

It was only after the door had been opened again, as I straightened my sweater over that bulging belly, that Emmett came dashing into the room, sister close behind.

"Momma! I opened the fridge and 'Caiah held my cup and then she gave me my cup - "

"And then I threw the door closed!" she finished, triumphantly.

Though the slamming of the door isn't exciting to me, the fact that they successfully navigated the field of conflict resolution with a solution that left them both happy and proud of their independence re-assured me of my decision to walk away. Had I not, I would have missed this blessed moment - the one when Momma realizes it's not just her fatigue talking, but her children really can solve their own problems (some of the time, anyway).

And sometimes it takes us just walking away to realize how independent our children can really be.

Of Our Little Potato-Head

Philip had finished telling me the adorable way Emmett had reacted when Philip asked to check his diaper. As he left the room, I giggled and told Micaiah, who sat next to me, "Your brother is silly."

She laughed, too. "Yeah, he's like a potato-head. Like a potato who says, 'I'm going to jump and turn around when Daddy needs to check my diaper. And I'm going to stick out my toochy [her pronunciation of tushie]!"

Yes, Micaiah. Just like that kind of potato.

Of Naming the Baby

Conversations out of nowhere:

M: "I think we should name the baby Anna."
E: "I think it should be Emily."
M: "Anna!"
E: "Emily!"
M: "Anna!"
[after multiple rounds of this . . .]
E: "Maybe it could be Anna Emily."
M: "No! . . . . Maybe it could be Emily when she's bad. Like, 'Anna Emily Rowland.'"

First of all, I have no idea how they decided on these names. We have not really discussed naming the baby, especially not with the kids, nor have either of those been mentioned by anyone in our house in such a context (Micaiah's go-to toy name is Sally). Second, the spontaneous middle-name compromise of Emmett was an overall surprise - I would have never expected him to think of combining the two names. Third, I love how Micaiah presents her solution as though she had not just heard that two seconds before.

These children surprise us always.  We kind of like them.

Of Showing Off

A little over a week ago our new five-year-old - a fact she will tell anyone and everyone with whom she comes into contact - "I'm five!" - ventured out for a sleepover with her doting aunt, a part of a birthday gift from said aunt.

With oversized backpack hanging from her shoulders, filled with all the precious things required for such an adventure (P.J.'s, hairbrush, storybook and dance clothes for the next morning), she bounced to Aunt Dayla's car, ready for an evening of pizza and girl time. 

She's so grown up.

She returned to us the following morning, post dance class, decked out in tights and leotard, sporting fancy new nails. Well, the finger nails weren't new, but the hot pink polish on the fingers and sparkly purple on the toes sure were.

And was this girl proud.

For the next 48 hours, at least, everyone she met was a new audience for her excitement.

"Look!" She would announce, proudly holding out her fancy fingers to anyone who may or may not listen - cashiers, the friendly custodian at church, the operator of the inflatable place, and countless others- "My Dayla did them!" (After the sleepover, Aunt Dayla officially moved away from her more formal title, or even the less formal "Dia" coined when this girl could barely form more than one syllable in a row, into the much more intimate "My Dayla." I think she's kind of loving it.)

And as this girl boldly and eagerly shared her news with all she met, it made me wonder.

Why is this not the way we show Christ to others?

When was the last time we initiated a conversation with a total stranger, let alone used the opening line of, "Look at what My Jesus has done for me!"

Let us move forward with faith like a child. He has created in us something beautiful - should we not be eager to let His handiwork shine?

Of Dance Lessons

Micaiah began taking dance lessons last week. It was maybe an exciting moment for Mommy because I've always wanted my children to find something they love and have the opportunity to pursue it. And this girl loves to move to music.

We had chosen a program taught by dance students at a local university (some may not realize our town actually boasts two small religious-affiliated universities within its borders, but, in fact, we do). I had spent absolutely zero time in my past eleven years in this region (more than a decade! How is that even possible?!) on said university campus and felt like a freshman all over again as I roamed the small grounds attempting to find the one spot I was supposed to be.

Except I would be the only freshman toting an over-eager near-five-year-old in leotard and tights as I sought the one university student awake on a Saturday morning who might be able to actually help me find where we should be. It was not an easy task as my eyes combed the tree-laden grounds with not a human being in sight. We did finally prevail upon one lone baseball player on his way to breakfast (it would appear the sports players are the only ones alive at that hour) who attempted to aid our quest, but his directions ended us at a locked door.

Finally, after 10-15 minutes of searching (which is a long time when you're standing in a square of about four buildings and, thus, have limited options, really) and some questionable advice from a cafeteria worker who, apparently knows nothing about her workplace beyond the cash register or the tables of the dining hall (and who can blame her - it's not like she's ever needed to find her way to the fine arts building for ballet), and a few tears (the frustration of arriving early and being in the proximity of the desired location but having not a clue how to get there may have worn on Momma's stress level just a tad), we made our way to the right place, just in the nick of time.

In fact, Micaiah was the only student in her class for that first lesson, so I suppose we could have been as late as necessary - but you could not have convinced me of the fact as I desperately sought our destination.

Week Two was bound to be much better. I was toting two extra boys to entertain for that 45-minute span and this fact made me a little nervous, but at least we knew where we were going and that fact alone thrilled my sometimes-nervous soul.

On the way, as Emmett chattered about going to sissy's ballet (pronounced "buh-LAY") class, Micaiah asked me ever so sweetly, "Mommy, did you take ballet class?"

Thinking fondly upon my one year at the city hall in small town Nebraska, clad in tights and little pink ballet shoes, I responded, "When I was very little."

"Did Grandma know how to get there?"

I responded tentatively, unsure where we were headed, "Yes . . . "

"Well, maybe she should have taken me last time."

Thanks, daughter, I love you, too.

Of Heeding God's Demands

Lately I've been feeling as though it's a difficult time just keeping my feet on the ground, or even as though life has any other purpose besides making it to the end of the day. I could easily blame it on the fact that I've been enduring yet another first trimester with three out-of-womb little ones scurrying underfoot. And, certainly, there is something to that excuse.

But I'd be lying if I blamed it all on the tiny critters over-running our home.

Truly, I've just been disconnected. From life, from my family and, most of all (and most importantly), from God.

I've been doing the basics - attending church (when we've been in town), pulling out the Bible once or twice a week to half-heartedly read a few verses or to get my "fix" so I'd feel better for just a little while. But it wasn't sustaining me, because I wasn't allowing it to. I was trying to get by on my own strength and this nausea, headache, trying-to-eat-right-for-the-baby-when-all-I-want-to-do-is-suck-down-all-the-gross-things-that-will-only-further-the-nausea-and-the-headaches time of my life was not giving me much strength with which to work.

Thus, when it was time to get back in the routine of Wednesday morning Bible Study with my favorite girls, I was very ready to have something specific to study that would encourage me to open the Word every day (because, let's be honest, I'm a rules-follower, and if someone gives me homework, I'm going to do it, because it would hurt my heart not to).

But I really wasn't prepared for Ms. Priscilla Shirer to go messing with my business on Day 1. I was ready for a soft intro before hitting the big guns. But that's just not her way.

We started Gideon's story before Gideon even enters the picture. To set the scene, she shows a little of life in his culture, but before that, even, she takes us back to Deuteronomy 7:1-2, where God is giving the Israelites specific instructions before they move to take their Promised Land - and the most basic of these instructions is that they are to wipe out EVERY people group in their way. It seems harsh, but God has His reasons. He knows that even a little of the enemy is enough to mess with their security and their future.

Fast forward to the beginning of Judges (1:21 and forward, to be exact), when we see the tribes of Israel flat out ignoring God. One after another, we visit the tribes in their new lands, still living with the Canaanites! They didn't wipe them out. Not even close. They're living side-by-side with the enemy. Now, in some territories, they forced the Canaanites into labor. So, of course, we can hear their justifications: "Everyone else is keeping them around. We can just cut them back a little; we'll make them work for us. We don't really need to cut them out altogether. That's just unnecessary - a little drastic, don't we agree?"

And at this point, I don't know about you, but I want to kick the Israelites (as we wanted back when they were whining in the desert and multiple other times in their history) - God told you to do something; so just do it! Don't you get it by now?!

Sigh. Some people.

Ms. Shirer goes on to summarize the effects of their disobedience to God's clear demands,

"Had Israel destroyed Canaan's inhabitants as instructed, the ungodly influence and infiltration of idolatry would have all but evaporated. Had there been no enemies left in their territory, the Israelites could have settled into the enjoyment of God's promised land instead of facing extended struggle and oppression from their neighbors."

Basically, life would have been amazing - as God intended it. But they thought they knew better. And they paid for it for the rest of history.

Stupid Israelites (pardon my frankness).

And then . . . THEN . . . Ms. Shirer has to go get all up in MY business: "Are you facing any battles today due to something you didn't destroy earlier?"

Wait, what?

I thought we were talking about the Israelites.  Those guys are annoying. They're the ones not listening to God. I'm just over here living my life. God doesn't want or need me to wipe out any people groups. Thank you.

But there was something.

There was something he asked me to give up a long time ago. Something that should have been a far easier task than committing genocide. But I didn't. I rationalized it: "Everyone else does it - so it's not like it's really bad, right? And, besides, I know it's taking up a lot of my time, but I can just cut back. I can make it work for me. We don't really need to cut this out altogether. That's just unnecessary - a little drastic."

So I kept it around. To comfort me when I wasn't feeling well, to distract me when I didn't feel like thinking about anything deep. And, more and more, I was turning to outside sources to fill my time, my mind, my heart, rather than filling up on the Word of God and finding my satisfaction in Him.

And hear me, what God was asking me to cut out was not something anyone else, had they heard me struggle over the instructions, would have said was a necessity to get rid of. It's nothing inherently bad, nothing the Bible condemns.

But God had asked me to cut it cleanly out of my life. And I had ignored Him. And my heart was feeling the infiltration from the Enemy. I had been disconnected from God.

So, this time I'm listening. I'm taking a lesson from those stupid Israelites, and I'm cutting this virus out.

Because when God speaks, we need to listen. #LessonsFromGideon

Of More Milestones

Our home has reached a few milestones in just 24 hours.

The first occurred yesterday evening when we flushed Micaiah's first pet (well the first that belonged to just her). However, lest you be concerned for her overall emotional state, she still hasn't even realized poor Embien's demise. I thought, certainly, our little observant one would be sure to notice a gaping hole on her art table where once her colorful fish sat. But, no. She colored quite happily this morning with no mention of a missing fish. I'm thinking she'll handle the grieving process just fine when his death has finally been uncovered.

It's a sign of maturity (I'm sure). Besides, we ordered her Kindergarten curriculum this morning (she sure is growing up fast!), so, clearly, this big girl can handle saying good-bye to a floating creature to whom she rarely gave more than a passing glance (right?).

And we reached yet another milestone last night in the development of our newest member of the family. We reached the point in the pregnancy when Fred had to make his appearance. Fred is my candy-cane shaped body pillow which eases the transition for this belly-sleeper into the side-sleeping position when the belly starts getting in the way. I really thought I'd be able to last longer without Fred in my bed, but it turns out, just as I'm transitioning out of the first trimester, his time has come.

Philip is really a good sport about this giant interloper in our sleeping/cuddling space (though, let's be honest, I'm not much of a cuddler so Fred isn't much to blame in the lack of pre-sleep snuggle in our home), though as I hugged my sleeping buddy for the first time in over two years, my living/breathing partner had to grumpily declare, "Wipe that silly grin off your face!" Yeah, Fred definitely gets a lot more snuggles than my patient husband. But we all know who I really love, so it's alright.

After all, Fred doesn't change diapers or cook me dinner when the morning sickness settles in.