It's Not About Me

I'm not sure what made me ask. Maybe because just last week O had told me he was too big for his beloved security blanket, Bean? Maybe because all of the sudden he looked like one of my big kids instead of one of my littles- all angles and long lines instead of soft curves and dimples? Mother's intuition?

"O, is it still ok if I take you to Kindergarten tomorrow?"
"No, just daddy."

The dinner table goes silent.  All at once F and the bigs start arguing my case.

"Mom always goes the first day."
"Mom, you can walk me in."
"O, you'll be sad if you don't have mom with you!"

I interrupt that it's Oliver's choice and I will be just fine at home with the babies.  The table settles into an uneasy silence as if no one actually believes me.
 

Later that night F corners me in the kitchen.

"He's 5! He doesn't get to choose! If you want to go then you go!"

I smile through tears.  I'd love to agree with him, but in my heart I know I can't.

Separation has been difficult for Oliver.  In preschool he kept a picture of me in his cubby to ward off homesick feelings.  Goodbyes had to be quick because lingering hugs would inevitably lead to tears.  Any long weekend or holiday break would mean making the transition to school all over again. It was a rough time for both of us.  We were blessed with teachers that understood O and took his insecurities in stride.  They knew to get him interested in something quickly and if we had a rocky drop off they often took the time to call to let me know that O had settled in happily.

I shouldn't have asked O who he'd like at drop off if I wasn't going to honor his choice. To ignore his preference would send the message that I didn't have confidence in him: I had no problem sending his older brothers off with Frank why not him? As painful as the morning would be I would have to send them off without me.  This day wasn't about me.  It was a milestone for Oliver.   

The next morning came and in a flurry of teeth brushing, cereal eating, and shoe tying it was time for the boys to leave. They loaded into their daddy's truck and pulled away. As they reached the middle of the driveway the truck slowed, a window lowered, and a small voice could be heard yelling "Bye mom! I love you!". With that the tears I'd been holding in burst forth and all I could do is frantically wave back.

Letting go is so very hard. But so very beautiful.

Hissy Fit

I consider myself a happy person.  I'm quick to laugh and can usually find the humor in just about any situation.  I really try not to take things too seriously because I know that given enough time and prayer situations change or resolve.  Lately though, things haven't seemed very funny.  The news is full of images of families seeking refuge over the sea, and interviews with presidential candidates fighting for their own self interests instead of ours. Miscarriage, deep depression, painful chronic illnesses, rape, and frighteningly sick children are all battles my beloveds are facing. My Facebook feed is FULL of a kind of negativity that frankly scares me.  The benefit of the doubt and extending grace have both gone out of style and instead pointing fingers, judgement, and anger are now en vogue. 

I've felt my spirit getting heavier and heavier.  I've been getting headaches and my stomach hurts.  I used to engage strangers in conversation, now I just avoid eye contact and move along.  I've been startled twice by men I don't know coming too close to me.  Our HEB is being remodeled and has made things extremely crowded.  These men were merely trying to move out of the way of another basket.  In the past I would have recognized this. On these occasions I startled and jumped so violently that both individuals asked if I was ok. It was both embarrassing and concerning. 

This week I decided I needed a media break.  I tried to not tune into the news and limited my Facebook usage. Honestly that didn't do much to make me feel better because "limited" is a relative term.  I'd already decided to uninstall social media from my phone and make some other changes when I got the call from my mom.  I was in the pool when she called so I didn't answer it.  When the phone rang again just 5 minutes later I knew I had to pick up. It was obvious the second I heard her voice that something had happened.  In a very tragic accident my sweet father had lost his dog, Kai. 

Kai and my dad had a very special connection and were constant companions.  He took that big goofy dog everywhere with him.  She would cram herself in his lap every chance she got, and she never missed a chance to sneak portions of food off his plate.  I knew in my heart that this was a loss that was going to stick.  There would be no easy way for dad to get through this.  I tried my best to offer comfort to my mom and asked what I could do for dad before getting off the phone.  The second I hung up I burst into tears, threw my phone to the ground, and literally stomped my feet.  I threw a hissy fit.  I cried and I stomped, and I cried some more.

As the minutes passed I realized that as devastated as I was for my dad my fit wasn't just for him.  I was crying for every image of broken heartedness I'd seen on the news and social media. I was crying for the judgement and hate that was being thrown around so casually. I was stomping on the injustice I felt when "bad things happened to good people" over and over. But most of all I was crying for my babies. I'm scared for them.  What kind of world are we leaving them? How can my lessons in "Do everything in kindness" really sink in when they are surrounded by, for lack of a better word, such crap? My heart aches for all of us, but it breaks for them.

Glennon Melton is an author I adore and admire.  She wrote this post that touched me.  If you've got a second read it.  I am a canary. In case you didn't read the linked post let me post a part of it that will explain: "Because yes, I’ve got these conditions—anxiety, depression, addiction—and they almost killed me. But they are also my superpowers. I’m the canary in the mine and you need my sensitivity because I can smell toxins in the air that you can’t smell, see trouble you don’t see and sense danger you don’t feel. My sensitivity could save us all. And so instead of letting me fall silent and die — why don’t we work together to clear some of this poison from the air."

The past several months I've been smelling toxins and sensing danger every time I logged onto social media or read the news.  Every time I got more bad news about a loved one I'd feel more trouble brewing.  Something has to change.  I have a friend who took this to heart and is in Greece right now providing midwifery care to refugees.  I am so proud of her and am so so envious that she has the ability to provide this kind of help.  Although I am not in a place in my life where I can take off to another country, I can do my part here.  I am vowing to not ignore it when I hear others spewing out hate. I will ask questions of those who think differently than I do instead of just assuming they are wrong.  Most importantly I will start reaching out.  My instincts have been to Shut. It. Down.  That is exactly the wrong thing to do.  I need to put out love, kindness, and grace. I need to smile and laugh.  I need to pray.  I need to give what I want my children to receive in the future.  If we all did this in our own small circles imagine the reach we could have. 

Seasons

It seems like every season has a theme.  This fall was acceptance.  I had to accept that life with five kids was going to be busier and require way more time in the car than I'd ever anticipated. Therapy appointments, preschool pick up and drop off, playdates, and various lessons and appointments all stacked up and at times threated to topple over and bury me. I am a nester.  I love nothing more than to be at home working on whatever project has caught my attention at the moment.  Hours can pass and I'll barely notice.  This fall God pushed me out of the nest.  I was forced to find contentment in circumstances that I didn't plan and didn't necessarily want.  After a very rough start I finally accepted the situation and adjusted.  I learned to carry a book and writers notebook with me at all times.  I found podcasts that the kids and I could enjoy together and much to their chagrin my love of singing has been renewed. Time in the car doesn't feel like a waste anymore.  It's full of conversation and laughter and has truly become a time I look forward to and enjoy.  Acceptance doesn't have to mean "giving in". This fall God taught me it can mean "being open"... Letting yourself see what you might learn or what else might make you happy. 

This spring I'm being given a big lesson in making the choice to let go.
Two children in the family are facing challenges that are truly painful for me to witness.  Oliver is finishing up his pre-kindergarten year at an amazing preschool.  His two older brothers and his older cousins all attended this school.  I trust the teachers and director implicitly.  We all agree that O has specific learning difficulties that make us fear a diagnosis of dyslexia will come at a later time.  After much research I know that I have him in every single intervention available for his age. I also know that our family is doing everything possible at home for him.  Now it is time for me to pray and give him time to grow.  I cannot do anything else for him.  As hard as it is I have to have faith and let the worry and obsessing go. One of my older kiddos is facing a challenge of a different kind.  I won't go into many details because I want to respect his privacy, but he has taken on this challenge himself.  He is taking a risk and putting himself in a very vulnerable situation.  I couldn't be prouder of the effort he is making, but I am full of anxiety.  I am doubtful that he will be successful and I am afraid of how his heart and spirit will break after such a failure.  As tempting as it is I would never ever dissuade him from trying.  Instead I'm choosing to take my adult perspective out of the situation and let my fear go.  I'm praying for him to have the strength to deal with whatever the outcome may be. I'm also praying that he will continue to follow his passions. What I'm realizing is that when I let my fear, anxiety, and worry go I'm making room for things like prayer, clarity, and perspective.  I make better decisions, I see people's intentions for what they really are, and I can take myself out of situations that really have nothing to do with me.  I can make more of an effort to act from a place of love and grace. I know that will make me such a better wife and mom.   

24 hours

As I'm washing dishes the chime on my phone goes off alerting me to a text.  I grab it with wet hands expecting it to be F telling me he'll be late coming home.  Instead it's my friend. "The pediatrician says it's ******. I'm sort of freaking out. Should I be freaking out?"  Before answering I head to Google.  My heart sinks as I read and I too begin to worry.

The pediatrician promises to call my friend the next day with the results of blood work. I think to myself that she is really calling to tell her which fork in the road they will be taking: the one to health or the one to hospitals.  My stomach hurts and I can't take a full breath. I'm embarrassed by my physical response.  I know that whatever I'm feeling is nothing compared to what my friend is feeling. 

I don't sleep that night.  Instead I think about my friend.  We've known each other for almost 20 years.  We have prayed for one another and with one another.  She's held my hand while I was in labor. She's picked me up off the floor when I was too sad to stand. She knows me better than anyone. She is my sister-friend.  She is my heart. 

I think about her precious daughter.  She is wise beyond her years. She loves Jesus with a fierceness that both impresses and intimidates me. She is destined to grow up and change the world.  She has already changed mine.  When my G was a toddler and had a speech impediment she not only understood him, but would act as his translator when they were together.  She was 5.  When the babies were new and I was exhausted I would pass her Laurel.  She would hold the tiny swaddled bundle and whisper girly secrets in her ear. Laurel would gaze up at her perfectly content.  She never comes to visit me empty handed.  She brings me pictures she has colored, rainbow loom treasures, collages. I have them all in a drawer.  She is my heart.   

The next morning I circle the wagons.  I call the people in my life that I know will pray without ceasing.  We fall to our knees and beg for the healthy fork in the road.  Please, please, please...  

Every text makes my heart jump.  I find my eyes filling with tears at random times throughout the day.  I try not to bother my friend at work, but fail miserably.  Have you heard? How are you? Do you need me? I feel helpless.  I want to go to her.  I want to be with her when she gets the news. 

Finally we hear.  She is perfect.  She is healthy.  I burst into tears.  I am simultaneously relieved at all my friend is spared and devastated by what other mothers are forced to face. I have no words.

Decisions

Several kids were gathered around the kitchen table making Valentines.  Some were scribbling happily on pink construction paper while others were carefully copying their friends names onto bags of candy.  There were talks of preferring Skittles to Fun Dip and discussions about the sayings on conversation hearts. If you didn't look closely you'd think the whole group was having a great time!

When I was done washing dishes I headed to the table and sat next to my four year old.  His back had been to me while I was busy at the sink so I hadn't noticed his furrowed brow nor the scowl where his usually impish smile was. 

"Uh oh, you don't look like you're having fun!"

"I'm not! I'm not doing this anymore"

"Why? You liked these Valentines when we picked them out. You were excited about your party. What happened?"

"I can't write my name. I'm not doing this"

The little guy slams his marker down and burrows his head into his arms.  It's then that I notice the red indentions on his finger and the pile of crumpled cards next to him.  My breath catches and my stomach begins to hurt.  This sweet boy has been working so hard in occupational therapy to learn to write. Just that day his teacher commented that he had been doing a great job and she could see his progress.  I felt awful that I'd let what was supposed to be a fun activity dampen whatever confidence he'd gained.

My first instinct was to take the marker and write his name for him: smooth the edges and save the evening. While that might be a quick fix I knew that in the long run he'd be better off if I helped him figure out a way to do this himself.  After some pre-valentines candy we worked together on finishing his cards.  We settle on writing just "Oli" and when even that gets tiresome we work on writing "O".  It's an arduous task and he works even after his siblings have grown bored and moved on to the TV in the playroom.  I tell him I admire his commitment to finishing the cards and that I know his friends will love them.  I find myself biting back tears more than once as I watch him work.

Over the next several days I find myself worrying over what the future holds for Oliver.  As a former teacher I am all too familiar with demands elementary school now makes on it's youngest students.  It's a challenging day for even the most prepared child.  The thought of thrusting my most sensitive boy into an environment that I know will push him beyond his limits is heartbreaking.  I want him to be three again where our days were full of playscapes and side walk chalk.  I want more time. 

I think and think and think.  I read and read and read.  I know I'm missing something.  Many parts of school don't come easily for Oli.  He has worked hard for every skill he has mastered.  His struggle is my struggle.  I know I need a new perspective so I call on my village.  I have long, hard conversations with moms and teachers I love and respect.  We hash out our options and I shed many tears.  Two things remain constant: we all love Oliver and I am blessed with a community of women that I can count on.  We are going to be ok.

No matter what F and I decide for Oliver the choice will be a leap of faith.  We are going to have to trust that the process will unfold as it's supposed to: support will find us, the words will come, and Oliver will be happy throughout.

"Don't bury in doubt what you planted in faith."

On My Mind: Random

Lately I have really been feeling the extremes of having five children.  When things are running smoothly it is amazing!   The house is full of laughter, messes are manageable, and I am able to go with the flow.  BUT, then there are months like this one.  The babies have been sick for what seems like weeks, Frank is working late most nights, and each big kid has had their own issue that has seemed extra needy.  It's during these times that the noise in the house seems unbearable and I find myself saying "Go play outside" way more than I normally would.  I notice that I'm constantly straightening and organizing, and any variation from our routine irritates me. I just can't relax and sink into the moment like I normally do. I am thankful for the ebb and flow of life as I know that this time will pass and things will calm down again. 

I've been really thinking about is this blog.  When I started this I intended for it to be a record of our family.  I thought I'd show off pictures and record what we did each month.  Without realizing it I'd slowly stopped making those type of posts (I think because I'm so active on Facebook). Instead, I'd started posting about how I was feeling about our family structure and the changes that were happening within it as my kids grew.  I love writing about my family.  It's a good outlet for me and it forces me to get to the root of whatever issue I'm being challenged with.  What I'm struggling with is how this affects my Bigs.  They have reached the age where they need privacy.  Their stories aren't mine to tell anymore. I'm still thinking and reading other blogs to get ideas. To be continued...