Monkey See...

I've noticed I've been short lately. Prone to snap at the kids in irritation over what ought to be minor frustrations or setbacks. Tending toward strident demands rather than gentle reminders. Inclined to rant or rave or lecture in moralizing tones about appropriate behavior.

I've noticed my kids have been less patient with each other. More likely to respond with the exasperated tone of a teenager to each other's errors. Less likely to use their powers of calm, rational conversation to work out a fair solution.

Coincidence?

I think not. I'm feeling convicted this morning. I wish I knew what takes residence beneath the surface of my emotions at times, replacing my reserves of patience with simmering vexation, goading me to react with toddler-worthy tantrums rather than calm, productive intervention. Ugh.

But today, though I still feel that undercurrent of crankiness, I am going to focus all my energies toward  exercising the same emotional control I ask of my kids. Novel, eh? Practice what I preach.

It's not as easy as it sounds: so often the kids are wrong and so often I'm right! Right, I tell you! But right and wrong are secondary to the kind of love that inspires change and transformation, to the kind of gentle truth that allows us to take a long, hard look at our shortcomings and acknowledge them, confess them, and then release them. Seeing the struggle in myself reminds me how much harder it must be for a four- and six-year-old to wrestle their, at times, overwhelming emotions.

We're really not so different, adults and kids.

So in addition to making a concerted effort to model emotional control, I'm going to allow my own challenges to breed empathy for my kiddos' attempts, however feeble, to manage their own frustrations appropriately. And perhaps that empathy will help temper the toddler inside so I can be the first to cultivate a kinder space for confronting our shortcomings.

Fairy Tale Christmas

 This afternoon while playing with her nativity set, Abby brought forth every Christmas figure we own-- from masses of shepherds and wise men and donkeys and sheep to Santas and snowmen and elves--to see the Baby Jesus. Actually, to see the two Baby Jesuses (we have two different nativity sets).

I like the idea of these two Christmas worlds colliding in front of the manger because, in fact, there's great truth in the idea of all Christmas traditions finding their meaning in the incarnation of Love.

But I think my favorite hybridization of the commercial and the holy came when she asked me to get "the Cinderella angel and the Belle angel" so I could set them up in front of the manger. Confused at first, I looked at the figures and realized one angel was blonde-haired with a blue gown (Cinderella) and the other was brunette with a yellow gown (Belle). Clarity.

Ah, the glorious mind of a four-year-old, where no detail is inconsequential and where every story is part of the Story.

Move

Our bodies were designed to move.

I never used to realize this. I think as a child and teenager, I was naturally inclined to run and jump and play sports. I was "active" without thinking about it and without realizing how good it was for me.

But after that, until a few years ago when I decided to ride in the annual Bike MS event, I didn't think much about exercise unless it was in the I-never-have-time-and-don't-really-enjoy-it-anyway context. So I went through my days working or teaching or nursing babies or taking care of household obligations, never realizing I was missing out on something. Big.

When I committed to the ride, a 150 mile bike ride over two days to raise money for the National MS Society, I knew I'd have to train to be able to accomplish such a feat of endurance. Ben was two-and-a-half and Abby was a baby, but they were both old enough to go into the rec center's play school program, so I began taking indoor cycling classes there.

And I finally understood what all those exercise fanatics had been talking about through the years.

After the first class, as sore as I was after, I was hooked. Addicted. Compelled to return. On many afternoons, I walked into class stressed--sometimes frustrated with my kids, sometimes angry with myself, confounded by a problem and spinning circles in my mind trying to figure out. In that hour class, though, as my body became fully engaged in pushing pedals and climbing hypothetical mountains, my mind was unleashed to process the problem d'jour. And most days, I left calm, renewed of purpose and spirit. The ability to get lost in the lyrics and rhythm of the music while pushing through self-imposed limitations left me free to recognize my mistakes, identify the source of conflict, and make a plan.

When I began teaching the classes, I lost some of this mental space because I became the one responsible for cuing the drills, keeping time, and pacing the class. But even then, I left class feeling better. Sweating is both a physical and emotional catharsis, I think.

I've branched out of the cycling room this month into a variety of other classes--Zumba, Pilates/Yoga, a ballet-based strength class--and I feel that same rush of possibility I felt when I first pedaled a spin bike. It's good to be the student again, and to push my body in new ways. I'm reminded that physically challenging myself does more than make my body stronger. It makes my mind stronger. It makes my spirit stronger. It lends perspective to every other aspect of life.

I think God made us this way.

There's a reason research shows exercise helps not just the health of the heart and lungs and muscles but the brain and mental health, too. When we cease to use, to challenge, to push our bodies, I wonder if we sacrifice one of the vehicles through which God reveals himself to us.

Jesus was the Word made flesh. To enter our reality, to draw us to himself, to accomplish the redemption of the world, he assumed our anatomy. When Jesus hungered and thirsted in the desert, when he stayed up all night praying, when he carried his cross, when his back was beaten, when his flesh was pierced--those events were every bit as spiritual as they were physical.

The body is more than mere bones and nerves and muscle and skin. Our body, our flesh, is the vessel through which our spirit experiences the world. Through our physical body, we give. Through our physical body we receive. Through our physical body, we come to understand Love.

To live fully, we must move.

Two Perfect Minutes

Sitting on my lap in the same yellow rocking chair in which I rocked him as a baby, Ben read me the book he brought home from school: Henry and Mudge and the Forever Sea. The series of books, written in simple yet lovely language for the early reader, chronicle the adventures of a young boy and his giant, drooly pup, Mudge.

These books have been Ben's favorite since we discovered them at the library over the summer. Now that we have our own giant dog, Merlot, Ben understands the canine nonchalance of Mudge, who--in the midst of Henry's escapades--remains faithful to his doggy nature: eating, sleeping, licking, snuggling, and maintaining a gentle loyalty to his boy. These behaviors usually appear in contrast to the activities of the humans in the story, to subtle comic effect. The humor is never lost on Ben.

So last night before bed, we're in the chair together, and I'm marveling at the ease and fluency with which he reads this book that at one time would have been challenging, when Ben reaches a page where Henry and his father are making sand castles at the beach. The author narrarates their contributions: Henry's father made the towers, Henry made the moats, and Mudge, true to form, makes a bed and goes to sleep. 

Something about this line tickled Ben's sensibilities, causing him to chuckle, then giggle, and then laugh, uncontrollably. Delight consumed his little face, which turned crimson from breathlessness. I couldn't help but laugh along, watching his eyes turn up with exuberance. When he finally pulled himself together and turned the page, he fell into another fit of laughter at the sight of Henry's dad's rubber lobster on top of the sand castle, poised like a flag. This time, he giggled so hard he doubled over, rocking back and forth in hysterics. 

It was two of my favorite minutes of parenting. Ever.

To witness him reading, to contemplate the growth that has occurred in six years, to see him connect so strongly with this sweet story, and to share in the joy of all his skills and experiences converging in complete understanding--it was the kind of moment I wish I could bottle to pull out on days when my soul needs some joy. 

More and more lately, I find myself watching this little boy with wonder. Parenting, at times, is like slowly unwrapping a gift in which I discover, little by little, how thoughtfully and purposefully these little people were given, and how perfectly they fulfill the desires of my heart. 

  

The Strange Beauty of Bad Days

Sometimes I wonder if everyone's experience of motherhood is a roller coaster like mine: high highs, low lows, and a sense of chugging away toward some distant pinnacle only to be swept down the other side in a sometimes exhilarating and other times scream-inducing ride to the next ascent.

Is this normal? Because sometimes I wish I were on the baby rides that pitch only slightly and never come close to evoking relentless thoughts of one's fallibility.

But the good is so good. On the good days, I think the bad are worth it for these moments of unprompted, un-reminded, unsolicited kindness, gentleness, and self-control; for these sincere displays of love and joy; for these priceless windows of peace.

I guess I wonder why that spirit isn't alive everyday in every circumstance. And the self-critical part of me says if I were a good mother, everyday would be like that.

And then grace whispers in my ear that love would not be Love without the other days, without the opportunities for forgiveness on my part and theirs, without the reminder that we are all imperfect and in need of a safe place to call home while we pick ourselves up from our failures and try again.

Somehow, it is the bad days that make us truly a family.

Tenacity

"Mommy, you need to put Abby's pedals back on. She's ready for them," Ben informed me when I walked into the garage where they were putting on shoes and helmets to ride their bikes in the driveway.

At Abby's request, I had taken her training wheels and pedals off the week before so she could practice balancing on her little pink bicycle. She spent nearly two hours that morning hauling her bike up the hill of our driveway, turning it around, and coasting down. At first, she looked more like a bobble head, tipping back and forth from one foot to the other in attempts to keep herself righted. Occasionally she fell. A few times she grew teary or frustrated, impatient with the learning curve. Always, she got back up and tried again.

I sat in the driveway that morning and marveled at her determination. She would not, could not give up. After a harder fall, when the tears were slower to stop, I suggested we take a break for some water and a snack. She agreed, and we sat side by side for a few minutes. I wasn't sure she'd want to head back into the hot sun and continue wrestling her bike, but when she finished her granola bar, she tipped her head way back to see me from under her helmet and said, "Ih'm reahdy to trhy agaihn."

And back to the bike she went, dragging it up the hill one more time, turning it around one more time, hefting her leg over the seat one more time. This time, she made it to the bottom without touching down--and she smiled that coy, half smile she gets when she's proud of herself but doesn't want to let on. I cheered and clapped and made the kind of fuss only mommies can, and she continued on, growing more confident each time her body self-corrected the leaning bike without using her feet. By the time we put her bike away to pick Ben up from camp, the balance was second-nature. She had, through sheer will and perseverance, conquered this skill.

So several days later when Ben said Abby was ready for her pedals, I found the wrench and reattached them. That same coy smile graced her face in anticipation. Once the bike was ready, I had to beg her to please wait a minute before getting on so I could run in and grab the camera. I knew what was coming.

In true Abby fashion, she threw herself into the attempt without reservation, trying to put both feet on the pedals while standing still. She caught herself before falling and tried again. I encouraged her to start on a hill again so she'd have some momentum to give her time to get her feet on, and here her brother took over, explaining that when he first put his pedals back on, he started at the seam where the garage meets the driveway, using the slight slope to get himself going. Abigail listened to his coaching, moved her bike to the edge of the garage, and pushed off, stopping only after she had completed a few laps around the driveway. Ben smiled, I cheered, and Abby grinned. We now have two kids riding their bikes without training wheels. What a summer.

I learned something about both kids. Though I've always admired Abby's spunk and independent spirit, I hadn't realized just how tenacious she could be in the face of a challenge. Witnessing her resolve and stamina opened my eyes to the unstoppable force she will be when she puts her mind to something. I can't help but wonder what she'll attempt next.

And while I've always appreciated the kids' relationship with each other, I did wonder if Ben might feel a twinge of jealousy that Abby ditched her training wheels so soon after he did. But there was nothing but support and encouragement from him, like he hadn't even considered that her learning something he had just recently mastered himself would be cause for anything other than celebration.

As for me, I'm just grateful to be present to witness these milestones, to be available to coach and cheer and take snack breaks and document the monumental moments that spring out of mornings that begin so ordinarily...to live life at the speed of wonder.

The Big Kid Era

Ben's tooth is wiggling. Indeed, more than wiggling. It moves back and forth so readily, I am certain it won't be long before the small gap in his bottom teeth, newly appeared as this bit of baby bone edges out, becomes a true hole waiting for the adult replacement.

I can hear the slightest lisp when he talks, his speech already impacted by the mere looseness. I see him take careful bites on the other side of his mouth. Sandwiches, apples, and carrots require a strategic approach. He asks me to look, pushing this passport to higher childhood back and forth with his tongue. I smile and make enthusiastic exclamations over how soon it will come out. He shows me how his top tooth is just beginning to budge, and I make silly jokes about how we'll have to start calling him "Toothless." He grins, catching my reference to How to Train Your Dragon, the movie we watched together when he was sick a few months ago. 

He turns six next week. The year of five has ushered him into the world of reading, biking without training wheels, skiing, and now, officially, swimming (for a dozen yards or so, at least). He is so utterly competent, explaining to me how how the remote-control helicopter he bought with allowance money saved for months works, reading quietly the Table of Contents of his new book to decide which story he'd like me to read, pointing out the rocket boosters on the Atlantis as it prepared to launch, teaching Abby how to punch "700" into the calculator, making a sign for the rocks he and Abby decided to "sell" at our garage sale Saturday: "For Free ShinY roks." But the physical evidence of his loose tooth makes the leap to big kid undeniable.

I remember in pregnancy thinking about this hypothetical person I was incubating, how excited I felt to snuggle this newborn against me, and how impossible it seemed to conceive of this tiny person growing into a six-year old, specifically. I remember thinking, What would I do with a six-year-old? I don't know how to play with a six-year old... In my pre-mommy naivete, bigger kids seemed so one-dimensional, so removed, somehow, from my vision of motherhood snuggles and giggles.

But now, I think, six may become my favorite age yet. Each year grows more and more magical than the previous. There are still snuggles and giggles, but now our relationship has so much more dimension than the days of feedings, diapers, and naps. We hike together and discuss homelessness and reminisce about when he and Abby were babies. He teaches me things, makes me dig deeper into my resources as a person because if my five-year-old son can look at a piano and figure out how it works, than surely I can take a few minutes to understand how this toy functions so I can fix it now instead of leaving the task to Josh when he gets home.

Ben delights me with his personhood. He is self-assured enough to present his tin of rocks--curated from our backyard and polished with a little soap to make them extra shiny--to garage sale shoppers, and yet innocent enough to believe rocks from the backyard are so precious and obviously valuable that he should curb demand with a limit of one or two rocks per customer so as not to exhaust his supply.

I love him.

We are a third of the way to official adulthood. We sold many of our baby things at the garage sale; pangs of nostalgia surfaced in quieter moments. Can it be we've already left the era of babyhood firmly behind us, the once-exhausting and seemingly endless stage now only a memory?

I look at women with grown kids differently now, already understanding the way they look at young mothers knowingly, remembering what life was like in its ups and downs because they've lived those days--and many more--with their own kids. I see how quickly the time passes between infancy and adulthood. And yet a twelve-year-old or an eighteen-year-old is unfathomable at the moment.

The growing up is insisting anyway: one year, one milestone, one loose tooth at a time.