life. edited.

Twinsday Wednesday: teamwork

2012-02-15T14:28:00.000-06:00

I suppose it's better than the alternative.

Maybe one day they'll fight crime.

owl you need is love.

2012-02-14T22:47:00.000-06:00

It's Valentine's Day and I’ve been thinking, How much do I love my kids?

First, to state the obvious: A lot. I really do love them so much that it pains me on a ~~daily~~ ~~hourly~~ minutely (is that a word?) basis. But what I've really been wondering is, how do I love them?

How do I show it?

There are the standard mom-of-small-children answers. I make meals and fetch snacks. I change diapers and wipe bottoms. I wash dirty clothes and dress them in (mostly) clean ones. I teach them things they need to know and try my best to keep them from major injury. I read books and kiss boo-boos and pick up endless numbers of hot wheels and doll clothes off the floor.

I tell them. I tell them they are special and important and loved.

I spend roughly 98.2% of my waking hours doing these things. That's enough, right? That's love, isn't it? I'm not sure.

Lately I've noticed how absent I am in our daily routine. I’m still here, technically, but I'm irritable and distant and tired. I may be keeping the bus moving, but there's not much heart behind the wheel.

Why is that?

I'm pretty sure there are at least a thousand reasons, but here's the one I'm admitting today:

My heart isn't all here because I’m choosing to spend it elsewhere.

I've gone looking for life in a myriad of other places while my life is happening, right here and right now. I've not left in any large or literal way, but in a handful of smaller ways that have consequences all the same. I've been handing out parts of myself like a kid hands out those little candy hearts on Valentine's Day -- haphazardly and with little or no lasting return.

Meanwhile, my children are growing and changing, and I wonder why I feel like I'm missing it when I’m right here.

I find myself wondering if they'll remember the times we laughed and played and enjoyed being together, or will they remember the times I was distracted and exasperated and begging for just one more minute PLEASE.

I wonder if they know how I adore being their mother, how I am thankful beyond measure for our days together here. Or, do they feel like they are in my way, less important than the chores on my list or the phone in my hand? Sometimes I wonder, and I'm afraid the answer is not the one I wanted for us.

I'm afraid I give the best parts of me away, with little or no intention, and they are stuck with the weary me that’s left.

I think it is time to change that.

To my dear E & L & J --

Here is what I'm giving you for Valentine's Day

(other than the generic play-doh and dollar-bin socks and plush stormtroopers):

I'm giving you my heart.

You already had it, I know.

You've always had it, it’s true.

But I'm giving it to you in a new way today.

I'm giving it to you in playtime instead of toys.

I'm giving it to you in laughter instead of just smiles.

I'm giving it to you in time without a list and words without agenda.

I’m giving me to you.

Even though my people-pleaser heart will always fight the urge to be everyone’s something,

None of it compares to being your mama.

Risking all the other, I choose you.

(When really it is no risk at all.)

I choose you.

(I hope one day you can forgive me for the times that I didn't.)

I am far from perfect but I am yours.

And I love you.

With all of my heart, I do.

Love,

Mama

Now. Lest you, o people of the Internets, be led to believe falsities about our normal day based on the above photos, allow me to elaborate.

There were buckled booster seats involved, hence the staying-in-one-place by the two-year-olds.

There were pacifiers and a few tears.

These markers? They were all thrown to the floor. More than once. More than twice.

There was a fair amount of camera-induced annoyance.

There was an above-average amount of hand and face writing. And a little wall writing.

I am, however, pleased and shocked to report that 4-5 Valentine cards were successfully made during the taking of these photos. And I may have even managed to have a glass of tea and enjoy a solo bathroom visit. (For those of you who've yet to experience the bliss of raising toddlers, doing your business alone is akin to a unicorn sighting.)

And also, at least this one had fun.

Man, I love that girl.

Happy Valentine's Day, friends. Thanks for putting up with my neuroses and for your sweet words of encouragement. I loves yous guys.

11 things about me [or, 11 things about you?]

2012-02-11T18:58:00.002-06:00

Today my friend HopefulLeigh tagged me in a meme.

So, first I looked up the word meme (think email/facebook survey). Then, I closed my computer and had a snack. After that, I opened my computer and I did the meme... or participated in the meme... or picked up the meme torch and ran. Whatever you call it, I did it. Just as my middle-school self could not resist MASH, my adult self apparently cannot resist the blog meme.

And here you go. (Commence moving to edge of seat.)

Rules:

1. Post these rules.

2. Post 11 random things about yourself.

3. Answer the questions set for you in their post.

4. Create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer.

5. Tag 11 people and let them know that you’ve tagged them.

: : : 11 Random Facts about Me : : :
1. I took my daughter to see her first 3D movie today. We saw Beauty & the Beast. She's four. I am a hero.
2. After the movie, we snuck into the 3D showing of Star Wars Episode One for about 2.5 minutes. Hero status maintained.
3. I can't remember the first movie I saw in the theater.
4. I have a really bad long-term memory. Like, really bad.
5. I do, however, vividly remember my elementary school BFF Emily's seventh birthday party. We ran around in her basement and did gymnastics to Chicago's "You're the Inspiration." I think it is telling that this is the type of memory that sticks with me. Meaning, I love to dance (read: I love to "dance") and I really love 80's pop.
6. My daughter said "dammit" this morning. To her father. And cited me as the source.
7. When Random Fact #6 happened, I cried. Then I felt guilty. Then later, when we got home from the movie and the Hub asked me with a straight face if I was able to keep my language under control, I laughed.
8. One of the qualities I'm most thankful for in the man I married is his ability to make me laugh when I feel like crying. Or screaming. Or hiding in the bathroom.
9. The books I loved most growing up were all written by Beverly Cleary or Judy Blume.
10. I am newly and relentlessly addicted to Nutella. I've had Nutella in my pantry for ages. It was a slow build.
11. I did this list instead of laundry. Procrastination is my love language.

: : : Questions for Me from Leigh : : :
1. Favorite book: Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. I cannot explain all the reasons why, but if I were heading to a deserted island, this book would be in my bag. It's also the book I try to force on my friends the most.
2. Would you make a good celebrity? Why or why not? I'm pretty sure I would eventually punch a member of the paparazzi in the face. So, yes.
3. One thing on your To Do list: On my To-Do list (capitalized): Write a book. On my to-do list (lowercase): Laundry.
4. The last time you treated yourself to something special: Thursday at 3:20pm. A Reese's cup Sonic Blast. Amen.
5. What is your perfect meal? One that I don't cook.
6. One thing you should do more often: Cook
7. Most underrated band: She isn't a band and she certainly isn't underrated in this town, but I really don't understand how the whole world isn't one giant Patty Griffin fan club by now. It baffles me.
8. Your plans for Valentine's Day: Make plans for Valentine's Day. (see Random Fact #11)
9. If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Time and money are not a factor. Italy. Tomorrow. Please and thank you.
10. A good prank you pulled or that someone did to you. Scaring my college roommate with another college roommate by wearing child-sized, Scream-mask Halloween costumes and hiding around the house. It was obviously us, what with our entire legs and our shoes showing beneath the kid-sized robes and all, but she's the easiest person to scare ever and it worked over and over and over. She hated us, but just momentarily. It was awesome. (Miss you, girls!)
11. Rain or snow? Snow. It's pretty and it doesn't last long (not around here, anyway).

: : : Questions for the (Lucky) People I Tag : : :
1. Did you have a nickname as a child? What was it?
2. What movie can you quote best?
3. What was your favorite pastime in middle school?
4. What did the high-school you want to be when you grew up?
5. Are you afraid of heights?
6. What was the highlight of your week?
7. What is your favorite city?
8. What's the best concert you've ever been to?
9. If I gave you the day "off" -- from your job or kids or whatever your usual responsibilities -- what would you do?
10. In your opinion, what is the best song to rollerskate to?
11. What are you doing after this?

: : : My Taggees, real-life friends with blogs. (Hey, guys! You can thank me later!)* ** : : :
L is for Linda
The Space Between
orderly conduct
Master of What
girl friday
The Supermanns
hootenannie
A Mood Life
Livin' on the Edge
annie blogs
VivaGood

*If you weren't tagged, but you are bored or avoiding laundry and you want to be, consider thyself tagged. Comment back with a link to your post so I can see the good ~~procrastinating~~ work we've done.
**If you were tagged and you don't want to be, it's cool. I almost didn't do it either. But then I remembered the laundry and decided it would be more fun to do the list instead. And it was.

five minute friday: trust.

2012-02-10T13:52:00.000-06:00

It's Friiiiiidaaaaaaay. Friday Friday Friday. Fuh-ri-DAY.

I'm relieved.

It's been a long week 'round these parts. I'm tired and, if I'm honest, a wee bit blue.

I know. There's no room for the blues on Friday. And I agree. Which is why I'm sorry to say my Five Minute Friday effort is also a wee bit blue. But! There is a hopeful lining. Isn't there always? I think so. It's whether or not I see it that's the question.

Also, it just started snowing outside. As in, while I was typing that last paragraph. Neat.

So, happy Friday, friends. Happy Friday indeed.

[Five Minute Friday, sponsored by Lisa-Jo, is a time to write for five minutes straight - no editing, no overanalyzing. Just writing. It's lovely. And honestly, it's impossible -- I almost always go 7 minutes. Or 10. But I do refrain from editing. It hurts, but I do it. Because I love you. And also, I'm tired. Did I mention I'm tired? The end.]

: : : : : : : : : :

Today's prompt: Trust.

GO

Trust.

I get theirs every day without asking. They hand it over with wide eyes and big hearts, and they wait. “What are we doing today, Mama?” I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.

Or sometimes, I do know. Some days are schedule days. Be here at 9. Be there at 2. But we don’t have many of those around here, not yet at least. For now, they are little, and the schedule doesn’t rule. For now, Mama rules and our day is mine to figure out, mine to plan or not.

There are days when the night comes and I feel I’ve been worthy, worthy of the gift they give me each minute of each hour. There are days we laugh often and play games worth playing. There are days when the TV is off more than it’s on and we have things to show for the hours we’ve spent - things like messes and broken toys and pictures drawn in crayon. And there are days when we don’t. There are days, many of them, when my regrets stack up high and I wish I’d laughed more and frowned less, given more grace and accepted more love. But I didn’t, and now the sun’s gone down and I’m tired.

I weigh these days and I worry that the scale is tipping the wrong direction. I worry I’m wasting the most precious months and years this house may ever know. I worry my efforts aren’t enough and that my love, my understanding, my arms aren’t enough to hold all I’ve been given. And so I do the only thing that’s left to do.

I trust.

I trust that they know how much I love them. I trust that He loves them more than I do. I trust that those are two parts of the same equation and that it will somehow -- magically, wonderfully, by loving design of the One who made us -- that it will somehow add up to three children with hearts that are full and minds that remember the best of our days more brightly than our worst.

STOP

: : : : : : : : : :

See? That wasn't so bad. You should try it.

Five minutes, no fuss, just write. Or ten minutes. We won't judge.

Let me know if you do!

And FYI, posts after the kids go to bed (or tomorrow or Monday) are totally legal. DO IT.

in a mirror dimly.

2012-02-07T11:47:00.000-06:00

Do you ever feel like God is teaching you something that you aren't ready to learn? Or taking you somewhere you aren't ready to go? I feel that way today. If I'm honest with myself, I've been feeling that way for a while.

It's easy to ignore divine whispers with three little people screaming in your ears.

But then the quiet comes. It doesn't come often, but it comes. The book in hand or the dark silence of night. The hymn at church or the unexpected pang of possibility felt while pouring the morning coffee, or assembling the day's lunches, or folding the next basket of laundry. The whispers grow loud enough to hear and my heart feels simultaneous hope and terror, relief and dread.

It's funny how I want things to change and stay the same. And my heart -- it longs for healing but fears the process. One day it won't be like this, I remind myself. One day we'll see clearly. We'll know fully just as we are fully known. That is the promise, anyway. But for now, it's scary. For now the hope and the fear, the future and the present, it's all the same foggy mirror. Most days I can't tell one from the other.

I was thinking this morning of a particular day almost two years ago. The boys were babies (objectively speaking, not just mama-speaking), the weather was perfect, and I sat and watched them play on the deck, accutely aware of how precious the moment was. I wrote about that day, and I said this:

My prayer for my family today is that we will enjoy this season exactly as it is, that we will not let the uncertainty of tomorrow or next month or ten minutes from now rob us of the blessed uniqueness and unexpected joys of right now. For us, this time is one of newness and discovery and laughter and stumbling through the most beautiful of obstacle courses, and I do not want to miss it because I'm straining to look ahead or constantly jerking my head to the side to watch all that's trivial fly by my window.

Our season has changed many times over and the obstacle course, still beautiful, is all new. Yet here we are, seventeen months later, praying that same prayer, bracing ourselves for that same challenge: To have faith enough to walk forward, yet grace enough to linger. To hold gratitude for the present and also hope for the future. To be doubly vulnerable by offering up both our "already" and our "not yet."

And so it kicks in -- my constant state of belief/unbelief.

Every new possibility is a second chance. (But I don't deserve it.)

Every journey of healing is a journey of faith. (But can you really change me?)

Every grabbing hold is also a letting go. (But can I really trust you?)

I wish I could say I am always willing, but that is so far from true. I wish I could say belief always wins, but that would be a lie. I wish I could see in the distance, wipe the fog from the glass with my fist and peer through it to what's ahead. I can't. Sometimes it makes me angry that I can't.

So today, at the start of a hundred potential journeys of my heart and home, I am going to do the only thing I know to do. I am going to try to begin letting go.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

1 Cornithians 13:12 (ESV)

because procrastination is what I do best

2012-02-02T13:37:00.000-06:00

(And because I need another thing to do/neglect...)

This is what I did with my spare time today.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. It feels equal parts ridiculous and inevitable.

Therefore, I shall defer to you.

What do you think -- yay or nay?

: : : : : : : : : :

this is how we met.

2012-02-01T08:25:00.000-06:00

I am honored and a little giddy to kick off Leigh Kramer's "This is How We Met" series at her blog HopefulLeigh. Leigh is a virtual friend turned honest-to-goodness friend, and I am so thankful our blogging lives intersected. (Way to go, Internet!) You can read Leigh's introduction to the series here.

I was 24. He was 32.

I was a scriptwriter for a marketing firm. He was an entrepreneur, a small-business owner.

I was a recent college grad, newly released from a church internship, working a real job in the real world, feeling like an adult for the first time. He was a combat veteran, honorably discharged from eleven years in the Air Force, leaving his fatigues back in Carolina to start a new life in Tennessee.

I was single and I was happy. The girl who always needed a guy had spent a year making real friends and learning to love herself. Me. Not me plus someone else. Not me attached to someone else. Just me. I would stay this way for years, I decided. Single and healthy and learning to be an adult. Maybe later I would marry. But not now. Not soon...

Click here to read the rest of this post

about our unexpected love story.

Spiderman lunch box [or, when it's worth saving]

2012-01-27T11:11:00.000-06:00

We were having a Punch in the Gut kind of bad day. I drove to pick up the kids from Parent’s Day Out, wiping my eyes and patting my face in attempt to look emotionally stable. Reapplying mascara as I parked the car in attempt to look alive. Taking deep breaths as I walked on the concrete bridge that crosses the creek and leads to the door of the building where my kids were playing.

This bridge.

Twenty-five minutes later (because, as you may know, a dramatic four-year-old using a strange bathroom cannot under any circumstances be rushed) we walked back over the same bridge. In the rain.

It is important to note that we -- the three littles and me -- are a comedy of errors any time we enter or exit a building. The only way we make it out of the car and into a building without injury, or out of a building and into the car without someone running amuck, is by the sheer love and grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

It is also important to note that little two-year-olds L and J insist on carrying their own lunch boxes. They are big boys now, you know. And every time we walk over that bridge on a school day -- every single time -- I know without a shadow of a doubt that one day they will chunk their lunch off of the bridge and into the water below. This is what I am thinking every time we cross the bridge. Every. Time.

Any mother of boys can tell you, a two-year-old male is incapable of entertaining that thought without executing the deed. It isn’t their fault. It’s part of the male genetic code.

As luck would have it, what with the rain and the world ending and all, this was the day. We walked over the bridge on the way to the car and there goes J’s lunch box over the edge, thrown by none other than his shadow and bestest buddy, Brother L.

Perfect.

“Lunch box water! Lunch box water!” L screamed this as if he cannot imagine how such a thing has happened. Passersby gasped. Mass chaos ensued. The lunch box floated away. And I kept walking. I may not be the best mom, but I am wise enough to know that when faced with the option of letting go of three children in a parking lot or letting go of a lunch box, you let go of the lunch box.

After the kids were safely in the car, I drove closer to the creek to survey the damage. This is what I found.

A ten-foot-wide creek. A steep, four-foot embankment. Lots of mud. And one lunch box, smack-dab in the middle. See that black thing hung on a rock? That's it.

And all God’s people said: Nope.

Not happening. I was not sacrificing my one pair of non-ill-fitting jeans and my only pair of winter boots for a lunch box. And so we drove home. It goes without saying that the kids were appalled by this decision. Verbal assaults were launched from the back seat.

“But what about the lunch box?!” E exclaimed. “It’ll go underground!”

“Lunch box water! Lunch box water!” L was still going strong with his chant. Then he added, “Float away! Float away!” I made a mental note to be impressed by his knowledge and appropriate use of this phrase later.

“I sowwy, Oo-kah. I sowwy, Oo-kah.” Brother J comforted his other half all the way home. Sweet Boy apparently either didn’t know or didn’t care that it was his lunch box being swept into the nether-regions of the school creek.

The whole thing was two parts hilarious and one part unfortunate. And you know what else it was? Distracting. On the way home I realized I hadn’t thought about the punch in the gut for at least thirty minutes, and that was kind of awesome.

I knew the smart thing was to let the lunch box go. It wasn’t worth the hassle. Was it? I made a mental tally of the merchandise lost:

Spiderman lunch box: $7
Dump truck sippy cup: $4
Inchbug name label: $3
Elmo sandwich box from the Target dollar bin: $1
Half-eaten ham sandwich: $0
All of those things used and creek-soaked: -$13
NET VALUE: $2

No matter. There may has well have been a benjamin in that sucker because my mind was made up. I needed a victory, dangit. And I intended to get it.

When we reached the house, I ran inside and up the stairs, threw on an old pair of jeans and grabbed my circa 1997 Doc Marten boots from the back of the closet. To anyone who made fun of me keeping them this long (ahemhusbandcough), I say to you: Booyah.

[Yes, world, perhaps I should invest in a pair of $14 muck boots from the tractor supply store instead. That is beside the point.]

I ran back downstairs and out to the shed to grab the rake. I was going to take this muddy challenge, and I was going to win.

E, the only child old enough to know and care that this was not our normal after-school routine, was so utterly confused. Mama’s going back to get the lunchbox, sweetie. MAMA’S GOING BACK TO GET THE LUNCHBOX. You would have thought it was a crime against humanity I was thwarting. It was that serious. Hence the game face and the avid, unnecessary documentation.

I am pleased to report that I did indeed retrieve the lunch box. I am rather embarrassed to report that it took me all of about 90 seconds. Apparently the change of clothes and the Dave Matthews Band era boots weren’t necessary. At any rate, I had fought and I had won. And I’m not afraid to admit it -- I was proud. My little man loves that lunchbox, and I love him.

It was a silly thing to document and probably an even sillier one to write about. The world wasn't changed, a problem wasn’t solved. (Unless, of course, you count the trip to Target that was avoided to replace the missing items. But in my book, avoiding a trip to Target is not a desirable outcome. It’s the place I take myself on dates. What? Yes.) So why did I do both? Because it was important to me. For an hour out of the day, it was important to me and it was important that I act like it was important to me.

There isn't much we can control in life. People make choices, hurt is dealt, loved ones get sick, wars are waged, children grow up, we mess up, we grow old. But the little control we do have -- the forgiveness and the choices and the love that are ours to spend as we choose -- I think it matters. I think it is important. When life doesn't make sense and our plastic globe is sent spinning, especially then, there are things worth saving.

Yes, we will get muddy. (Or not. If you are me, it is entirely possible to overestimate the drama of the situation.) We may risk looking like fools. The waters we wade may be cold and the creek bed rocky. Even still, there are things that are definitely, without question, worth saving. Like friendships. And hearts. Like the sanctity of the most vulnerable of moments, the ones at the intersection of heartache and hope. Like faith and family. And, on occasion, a Spiderman lunch box.

Twinsday Wednesday: one

2012-01-25T09:58:00.000-06:00

Looking at the photos from yesterday's playground extravaganza (two hours in the sun! yippee!), Bono's words keep singing in my head.

We're one

but we're not the same

We get to carry each other

carry each other

Some days these boys are two equal parts daring. Two equal parts affectionate. Two equal parts unstoppable. Two equal parts l o u d. Two parts of the same adorable person.

Some days they absolutely are not. It's like parenting a yin and a yang, a bird and a bear cub, a peacemaker and a rebel. And the day after that, just to keep us guessing, they switch roles and laugh their equally boisterous, night-and-day laughs.

So what I'm saying is, they are the same and they are different.

Just like the rest of us.

[we get to carry each other, carry each other]

sent flying + Star Wars

2012-01-23T08:27:00.000-06:00

The way I see it, there are two kinds of bad days.

There’s the Murphy’s Law kind of bad day, the ones when every little thing goes wrong. The ones when it feels like the world and everything in it exist to pick pick pick at you and scratch scratch scratch at the surface of your patience, your sanity, your single layer of very thin glue that is holding everything else together until it all gives way. Then after it comes crashing down and you’ve completely lost your mind, every single annoyance or inconvenience, no matter how minor, feels like a miniature explosion in your head, setting fire to any shred of stability that might be hiding in the corners, hanging on for dear life.

What? You’ve don’t have days like that? Oh.

Me either.

So, moving on...

Then there’s the other kind of bad day -- the Punch in the Gut kind of bad day. These are the ones that put the others in perspective. These are the ones that act as an auto-adjust on the lens of your heart, bringing into focus the things that matter - really matter - with a single motion. And while it’s true they have a way of making inconveniences disappear and annoyances fade into the background, they also leave you reeling, empty of air, clinging for dear life to that bit of peace found on the invisible line between anger and despair.

If one were to film a 15-second short illustrating the Punch in the Gut kind of bad day, I imagine it would go something like this:

Person One sits on a blanket in a meadow on a nice day.

Maybe it’s not the most sunshiny day.

Maybe Person One is sharing his or her blanket with loud children, piles of dirty laundry and the occasional creepy crawly.

But there they are.

Blanket.

Meadow.

Fresh air.

Perhaps rather comfortable.

Maybe even content.

[Cue pan out to reveal globe on which Person One is perched like a speck of dust on a ferris wheel. A large hand looms overhead, perfectly poised to knock the crap out of said globe.]

Hand hits globe.

Globe spins.

Person One, her blanket, and everyone on it go flying.

Expletives and sobs can be heard fading in the distance.

THE END.

[Cue credits.]

Too dramatic? I don’t know. Maybe.

Here’s what I do know.

Sometimes a bad day can feel like the end of the world when really, if I could zoom out far enough to see, it's just the beginning of a new one.

Furthermore, whatever kind of bad day I’m having, I want to have it with these people.

I mean, really. What kind of bombs or punches or whatever-the-heck else can mask the love in these faces? I’ll tell you. None. Nada. Zilcho. Not even a chance.

You know what else bombs and punches and whatever-the-heck else can’t do? They can’t drown out the sound of the world’s best Star Wars narration, that’s what.

*Warning: spoiler alert!

Important notes:
1. I feel this video captures the essence of E's post-nap bangs, which are, in a word, phenomenal.
2. The Hub had been telling her the story of Star Wars little by little each night at bedtime for weeks. Verbally. Like folklore. I love that about him/her/them.
3. She is mildly preoccupied with death and dying lately. I find the innocence of her views on the matter to be beautifully simple and unexpectedly comforting. Much like I find her post-nap hair.

Friday checklist.

2012-01-20T08:56:00.000-06:00

If it is true that God is close to the weak-hearted,

if it is true that lack of strength is true strength in disguise,

if it is true that this vessel is most full when I am aware that it's empty,

if grace really is poured out based on need and not merit.

If the best days are the ones where I get out of the way and let God love my children because I'm just too tired, too lost and too broken to know how...

well, then.

Today should be nothing short of amazing.

: : : : : : : : : :

Anyone else expecting a good day?

Praise God for his absurd goodness.

Amen and amen.

Twinsday Wednesday: napping on location

2012-01-18T15:11:00.000-06:00

The boys have successfully napped at Granmae & Papaw's a few times now.

This is exciting for all involved, but mostly me.

We make two pallets on the bedroom floor.

I guess we really just need one because they usually end up like this.

The other day at home, L woke up an hour before J.
He spent that time in Papa's lap alone (a rare event), eating potato chips (awesome) and watching Curious George on the iPhone (major score).

He also spent it looking quizzically up at D and saying things like,
"Joo-yan okay? Joo-yan seeping?"

Oh, boys. The sweetness of your brotherhood melts me.

Except when you bite each other. Or hit each other on the head with trucks.
Except then.

Twinsday Wednesday: stairs

2012-01-11T15:12:00.000-06:00

on slowing down. [or, lessening the blows.]

2012-01-10T12:06:00.001-06:00

“Hurry is not in My nature.”

I read the words from my idling car, now empty of kids, three vacant car seats in my rearview mirror.

I held the book, the little devotional filled with words written in first person as if Jesus himself were speaking directly to me. I had fished it out of the bag in a frozen desperation, unable to so much as drive away without hearing some Hope. Some promise to make my tense heart exhale.

School drop-off had been anything but graceful. Jackets on and off and on again. The same with four little shoes. (At least the eldest child had mercy and kept hers on.) I scrambled to the house and back a record six times in the effort to get us loaded in the car, mud-free and all necessary gear in tow. I flew in and out of the old screen door, letting it shut hard behind me, each slam an exclamation point to my silent expletives.

I was angry. I was impatient and frazzled and frustrated and angry.

Sitting there in the school parking lot, I replayed the morning in fast forward. Murphy’s Law was in full effect. And my every reaction dripped with bitterness. Angry bitterness and hurry.

Who am I so mad at? I wondered. What is wrong with me?

I felt shame at the questions and despair at the lack of answers.

I thought of the girl and two boys now playing happily inside, free from my silent storm.

“Hurry hurts kids.”

I remembered Ann Voskamp’s words from the printed-out list, how their truth squeezed the air from my chest the first time I read them.

Hurry hurts kids.

It was true. That morning and many others like it, my Haste clamored through our home, knocking over Joy and trampling over Love. Pushing and shoving little hearts. I know they felt the sting because I felt it, too.

Their forgiving spirits may forget, but mine cannot. I had been a bully.

“Oh, Lord.” I felt this tired heart cry. “I don’t want to be a bully. I want to be a mother.”

The Answer was there, standing steady and gentle, waiting calmly for my plea.

Then slow down.

It happened again two days later. The clamoring and the shoving, jackets flung aside and little boys playing chase, ignoring my self-imposed state of emergency. I watched the clock move too fast as we moved too slow. I could feel the tasks of the day hovering like giants, like angry masters demanding attention.

And now, thinking back on this trend of Mama losing her wits over lunchboxes and inconveniences and mere minutes on the clock, I wonder: How? How can I not hurry? How can we not hurry? How will we ever do it all if we don’t hurry?

“Life is not an emergency. Life’s a gift. Just slow.”

The same printed-out list hangs above my desk, patiently reminding me of the things my heart just won’t learn. And I pray, this morning with coffee in hand and the day laid out before me, that today is the day. I pray that today is the day I'll learn.

It will happen again, I am sure of it. I’ll lose my patience and my head, I’ll lose my heart to the clock and my perspective to a to-do list. And when I do, it will still be there, still standing and still steady. The grace-filled Answer, the words of promise that never die, never become untrue:

I am with you. I am for you.*

Just slow down and you'll know. You'll see it. You'll feel it.

Just. Slow. Down.

: : : : : : : : : :

*"I am with you and for you" appears in the January 9 entry of Jesus Calling, by Sarah Young. "Hurry is not in My nature" appears in the December 11 entry.

the best part of today. [a letter from Mama to L]

2012-01-05T08:05:00.000-06:00

January 4, 2012
11:45 pm

Dear L,

There are moments as a parent that take hold of you. Moments that grab your heart and fill it to the very top, leaving you better than you were, better than you deserve to be. Funny thing is, most of these moments are nothing special, at least to the untrained eye. They are just part of our every day, part of our routine. Yet something about an everyday moment, when sprinkled with a little bit of you -- or your brother or your sister or your papa or all of you, especially all of you -- it makes the ordinary into something extra, something indescribable.

You'll know one day, when you are the papa and your children are the extra, and you'll want to keep those moments. You'll want to wrap them up and tuck them away exactly the way they happened so that you can unwrap them over and over and be filled up again and again. But you know that you can't, at least not for long. The colors of that memory will fade in the sun and another bright moment will take its place. Even still, you'll take pictures and you'll make videos and maybe you'll try to write it all down, to describe the indescribable and somehow make it last. And doing so will give you hope that maybe, just maybe, you won't have to forget.

That is what I am doing tonight with this letter to you.

* * *

You’d been asleep four hours when I went in to check. I found you curled up at the foot of your brother’s bed. You looked so peaceful, the two of you. I snapped a mental picture there in the dark, making a wish that it would last.

I scoop you up and feel the dampness every mama knows at a touch -- your diaper has leaked through. I sigh and silently vow never to buy the cheap ones again, knowing that I will. The cold of it must have woken you, driven you to the other side of the room. I grab some clean pajamas from the bottom dresser drawer and another cheap diaper, and I change you on the foot of your bed.

In your sleepy haze you keep flipping over, trying to get back to your dreams. You do this so many times I can't help but laugh. Even in your sleep you are persistent. I finally whisper a quiet explanation in attempt to keep you still. “It’s ok, baby. Mama's just changing your clothes.” With that you settle down, eyes still resting closed.

As soon as the zipper is up to your neck you scurry back to your pillow, cheek down, knees drawn in tight, arms tucked under you snug. I pull the blanket up and your little eyes flutter, and the love that wells up is too much to bear. So I bury my nose in your neck and close my eyes there a moment. I give you a silent kiss as you sleep.

“I love you, sweet boy,” I whisper, my face down close to yours.

"I love you," your sleeping voice breathes back.

And my heart leaps at the gift of You.

* * *

I am so thankful for you, baby boy. That I will always remember.

love,
Mama

Twinsday Wednesday: best friends

2012-01-04T08:02:00.000-06:00

I hope they always are.

what this heart needs most. [a hope for 2012]

2012-01-03T09:35:00.000-06:00

"Contentment isn’t a state of organization, a weight on the scale, a state of better: better kids, better marriage, better health, better house. Contentment is never a matter of circumstances; contentment is always a state of communion — a daily embracing of God. A thankfulness for all the gifts – and moments and life, just as He gives it. Trying harder may only bring harder trials, and contentment, it won’t be be found in the resolutions but in the revolutions – in the turning round to God.

- Ann Voskamp, from her post entitled "What the New Year Needs Most"

one word.

2012-01-01T09:52:00.000-06:00

I've never been good at resolutions. We have discussed this before. So when I heard the bloggy chatter about the One Word movement sometime in the middle of last year, I tucked the idea away for later.

Now later is here and the calendar reads 2012 for the first of 365 days. And while making a mental list of a year's worth of goals and hopes quickly overwhelms me, choosing a single word to be my compass, my motto, my soul-checker... that feels rather liberating. Empowering, even.

There were a few in the running.

Trust. Because who doesn't need more of that?

Simplify. Because WHOA, all this clutter of the non-stop, kid-filled life is really starting to get to me.

Quiet. Because I need some. But we've all seen how many small humans I live with, so... next year?

This morning, on the dawn of a fresh, new year, here is where I landed.

Listen.

Because it requires slowing down.

Because my husband and my children and my God deserve to be heard, and I need to hear them.

Because I can't think of a single time I've listened, really listened, and regretted it.

Because when I read Madeleine L'Engle's words yesterday for the first time in too many years, it was like a much-needed, full-force punch to the creative and spiritual (and maternal and spousal and everything-else-al) gut.

When I am constantly running there is no time for being.

When there is no time for being there is no time for listening.

[from Walking on Water, chapter 1]

Because when I leave the dirty dishes and laundry alone and sit down to be fully with my children, with no other agenda but to be present and play and teach and learn, I am always amazed... at their creativity, their affection, their unabashed joy, the wisdom in their questions.

Because a phone call with a friend nourishes my soul in a way Twitter and Facebook never will.

Because prayer is not a one-way street.

Because when I think about the most valuable lessons I've learned in life and the most valuable words I've heard, I know with certainty that not one of them came from my mouth.

Because of this sweet promise and this loving reprimand:

This is what the Sovereign LORD, the Holy One of Israel, says:

“In repentance and rest is your salvation,

in quietness and trust is your strength,

but you would have none of it."

[Isaiah 30:15 NIV]

Because 2012 will float by like a blustery wind and in 365 short days I sit here again - remembering, praying, hoping. And if I spend those days listening and listening well, I believe my heart will be fuller for it.

: : : : : : : : : :

What is your One Word for the new year?

Is it just me, or is this a waaaaay better idea than resolutions? (Good going, Alece. :)

Hot Cocoa [an E Original tune]

2011-12-27T09:12:00.000-06:00

And now, a belated (of course) Christmas gift to you, our dear interweb friends.

"Hot Cocoa"

spontaneously written & performed by 4-year-old E

When I was in my room playin'
I was feelin' quite warm
The only thing that kept me goin'
Was the greatest cup of hot cocoa.

Chorus:
Hot cocoa! Hot cocoa!
(x10)

[If you can't see the above video, you can watch it by clicking this link.]

Twinsday Wednesday [on Thursday... again]: jolly

2011-12-22T09:10:00.001-06:00

Merry almost-Christmas from these guys.

the truth about to-do lists [a Monday manifesto]

2011-12-19T09:58:00.001-06:00

Do not be weighed down by the clutter in your life: lots of little chores to do sometime, in no particular order. If you focus too much on these petty tasks, trying to get them all out of the way, you will discover that they are endless. They can eat up as much time as you devote to them.

Instead of trying to do all your chores at once, choose the ones that need to be done today. Let the rest slip into the background of your mind, so I can be in the forefront of your awareness. Remember that your ultimate goal is living close to Me, being responsive to my initiatives. I can communicate with you most readily when your mind is uncluttered and turned toward Me. Seek My Face continually throughout this day. Let My Presence bring order to your thoughts, infusing Peace into your entire being.

[today's reading in Jesus Calling, by Sarah Young]

This little book has been bringing me great encouragement and much-needed eternal perspective.

And this entry today... Well.

My control freak self has no idea how to really do this, but I'm sure as heck going to try.

Amen and amen.

: : : : : : : : : :

Who's with me?

Twinsday Wednesday: wings

2011-12-14T22:26:00.001-06:00

Ran across this one tonight while sifting through photos of the year.

It's only two months old, but there is a boyishness in them now that was missing even then.

I don't know what to say about that except that I just let out a long, loud sigh after typing that last sentence.

*Next week's goal: To post Twinsday Wednesday before it's actually Thursday on the east coast. Wish me luck.

an advent story.

2011-12-13T08:05:00.001-06:00

The daily advent lessons have us talking a lot about Jesus. But I could sense from the beginning that this conversation was going to be different.

For starters, my patience cup emptied an hour before and both of us knew it. It was an out of body experience, the harsh and unrelenting version of myself at the helm while the loving mother watched, removed and impotent to intervene. It was painful to see, but there I went, careening out of control over the most benign of offenses.

Bedtime followed and Papa wasn’t home, but somehow Grace calmed your tears and nestled you into my arms in spite of myself. Almost instantly at your touch the grace washed over me, too, and I could feel myself returning. We lay silent on your bed and I stared at the wall decorated by years of your artwork, the pictures dangling from twine like snapshots of your heart.

The fleetingness of it - this time with young you - arrested me, and it was everything I could do not to melt into a sea of tears right there by your side.

We whispered quiet apologies, yours more discerning than your four years should allow. Then we read through the book we got when you were two, from your first-ever book reading at the bookstore up the road. It’s a story about a mama’s love. I always substitute your name for his. You are old enough now to notice that it’s about a boy and not a girl, but you don’t seem to mind. I think you know that isn’t what matters.

Next, in the book from the dollar bin, we read about the baby Jesus. Amid the sugar-coated rhymes and smiling round faces, my heart began to fill up with the reality of it all. The night he came wasn’t shiny and easy like the glossy words on the cardboard page. It was shocking and plain and breathtakingly real.

It was around then that you interrupted me. “Mama, I’m so glad Jesus was born.”

And there it was. The start of the conversation.

We finished the last pages and closed the book. And we talked about Him. About how I am glad, too. About the light come to darkness, about the lost learning to love. About how our hearts have dark parts even still, and how we do things we shouldn’t and say things to hurt, like we did tonight. About how we can ask Jesus to forgive us and he will always, always, always say yes.

“But we didn’t do that,” she said, brown eyes open wide. “Let’s do it now. You go first.”

And so, before my child as if before the Christ himself, I laid bare my heart and received balm for the wound. And there, for the first time in the life of her precious soul, she asked aloud of the One who made her, “Will you forgive me?”

The upward inflection of that sweet sentence hung in the air, the final brushstroke on a canvas. It was a question, not a statement. It was born from the quiet faith of a child’s heart, not the callousness of my own. It was the finishing touch on Grace’s self-portrait, painted for me, for today.

There, in that bedroom-turned-temple, our hearts silently sang. There you and I heard, together, the answer that always is always yes.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth. 

A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices, 

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Placide Cappeau, 1847

Twinsday Wednesday [on Thursday]: ch-ch-ch-changes

2011-12-08T11:10:00.000-06:00

Soon after this happened, this happened.

It was a family affair, as you can see.

Then, by the grace of God, this happened.

And that, friends, sums up a large chunk of our past few weeks.

Well, that and other window-breaking, gate-hopping, deadbolt-opening madness.

Twinsday Wednesday: The Great Escape

2011-11-30T07:51:00.000-06:00

And then it happened.

The escape heard 'round the world.

Incidentally, this photo was taken later that same day:

A mama's gotta do what a mama's gotta do.

on rules [and falling].

2011-11-28T11:14:00.000-06:00

I've been thinking about rules.

Some are made for me. Some I make for myself. Sometimes I'm not sure I know the difference.

I tend to be too hard on myself. I'm afraid I do the same to my kids.

E is such a free spirit, a creative mind, an untamed heart. Sometimes I worry I'm taming the wrong parts of her. Am I letting her creativity breathe, or do I suffocate it with my own laziness, fear and made-up rules?

And those boys. My two impressionable, fearless, big-hearted boys. Will I teach them to think for themselves, or will I teach them to think like me?

It's a delicate balance, and all versions of it baffle me.

How do I teach responsibility and creativity? Boundaries alongside adventure? Caution as well as courage? Obedience and also grace?

Every day I try. Every day I wonder.

At the end of that day, I cling to the last word. At the end of the day, I hang my hat on grace. And I trust (oh, how I want to trust!) that whatever my shortcomings, the Creator has none. Not even one. And grace, it is vast enough to fill in the gaps of my inept parenting and the intentions of my haphazard heart.

Personally, I find this both liberating and terrifying, like a free-fall of faith with an unfailing net.

The falling, I suppose that is the point.

: : : : : : : : : : :

Where are you free-falling today? In your parenting, your marriage, your finances, your job? Do you have a hard time believing the net is really there?

(I do. Even on my best days, I do.)

out of my heart, under my breath.

2011-11-24T06:26:00.000-06:00

I'm thrilled for the opportunity to guest post today at A Deeper Story. I'm a new follower of the site -- a collaborative effort to explore the intersection of faith and culture -- and I'm a big fan of its bold mission and honest voice. You can join in the conversation at deeperstory.com & on twitter @deeperstory.

: : : : : : : : : :

"Mama, what does 'dammit' mean?"

The fact that my four year old daughter didn’t ask me this question at lunchtime is by God’s sheer grace. And possibly the magnetic pull of her fingers and attention to spilled Cheerios on the kitchen counter.

I don't even remember now why I said it. It could have been any number of things, really. Maybe a stubborn high chair or a thrown sandwich.

The half hour trek from Bible study to the gas station to the pharmacy drive-thru to home was filled with so much whining my ears were ringing from the pitch of it. There was the quick detour on the porch for the boys to dump the dirt out of a plant I’ve been trying to rescue from an untimely demise, and then the chaos that ensued once we walked in the door... Well. Let's just say Mama was on edge.

I'll be honest. Four-letter words and I are not strangers. I grew up a good southern church girl...

[This post is continued over at Deeper Story. Click here to read the rest...]

my prayer of thanks.

2011-11-23T08:48:00.000-06:00

Thank you for early mornings, for they remind me that time is fleeting.

Thank you for exhaustion, for it reminds me that you never sleep.

Thank you for the chaos, for it reminds me control is illusion.

Thank you for interruptions, for they remind me to breathe deep.

Thank you for stacks of laundry, for they are the spoils of life lived full.

Thank you for dirty dishes, for they are the sign of daily bread.

Thank you for the messes, for they remind me that you give grace.

Thank you for bills unpaid, for they remind me that you provide.

Thank you for plans unraveled, for they teach me that you write the story.

Thank you for uncertainty, for it teaches me to have faith.

Thank you for tiny hands tugging, for they remind me I am loved.

Thank you for cries of “Mama," for they remind me how to pray.

Thank you for mistakes, for they are my opportunity to confess.

Thank you for hurts, for they are my opportunity to forgive.

Thank you for tired eyes, for they remind me that rest is a gift.

Thank you for a longing heart, for it turns me back to you.

: : : : : : : : : :

When you look at your morning, noon and night, what signs of life are you thankful for?

truth from fiction [or, my holiday survival guide]

2011-11-21T10:41:00.000-06:00

The holidays are officially beginning, with or without me. One forgotten Thanksgiving feast/half day at the kids' school (I needed those other two hours, people!), and I'm already feeling that runaway sensation that so often accompanies this time of year. The sensation that someone put the pedal to the metal without my permission and I'm sent flying, flying, flying ungracefully through the air, crash-landing somewhere in the first week of January.

This time last year was a blur. The boys had just turned one and were busy reveling in the newfound freedom of walking on their own ~~two~~ four legs. Dad had just been released from the hospital, and my family from the longest, darkest moment of our lives. Mom and Dad spent that Thanksgiving and Christmas living in a house across the street from us. You remember, that one that came available just in time. It was a joyous time, all of it. Oh, but was it a blur.

The year before that, the boys were newborns. Needless to say, I remember almost nothing from their birth until about, oh, a year later.

And now it's time again. Thanksgiving week. Already.

While my heart and soul are ready, really ready, to celebrate life and family and the good gifts of a loving God, I'm nervous. I'm one part giddy like a child and one part terrified that Amanda the Two-Headed Stress Monster will emerge, riddled with unnecessary anxiety and biting off the heads of anyone who crosses her.

If you don't know who I'm talking about, ask my dear husband. He's met her and lived to tell about it. Barely.

I'm scared I'll get sucked in by all that parades around this time each year, the status-quo-driven flurry disguised as Life and shiny things trying to pass themselves off as Love.

So, I've made an executive decision. Instead of waiting until the new year to make my good intentions public, I'm going to state them now. My holiday resolutions. The manifesto-prayer that, God willing, will take us to January 1st [mostly] drama-free and with hearts [nearly] unscathed.

There are only two.

1. Believe truth, not fiction.

Example:
God is good and I am thankful. TRUTH.
I must to somehow morph into a fantastic cook by Wednesday to show said thankfulness. FICTION.

Or,
Holidays are about renewing faith and reuniting with family. TRUTH.
Holidays are also about keeping my children quiet and well-behaved at all costs, especially theirs, lest gatherings be utterly ruined. FICTION.

And the ever-popular:
Christmas is about Jesus. TRUTH.
Christmas is about [giving perfectly thoughtful yet unique, budget-friendly, and perhaps even homemade-yet-somehow-flawless] gifts. FICTION.

I could keep going with these but, in the interest of salvaging what little time I have due to aforementioned unexpected school event, I'll move on to numero dos.

2. For the love of Pete (and my husband), CHILL OUT.

I think that one speaks for itself.

Basically, today and each remaining day of 2011, I shall attempt to remember the wise words of my four-year-old. After working intensely in her little butterfly notebook the other day, she handed me a piece of paper with three carefully drawn stick figures and said something I promptly wrote on the back of it so I wouldn't forget.

She said, "Here Mama. Here's what really matters -- you and me." [Papa, Brothers, family, friends and Jesus implied.]

Yes, I thought. THAT.

The End and Amen.

What do you want to try hard to remember as the holiday madness begins? Share if you will. Chances are the rest of us need the reminder, too.

motherhood [and other stations in life]

2011-11-16T07:54:00.001-06:00

These days may be routine.

These days may lack luster.

These days may run together until they are indistinguishable from one another.

However,

These days are among the most important days of my life,

These efforts among the most important I will ever put forth,

These little hearts, most tender and precious I will ever encounter.

And so,

These days are not to be taken lightly.

These days are not commonplace.

This profession is a sacred one, ordained by the very hand of God.

I wrote those words six months ago, but they're feeling especially weighty today. Sobering, even.

The Hub and I visited the elementary school down the street yesterday, the one where E will go next fall. In less than a year, we'll walk her to up to that red door as our little girl, the kindergartner. I can see her now, lunchbox in one hand and Papa's hand in the other, wearing a too-big backpack and an excited smile.

I've been excited, too. E is such a social child. She's creative and spunky, a thinker with a flair for the dramatic. She needs people and she needs teachers. She will love school, I know it. And let's be honest, there are days I've been hanging by a thread around here. Three under three was wonderful and exhausting, a complete blur of mild insanity. Three under four is an endless adventure, an adventure I know is a blessing to the core.

Even still, there are days when I'm more tired than thankful, more frustrated than content.

Now here we are, filling out this yellow piece of paper with our firstborn's name, enrolling her in the new reality that will define her life for the next decade. No longer will her days be spent here at home with me and her brothers. That time will be gone. And I'm wondering,

Have I wasted it?

I know many of you reading this are mothers.

Some of you are sitting at a computer at your dining room table, surrounded by laundry to fold and toys to pick up and to-do lists that never get done. You daydream of venturing back out into the world that lies beyond sippy cups and crushed goldfish in the living room rug.

Some of you are sitting at a desk in an office, counting the minutes until you return home to the chaos. Being away from the little things is hard, and you find yourself wishing for a baby's cry or a toy underfoot to make you feel more at home.

Some of you are someplace in the middle, feeling daily the tension of two worlds tugging at your heart.

Chances are that wherever you are, guilt is your nemesis, fear of failure your most daunting foe.

Going through the motions is the way we cope. We find comfort in our routine. At least, I do. And that is when we forget -- that is when I forget -- where we are.

We are in the sacred place of tender hearts, curious minds, adventurous souls.

Whether you are mom to one or six does not matter. Whether your child is a nursing infant or high-school senior is not relevant. For we are all mothers. And though our stories may look quite different, the weight of our calling remains the same. Maybe it is this calling that takes root in our hearts in such a way that we will always feel undone.

However I parent -- whatever schedule, methods, foods, lifestyle, education or disciplinary philosophy we as a family choose -- I am always going to wonder if I could have done more.

I am always going to wonder if it has all been enough, if I have spent my time wisely in this sacred place. I am always going to wonder how many sweet opportunities I missed, how many holy moments I wasted on laundry or worry or fear.

Even if it were possible to do every bit of it right -- this business of parenting -- even if I could seize each teachable moment and cherish every kind of chaos and every type of mess, I think this much would still be true.

When a phase of my child's life is over, there will always be a part of me that will want it back.

: : : : : : : : : :

How do you cope with change, in parenting and otherwise? Is it possible to navigate that thin line between grace and regret? Between the ideal of cherishing each moment and the reality of getting things done? (The laundry isn't going to wash itself, after all...)

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

new-favorite-picture alert.

2011-11-14T08:10:00.000-06:00

Remember that photo of D & E, the one where she was giving him that look little girls reserve for their papas? I love that photo. Of the thousands of moments I've attempted to immortalize on film, there has never been one that captured her adoring gaze quite like that perfectly imperfect one.

Until yesterday.

Outside, enjoying November's uncharacteristic 70-degree day, they took a break from leaf-raking, pile-jumping, sandbox-playing fun to sit on the stoop at the side of this old house. And she looked at him, a different version of that same look, the one that belongs to him alone.

It's magical, the bond these two share. Pure magic.

Twinsday Wednesday: double vision

2011-11-09T16:15:00.000-06:00

And that is why we don't dress them alike.

Two boys, two years.

2011-11-08T10:15:00.000-06:00

On November 8, 2009, the most amazing thing happened.

God gave us two healthy baby boys.

And just like that, we were a family of five.

Two years ago today, two tiny blessings changed our lives forever.

And we are incredibly grateful.

Happy Birthday, L&J.
You are loved.

: : : : : : : : : :

Let the record show that today is also Survival of the First Two Years of Twindom Day. And it shall be known through all the land that WE MADE IT, with a tremendous amount of help and a tremendous helping of grace.

Team Mama & Papa, for the win.

October in review.

2011-11-07T11:49:00.000-06:00

The sky is bluest in October. That's what my high school science teacher used to say, and I like to think it's true.

October is one of my favorite months. I love fall. I love cool air and bright sun and painted leaves. I love watching summer disappear in the rearview and zipping up hoodies before the kids run out to play. I love how Halloween plays the unlikely emcee, ushering in the holiday season in its bizarre and childlike way.

I love pumpkins -- pumpkin carving, pumpkin bread, pumpkin cookies. "Pumpkin everything, that's what I say," my friend Laura declared. I wholeheartedly agree.

October exited as quickly as it arrived, but it left behind its mark. Games played, prayers answered, soup devoured, priorities shifted, friends and family saturating it all with their honesty, presence and laughter. And though I may have felt tossed through the air like one of those gumball machine bouncy balls, ricocheting from one day to the next with a crazed and/or exhausted look in my eye (depending on the day), October did happen and much of it was good.

Thanks to my Instagram addiction, I have proof.

So long, October. See you next time around.

remember. [a letter to my boys]

2011-11-04T15:19:00.001-05:00

[a letter to my boys, four days before their second birthday]

L&J -

Sometimes I think if we just stay here in our cocoon, the one made from this old house, that time won't pass us by. Sometimes I think we can hide from the clock, hide from the rule that everything changes and nothing or no one stays the same.

I know we can't do it, that impossible magic of staying right here in our little world of five while the rest of the world marches on to it-doesn't-matter-where. And sometimes I am afraid. I am afraid I won't remember you exactly as you are today.

I'm terrified I will forget.

My precious L, I want to remember the way you crease your forehead and narrow your blue eyes with more seriousness and concern than a two-year-old should be capable of. I want to remember the way you string words together with perfectly placed inflection, and the way your face lights up with joy when we successfully decipher the meaning.

I want to remember the way you back up like a truck and plop into my lap when it's storytime, the way you sympathize with an audible sigh when Llama Llama sheds a tear for mama. I want to remember the way you call Etta "eh-yah" and Julian "yoo-yen" and the way you stand at the window and call for your papa.

My sweetest J, I want to remember your laugh and that unmatched smile, the one that I can see so clearly now when I look back at pictures of you as a baby. It was yours from the beginning, and it will never be another's. I want to remember the way you say "zick, zick" when you want to hear music, and the way you will sit for the equivalent of a toddler hour, working diligently to put the CD in, take the CD out, push the buttons just so.

I want to remember the way you make your brother laugh that belly laugh reserved only for you, and the way you squeeze your eyes shut when you sing the ABC song on the swing. I want to remember the exact pronunciation of your "no" and how it sounds more like a Frenchman's precise "Non!" than a childlike objection.

I want to remember the surprise and joy I felt the first time I heard you call out for each other by name.

I want to remember the way you two play together, the way you dance together, the way you run with abandon in the pretend vastness of our city yard. The way you play silently in the sandbox, diligently filling the buckets scoop by scoop, until the civility disappears and the sandstorm begins.

I want to remember the way you both look for the moon in the middle of the day and somehow manage to find it. The way you sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", always repeating the "up above buh buh buh buhhh." The way you chase each other from the living room to the kitchen and back again and again, your feet pounding hard the wood floors until your laughter gains strength and finally knocks you down.

I want to remember that as I stand typing this at the kitchen island, L, you are sweeping the floor, singing to me and smiling. And J, you are stomping around in bare feet, proudly strumming Sister's pink guitar.

I want to remember it all, every single second.

But I know that I can't, and I know that I'm not meant to. And my heart aches with gladness and thanks at the gift of a million moments of joy, too many to remember.

Happy almost-birthday, baby boys.

I and Love and You.
Mama

Twinsday Wednesday: denial

2011-11-02T10:53:00.000-05:00

See those two boys? Those two BABY boys?

In six days, they will turn 2. Two boys. Two years old.

They will always have those baby faces.

Their eyes will always be that blue.

They will never learn the correct pronunciation of R's or how to include all necessary words in a sentence.

"Where did the moon go?" will always be a string of random syllables ending in "Moon go?"

They will always ask questions with shoulder shrugged and head tilted to the side.

They will always be best friends, high-fiving always, fighting never.

They will forever allow as many public hugs as I care to give.

They will always refer to me affectionately as Mama and never That Strange Lady Who Raised Us.

I will never be asked to park the car a block away so that their friends don't see me drop them off at school.

Or a date.

They will never go on dates.

They will always greet me with a smile so big and a hug so hard it knocks me over.

They will never feel lonely or heartbroken or sad.

And, most of all, they will never exercise their ability to climb out of their cribs in the middle of the night and do God knows what.

They will always be my baby boys.

And this will be their last birthday. EVER.

the right now.

2011-11-01T12:00:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the early week silence, friends. I've been gifted a few hours of solitude and I've mostly spent them rereading pages of long-neglected books, thinking on things like past and present and future. Thinking about the journey.

And also coffee. I've had some life-changing cups of coffee. Amen.

There's this book by Buechner that Neighbor Duane has been hounding me to read for months now. I'm finally getting around to it and wondering why I didn't listen sooner. Only a handful of pages in, the words had my heart and my imagination hanging out together like old friends, reunited and carefree.

I imagine them running through a meadow. Or having a lazy picnic on an old quilt.

I know. I can be a Class A weirdo when left to my own child-free devices.

But just listen to this goodness:

But even if it were possible to return to those days, I would never choose to. What quickens my pulse now is the stretch ahead rather than the one behind, and it is mainly for some clue to where I am going that I search through where I have been, for some hint as to who I am becoming or failing to become that I delve into what used to be.

- Buechner, p. 6

Oh, how I love a good compound sentence.

I've been keeping my hands busy elsewhere, too. These fingers needed to feel something other than plastic, dish soap and diapers, to hold something more creative than clean laundry and more personal than my phone. Even now, they fumble at the keyboard, equal parts indignant and tired.

They need a distraction.

My new internet friend Lindsay taught herself to crochet via YouTube. My fingers and I thought, Why not? I don't have much to show for it yet, but the repetition of the hook and the softness of the wool are a tangible comfort. Sometimes, tangible is good.

When the past and the future have your heart battling for the right now, tangible is good.

What has inspired your heart and hands lately? Share it with the rest of us so we can be inspired, too. Please and thank you.

royalty.

2011-10-28T09:53:00.002-05:00

Another day, another trip around the block in the green wagon built for two, your brothers crammed into one side and you sitting gracefully on the other. The wagon is your carriage and the brothers are your princes. They’ve rescued you from your tower and we’re traveling to the royal ball.

You narrate our journey aloud, careful to point out the dog behind the chain link fence, the squirrel scampering up a tree, the car parked in front of the bakery that’s already closed for the day. We decide this must mean Dan is inside making the blueberry muffins I’ve promised you for tomorrow morning.

Carefully you touch the five hairbows scattered atop your head like a crown, checking each one to be sure it holds tight. Evidence of the bedhead from your nap is disguised by the ribbons, but I can still see each wisp of hair gone awry.

It's still one of my favorite things in life, the wildness of your hair upon waking.

We pass a lone dandelion growing from the sidewalk and you insist we stop to pick it. Your brothers wait patiently, like good princes should. They watch your every move, their princess in the crown.

I muster up the strength to pull you, my little three, to the top of the hill, and then we round the corner toward home.

It’s time to think about dinner. Papa will be home soon.

I pull the green wagon into the yard and the white gate slams behind. Your brothers scramble out quickly back into the dirt, turning from princes back into boys. I run off to chase them, to keep feet from tumbling and knees from scraping.

The day has been long and I’m tired from the pace.

A few moments pass and I glance back to see you, still perched regally in your carriage. And though I know we’ve just been around the block and back, I can’t help but feel my heart flutter at the thought. I’ve spent another day with a daughter of the king.

Is it just me, or is it easy to forget we're not just changing diapers and packing lunches here?

What helps you remember how important this job of being a parent really is?

Twinsday Wednesday: these faces

2011-10-26T14:22:00.000-05:00

Speaking of hope,

nothing fills my heart more than the happiness in these faces.

These boys and their sister are like three sacred portals,

funneling

hope

into my

very

soul

from God himself.

That may sound extreme.

The analogy is lacking.

And

that's

okay

hope is a journey.

2011-10-25T11:34:00.000-05:00

My hope cup was empty, so I opened the book. After I found it, that is. It had been a while, and I had to search it out.

Sometimes there is a moment before I turn back the cover when my breath catches and I hesitate. I never know what I'll find there. On days like today, I secretly wonder, What if I don't find anything? What then?

I fan through the pages until they fall open, a torn and folded-up piece of paper lying in the crease. I recognize it immediately and the tears begin. They keep coming, softening the fear and the hurt and the worry that feel etched onto my face by the day.

The tears slow and I look back to the book. Through the water I search the page for something, anything. It has to be there. On this very page. It has to.

First the page on the left. My eyes scan down to find it.

Fulfilling the law.

Submission to authorities.

Do not pass judgment.

No, no, no. I need more. Give me something more.

My eyes move over to the right. Down the first column, then the next. Until...

There it is. Nestled in the bottom right corner. There is the verse for me. The words written hundreds of years ago and then printed on this page, the page where I tucked away the prized handwritten note weeks ago without thinking. The words put there for me, for today, for right now.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.

- Romans 15:13 -

I don't know how to conjure up hope. The power of positive thinking has always been a little lost on me. Something about it feels forced and false. Disingenuous and futile. What good is a hope that comes from my head? I need more.

Today, I need more.

Today, I need hope that rests on something stronger than these tired shoulders. I need it to hold on tighter than my fickle heart. I need hope born from the joy and peace of believing in something. Of believing in someone other than me.

On days where the hurts seem bigger than my heart and the lies seem bigger than the truth, I need a hope that will search me out. I need a hope that will find me, wherever I am, and go with me, wherever I'm going.

Because sometimes, most times, the path ahead is is crowded with fallen branches and brush and vines, and I can't make sense of it all. The path looks like a thorny, painful mess and, to be honest, I don't want to walk it.

Today these words are what I have. These words and this folded-up piece of paper sing over me like a song... "When all feels lost, hope finds me."

Has hope found you today? Or yesterday, or any day before that? It would do my heart good to hear how.

[Video Week] Day 7: road full of promise

2011-10-23T08:30:00.002-05:00

Well, folks. It's been a wild ride, but you know what they say. All good things must come to an end.

That's what THEY say.

[Insert insatiable need to see Elizabethtown for the umpteenth time HERE.]

So now, without further ado, I give you the Video Week grand finale, a video of that will always and forever be one of my favorites.

I love it for more reasons than I can count.

[If you can't see the above video, click here.]

[Video Week] Day 6: identity crisis and self-admiration

2011-10-22T09:00:00.000-05:00

When we don't have anything better to do around the house, I usually end up with camera in hand, trying to capture the day's cuteness on film. These videos were shot consecutively from our kitchen floor a couple weeks ago.

Living with twins is a little like living in a Discovery Channel special that never ends. The way they are so much the same and yet so completely different, it is bizarre in the very best way.

[If you can't see the above videos, click here and then click here.]

Yes, maybe I was taking some motherly liberties in that second one.

So I need affirmation from time to time. Sue me.

all hail king Friday.

2011-10-21T15:13:00.000-05:00

We made it through a week of togetherness, me and these three. Here are the lessons learned.

1. We need people.

When the 4-year-old sees no one her own age for days on end, she starts acting like the 2-year-olds. When the mama sees no one her own age for days on end (sleepy conversations with the Hub withstanding), she starts acting like the 4-year-old.

This is an unfortunate discovery. However, it is also quite helpful when pondering things like the 4-year-old mysteriously reverting to one-word commands. Or the mama resorting to frustrated foot-stomping.

What can I say? It wasn't my best moment.

2. Doing something with three kids is easier than doing nothing with three kids.

Something = planning + effort.
Nothing = boredom + chaos.

Exceptions to this rule are not unlike unicorns. I want to believe they exist but I have yet to see them in real life.

3. I am losing my mind.

No, really. Part of it is gone. Specifically, the part with the ability to recall anything in the spring and early summer of 2010. During this window of time I allegedly cared for two nursing infants and a toddler, five days a week, alone. And here's the kicker: The toddler survived.

I honestly cannot remember how this happened. I had my hands tied, quite literally, every 3-4 hours for half an hour at a time while she did what? I keep trying to imagine the scenario.

Did she sit and read books in the same room with me? Doubtful.

Did she play in her room alone and without incident? Um, no.

WHAT DID SHE DO?

This troubles me.

(I've been watching a lot of Ally McBeal. Which brings me to...)

4. Never underestimate the power of watching the pretend life of a slightly insane but completely endearing person to make you feel less insane and also endearing.

5. Sometimes the best things are those we wouldn't necessarily choose.

No school kept us home, and sickness kept us inside. Not exactly how any of us would ideally spend our last five days.

But a week cooped up with these three faces? I can think of worse things.

What kept you sane this week? Coffee? Nutella? A new favorite song on repeat? Tell me. I need to know.

[Video Week] Day 5: short and sweet

2011-10-21T08:30:00.000-05:00

We made it to Friday, y'all. Hallelujah.

And now, 17 seconds of adorableness. I call this one "A Kiss and a Conundrum."

It makes me happy.

[Video Week] Day 4: Fire & Dynamite, with feeling

2011-10-20T08:30:00.001-05:00

I'm reaching back to the archives for this one.

Here's E about 5 months ago, singing her favorite song. This isn't the first time we've seen E sing Fire & Dynamite (by Drew Holcomb & the Neighbors) but I think you'll agree she's jazzed up her performance a bit.

Enjoy.

[Video Week] Day 3: good clean fun

2011-10-19T08:05:00.003-05:00

Since Wednesday is normally Twinsday around here, it is only fair that I use my favorite new footage of L&J as today's Video Week installment. And this is the one, hands down.

Speaking of hands, these boys are thoroughly fascinated with the concept of watching their talking, moving, screaming selves on screen while I video them with my phone. You'll see what I mean.

"While I video them with my phone."

Now that's something parents didn't say in the 80's. Thanks, technology.

the unforced rhythms of grace.

2011-10-18T14:00:00.000-05:00

Do you ever have so little patience that you feel like a runaway train?

I do. Often. There I go, barreling through the day with some chip on my shoulder, taking out innocent bystanders with force. I can feel it happening and I can see it happening, but somehow I can't stop me.

I guess, technically, I could. Stop me, that is. But it doesn't feel like I can.

Then the innocent bystanders lie down for their naps and I'm left with the first moments of quiet since I crawled out of bed six hours earlier. That is when I realize just how sad it makes me, this inability to stop the train. That is when I admit to myself how truly powerless I feel.

I remember that their little hearts are not the only ones I am hurting. I am hurting my own.

I glance through pictures on my phone, taken that very morning, and think, How could I? How could I raise a voice at these sweet faces? How could I dismiss that precious soul? Yet I did and I do. With each image it travels through me, the familiar pang of regret. I won't get this morning back, ever.

There a few happy moments. But there could have been more.

I can't stop the train, but I know someone who can. Whatever is weighing on my heart, so heavy that it makes me unkind, I can ask him to lift it off. He says that he will.

"Are you tired? Worn out? .... Come to me.

Get away with me and you'll recover your life.

I'll show you how to take a real rest.

Walk with me and work with me...

Learn

the

unforced

rhythms

grace.

I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you.

Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

-- Jesus as paraphrased in The Message

What about you? Do you ever feel like a runaway train?

[Video Week] Day 2: something's missing

2011-10-18T07:30:00.003-05:00

E likes to memorize poems. It's pretty much the best thing ever.

[If you can't see the above video, click here.]

Something Missing
by Shel Silverstein

I remember I put on my socks,
I remember I put on my shoes.
I remember I put on my tie
That was painted
In beautiful purples and blues.
I remember I put on my coat,
To look perfectly grand at the dance
Yet I feel there is something I may have forgot --
What is it? What is it?...
[My pants!]

from the book A Light in the Attic

[Video Week] Day 1: dance party

2011-10-17T09:27:00.000-05:00

What is it they say? Every good party ends with a fight?

Just kidding. No one says that. But this makes me laugh.

[If you can't see the above video, click here.]

manic Monday.

2011-10-17T08:05:00.003-05:00

Miscellaneous notes for Monday Bloody Monday

1. There is no school this week. Hence, the mania and the blood.*

2. What is Fall Break, anyway? Aren't Thanksgiving Break and Christmas Break right around the corner? If I were a teacher, this would be excellent news. But alas, I am a mother in desperate needs of her "days out." (Which, incidentally, almost always become days in -- doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms, incessantly sorting through various sizes and seasons of children's clothing, staring at the wall, and doing laundry. Yes, I did list that twice.) So, Fall Break. WHAT IN THE WORLD.

3. Recently this happened:

That's E's report from school. And yes, that is her hair. Seems someone fancies herself a stylist.

4. And now, a story:

Once upon a time, a dashing gentleman in Tel Aviv stumbled upon a little blog.

He read the blog and, evidently, did not hate it.

Being the co-founder of a super cool, innovative web site

which allows for customized, visual bookmarking of one's favorite places online,

he decided to promote the little blog there,

making it his Staff Pick for the month of October 2011.

Though the reasoning behind his action remains a mystery,

one thing is not:

He is awesome and we love him.

To see the little blog listed with a bunch of not-so-little blogs, click here.

The end.

5. I repeat: NO SCHOOL THIS WEEK.

6. This is how I feel about the fact that there is no school this week:

On the flip side, my no-school buddies are the cutest.

7. And now, a late-night decision (as I am writing this at 10:30pm on Sunday): I'm nicknaming my iPhone Biff, and here's why. We're together all the time. I can tell it anything. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry. He supports my photo/video/instagram addiction without judgement. Aside from some bogus autocorrecting and the occasional misunderstanding, he's pretty much the best inanimate BFF a girl could ask for. BFF. Biff. And there you have it.

8. I take a lot of video. As in, almost every day. Yet, I almost never share them. This is unfortunate because a) my kids are hilarious, and b) my kids are hilarious. Therefore, I have declared this to be Video Week. (A theme week! Commence oohs and ahhs.) Like magic, daily video posts will appear in your inbox or your reader or what have you.** Biff and I hope you like them.

*A reference to the U2 song "Sunday Bloody Sunday." You probably knew that, but I didn't want to misrepresent myself as goth and/or seriously injured. I did, however, spend the last hour researching Halloween party food online, so I have blood on the brain. Again, to clarify -- not injured.

**Said video posts will be titled as such for the convenience of those who find this concept frightening or who have more pressing and/or useful things to do with their time. You're welcome.

Friday Fodder

2011-10-14T08:13:00.000-05:00

First things first. I am almost caught up on laundry.

I wish there was a way to adequately convey the grandeur of this statement.

: : : : : : : : : :

Life is slowly returning to (a new version of) normal. The Hub and I are occasionally home at the same time when we are 1) not asleep and 2) capable of forming complete sentences. Our family has groceries in our refrigerator and, from time to time, we make meals with them. We are tired, yet not so tired that we cannot stay awake for a late-night, catch-up mini-marathon of Parks & Rec. We are scattered, yet not so scattered that we forget what day of the week it is, multiple times in a single day.

(Did I send my husband and daughter racing out the door Wednesday to a soccer practice scheduled for Thursday? Sure I did.)

(Did I think that Tuesday was Thursday until approximately 10:30 that night? Yep.)

In other words, these are good developments.

Also, I purchased two mums two weeks ago and both are on the verge of death. See? Normal.

: : : : : : : : :

On one of the hardest days of last week, J belly laughed at a squirrel running on a wire. I can't be sure, but I'm guessing that did as much good for my emotional state as roughly ten hours of therapy.

: : : : : : : : : :

Various child updates:

J developed a sudden bout of laryngitis yesterday that makes his voice all raspy and rebel-ish. He's like a miniature boy version of Janis Joplin. It's pretty fantastic. The fever and cough that kept him up last night, however, are the opposite of fantastic.

L and J have begun calling each other by name. The fun part: sometimes they use the wrong name. I admit this makes me feel a little better about that time I gave one of them two back-to-back doses of infant Tylenol.

Speaking of names, last night E informed Papa that she will begin call him "Poppy." Then she spent thirty minutes of bath time playing with a "pet" (read: bath toy) that she named Ducky.

Ducky is a fish.

: : : : : : : : :

I've not exactly been a picture of patience with my children lately. Sure, we've had a lot going on, but blaming circumstances when one acts like an impatient lunatic toward a cute four-year-old and matching almost-two-year-olds is a tough sell.

Fortunately, we had the good sense to get out of the house when we could and let the perfection of early fall in Tennessee work its mid-70's magic.

It is also fortunate that E's excited face is her new favorite pose.

Thank God for this girl.

what is true. [a reminder for mothers and daughters]

2011-10-13T12:23:00.000-05:00

She keeps telling me she wants to look beautiful. I keep telling her she already is.

Beauty is what you are, not what you wear, I say.

She says she understands.

I blow her hair dry with my "grownup" brush for the first time while she stands, diligent and still and giddy with excitement. I lift her high to the mirror, and her face lights up. "Beauuutiful," she whispers.

You're always beautiful, I say.

She smiles at the reflection.

She sits quietly, concentrating, carefully positioning a plastic ring on each of her ten little fingers. "I need to look beautiful for my trip to the pretend grocery store," she says.

I watch her with eyes so full of love they can hardly focus. I snap a picture to remember.

Inside me something else snaps sharp, and I wonder, Has she learned this from me?

We rush through the morning, packing lunches, tying laces, gathering ourselves together while the clock ticks too far past.

I grab the little brown bag from my purse and sneak into the bathroom, pulling the door behind me. I try to hide the urgency with which I make my face into one I feel is worth wearing. She almost always finds me.

"Mama, can I have my makeup?"

We keep it with mine, the glittery lip gloss she got on our birthday. I hand it over and she stands on the stool beside me, slowly moving the brush over tense lips. Then she looks up, eyes bright and proud.

You are beautiful, I say. You are always beautiful.

My mind flies to the future and my heart aches because I know. I know there are days she will not believe. I know there are days she will feel unloved and unlovely. She, who is beloved by Beauty himself, will not believe it is true.

Because sometimes the Untrue creeps in and sets up camp, and we forget. I forget.

So, while I can, I will remind her. I will tell her, and I will insist that she listen.

You are beautiful. You are always beautiful.

Twinsday Wednesday: bathtub aerial

2011-10-12T09:22:00.000-05:00

They really are the sweetest boys I've ever laid eyes on.

(No offense to your sweetest boys intended.)

Also, you'll be glad to know we're up to about three baths a week.

It's progress, people. Progress.

Overheard: honest like Mick

2011-10-11T07:05:00.002-05:00

[The scene: Mama has a run-in with four year old E over something of minimal importance. Mama gets more frustrated than is appropriate for minimally important situation. A few minutes later, Mama apologizes to E for said frustration.]

E: [hugging me] "It's okay." [still hugging] "You're a good mommy."

ME: [sighing] "But I want to be the BEST mama in the whole world."

E: "Oh, Mommy, you'll always be MY mommy."

ME: "But not the best mommy?"

E: "You'll always be my mommy." [pause] "Remember what you told me? You can't always get what you want."

still here. [an update of sorts]

2011-10-10T01:20:00.000-05:00

"Sometimes grace takes unexpected form. Like when morning sun makes my bedroom window into a flower."

I sent the words and image into the atmosphere via my iPhone, to whomever might be listening at 7am on a Saturday. The Hub was gone for the weekend, and I was glad for a little piece of beauty to greet my tired eyes and send me on my way down the stairs, to a day of solo parenting.

Something about knowing you are the only one -- that it all rests on you, even if just for a day -- can nudge a person forward to the front of the line, to a momentary but real resolve to be your best self, to do the thing well. Or, it can seem so vast and overwhelming that you glance down at Fatigue and Despair and take the leap. I know that the choice is ours, in theory, but sometimes I'm not so sure.

Fortunately, this particular Saturday was the former; a nudged-forward kind of day. The boys woke up playing peekaboo ("peekeebah") in their cribs. I had at least two cups of coffee from my favorite mug. E and I made blueberry muffins and the four of us ate every last crumb.

When afternoon came, Mom called. Dad's casual hospital stay for pneumonia had become something more. It was a movie-script kind of phone call, the kind that begins with "You should come now" and ends with panicked confusion.

That was the moment life began to blur. Like someone had wedged the gas pedal to the floorboard with a brick, we sped ahead, crashing into moments and days and weeks, unwilling and unprepared. It was terrifying to be in that place again. Weren't we just here? It was too soon.

Two weeks ago she made that call. It seems like a blink, and yet, so painfully slow.

There has been fear and anger, hope and light. We said tearful and reluctant goodbyes. We sang joyful and miraculous hellos. Life has been taken and given back, emptied out and enriched.

Meanwhile, life outside of the world of white coats and heavy hearts and hospital rooms has kept going. The kids go to "school." The husband goes to work. The bathroom has filled up with dirty laundry and the refrigerator has emptied of food. Friends have helped as they can, and the prayers of people we know and many we don't have carried us through the days.

Mom closed on their new house a week ago, and we moved their things the next day. Dad got better. Then worse. Then better. Despite lingering challenges, he gets better still.

He must be the strongest person I know.

He'll be coming home soon, to the new home we are preparing slowly between school drop-offs and naptimes and hospital visits. He'll be coming home soon, and every emotionally-laden ounce of this will be worth it.

We are still here, the lot of us, wading through it all. Normal things have happened, happy and hopeful and laugh-out-loud things. True to form, I have a list of half-written stories I may or may not get around to finishing. And true to form, I have hundreds of photos I may or may not get around to sharing.

But we are here.

Just thought you should know.

five kids in the backyard. [or, the Dad Update]

2011-09-30T15:13:00.000-05:00

My dad survived.

My dad survived. I should say so much more, but right now those three words are about all I can manage.

Maybe one day soon I'll have the emotional wherewithal to explain what a miracle this is, to adequately thank you for your kindness and support, to tell how we all but saw the prayers of God's people lift my father from his deathbed, and to describe the unfathomable patience and grace with which he endured it all.

We are stunned and proud and grateful and amazed and exhausted.

Our wailing has turned to dancing. Our mourning has turned to joy. I have never before experienced that verse as literally as we have over the past seven days.

Amen, amen, amen.

Meanwhile, my parents closed on their Nashville home. How it all came together in the midst of everything else is a miracle all its own.

"Five kids in the backyard," my dad spelled out on Tuesday, one day after he woke. Still weak, on a ventilator and unable to speak, he pointed to the letters one by one on the chart in his ICU room.

Five grandkids and one very proud Papaw.

I can't wait.

What about you? What are you grateful beyond words for today? I'd love to hear...

everyone you meet.

2011-09-29T07:00:00.000-05:00

There was a ninety percent chance of rain, but we went anyway. One mama, one papa, two grandparents and three kids under age four piled into two cars and piled out at the zoo.

We had been feeding lorikeets and herding children for about twenty minutes when the rain began. Opting for lunch over misery, our party of seven took cover in the Zoo Cafe.

It was our typical game of Maintain Your Mealtime Sanity. Papa retrieves two high chairs while Mama prevents runaways. Mama settles twins into high chairs while Papa orders lunch with extremely vocal four year old in tow. Mama attempts to entertain hungry toddlers with stale Cheerios, one book, and crayons with no paper. Magically, food appears and the invisible timer starts ticking...

[Read the rest of today's post over at Tamara Out Loud. ]

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Today's is my first-ever guest post. Fancy! Thanks, Tamara, for the hospitality. And thanks, new friends, for stopping by. Hope you'll stay awhile and come again soon.

Twinsday Wednesday [video]: hi, Papaw!

2011-09-28T16:57:00.000-05:00

Since running, screaming, miniature ninjas are not allowed in the ICU, Superman and Batman are visiting Papaw via satellite.

Now, who feels like playing Name That Twin? You know you do.

Go ahead. Take a good look.

Be sure to consider all the factors -- speech, demeanor, clothing color, degree of post-nap bedhead, etc.

Got it? K. Scroll on down.

...

...

...

Keep going.

...

...

...

...

Confession: I'm on a bit of a power trip here. It's the little things.

...

...

...

DRUMROLL.....

Superman = J, Batman = L.

Wasn't that fun? You're welcome.

friends, please pray for us.

2011-09-25T15:16:00.000-05:00

This kind man is my daddy. Papaw to my sweet children. I took this photo of him and E about two weeks ago at the house that he and my mom are set to close on this Friday. A house of their own in Nashville, just a half hour from ours. The move put into motion this time last year will finally become a reality.

As I type this, my dad is in ICU, fighting for his life all over again. We hoped this was a setback, a mere bump in the road, but it has quickly become more than that. It is beginning to look more like the long and bitter road we know too well.

And yet. And yet. We are not without hope.

His body can heal, can slowly but steadily reclaim its health amid the sepsis that is trying to overtake it. The miraculous medicines can do their miraculous work. The new blood can give new life; his lungs can grow stronger and stronger. He can come through this, and, oh, how we pray that he will!

Will you pray with us?

Will you pray for another miracle? Will you pray for his body to be restored and full of life? Will you pray that his heart and mind will be at peace? Will you pray that his caregivers and doctors and we, his family, will know how to support him and make wise and loving choices on his behalf?

Will you pray that he comes home? That my dear mom and dad can be Tennesseans once again and finally get to watch as their grandchildren run and play and explore in their backyard?

We know one day we will say goodbye. Just not yet. Please, heavenly Father, not yet.

This morning I remembered (or was given?) a verse from Zechariah.

"'Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit,'" says the Lord.

If my father is to be healed, THAT is how he is to be healed.

What could be more beautiful that that?

Twinsday Wednesday [doubletime]: busy/studs

2011-09-21T19:46:00.000-05:00

Sorry this one's late.

We were busy playing in the sand.

And looking like studs.

[And watching Mama play with a new photo app, Snapseed. It's free thru Friday, 9/23. Getchoo some.]

tethered. [or, resting in all I cannot provide]

2011-09-20T12:17:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, at around 5:30 in the afternoon, my twin boys could have been killed.

It looks so strange to see that sentence on the page. Even stranger is the fact that, for once, it is not an exaggeration.

Before any of you rush to the phone or the car or facebook to check on us, we are fine. All of us. No one is hurt; no one is sick. The kids are at school, the Hub is at work, and I’m at my “office”, catching up on all things virtual... returning emails, canceling Hulu, signing up my husband for a week of male bonding at a church retreat. Again, we are fine.

Saturday night, however, we were distraught. Not with what happened, but with what could have happened.

The five of us were in the front yard, enjoying the end of the day and the low-hanging clouds of a coming fall. The boys kicked a ball around the yard, and the rest of us walked up the steps to the front porch to examine something, I can’t remember what. But what happened next I can’t forget.

L & J abandoned the red kickball and charged, as if it was a thing they’d planned, for the front gate of our white picket fence.

That fence was built just a few months before they were born, by the wisdom and foresight of my dear husband who knew, even then, that the brood and I would never be able to venture outside without it. We live on a busy corner in a lively neighborhood, our street a common cut-through between two others, cars zigzagging past as quickly as they can manage the back-to-back curves. The sound of squealing tires is a common, worrisome one to this mama’s ears.

J reached the gate first and, with more agility than we knew he possessed, reached through the slats and unlocked the hinge. Out they went.

I was the closest and took off in what felt like slow motion, down the steps and up the long stretch of sidewalk toward the gate. L was in the lead, feet already off the outside sidewalk and on the street. I pushed past little J, inadvertently knocking him to the ground as I dashed through the curb-parked cars toward his brother. I scooped up L as he reached the dead middle of our wide street, the Hub rescuing J and his scraped, bleeding knees just behind us.

Everyone was fine. Everyone but Mama and Papa.

I pray for my children, though as I’ve admitted in this place before, I don’t do it often enough. This morning I’m wondering, why do I pray more for their future than for their right now? Why do I voice trust in God for their tomorrow, but not for their today?

I pray for them as they grow and as they learn. I pray that their bodies will be strong and free from sickness. I pray they know how much they are treasured and how fiercely they are loved. But why don’t I pray for their protection? Why don’t I plead for their life?

Perhaps it is that my mother’s heart doesn’t want to go there, doesn’t want to entertain those thoughts of what could be. But I know people who are there now, in this place we do not speak of. And the truth is, I know it is more than that.

I know it is because I think I can protect them.

I pray for their future, when they venture into the world without me by their side. And I pray for their schooldays, that they might be safe and happy and full. But when they are home with me, I am the one who watches over them. I am the one who keeps them from harm. Isn’t that my job?

When I think of sweet little L, dashing joyfully into the street, I am painfully aware that I cannot do this. I cannot keep my little boys and their big sister safe. I can care for them as well as I know how, but ultimately they are not in my keeping.

That is so very hard to say out loud. My children are not my own.

One day they will fly out that gate to an adventure to which I am not invited. To a life where I am not in charge. They will make choices and make friends and make their beds and their dinner. Their papa and I will be left at home, to hope we have taught them well and to pray loudly and earnestly and constantly for their survival. To pray that they will not just live, but really live, in the best sense of the word.

If I think that I can secure their well being now -- with my locks and doors and careful, watchful eye -- any more than I can then, I am surely a fool.

And so, as we install a second set of latches on the gate and a renewed trust in our hearts, we remember who it is that cares for us. Our job as parents is of utmost importance; each knee that is bandaged and each meal prepared and each word of love spoken is vital. But the role of the heavenly Father is far greater, and it is on his care that our life relies, parent and child alike.

In the preface of a book I’ve begun reading, author and fellow mother Nancy Guthrie makes a comment that reminds me of one I sometimes received as mom to newborn twins and a toddler. But Nancy's plight was far more sobering than mine. She endured the unthinkable, losing two children before their first birthdays.

"Occasionally someone has said to me, 'You must be a very strong person.'

But I know the truth -- that I am not strong.

However, I am tethered to Someone who is strong."

It is with hope in the promise that He loves us more than we love ourselves that I will pray. It is with belief in the unbelievable that I will plead for my children, not just for their happiness but for their very life. Not just for my emotional deficiencies as a broken mother, but for the food all five of our souls need to survive.

I will pray for all the things I cannot give, and I will pray for all of the things I think I can.

AMEN.

perspective [or, some moments speak louder than others]

2011-09-19T10:21:00.000-05:00

I sat at the dining room table, writing about joy, relishing the quiet while it lasted. I had been thinking about life and the oddness of it all, how some days the world feels heavier than others, even if we can’t articulate the reasons why.
I was feeling tired, physically and emotionally, when she woke in from her nap.
The look on E’s face when she walks out of her room after a nap... I’m not sure how to explain it. It is some sort of magical mixture of contentment, determination, agenda, and evaporating fatigue. It is the best.

And her hair. It is one of my favorite things in the world, the wildness of her hair upon waking.

She marched out of her room and beelined for me, another bonus of the post-nap ritual. But this time she walked past me and perched on the little table in the corner, blinking fast and surveying the room as if trying to get her bearings. I went over and sat on my knees in front of her, brushing the hair from her eyes. “How are you?”
Immediately, she popped up and walked straight into my arms, settling into my lap for what was easily one of the top eight hugs of all time.
“I want to give you some love, Mom.”
This made me so happy that I started to cry a little, and I said so.
“Oh, E, I really needed some love. How did you know?”
“I just knew, Mommy.” And then, “You know, some people cry when they get so happy. Just like at bedtime when I cry sometimes, it’s because I’m so happy that I get to go to sleep.”
[Ummmm... Not so much. But can you imagine a more precious two-minute slice of time? Never.]
Then she asked if she could watch Sleeping Beauty.
Note to all the four-year-olds in the house: Follow the above instructions exactly, and you will get what you want. Every. Single. Time.

five minute friday: choose joy.

2011-09-16T15:08:00.000-05:00

Anyone else out there so glad it's Friday that you could just scream?

I've been wanting to write, to wrap up some half-finished posts with a nice ribbon and send them across cyberspace to you in a nice, timely fashion. The thing is, I'm just so very tired. We're all fine. [Translation: Relatives, do not worry. We really are fine.] This week's been fine. The kids are all fine. Hub's work is fine. I'm fine. We're just tired. And cranky. Let's not forget cranky.

When tired Me signed onto Twitter a few minutes ago, I was happy to be reminded that it is indeed Friday. And Fridays mean quick, five-minute posts facilitated by Lisa-Jo. Excellent.

So here goes. Five unplanned and unfiltered minutes of writing. It's liberating. Maybe you should try it, too. Then come back & tell me so we can feel liberated together. Good times.

(Full disclosure: This usually -- i.e. always -- ends up being about 7 minutes for me. I'm late/slow with everything, just ask Rebecca.)

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Today's prompt: Joy.

:: START ::

“Today I will choose joy.”

The words are prettily painted on the cheerful blue and red and white image of a poster on Pinterest.

Today I will choose joy. Sounds wise enough, good enough. But some days, doesn’t it feel like joy doesn’t choose me?

I live a joyful life. My home sees smiles and laughter every day. Some more than others, but still - every single day. My children are healthy. I’m in love with my husband and, despite my neuroses, he is in love with me. Our family extends beyond these walls to those near and far. We have people. We are loved. We live a joyful life.

And yet.

Yesterday a local news story had me openly weeping on my sofa, horrified at the fate of two tiny boys who I can’t help but imagine resembled my own.

I have dear friends struggling with disease and uncertainty, living their lives gracefully and beautifully with a would-be bully trailing behind.

Too many women that I love have mourned the loss of a child they never met. A loss no one else can fully understand.

And yet.

We choose joy. Because we know that while pain is real, joy is eternal. Because we know that where darkness abounds, joy brings light. Because we know that joy fills the heart up in unspeakable ways, mending unspeakable hurts.

We choose joy because Joy chose us.*

:: STOP ::

*"And while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." Romans 5:8

Twinsday Wednesday: silhouettes

2011-09-14T14:54:00.000-05:00

That little hand pressed up against the window is so precious it makes my heart ache.

That's J on the right, the features of his sweet face framed perfectly by the light.

That's L on the left, and that's a Mickey Mouse coloring page he's holding. If you know L, you know that of course it is.

I am raising three Disney addicts. Somebody, help.

eight down, a lifetime to go.

2011-09-13T15:58:00.000-05:00

It hardly seems that a year could have passed since the last time we exchanged cards, love letters written on the envelope in a code only we know, just like your mom and dad have always done.

It barely seems possible that we've finished eight years of writing our own story, making our own traditions, and growing our own family. Then again, it feels like this is the way it's always been.

I think back to the days before - before you and before us - and I swear I see you there. Present in every memory, like you've always been a part of me.

You're written on every page of my book. A part of my history and a part of my future. I don't know how. But for once, the how doesn't matter.

All the words I wrote a year ago today are still true. Our life is still beauty, still chaos, still hard work and breathtaking joy. If I stopped long enough to take it all in, every little thing that makes up our everyday, surely my heart couldn't hold the wonderful weight of it.

You need to know that you bring me hope. Hope that our children will become adults who are as gracious as they are strong. Hope that we will keep learning to tend our home and our families well. Hope that I can become the best version of myself, the one who is patient and loving and faithful and brave, like you.

You give me hope that wild joy waits around everyone's corner, everyone who is hurting or mending or needing something more. You give me hope that their tomorrow will be heaped high with blessings as extravagant as those we've been given.

I love you, Hub.

Now. Let's go eat good food and rock out to some Journey. And Foreigner. And Night Ranger. YES.

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Super easy-to-make "I Still Do" flags courtesy of my new Pinterest addiction and the free printables found here.

it is almost fall.

2011-09-08T12:26:00.000-05:00

I have a post or two brewing, posts about actual thoughts and ideas and whatnot. But first, I just have to get this out of my system real quick-like.

IT IS ALMOST FALL.

It is almost fall! It is almost fall. It is almost fall.

People. I adore fall. Seriously, everything about it. Orange leaves, crisp air, cold hands, hot coffee, scarves, sweaters, boots, hats, pumpkins, candles, holidays. Making piles of leaves and being too lazy to bag them up so the kids jump in it and throw them everywhere and the yard is a beautiful mess all over again. LOVE.

Honestly, if it didn't kill the grass, I would vote to let the leaves stay. Tell me you don't love the crunch of leaves underfoot. You do, I know it.

Yesterday E spent the day at Granmae and Papaw's.

PAUSE.

[Yes, this means they live here now. They are still house hunting, but they are here. HERE. Where we are. Hallelujah. And yes, this was a very big girl thing to do, for E to spend the day at their "compartment" without the rest of us.]

[She was so proud I thought the giant grin might injure her sweet little face.]

[Speaking of E, let's talk about how much she and her hair have grown in a year's time. These photos are from last fall.]

[And speaking of that, let's talk about how her brothers have gone from babies to boys in the same amount of time.]

[Actually, let's don't talk about that.]

UNPAUSE.

So, having one-third more freedom than usual - and I say that lovingly - I decided to take the boys for a little walk around the 'hood. They provided the commentary [try to get a truck within a hundred yards of them and see if they don't notice, I dare you] and I provided the audible sighs and goofy grins at the gray sky and cool breeze and ability to breathe in air without feeling like I had stuck my head in a microwave.

It was the first walk around the block that felt like fall. I took a picture.

Mark your calendars, folks, and let's party. September 23, 5:05AM, EDT.

That, according to almanac.com, is the autumnal equinox.

Yep, I googled it.

Twinsday Wednesday [video]: pucker up

2011-09-07T15:00:00.000-05:00

My dear, sweet, almost-two-year-old boys have added a little flair to their kisses of late. Even better, they give these kisses out upon request.

I make these requests often. You can see why.

[If you can't see the above video, click here.]

Twinsday Wednesday: bonus round

2011-09-01T16:29:00.000-05:00

No, it is not Wednesday.

Yes, I already posted this week's photo of your favorite twins.

Then I saw this yesterday on 22 Words and I decided you must see it, too. E and I couldn't get enough.

Can you even stand it? E commented with glee, "Look at THAT ONE! He's so frustrated!"

That he is.

I swear, I think we giggled for a solid five minutes.

Twinsday Wednesday: mealtime tradition

2011-08-31T15:07:00.000-05:00

Some version of this happens at the end of every meal.

It's cute, sure.

It's also unfortunate, considering how often they are (not) bathed.

[Related note: Squished fruit makes a fantastic extra-hold styling gel.]

for the morning.

2011-08-30T08:59:00.000-05:00

It is a new day.

My issues and yours have not vanished, but our mercy cup has been refilled. Even now, we are being granted fresh grace, enough to cover all the other stuff, the ugly and unresolved.

We may not feel like this is true, but this is the Promise.

"For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish." (Jeremiah 31:25)

Every languishing soul. That's me. And you?

I don't know about you, but I needed the reminder. And so, I raise my coffee mug to today, a fresh start. (And did I mention it is the first day of "school"? Hallelujah and amen.)

Cheers, friends.

cousins at sea.

2011-08-29T07:41:00.000-05:00

lessons from the road.

2011-08-26T15:53:00.000-05:00

We took a trip, the first long one in a long while. Emotions ran high as we did our traditional last-possible-minute packing. Should we do this? Will we make it? Will our sanity, our marriage, and all of our children's limbs remain intact?

It's unnerving to set sail with the whole family in tow after a year's (necessary) hibernation. That may sound silly to you, or the truth of it may resonate deep in your soul. It all depends on whether you've heard my boys' trademark high pitched squeal or seen their mischief in action.

Their climbing skills have only become more acute, mind you. J climbed out of bed and onto his head just two hours ago. True story. And did I mention sweet little E has been possessed by a sixteen year old with entitlement issues? The sweet is still there, but the sassy is in full effect.

The thought of leaving our fort of (relative) safety for a week and traveling into the great unknown of pit stops and pack 'n plays and rooms with glass tables and uncovered outlets... Well. We were a wee bit terrified. Seriously. With t-minus 24 hours until liftoff I thought my strong, capable, level-headed husband might crawl into the fetal position and sob.

And we're pretty laid back, folks.

But we did it. We took the crossover SUV by the horns and drove 1600 miles with the 3 four-and-unders.

This is what we learned.

Road Trip Observations

Late starts and pouring rain are easily rectified with one well-timed Chik-fil-a visit (and subsequent peach milkshake).

Do not look a content, car-riding toddler in the eye lest he suddenly decide he needs something from you.

Some books are better upside down.

The "are we there yet?" stereotype exists for a reason.

needtobreathe's newest album sounds *exactly* like the dude from Kings of Leon.

Headrest-mounted DVD players are useless if you have toddler boys who kick them off while you're not looking.

'Tis hard to resist an overpriced treat for the road when you are oh-so-tired and it is decorated with what your four year old thinks to be the White Witch from the Chronicles of Narnia.

Annoying: People who use the handicap/baby changing stall who are neither handicapped, nor changing a baby, nor assisting a child.

Related: How many trips to the restroom does the Williams party of five make on a standard lunch stop? Six.

It's a clue you've been a moody passenger when this exchange takes place upon arriving at your destination.

Wife: "They did so good, all three of them."

Husband: "They did better than you, to be honest."

The last hour can be the most painful. It helps if the clouds are awesome.

healing in retrospect.

2011-08-25T21:41:00.000-05:00

Thanks to facebook's all-knowing (and slightly creepy) ways, I was just reminded of my post one year ago today.

It featured this photo.

Those adorable chunks are L & J at nine months old, the morning after J's finger incident.

I remember those looks -- L's leftover confusion/exhaustion/worry from his one and only day apart from his other half, and Baby J just happy to be home.

God bless that sweet little pinkie and the surgeon who saved it.

: : : : : : : : : :

Speaking of facebook, I finally got around to creating a page for this site.

If you like us, please "like" us.*

*That sentence made perfect sense to 98.3% of you. And thus is revealed the power given social networking to make otherwise intelligent individuals speak nonsense.**
**Another ten years and we'll need decoder rings in order to have a conversation with our kids.***
***This makes me feel old. The end.

cleaning house & heart. [or, I know the floor is around here somewhere.]

2011-08-24T14:18:00.000-05:00

I was bragging recently (humbly, of course) that our house is no longer a complete disaster area, that for the first time since the boys were born it felt like we were getting our house back. And maybe even our sanity?

No doubt God heard me and laughed his boisterous, almighty laugh. Because now my house is, well, a complete disaster area. Again. Still. Forevermore.

It is like a force unto itself. I am powerless to stop it.

I clean the kitchen while the boys wreck their room. The Hub disembowels the rat-infested basement*, and now the dining room is piled high with plastic bins and random household items. Like a pack 'n play and a humidifier. A stack of old yearbooks and a pile of new hand me downs.

When the kids were consistently in a couple days of Parents' Day Out each week - after the spring of cold/flu/stomach misery was finally over - I went on a rampage. I organized and cleaned and organized and purged. It was glorious. But there was a catch.

In order to clean the surface, I had to first clear away the clutter. Keep in mind, we're talking about eighteen months of clutter. (Not really but, yes, really.) And to clear away the clutter, I had to first invent new places to put it all. And to do that, I had to first eliminate the junk.

Ah, the junk. The excess, the garbage, the outdated and underused. The stuff lying below the surface. I had to clean the inside before I could clean the outside.

[You see where I'm going with this. As my new and dear friend Annie said, the blog post writes itself.]

So I did. I spent hours purging fluff, disinfecting cabinets, organizing shelves, making a home for the stuff that matters and getting rid of the stuff that doesn't.

I worked hard and I was proud. But at the end of the day, no one could tell but me. There were no gasps, no shouts of joy, no applause at the grand reveal. On the surface, everything still looked like an unfortunate, neglected mess. But I knew better.

And now, the million dollar question.

How many times has the work on my heart felt like my work on this home - exhausting, slow, painful and invisible to the untrained eye? Most times, if I'm honest.

Ann Voskamp says that "without God's Word as a lens, the world warps." (One Thousand Gifts)

How differently would I live my life, my days, my hours and moments in this home and out, if I could see past the clutter to what is beneath? What if I trained my eye to focus on what matters and kept all the rest in the peripheral?

Would I care less about the state of my kitchen and more about the state of my daughter's heart?

Would I rearrange my to-do list, moving chores to the bottom and playtime with my boys to the top?

It's a slow process, this learning to see the holy with unholy eyes. Sometimes the only way I know it's happening, the only way I know I'm changing, is because God has promised that is is and that I am.

Meanwhile, here I sit, surrounded once again by the familiar piles of stuff. So much stuff. Feeling that tug of the heart that I know well, the one pulling me to something bigger than the mess that encloses me. More pressing than the things I think I must do.

If you think you've read this here before, you're right. I seem to learn a new version of the same truth every other day. Maybe there will come a day when it finally sinks deep into my heart, once and for all. Until then, feel free to remind me. (Seriously.)

And please, the next time I marvel at how non-disastrous my house is, someone kick me in the shin.

*For those of you cringing right now, rest assured the r-a-t issue (sometimes I feel better if I spell the word rather than say it) is being handled. Obviously there will be a future post devoted to their demise, but for now know this: They are not in our house, just in our basement, and their population has all but been eliminated. That's right, folks. There was a population [she types as she shudders violently at the thought]. Lord help us.

Twinsday Wednesday: beach boys

2011-08-24T09:48:00.000-05:00

We're back.

Where've we been? That's a good question and one I am prepared to answer at another time, when my three children are not climbing the furniture, snatching each other's toys, or yelling "Mooommmm! Help!"

(Literally, that's what they are doing at this moment.)

The quick version: We hosted family, visited family, celebrated family, drove many miles, gave many hugs. Throw in a little running and a lot of consigning (ugh), and you have our 3 weeks in a nutshell.

Amid the beautiful madness, the above happened:

My boys' first trip to the beach.

Yes, it was long overdue.

Yes, it was awesome.

Yes, that is their sister frolicking in the background.

Yes, she has grown three years' worth in three weeks. More on that later.

It's good to be back.

Twinsday Wednesday: eeny meeny miny moe

2011-08-03T20:45:00.000-05:00

Forrest Gump said it best.

Our house is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're gonna get.

Let me rephrase.

You always know you're going to get chaos.

It's just a matter of whether that chaos is happy or sad, fun or tear-your-heart-out painful.

We see a lot of happy and fun around here, and for that I am grateful.

I'm (slowly) learning to embrace the chaos. For that I am also (very) grateful.

But.

Today we saw a lot of Miny and a lot of Moe.

A LOT.

Fortunately, they are (finally) asleep.

In summary, I will now return to my glass of vino.

Thank you and have a good night.

Note for the grandparents in the house: That's L on the left, J on the right. But you knew that. :)

kids these days.

2011-08-01T09:30:00.008-05:00

I'm getting old.

I know this because of the constant commentary on Youth in America that runs in my brain. I'm not sure exactly when this started but I often find myself thinking things like, Times were so much simpler when I was growing up. Or, I will go to the grave before I let my daughter leave the house dressed like that. Or, When did pop radio become a legal form of mass torture?

I also know this because my daughter can adapt to new technology approximately 155% faster than I can. I knew this would happen but I honestly thought we were at least 2 or 3 years out. I was incorrect.

On that note, I present...

How to Tell When a Four Year Old Has Been Playing with Your iPhone.

Step One:

Check for peanut butter and jelly fingerprints.

Step Two:

Check your camera roll.

Happy Monday, y'all.

I need a hero.

2011-07-29T09:15:00.003-05:00

We've been watching a lot of Shrek around here lately, and that song is permanently implanted in my brain.

The rat issue has not gone away. In fact, the rat issue has progressed. We are at a whole new level of disgust, a whole new level of ticked off. We are at war.

Fortunately for me and the little ones, we have a hero. His name is Papa. He will not be defeated.

Do you hear that, rats? WE WILL END YOU.

That is all. Enjoy your Friday.

My hero being heroic

(in the form of reading the boys' current fave book for the tenth time in a row).

when hurt begets love.

2011-07-28T09:51:00.000-05:00

: : from Monday : :

Dear darling girl,

It is naptime. You are sleeping.

Today we played and danced and laughed. You are such fun, such joy, such life.

Then you tested us, me and you. You decided you would not obey, then you dug in your heels and stood your ground. You fought hard, fists clenched and eyes on fire. You stomped away and back again. You used your voice to say the harshest things you could think of in the most hurtful way you knew how.

Sometimes my heart is gripped with the fear that you learned this from me.

You went all the way to that risky place called Refusing to Listen, Forgetting to Love. But today something was different. I did not go there with you.

Instead of clipping your heels with the rushing of my own, I let you go there alone. Instead of adding my voice to the crescendo that eventually crashes down in a wave of hurt, I called to you calmly and quietly from my place on the sand. I waited for you to return.

You refused again. And again.

It was the water in my eyes, not the words from my mouth, that finally broke through. Your wall shattered and your heart softened, but still you turned your shoulders away, defiant. The door of silence slammed down shut.

Now in the other room, I let the tears escape. Why does this have to be so hard? Why can’t I seem to get this right? That’s when I heard you crying, too.

I waited a few minutes, turning over in my head the words I’ve been trying so hard to move from the pages of the parenting book into the fiber of my heart. Respond rather than react. How should I respond to this rebellious little heart, crying softly in her bed?

I sat in silence, then crept quietly into your room, into your bed without a word. I lay down beside the whimpering one. I pressed my lips to the back of your head, wrapped my arm around you. Without hesitation or words, you grabbed my hand in yours.

And there we lay, breathing relief in and out, in and out.

“Sweetie, why are you crying?”

Again you did not hesitate.

“Because I know I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

The words hung over us, heavy with sadness and truth. My heart felt so big and so broken you could have covered the roof of this house with its shattered pieces.

We spoke into the quiet and said the things that needed saying. Then we both held on tight as you fell quickly to sleep.

I stayed there with you for a while, studying your little hands around mine. Thinking about the hurt that gave way to grace. Feeling like that tired prayer - desperate and familiar - is slowly being answered, like light is shining through a window that has been dark for too long. Believing that our hope - yours and mine - is not a textbook but a promise. A promise.

Marveling at how in the wake of the yelling and the words and the tears I love you more than I ever have.

You are my treasure, little girl.

Love,
Mama

P.S. You still cannot have your castle or mermaid dolls back until tomorrow. The follow-through will hurt me more than it hurts you, trust me. xoxo

Twinsday Wednesday [video]: free entertainment

2011-07-27T17:58:00.000-05:00

Biggest twin perk? You're born with the best toy ever -- each other.

Twinsday Wednesday: flowing manes

2011-07-20T07:47:00.000-05:00

Today these golden locks will be chopped for only the second time in their sweet, wispy history.

The mullets are back, this time with more of a surfer edge, hanging low over ears and eyes.

It's pretty adorable. But I don't have the heart to make them blink hair out of their eyes for much longer, even if that hair is blond and fabulous.

So, say your goodbyes once again.

Big boy haircuts are on the way.

Hopefully my heart can handle it.

Friday Fodder

2011-07-15T08:29:00.000-05:00

I dislike extreme temperatures.

Despite so-called Cool Nashville Summer's attempt to morph into her evil twin, Flaming Hot Nashville Summer, I remain determined that the brood and I will exit the house at least once a day.

Sometimes we only make it to the front porch. It still counts.

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Tomato Fest 5k or burst.

Seeing as how I fell off the face of the running planet no more than one week after my first honest-to-goodness 5k, I decided to give it another go. We're halfway there, and in four weeks a couple hundred trainees and I will race in my very favorite neighborhood in honor of my very favorite vegetable.

In related news, yesterday I bought a yoga mat and a kettlebell. I have little knowledge of how to use either, but that is not the point.

The point is this: War on the ferret has officially been waged.

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The boys are looking even more alike these days.

It can be a tad unnerving. Thank the Lord in heaven for painting that birthmark on J's left leg. Otherwise, we'd all be doomed.

Funny, the birthmark magically appeared sometime around their first birthday. I think it was the divine version of throwing us tired parents a providential bone.

Thanks to McKenzie for the super rad Cubs tank. L rocked it like a champ (ironically).

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I really, really, REALLY love music.

I think sometimes I forget just how much.

Last night I enjoyed my first-ever Publix shopping experience* and then listened to Mumford & Sons on the longish ride home. I know they're old news and all, but dang. This album is so ridiculously fantastic.

You know that rush that comes from hearing your heart laid bare by words and melody?

That happens to me here:

It seems that all my bridges have been burnt

But you say that's exactly how this grace thing works

It's not the long walk home that will change this heart

But the welcome I receive with the restart

and here:

'Cause I need freedom now

And I need to know how

To live my life as it's meant to be

and here:

Love it will not betray you

Dismay or enslave you

It will set you free

Maybe it was the late hour, or the driving free and alone down the dark interstate, or the starved-for-art part of me screaming loud enough to break through. All I know is I haven't car-danced that hard since college.

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Late at night before the Hub and I go to bed, one of us carries E to the potty. A little insurance, so to speak.

I love seeing her head slung over his shoulder, her face peaceful with sleep and her arms and legs hanging down. On the way back to bed she always grips her arms and legs around us tight, still half asleep but now full aware that one of us holds her.

It is a favorite part of my day.

*It was amazing, like grocery shopping in a dream world. WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THIS?