Brother

Jace, buddy.

We are weeks, possibly days away from you claiming your new title as big brother.

Every time I look at you my heart beams with pride at who you are. We still call you our baby but you have full on conversations with us now, you make us laugh and make us think-- you are so independent that "baby" doesn't really fit you anymore.

The thought crushes me a little remembering just 2.5 years ago we were swaddling you and rocking you and figuring out how in the world to do this parent thing.

Thank you for letting us do our practicing on you, for being our guinea pig. For letting us make mistakes and try things out and for showing us how easy it is to fall completely in love in the most pure, unselfish way we could ever know. For coming in and shaking things up, changing our world, forcing us to grow up while simultaneously clinging to our youth and reliving the preciousness of childhood with you.

I'm so excited that you will have a new buddy. An at home friend who will go with you wherever you go and look up to you and learn from you. Who you can play games with and laugh with and share all kinds of life with. Who you will build this foundation with as a child that will follow you into adulthood. There's so much to be thrilled about. Siblings are simply the best.

But, I'm just a little nervous for that period before you actually realize all this. That transition of you realizing that your mommy and daddy are someone else's mommy and daddy now, too. That our time and attention will now be divided. My prayer is that you don't ever confuse that with our love. Our love will only multiply from here on out for you and your brother--we may mess up at times, but the love will remain. It will never run dry, it is an endless well that you can drink from no matter how old you are or where in the world you are or in what stage of life you are in-- it will always be yours for the taking.

Thank you for the last 2.5 years. They're in the record books as the best yet.  Thank you for teaching me so much about me. My weaknesses, my flaws, my strengths, and my dreams. You have filled my life to overflowing and the joy you bring me can't be contained in words. I love you so very much it hurts. You have given me the greatest gift in making me a mama.

As we close this chapter of your only child days let's move forward together. Let's go discover all the beautiful things that are awaiting us--wrapped up in this one tiny, new life that only you will forever get to call,

"my little brother."

 

 

Real Life

As we are preparing to add a new human to the mix of our daily lives it is becoming apparent to me what my weaknesses are. I am not good at envisioning. Don't ask me to pick out the perfect paint colors or what piece of furniture is going to go where. I cannot tell you. Literally. My brain stops functioning and sends me into high alert mode: "FIND SOMEONE WHO KNOWS!" Same goes for organizing, purging closets, making space... I don't even trust myself with a measuring tape.

A high school teacher of mine saw an art project I did once and said "Wow! You're such a smart girl, but your art is terrible!" Don't feel bad for me. It was and is absolutely true. When I used to draw people, my brother would ask 'why are their arms coming out of their heads?' And I had no clue what he was talking about. Um hello?! This is what REAL people look like in REAL LIFE!! Duh.

My friends and family are gifted beyond the capacity of normal people in these areas that I'm not, and the only logical explanation to me is that God knew how bad I would suck at these things so in turn gave me people who are above and beyond. They all know how to share with and beautify the world in practical, tangible ways. I so desperately want to, too.

If I focus on how useless my crafty skills are I get trapped in this cage of fear that my children will live these awful childhoods because their mom did nothing creative worth remembering.

But, then I remember my own childhood. My mom made me wear red tights with my blue, black, and white plaid, Catholic school uniform. Red does not go with that particular color scheme. My room was the color of Pepto Bismol. My birthday parties were filled with friends and family, but never themes--at least none I remember. I played outside all summer long. My days were filled with baseball with the boys on the block, hide and seek, riding bikes to the little store to buy candy. My childhood wasn't filled with Pinterest worthy moments or fashion or crafts, but they were FILLED. Mostly with love and adventure.

I remember how the smell of my moms makeup made me feel safe. How she would pray for all of us kids, how I would lay my head in her lap and how I used to watch her put her jewelry on and couldn't wait to be just like her. I remember how my dad would braid my hair and never missed a single game of any of the sports I played. How my brothers and me would sleep in the living room in sleeping bags on Friday nights as I tried to stay awake for all of TGIF. Or how we made forts with couch cushions and would run from the hallway and bounce off them. How any day spent with my cousins was a great one. I remember family barbecues and the feeling of grass between my toes while running through sprinklers on hot summer days. I didn't need Pinterest. I just needed real life. I would suck the marrow completely dry out of each day only to find it completely replenished again and again by a very normal childhood.

I want this for my kids. For them to remember the smell of the beach, the cool stickiness of watermelon dripping off their fingers.  To remember that their days were filled with love and adventure with friends and family. To know a mom who was passionate about them. Who loved Jesus and children and people from different parts of the world. Who placed high importance on loyalty and friendships. Who loved reading and writing and learning about people's stories. Who was a safe and steady place when their world was filled with chaos and always gave them the best advice. Who sang at the top of her lungs in the car, made pancakes for lunch on Fridays and played with their hair as they fell asleep.

Real life.

It's about giving this world the things that you are passionate about, that light a fire in you, that you know was knit inside of you in order to explode outside of you.

Be generous and set your gifts ablaze, paint the world in new, vibrant colors that are authentic to only you and share them in real life.

Because not all great things--

can be shared on Pinterest.

India Village Update!

Back in May 2013, my family visited a little village in India called Bendigeri, it was actually the place my dad grew up as child. The children there stole my heart and changed it. They helped me see how truly beautiful this world is because of the people who fill it. I left wanting to make a difference in their lives since they had made such a drastic difference in mine.

November and December of 2013 I reached out to friends, family, my MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group, church, and co workers sharing my experience and hoping we could rally together to send over $1,500 to this little village filled with children who had nothing and whose only building used for school and church had just recently been destroyed by a flood. Because of the wonderful people in my life, we raised $4,151.95. This wasn't through any organization, these children aren't accustomed to receiving so much, this was purely out of the generous hearts and donations of the people in my life.

With this money, 39 children were blessed with an array of new items including: Clothes, backpacks, watches, books, pens/pencils, geometric school supplies, lunchboxes, water bottles, toothpaste, toothbrushes, soap, and sweets. On behalf of the village, sports equipment for the kids were purchased including bats and balls to play cricket. They had previously only used sticks as their bats. For the school/church, a keyboard was purchased so they could continue to learn to play music and have something to sing along to. Additionally, there was some money left over to help with the rebuild of the school/church as well.

The children were overwhelmed by your generosity. Some cried, others were speechless, all were filled with gratitude. For some, it was the first time they felt special and loved. We received letters from the children who could write. Here are a few things they had to say:

I am Anil Gaikwad, age 9, 4th grade. I am from a very poor family. God is so good to provide these things through you all--He is love. I am grateful to you for loving us when we feel unlovable.

My name is Akash, 14 years old, 7th grade. My parents are laborers. If they work for that day we have food on the table, if not we wait for the next day for my parents to get hired and bring home money so we can get food. We survive day by day not knowing what the future holds. Thank you for the school supplies, new clothes, backpack, etc. I know these things were all packaged with love and generosity. My heartfelt love to the USA.

I am Jayashree Hulikari, age 9, 3rd grade. I am a daughter of labor workers. Thank you to each and everyone of you for providing my school supplies, backpack, geometric gadgets, and new clothes. You are making a huge difference in my life with your love, kindness, and generosity. Thank you to everyone in MOPS and the USA who contributed. I love you all.

My heart is swelling with gratitude for everyone who supported this dream, whether through money, prayers, or words of encouragement and affirmation. When I first blogged about this, sharing my heart and my hopes for raising $1,500, I felt vulnerable, scared, and like I had just set myself and these children up for failure. But, I learned through this process that if the Lord wants to accomplish something, He will. We can allow our insecurities to keep us in the shadows as silent observers, or we can trust that still small voice that allows us the privilege to be a part of the beautiful, sacred work He is already doing.

Those of you who were a part of this were a part of His plans. I am so very grateful for you and I know 39 children in a tiny village on the other side of the world who are grateful for you, too. 

You have left your mark on them--

a gesture they'll remember for the rest of their lives.

Children holding the bricks that will be used for the rebuild of the school/church

Some of the children in their brand new, clean clothes!

Some of the items the children were given

Another picture of them getting ready for the rebuild

 

These are just a few of the kids in their new clothes with their new backpacks

"Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’ " (Matthew 25:37, 38, 40 ESV)

Growing Pains

I hate change. Even when it's good change and I know great things will come from it, I still drag my feet in the mud and resist anything that is different from my normal.

I'm the girl who did the ugly cry the whole day (and night, and next day) of my brother's wedding because while I was happy for him, things would never be the same. I panic before vacations, even if all my friends or family are going, I get anxiety over leaving my little corner of the world. Even though I dreamed of having babies my whole life, I was mostly terrified and cried silently at my desk at work all day the day I found out I was pregnant with Jace.

Even though I know on the other side of growing pains, amazingness awaits, I still fear it. I hate the unknowns of the unknown.

And yet, change is inevitable and essential for growth. I love that my brother got married and I got a new sister and they ended up having 3 sweet babies. I loved experiencing different parts of the world with my favorite people. I love Jace. He's my whole world. If change never happened, I would have never been introduced to these amazing new parts of my life.

So, here we are, venturing into third trimester territory. I don't know if it's denial or just the busyness of having a toddler, but I am zero percent ready for #2. I don't even know what he needs, his nursery is in shambles, can someone tell me his name?! And since he has started doing acrobats under my ribs all day, I am becoming keenly aware that even he is changing. Just 7 months ago there was no visible evidence of his life inside my body aside from 2 pink lines on a stick. Now, he's the first thing you see when you see me. I feel him constantly: his stretches, his hiccups, his kicks-- things that just 7 months ago didn't exist.

It's all changing. And I'm scared. I'm scared this baby won't pick up Jace's awesome 12 hour a night sleep habit and will leave us sleep deprived for the next 18 years. I'm scared of being outnumbered by 2 on a daily basis. I'm scared that I'll never figure out how to leave the house with a toddler and a baby in a car seat. I'm scared I'll never shower again.

And, there's a part of me that's a little sad that Jace will no longer be our 'baby'. That he won't get all of our attention. That he might feel replaced or left out. That a new baby will mean less mommy time for him. That people will come over to ooh and aww over the new little guy and Jace will be overlooked. I'm scared that all this love I have for him won't be conveyed because my time and my attention will be divided. It leaves me breathless sometimes, thinking of Jace ever being sad about any of this. This change--this unknown--is a little earth shaking.

But then I have moments where I realize, I can't wait to meet this little guy, compare his eyes and smile to his brother's, breathe in his newborn scent and baby's breath. I can't wait to see Jace step into the new role of big brother. To watch him take on responsibility and leadership and add a new dimension to his character. To see the pride in his eyes and to watch the beginnings of a special, lifelong bond between brothers. To see Owen with his 2 boys and soak in the juxtaposition of my mountain man holding a tiny baby again. To see him beam over this new life and take extra care and softness and love in tending to an infant--our infant--which will inevitably make me fall even more in love with him.  To experience the contents of my heart multiply. To open myself up to more vulnerability and possibility and to discover parts of me that will remain dormant until seeing this one, new, precious face and finding out all the ways his soul tangles with mine.

So, while change has been my lifelong frenemy, I'm trying to reject the war that lives between either/or and reside in the peace that exists with both/and. I can be both terribly afraid and indescribably ecstatic to step into a new normal. Because with change comes an array of emotions and an unbounded potential for growth.

And as the patterns of my life have shown, on the other side of growing pains there's something beautiful that was always there--

it was just waiting for its chance to be discovered.

 

 

A Cruel and Unusual Presidents' Day Weekend

I work a measly 10 hours a week, 5 on Monday, 5 on Wednesday. I don't work because my family needs my income, I work because my family needs my sanity.

Those 10 hours are precious to me. I get to sit at my desk and listen to music that isn't of the Sesame Street variety, I get to watch piles of paper dwindle away...a measurable visual that I have accomplished something that day. I get to have adult conversations and a lunch break that only requires I feed myself.

So, when Sunday night came along and my cousin reminded me that Monday was a holiday 'yay!', my stomach dropped. With Owen in the midst of busy season, holidays don't exist for him nor do weekends, which means they really don't exist for me (power to single parents everywhere, I just don't understand how it's possible). I texted my boss asking her if I could please work on Monday. I was not above begging.

I mean, I don't need to celebrate the presidents. What about the presidents are we celebrating exactly? And how? I do not know. Therefore, I should be obligated to go to work. Please. For the love. An unexpected 6 days off just seems so cruel and unusual.

Monday morning arrived, as did Jace in my room. I turned on the iPad for him and hid under the covers because I just couldn't do it. The shower that feels like I'm at a rave because he is turning the lights on and off...on and off. And the fan. On and off. Launching toilet paper rolls into the shower, squealing 'HI MOMMY!!'

The mess. The mess that looks like I never cleaned up. I did, I swear! That spilled milk and dried cereal is new spilled milk and dried cereal! I cleaned up the old stuff, this is a fresh mess, but you wouldn't know because it's worse than before! The Legos were once put away, the laundry was once done, the dishes were stacked neatly, the floor was swept--it was actually clean. But, no one would ever know because it was all undone within 10 minutes of its existence. My efforts have been thwarted. There is nothing measurable about the work I do here because it usually ends up worse than when the day first began.

Doing the dishes takes extra long now because Jace loves to close the dishwasher after each dish that goes in. So, every time I bend down to put in a new dish, I have to reopen the dishwasher and pull out the rack. For every. Single. Item.

And there's the countless hours of trying to keep a toddler entertained All. Day. Long. For 6 days in a row? Cruel and unusual. There's only so many times I can shoot hoops, do puzzles, sing the ABC's, build a tower, read Curious George.

My hero, Melissa, had to come save me yesterday afternoon as I peeled myself off of the fetal position on the couch and hightailed it to the grocery store sans toddler. I walked around, stopping to admire and stare at all the beauty that resides in the aisles of Safeway--I may as well have been at the Louvre in Paris.

I blame the Presidents and believe I deserve an apology. How dare they demand we take a whole day off to celebrate them?

I get to go to work tomorrow. All will soon be well with my soul.

Love Day

"It's everything I wanted--to be a mom. But it's just so hard. Hard to do it alone. The mess the stickiness, the crying. Books about ducks wearing yellow rubber boots. It's all of it by myself. But the hardest part isn't any of that stuff. It's when the amazing things happen. It's when Beth first stood. I just wanted to look over and share that moment with someone who loves her just as much as I do, but no one's there."--Ms. Corcoran, Glee Season 3 Episode 4.

I watched this episode of Glee sometime last year. It wasn't a huge, significant part of the storyline, but for some reason it poked a hole into my heart and has stayed there since. I realized I have what this character so desperately wanted and I take it for granted too many times. I also realized that her words hold truth for so many people around me, it's heart wrenching. I think there is a part of all of us that desires this kind of relationship, whether it be with a spouse, a parent, a sibling, a friend. There is something significant about sharing experiences without ever needing to exchange words. Words can cheapen the most sacred moments because their weight aren't always ample enough to convey the density of living out real life. The people you can share these rare moments with are few and far between--but they make all the difference in the world.

As we celebrate Valentine's Day today, we become keenly aware of where on the spectrum of relationships we fall. Holidays can be like putting on a pair of eyeglasses, you think you are seeing everything fine until the day comes and suddenly so does clarity. For those of us who find we are marinating in the richest blessings of life, Valentine's Day is a beautiful reminder to cherish and savor. To love our people well and to feel extra loved. To embrace the idea that we are capable of doing, not slaves to doubting. We were made to love, so we will love passionately. We have been given much, so we can give more.

For some, Valentine's Day is a cruel reminder that there is no one to share those silent moments with. If there is a void in your heart where someone used to be or where someone never was, if you are grieving loss or agonizing over an argument or are feeling completely alone in a world full of chaos, this day might not bring with it all the Hallmark glamour it seems to call for.

I was at an open gym for Jace today and I watched him from afar as he went down the slide by himself. When he got to the bottom, he had a tiny smirk that soon faded away. It was nothing compared to the squeals of laughter and joy that leave his body when I'm right there at the bottom waiting to catch him. Sometimes, we just need to know there's someone at the other end of the slide to share the moment with us--whether full of joy or full of pain.

I hope you find that person/people today and celebrate what you have because it is rare, and special and unique.

If you can't find that person today, open John 15:13 where Jesus says, "Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends..."

He gave His life for you. You are seen. You are heard. Your silent moments are being shared.

He is at the bottom of your slide.

Today and everyday,

you are loved.

 

Living in "Extraordinary"

The word "ordinary" is a scary word to me. I have never wanted to be someone who just lived an ordinary life. Ordinary to me screams boring, mundane, mediocre. And yet, lately, I feel like my life has just been an extreme case of ordinary.

When I think back, I've had a lot of extraordinary moments. They came in a summer internship in Europe where I dangled my toes over the Seine River in Paris, walked the beaches of Barcelona, ate pizza in Italy, and called London and its people "home." Where I learned the meaning of poverty and appreciation for life in the mountains of Mexico with my best friends. It's when I met Owen, or better yet, that magical day I married him. It's when I went to India and got to teach college girls how to use a computer and do crafts with children who had no parents. It's the day Jace was born and everything suddenly paled in comparison to the most beautiful face I had ever seen. 

Here I am now, married with a 2 year old and another baby on the way. My college diploma has been traded in for piles of laundry and puzzles. While I am living the life I have always dreamed of, I find that I am camped back at ordinary.

People say things like "if there was no dark, there wouldn't be light," or "for good to exist, evil must exist." I think I've parked myself in the zone that says "I'm taking up the space of ordinary so that extraordinary people can shine." All around me I see people filled with gifts and talents and resources that make the world ooh and aww. I've allowed myself to believe my part is to live ordinary, so the extraordinary ones can do their thing.

While the years feel short, the days often feel long and if we truly let ourselves believe we peaked somewhere back there, that our glory days are actually behind us, then there wouldn't be much left to propel us forward. But every one of those peaks of the past weren't meant to be an endpoint, they were catalysts that kept things moving forward, shaping us into better versions of ourselves.

We all have the potential to be extraordinary. I'm learning that my extraordinary isn't relative to anyone else's, it's only relative to me. Extraordinary is not one-size fits all or none, extraordinary is unique.  The measuring stick we use to compare ourselves to other people needs to be broken. The only measurement that matters is the individual one--am I living within my full potential? I can choose to be an ordinary mom, wife, friend, and sister, which is what I have been doing. Or I can choose to be an extraordinary one, which in this season might look like an ordinary life but--doing things with a grateful heart, with an attitude of appreciation, with the awareness that I am blessed and so have been entrusted and equipped to bless others.  Every job we are given in every season of life is important and essential for that moment and every moment after it. Just as the past has shaped me into a better me, the present should be shaping me into a better future me.

We are all filled with a tangled web of love and adventure and creativity and passion. We can choose to lock it all up and live ordinary lives. Or, we can  pull it all out from the shadows we have casted, and we can unleash the beauty that lives in--

our own kind of extraordinary.