"I Wuv Mrs. Kwoz!"

We attended the annual Fire Department Christmas party last Sunday with the best Santa and Mrs. Claus in the history of St. Nick.  Ben couldn't wait to see Santa.  Abby couldn't wait to wear her Christmas clothes.  Several days before, she said, "Mommy, I'm worried my feet will grow too much before Christmas and my Christmas shoes won't fit."  I assured her it was highly unlikely her feet would grow that much over the course of the next few weeks, but she was much relieved to put them on for the party and finally wear them.

All week the kids discussed what they would ask Santa for this year.  They also had detailed conversations about how Santa would know which stocking is Abby's since she decided she wanted hers to be the reindeer stocking that's usually mine instead of the angel one she's used the last few years. Ben, very pragmatically, brought up this point when she decided to trade.  He also suggested the solution: let Santa know at the party.  She agreed.  

At the party, the kids waited patiently in line to see the beloved North Pole residents.  When their turn came, both kids happily sat on their laps: Ben on Santa's, Abby on Mrs. Claus's.  Since we've seen this same Santa and Mrs. Claus since Ben was a baby, Santa & Mrs. Claus remembered the kids, and Mrs. Claus, who seems to have a special fondness for Abby, delighted in giving her lots of squeezes and kisses.  Abby seemed to soak in every second of time with her.  

Santa chatted with Ben for a minute while Mrs. Claus talked to Abby about her pretty red dress (did you know red is Santa's favorite color?), and when the time came, Ben asked for a Santa costume (where am I going to find that?), Abby asked for a reindeer she could have in her bed (a reindeer stuffed animal), and then she shyly informed Santa of the new stocking arrangement here in Ben-and-Abby land.  With this explanation, the kids said goodbye to the costumed couple, who've infused their roles with a very real kindness and gentleness.  We gathered our coats and headed home.

When we got to the car, Abby said, "I wuv Mrs. Kwoz."  

I think the feeling is mutual.

***

Hoping this season brings the same merriment and magic to you and yours.

Levity

Somewhere in the middle of Utah, on the second day of our twenty-plus hour drive from California to Colorado, after a week of staying up past midnight playing games with family and then waking up with the kids bright and early in the morning, following an all-night drive to California the weekend before, Josh decided he needed some sleep.

We traded places at a rest stop overlooking miles of untouched land so I could drive, throwing out the sack from our most recent fast-food meal and giving Merlot a chance to use the natural facilities in the course of two minutes.  In order to get over the Rocky Mountain passes before the snow and darkness conspired against our journey homeward, we made our stops absolutely efficient.

We chose to swap about an hour after lunch when the kids would normally rest so, presumably, the car would be quiet.  I pulled back onto the highway, set the car's cruise control to 80 on our 75 mph course, selected music conducive to nap time, and settled in for my portion of the drive, absorbing the vast expanse of flat land punctuated by massive bluffs in every shade of pink and orange.  Josh let the kids know it was rest time, telling them he needed to sleep, too, so he could drive the difficult sections of snowy roads we knew we'd meet later in the day.  In the back seat, Ben and Abby grabbed their stuffed animals to settle in, and Ben picked up a quiet activity to occupy his time now that he no longer needs the daily afternoon sleep.

What ensued within minutes, however, was riotous laughter--the kind that only grows more exuberant with each new request for quiet.  As much as Josh tried to position himself comfortably, no matter how mellow or melodic the music I chose, regardless of how sternly we insisted it was rest time, the kids simply could not contain their giggles.  One would start and the other would join and after an hour passed this way, Josh sat up in his seat, conceding the battle for sleep.

As dire as the exhaustion was, though, we caught the twinkle in each other's eye.   Whatever the circumstance, the laughter of our kids reveling in each other's company is impossible to scorn.  We couldn't help but enjoy their childishness, even if it was at the expense of much-needed shut-eye.

Not surprisingly, the kids quieted after we gave up our effort to induce slumber.  Abby's eyes grew at first stare-y and then drooped ever further until they finally closed.  Ben's attention was drawn by the activity in his lap.  Josh finally had the quiet--and sleep--he so desperately sought earlier.  While he dozed, I drank in the vistas and the music, meditating on the miraculous world outside the car--and within.

It's funny how often parenting teaches this lesson.  Thou shalt not get what thou seeks in the moment.  But thou shalt often get something better, and eventually, when all seems for nought, thou shalt receive a miracle of grace--and rest.

About a year and a half ago, I wrestled some mighty demons--critical and condemning voices I met at the crossroads where my expectations of who my children should be met the reality of who they were in the moment.  And in that meeting of the twains, I had to confront who my children are, who I am, what my role as a mother is, and more importantly, what my role is not.  That struggle was a significant impetus for starting this blog, where I would have a space to process and navigate this murky territory of parenthood requiring the absolute surrender of self to what seems an impossible job but that, in reality, is the glorious gift of getting to know a person created wonderfully and fearfully, and shepherding this most precious creation through a world at once wondrous and cruel.

It has been this recognition that Ben and Abby are not my creation, not mine to "make," not mine to control but, rather, mine to love and discipline and forgive--over and over and over--that finally brought freedom from the whispers of doubt and failure that had plagued me.  Over the course of this trip, I got to live in this new reality: not fretting about the childish mistakes and misbehaviors of my children, regardless of who was present to witness their imperfection, but accepting it all as an invitation to love more, to forgive more, to trust in Someone outside myself more.

Because I've come to believe, somehow, that my children's behavior isn't always a reflection on me.  That he who is forgiven much loves much.  That maybe God even set it up this way.  That the opportunities I have to love my children through their imperfection actually increase their ability to love those around them.  We love because we were first loved, but love based on performance is not love at all.  To the contrary, I'm beginning to think the more we know we are loved apart from performance, the more we begin to perform.  So we actually had very few frustration-inducing moments during the week, probably because I wasn't trying so very hard to prevent them out of fear that I or they would look bad, wouldn't perform adequately.

Anyway, all these thoughts swirled while I navigated the windy highway up and down the rocky bluffs standing between us and home, the kids' laughter from the previous hour a soundtrack for these reflections on grace and freedom.  In the end, their levity, unwelcome at first, amplified my own.

And we all rested after all.

Today's Heart Attack

Merlot networks with the local, oblivious to her obvious size disadvantage.  As far as she's concerned, this may be her new backwoods playmate.  She's deaf to my voice, to squeaky toys, to the kids calling her name from the front door.

She actually follows this buck up the street and into the neighbor's yard, creeping as close as she can before the buck moves a few steps away, hoping to shake her off like a pesky fly.  I know she means no harm, and somehow, it seems the elk does, too.  In fact, the elk looks at her with something like amusement, affection even.  It's me, the lady hollering "Merlot" from across the street with traces of panic in her voice, that captures his attention.

When she realizes the elk is not going to play, Merlot walks past him to graze on goodies further into the yard.  There they stand in nonchalance--pup and buck--mocking my desperation (if only I had that photo).  I decide to make my way to the backside of the house from another street, and I catch Merlot's eye, which is when I take off running the opposite direction.  Dogs are powerless against running away: they're compelled to follow.  She sprints, nearly running off the ledge next to me in her haste to reach me.  And so I leash her, walk her back to the house, and shut the door in relief.

Just another day in Evergreen.

"License, Insurance, & Registration, Please"

The learning opportunity was mine Friday.

We drove over a bump in the road as we coasted down the hill, and the car felt like it was sailing.  I knew immediately I was going too fast.  So did the policeman driving the opposite direction.  I watched in my side view mirror as the patrol car pulled over to the side of the road, waited for the cars behind him to pass, and then turned around into my lane.  It was no surprise when the lights flashed behind me, so I pulled over and waited for my doom.

In the meantime, the kids noticed everything.

"Mommy, why did you say 'uh-oh'?" Ben asked.

I figured this was a good time to model the concepts I'm trying to teach them: owning up to your mistakes, accepting the consequences, and moving on.  So I answered honestly:  "I was going too fast down that hill, and the policeman noticed.  I'm probably going to get a ticket for going too fast."

This was a good exercise for me in taking responsibility, since I tend to blame all my tickets on the (obviously) ridiculous and unfair cops on the other side of the window.  But as I've had to explain the  job and role of policemen to Ben and Abby over the years, I've also had to concede that they do, in fact, exist to maintain the safety and well-being of the general public and that they aren't just driving around looking for opportunities to ruin people's days (the glaring exception here is, of course, the Morrison cops, who gleefully stalk the worst speed trap in the country... And maybe a young officer in Idaho, but that's another story).

It may sound strange, but I was actually a wee bit grateful for this incident.  Over the years, Ben has grown irate at the idea of a policemen giving people tickets.  He used to give long soliloquies about how he would drive away fast if a policeman pulled him over or how he'd tear up the ticket if he got one.  I've tried explaining that this response would simply make things worse, resulting in an arrest or in losing his license, but he just comes up with more grandiose methods of escaping the punishment.

I'll admit to fretting at times about his attitude toward authority: it's clearly not the policeman's fault if someone breaks the law, and people who follow the rules have no reason to fear cops.  Police really do have the public's interests at heart, even the dreaded highway patrol: there are fewer accidents in the areas that cops patrol regularly.  People really are safer when cops regulate speed.  But it had seemed much of this rationale fell on deaf, or defensive, ears.

To my relief, this attitude of his has subsided lately, and he's actually talked about wanting to be a policeman when he grows up.  He even wanted to be one for Halloween, but we did our costume shopping too late, so there weren't any officer costumes left in his size.

Still, there were times I thought it might be valuable if Ben saw me get a ticket so he could see that getting one does not come from a policeman's meanness but as a natural consequence to breaking the rules.   Police officers are generally nice, normal people--not bad guys out to get us.  Here was Ben's opportunity to witness this truth first hand, and I was well aware of it.

The two officers came to the passenger side window and asked for my license, insurance, and registration.  They asked if I knew why I was being pulled over, and I answered honestly: I was going too fast.  When they left, the kids asked why they needed all those papers, so I explained they needed that information to make sure there wasn't a record of any other laws I had broken.  "What happens if they found something wrong?" they asked.  "Well, I'd have to pay the consequence for that, too.  But I know I haven't broken any laws, so I don't have anything to worry about."

When the officers returned, they handed me the ticket and the rest of my documents, explaining the details of when and where I could go to court and contest the ticket before a judge if I wanted.  I nodded as they spoke, and when they finished, I apologized.

"I am sorry," I said, hoping I sounded sincere.  "I didn't realize how fast I got going there."

"That's okay, Ma'am," the officer said.  "I don't take it personally, and I hope you don't either.  Try not to let this ruin your day."  With that encouragement, they walked back to their car.

His response was perfect, and I was glad the kids heard it.  It reminded me of how discipline should be implemented: calmly, objectively, without the impassioned reaction of a personal affront.  I want to carry out my children's consequences with this same kind, calm, detached perspective.  I'm not taking this personally.  I hope you don't either.  Try not to let this ruin your day, Pumpkins.  

We drove away but continued discussing Mommy's grand mistake.

"Why do you have to go to a judge?" they asked.

"Well, if I felt the ticket they gave me was unfair or that I wasn't doing anything wrong, I could go talk to a judge and tell him my story, and the judge would decide who is right.  But since I know it was my fault, I'm just going to pay the ticket.  There's no need to go to court." We talked about how I'd write a check when I got home and put it in the mail.

"Wasn't the policeman nice?" I asked.  I saw the kids nod in my rearview mirror.  "They're just doing their job.  Even though it's frustrating to get a ticket and have to pay some allowance, it's my fault I got it, not theirs."

We finished our errands, the kids occasionally reminding me not to go too fast as we drove.  "Don't worry.  I'm being very careful about my speed now," I told them.

"I'm going to be a policeman when I grow up," Ben said.  "I'm going to keep people safe."

"And I bet you'll be a nice policeman like those guys," I said.

I learned something.  I hope the kids did, too.  And so, this is the only ticket I've ever been grateful for.

But I sure hope it's the last.

Monumental (Revised)

We've been taking the kids to swim lessons on Saturday mornings for the last several weeks.  This morning, Josh and I decided Abby and I would stay home in hopes of protecting her already stressed lungs from suffering further irritation in the chlorine, so Josh took Ben.  The phone rang about an hour and a half after they left, and when I answered, Josh said Ben wanted to talk to me.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mommy!  Guess what?"

"What, Bug?"

"I have something really exciting to tell you, and I'm really proud of myself for doing it."

"What is it?  I can't wait to hear!"

"Well, I was in the water, and [the instructor] kept moving backwards and I was doing those ice cream scoop things with my arms and I was kicking my legs and my face was in the water for like...about, um, 20 seconds, and Meg didn't even help me!"

"You did it all by yourself?!?!"

"Yeah, I swam all by myself!"

Enter orchestral overtures and fireworks and streaming lights from heaven.

This is a moment that has been years in the making...hoping.  There are some milestones with some kids that feel like summiting Everest.  Swimming was one of Ben's Everests, but I think we've finally made it.  

*****
Okay, so Josh tells me I may have overstated Ben's accomplishment here--though I've accurately reported Ben's perception.  Regardless, Ben is closer to swimming than he's ever been, and his ability to go further for longer, now, is clearly just a matter of time, whereas before it was not certain how he'd get to the point where he could put his head in the water, let alone swim.  Maybe it was only a few seconds this morning, but it was the breakthrough that matters.  Proficiency will come.  

The Language of Abigail

At the breakfast table this morning, Abby and I were playing some word games.  This started when Abby got her yogurt from the refrigerator and asked me what flavor it was.

"Boysenberry," I told her.

"Does ih haf poison ih-nit?" she asked.

"No, Abby, it's not 'poisonberry.' It's 'boysenberry'--with a 'buh' not a 'puh.'"

"Oh.  'Boy-sen-bew-wy.'  Whah else stahrts wif 'buh'?" she asked.

And so the game continued.  At some point, I asked, "What sound does 'teeth' start with?"

She thought for a minute and mouthed it silently: "'Tuh,'" she said. "Teef stahrts wif 'tuh.'"

"That's right!"

"And 'teef' wymes wif 'beef,'" she added.

Hmmm...I couldn't argue with that.  

In the Shadow of the Polka-Dotted Nightlight

I held my baby (can I still call her that at three?) in the dim glow of her nightlight tonight, waiting for the medicinal mist to work its magic on her lungs.  The shallow cough has been hovering for a day or two, and then the tell-tale rattling began this afternoon.

Unfortunately, Abby now realizes the inconvenience of the nebulizer.  She protested both treatments earlier today, whereas before she simply resigned herself to this fact of life.  After all, this machine has coexisted with her since she was nine months old.

When I went in to treat her late tonight, I mistakenly thought she would snuggle into my arms and accept the nebulizer without protest since I had to lift her out of a sound sleep to rest upright on my lap.  But even in her sleepy stupor, she cried, "I dohn wahn-uh do dat.  I dohn wahn iht," clearly communicating her strong opposition.  I don't blame her, but I also know her body needs this help, so I braced us both and continued.

When she realized the situation was not negotiable, she gave up her fight and resumed her slumber in my arms.  We sat together for several minutes: me leaning against her bed; her leaning against me--body still and heavy, eyes closed.   I held her largely to keep her positioned properly for the meds, but also to feel the weight of her, to see that she still fits on my lap though her legs spill far over where they used to fit neatly, to enjoy her presence while it's still mine to enjoy, to will my love out of my heart--out of my very being--and into her still small but ever-growing body.

These late-night moments with Abby and the nebulizer have always been sweet because she's always accepted them with peace and a seeming awareness that this is what had to be done.  We've passed these stolen minutes in mutual reverie, savoring the snuggly togetherness.  It was painful tonight to share this closeness against her will, to insist upon her rest in my arms.  I felt a twinge of sadness at her attempt to squirm away.

But this is my job: to have arms strong enough to contain any protest or rebellion or railing against her best interest.  And it is a sacred job.  I know her lungs need the freedom to expand and fill.  I know her body needs to be able to breathe.  She sees sacrifice.  I see life.  I see it on her behalf.

There is divinity in it, I think, to sit on the omniscient side of another's pain, to recognize the profound disappointment and frustration of one I would die for and yet to will it anyway for her benefit, so that she might live life to the fullest.  All of it--every intention and motivation and action--is wrapped up in love.  Deep, unstoppable love.  Love that is willing to insist in spite of herself.

Equally spiritual is her willingness to submit, to surrender her will to mine--trusting that I know, or at the very least, trusting that I love.

I held my Abby tonight, though she would have preferred I left her sleeping, and I learned something about our Father in heaven who loves perfectly and wills all things for our good.  I pray that I will have the faith to surrender even when I feel like going back to bed.  And I pray someday that Abby will see and understand why I held her tight so the vapor could reach her lungs in spite of her sorrow.  It's so she could breathe.  And live.

It shouldn't surprise me anymore when I find myself on holy ground in the most everyday places, but it still does: burning bushes, baby's breaths, my daughter's room in the shadow of her polka-dotted nightlight...

All hallowed by Love.