What Is Your X?

A previous commitment to a church event caused last minute changes to flight plans. In order to accomplish all that had been crammed into an over-committed schedule, arrangements were made to catch the latest plane possible, arriving well after midnight to my final destination. Because it was work related, much energy and effort was expended over the next two days, leaving me pretty tired when I arrived  home, again near the hour that turned Cinderella back into a commoner.

My household was sleeping  as  I sat down to my computer to answer a few emails that had been neglected over previous days. This is what I found on my desk calendar:

 Take a closer look.

“Why did you put an X where the Christ should be?”

-   Mary Mac, age eight

I had hurriedly written the notation in shorthand, allowing room for the other items that were sure to fill its space. It is with concerted balance and intentionality that I approach this particular season in our lives. I want to do it all but I don’t want to miss a thing, an approach that at its core is an oxymoron, with bold emphasis on the word moron.

The Christmas season can bring an even more frantic pace to an already hasty walk. We tap our foot with irritation in the drive-thru line, demanding that fast food appear even faster. We hurry our children from one place to another because it is the only speed we know. We glance at our watches impatiently in the grocery store as we wait behind the elderly, the chatty, the check writer and the coupon collector. Our time is the only time of importance and our frenetic interactions make it apparent. We want what we want exactly when we want it. And we surely do not want to wait for it.

We don’t want to wait until we can afford it.

We don’t want to wait until it is our turn.

We don’t want to wait until the timing is right.

We don’t want to wait for the answer to become clear.

               

The question, written in eight year old scrawl on a messy desk calendar, reminded me that where Christ is absent, unrest is prevalent. While I know that He is always with me, it is in my haste that I miss out on the finer details of His presence, relying on a blurry outline as poor replacement.

A calendar full of commitments leaves little room for the presence of Christ. It was a timely reminder from a well-intentioned child that influenced the reversal of obligations not only for this momentous, joyful  month, but for those going forward.

Because, according to a wise eight year old, why would I want to put an X where Christ should be?

Behind

We are in a season of which other experienced moms have warned. It is when days fly by quicker than the law should allow, schedules are fuller than the reasonable should permit, and children growing faster than surely the Almighty intended.

Changes of all sorts have happened quickly –a new teenager, another in middle school, and an eight year old with continued flair for the dramatic. Additionally, I have taken a part time consulting position that requires a little travel as well as a writing project conducted during early morning hours that can only be seen as ungodly.  

A further change worthy of note is this:  my eyelids have begun to fall. I’ve been watching for new wrinkles, examining the folds of my neck for unwelcomed creases, and placing voodoo curses on the parentheses marks between my eyes. Who knew that aging kryptonite would be my weary eyebrows, dropping its hold on delicate skin like a twitchy wide receiver losing grip on a touchdown  ball?

My eyelids have fallen, and they cannot get back up.

Ours is a household in perpetual motion, one that requires intentionality, detailed calendars and an absurd amount of coffee just to keep pace. However, what I have learned over the past few months is that there is not enough intravenous caffeinated fluids to prevent the inevitable from happening, the unavoidable from taking place, the inescapable from occurring right before my droopy eyes:

I am behind.

Behind in blog entries, household duties, in empty photo albums that mock my very existence.  Behind in daily interactions with friends, in connections with siblings, in that lunch date just for laughs and frivolity. I am behind in thank you notes, in a well-stocked pantry, and in laundry that overflows to the street.

I am behind.

It happens. And when it does, it causes paralysis in the present because of all the junk involved as it pertains to your behind. (Not intended as a shout out to J-Lo.) I recognize these circumstances because this is not my first domestic rodeo where I find myself bucked about in the air and tossed haphazardly to the ground. 

What I know from experience is this: when you find yourself behind, begin again right where you are. Even if it means from where you lay on the ground.

Start with the friend you haven’t called in three months, the Bible unopened for longer than you would like to admit, the conversation that begins with asking forgiveness. The small group you always wanted to join, the encouraging note you would like to write, or the appointment you have avoided with your doctor, dentist, pastor or manicurist.

 Don’t let that which is undone behind determine how you will proceed  forward. Begin again right where you are.

"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."    
                                                                  - Theodore Roosevelt


And  this is where we are:

Chase is doing well. He has regained about 90% of his mobility....

...while maintaining 100% of his quick wit. 

                                                    

Picking up food from a busy restaurant in toboggan and rat tail wig is just an ordinary day for him.

Chandler is in his first year at middle school and doing well.

We have also discovered that he may just give Justin Bieber a run for his money:

(The annoying percussion courtesy of his dad)

(The video will only remain up as long as it goes unnoticed by Chandler.)

Mary Mac continues to bring us joy.

She plans to provide the Barbie Head some competition as well.

(The picture will only remain up as long as it goes unnoticed by Mary Mac.)

As for the two of us, we are doing great. I still try to get him to fire me  from working at his medical practice. He still pretends that I am not exceptionally  inept. It works.

Letting Go

This wasn’t my first showdown with summer camp. In fact, I have gone through the experience twice before, hugging the knees of my children as we exchanged goodbyes, protesting loudly as camp counselors unwrapped my arms from their little bodies. It is never a good experience for anyone in our household – particularly my spouse who rolls his eyes so far back into his head that he is unable to see to drive us both home.

So, no, this was not my first rodeo, but I was thrown from the horse anyway. Our daughter, Mary Mac, is eight years old, which really doesn’t mean much. As the youngest child in the family and the last to exit my womb - one that still jealously quivers in the presence of other newborns - she is still considered the baby. A term that when spoken out loud, either as one of endearment from me or as a taunt from her older brothers, sends Mary Mac straight into orbit.

Our daughter wanted to attend camp last summer. Her request was declined because we thought that she was not old enough, and my husband knew that for me, pharmaceutical companies had yet to concoct a sedative strong enough.

This summer was a different story. After attending a mother/daughter weekend at Camp Skyline a few months ago, my husband and I decided to give in to our daughter’s pleas to attend summer camp. Owners Sally and Larry are good friends of ours, and we knew that Mary Mac would not only be safe, but have a great time at this fantastic, Christian camp.

Plus, I was relying on the fact that my friendship with the owners may prevent phone calls to the local law when they found me stalking in the woods that surround their camp. It was a risky assumption, but I was going with it.

A camp trunk was ordered, complete with polka dotted cubes for storage, and comfortable bedding was purchased, color coordinated with accenting pillows. Mary Mac and I had so much fun ordering all of the camp necessities online, but knew we might be in trouble when my credit card began to smoke with overuse.  My husband just wanted to know how many extra patients he was going to have to add to his schedule to support all the summer camp cuteness.

Drop off was as hard as I expected. On arrival, Mary Mac walked into a cabin where all was unfamiliar – the counselors, the campers, the lingering parents. She didn’t know anyone.

 Luckily, I had not yet unpacked her trunk, and began calculating the best way to sneak my daughter out of the cabin and back into the car. We would always have the next year to try out this over hyped camp thing.  Holding tightly to Mary Mac’s hand, we walked quietly to the front door.

“MARY MAC!” a blonde, bubbly counselor suddenly exclaimed. The counselor looked like she belonged in a sorority composite or parading in the back of a convertible car, complete with beauty queen sash and wave.

“I am so glad you are here!  We have been waiting for you all week! This is going to be the best week of your life! We have to get the fun started, so go ahead and tell your mom goodbye.”

And that quickly, my daughter switched allegiances, releasing my hand for the one of the pretty stranger.  She was off to have the best week of her life, and my clinginess was only going to hold her back.

It was a great week. Mary Mac tried new things on her own and made friends with those she didn’t know. She came home taller, both in stature and in confidence, proudly relaying all that she had learned and accomplished apart from yours truly. As I listened to my enthusiastic and joyful  child, I was again reminded of this painful truth:

They can only grow if I let go.

And I don’t want to. But I am called to.

It is a lesson that I am forced to live out with my oldest, Chase, as he recovers in physical rehab. I want to prevent the discomfort and the frustration he feels as he encounters physical limitations. But my intervention will only impede the progress, prohibiting my son from experiencing how all things are possible with God.

I want to push my son, Chandler, towards those talents he doesn’t quite see, knowing that circumventing the trial and errors would lead him quicker to the destination.  But my plans are not God’s plans, and interference would only serve as a deterrent for the purpose he has for my son.

I want to be the hand that is held when my daughter tries something new. But the reality is I am occupying the use of one when she really needs two for her next adventure. God holds all of her, and if I am brave, that will be enough.

 I have a feeling that the Almighty is going to keep allowing situations that challenge innate spiritual reflexes that have a tendency to cling.  It is an area of growth that God wants me to earn an “A” in when he knows I am perfectly content with the mediocrity of a “C”.  I don’t know if I will perfect my responses this side of heaven, but I know I will wholeheartedly try.

Because no guts on my part, means no glory for Him.


“Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open.” 
                                                                                                                                               - Corrie Ten Boom

Eight Is Great

Everyone should wake up to a room full of balloons at least once in life.

Everyone should experience the joy helium brings  at least once in life.

Everyone should witness birthday wonder through the eyes of a child at least once in life.

Mary Mac, you are sunshine and giggles, and all drama and delight. My days are full of joy because you are in them.  Happy birthday sweet, little girl.

Mom

Christ Is Risen

He is risen indeed! Hope your Easter is full of joy!

Fancy Toes

It was in my twenties when I first discovered the pedicure. For a period of time during college, I never missed a manicure appointment, a deliberate reaction to the end of a collegiate basketball career. Sports dictated that fingernails were to be short and trim, an unsightly punctuation to the damaged looking fingers on both of my hands either broken or inured during games and practices.

During the first week of college basketball practice, as an inexperienced and out of my league freshman, I fractured a bone in the index finger of my right hand. The team trainer, known for his warped and twisted sense of humor, placed a very large splint around my finger, which he then taped to my middle finger for stability. The splint reached about two and a half inches beyond my right hand, in a slight curved position, a cumbersome contraption that sat me on the sidelines for the remainder of practice.

Once the final suicide drill was completed, the team and I headed to the dining hall on campus for dinner. I knew that my injury looked unusual but I completely misjudged the ridiculousness of my hand with its large, perpetual pointing finger, wrapped in mounds of tape and gauze. I would soon found out by a sharp-tongued member of the male species how out of the ordinary I appeared.

I was standing at the salad bar, wondering how farmers grew the baby cobs of corn that are put into salads and if somehow they feel inferior to the larger versions of corn eaten with barbecue, when I felt a lumbering presence to my left. “What’s up, Jones?” he greeted before taking in with wide eyes my alien looking hand.

“Whoooaaaaa, Jonesie! What happened to you? You look like E.T.! Phone home! Phone home!” he finished in all of his hilarity and for all to hear. I rolled my eyes, took the remaining baby cobs of corn –that would show him – and walked to my team’s table, balancing the tray precariously on my injured hand. I would be known as E.T. on campus for a long time, despite begging the wicked trainer to trim back the splint more normally the next day.




Pedicures always seemed a little too intimate to me. I’m not a big fan of feet – either those of others or my own – and the idea of another scrubbing and moisturizing in between toes is not my idea of a relaxing experience. However, exchanging basketball shoes for flip-flops, I realized that grooming in this vicinity was necessary and much needed. So in my twenties, I relented, gritting my teeth when the bottoms of my soles were sanded like an old piece of furniture found in the attic, all the while discussing with the devoted nail tech the difference between a French pedicure and an American.

Mercy.

So, because God is the wittiest person I know, He gifted me with a pink loving six year old little girl full of joy who loves manicures and pedicures “with all her heart” and “forever and forever.” So much that for her seventh birthday party she wanted to celebrate it in a nail salon with all of her friends where their toes would be scrubbed and moisturized all the while discussing the differences between a French pedicure and an American.

So that’s what we did. And a good time was had by all.

And after the party was over, the birthday girl practiced her basketball skills with her mama in the driveway, bright pink fingernails sparkling under the moonlight with each enthusiastic dribble.

She's Seven

Mary Mac turned seven today and I am at a loss for words. How. Did. This. Happen.

“Enjoy it while you can because time will fly,” I have been told repeatedly by those who have gone before me. And they were right.






Right that one moment she’s a snuggly baby, leaving a trail of pink in every room. The very next moment, she’s pontificating about the many varieties of pink available in nail polish.







Right that if I close my eyes I can still feel her weight on my hip, carrying her as often as possible just because I could. In a flash, that baby’s height is well past my hip, and when exasperated, places a hand on her own to show disagreement.







Right, that chubby arms once outstretched for my embrace, are now slender and long, and just yesterday used to wave me away from in front of the television for a better view of Joe Jonas.






Right, that there was a time her dependence was joyfully all consuming, certain needs that could only be fulfilled by a parent. The time is spent now guiding independent footsteps that get farther and farther away.






She is seven today. And time has flown.

But I have enjoyed and will always cherish every single second.






Happy birthday sweet baby girl. You are sunshine and giggles and everything that is good and right in this world. You are so loved.

Mommy

All She Wants For Christmas...

....is her two front teeth.



There is no greater joy than hearing the lisp of a first grader as she attempts words that are inhibited by missing baby Chiclets.



Except for the joy brought by a note to the tooth fairy, inquiring about the economical circumstances surrounding the money that appears under her pillow.



And then that joy is surpassed by the tooth fairy's quick thinking response.



Dr. R, apparently there are debts that need to be reconciled.

Little Bites

Please allow me a small break in the joyful summer recap I have been posting in supposed blogathon form to bring you a public service announcement pertaining to Little Bites.Don't buy them for your children. Not only are they addicting to all those under four feet tall, they will cause a feud at the breakfast table not seen since Captain Crunch offended munchkins everywhere by adding berries.

Each box contains only five packages. Divide that number between three children and suddenly the unfairness of mathematics makes them mad as well.

Our children came up with a method to curb the ongoing war pertaining to the mini muffins filled with ingredients that send shivers up a pediatric dentist’s spine. Each child would stake claim to a box, writing their individual names in bold letters that pronounce undisputed possession.

Mary Mac – our precocious six year old – took ownership one step further.



Not only does the box belong to her, but it absolutely, positively does NOT belong to her brother.

Grooming Joy

Mary Mac's grooming has been a little neglected this summer....

Artwork In Church

For a six year old, sitting through an hour long worship service on Easter can be difficult. The sermon can be somewhat lengthy and a little more advanced than can be typically taken in by a kindergartner.

I looked over at my daughter, quietly drawing as the pastor spoke, and was pleased to see that while she was not intently listening, the overall point was understood.



My heart was full of joy as I looked at the picture that represented the theme of our church service, the very message expounded on by the preacher, the exact reason we could celebrate in the midst of a week full of sorrow.



After the service, I asked Mary Mac about the picture drawn in church. "Why did you draw a tongue ?" I inquired, thinking that maybe my litle girl thought that Jesus was sticking it out at the devil. Makes sense, considering that He was about to defeat death.



Looking at me as though I didn't understand anything, she responded, "Mom, that's what you look like when you die. But don't worry, Jesus doesn't look like that anymore. Because He's alive."

Indeed, sweet child.

He is alive indeed.