Tues Ten 120710: Power Moments

I’ve been thinking about power moments this week. No, the ones I’ve been considering don’t involve any business meetings. Or client conversations. Or high-dollar contracts. Or 3-inch heels. They don’t involve the United Nations or Greenpeace or public school funding. They don’t have pending legislation or rallies planned or NYT coverage. Still, there are those times when you just know “this moment has power.”

Power for me. Power for the little one I’m responding to. Power for their future and mine. Power for what I have to teach. Power for what I have to learn. Power for what gives me strength. Power for what I can rest in. “This moment has power.”

This past weekend, over the course of a few short hours on Friday night, I had several of those moments. They were quite possibly fueled by all our mutual excitement about getting the first of our Christmas decorations down from the attic. They could have been precipitate by my own resolve to take a break from the crazy holiday work schedule. Maybe I was just primed to recognize them after a long and busy week. Maybe I was stilled and open enough to really experience them. Maybe they’ve been happening every moment of every day without my knowledge. Regardless, I give you the Tuesday Ten: Power Moments.

1. A Moment of Giving (& Grammar)

When I walked into Little Drummer Boy’s after-school room for pick-up, he unzipped his backpack and proudly pulled out something for me to open–something he had made in his art class at school. It was a green paper with a painted/cut/pasted Christmas tree and the words:
Momea
Love
LDB*

I asked him to read it to me… “LDB* Loves Mommy”

2. A Moment of ROI

The boys & Baby Girl were beyond excited about the box of Christmas books we got down from the attic in the first of many forays into Christmas decorating. Bug had me read Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer two times, and he fell asleep looking at the ancient Little Golden Book. It’s a copy I had as a child, proving 39¢ still goes a long way.

3. A Moment of Recognition

Out of the blue as we were sitting on the floor, Little Drummer Boy asked me what I did for my work. It’s the first time he’s inquired about what I actually “do” beyond just the place I go for work. I told him that I drew pictures for people kind of like the picture he made for me–that people paid me to make pictures that would help them sell things. That made him smile. Which made me smile.

4. A Moment of Play

I took the time to get on the floor and play Thomas the Tank Engine with Bug. He had been asking for “someone” to play with him and I it was an invitation I couldn’t refuse. It also got me easy lap time with Little Drummer Boy and Baby Girl.

5. A Moment of Celebration

In our debriefing from moving Christmas boxes from the attic, Little Drummer Boy asked if I was going to put anything on the mantle.
Mommy: “Yes, but maybe not tomorrow.”
LDB: “Oh come on! Put it up tomorrow!”

He’s learning to be excited about Christmas. And about celebrating.

6. A Moment of Communication

Bug was using some of those little plastic shaped bracelets that are so popular to hold his truck and trailer together in a creative way. I commented that he was “so smart” and he asked me why. I got to tell him.

7. A Moment of Rest

At the end of the day my mom had given Baby Girl a bath and put on her pajamas. When I came in the room for our bedtime routine, I got a clear as day “Mommy’s here!” The warmth in my heart from that statement gave way to a very warm and content little girl laying her head on my shoulder. After reading several books and rubbing her eyes a few times, she raised her head, rubbed her eyes, said “sleep” and pointed to her bed. Sometimes you just know it’s time for rest.

8. A Moment of Peace

We actually had sharing and cooperation between brothers as we were moving boxes out of the attic. Little Drummer Boy actually let Bug go “first” once or twice to help carry boxes in between moments of spontaneously hugging me.

9. A Moment of Inclusion

We ordered pizza and the children had a picnic as we sometimes do. Baby Girl insisted that I come and sit by her rather than with the grownups at the big table.
Baby Girl: “NO! Mommy here.”
Little Drummer Boy: “I’ll move my juice and you can put your plate here.”

Sometimes it’s nice to remember your place.

10. A Moment of Acceptance

I made some changes this week in our bedtime routines that I hoped would make the process for Little Drummer Boy and Bug move a little more smoothly and peacefully. On the way to school, LDB determined we should do it “just like that again tonight.” And when the moment of execution arrived, I was reminded again — “just like last night.”

Gift Tag: Being Heard

My 2yo, Baby Girl, likes books. And, she’s finally begun to like them for their value beyond paper needing to be torn and/or eaten. I can’t tell you how many pages and covers I’ve taped back together during the continuing saga of our love affair with books. I (and the boys) are thankful Baby Girl has moved into wanting to read the books now.

For a while, reading constituted simply turning the pages to follow her whims. Forward, backward, starting at the beginning or the end or the middle–it didn’t really matter. We were “reading.” By herself or with a captive audience, she mastered the mechanics of flipping through books. From there, she moved into the point-and-question phase with a perpetual “that?” attached to each touch of her sweet finger. Of late, her version of “read book” has finally reached some semblance of actual reading. She wants to listen to the words on the page, usually (though not always) in chronological order. Don’t get me wrong, listening to the words still evokes commentary. Her ever-present curiosity combined with pride at learning to speak new words prompts many questions and declarations relevant to the illustrations on the page.

Boots. Boots. BOOTS.

You may not recognize that phrase from any of the children’s books you have read recently. In keeping with her brothers and about a million other youngsters over the last fifty years, Baby Girl loves Good Night Moon, the classic by Margaret Wise Brown. No, there aren’t any boots mentioned among the “bears sitting in chairs” and the “old lady whispering hush.” Still, the other night her emphatic “Boots. Boots. BOOTS.” became more than parenthetical during bedtime. I tried to move on through the “good nights.” I tried to turn pages and continue with the “mittens” and “kittens.” To no avail. Baby Girl was insistent on “boots,” and as each utterance grew louder, I realized that we weren’t moving on until we addressed footwear.

The “boots” were actually bedroom slippers beside the bed of the sleeping bunny. Only now they ARE boots because Baby Girl won’t be swayed from her assessment. And by her insistence, she gave me a reminder about being heard and brought to light some things I hope for her future.

You see, Baby Girl has a way of repeating her tiny phrases until they’re acknowledged. And, she’s not afraid to get loud about it. Her brothers did too at her age, but somehow hers seems more definitive, more insistent. And, although interrupting is a no-no and a gentle, quiet spirit is admirable, I don’t want to break that in her. I don’t want to shush it out of her. I don’t want to squelch her own understanding that what she has to say is important. No, I want her to learn some things about her voice, things born from my own pitfalls. I want to tell her this…

Keep. On. Speaking.
Keep on repeating.
It’s ok to want to be heard.
Believe in yourself enough to make sure you ARE heard.
Don’t give up.
Don’t give in to the idea that your thoughts don’t matter.
That your opinions can be overlooked.
Say it again.
And again.
Even if it’s never heard.
Keep saying it.
Don’t acquiesce.
Don’t say it’s ok.
Don’t gloss over your feelings or opinions.
Say it.
SAY IT.
Because you are worth it.
You are worth being heard.

When you’re hurt, don’t suck it up. Say it.
When you’re successful, don’t celebrate in silence. Say it.
When you need something, don’t put yourself last. Say it.

By wielding a deaf ear, don’t ever let anyone back you into invisibility.
Don’t ever let anyone silence you into less than the beautiful creature you really are.

Gift Tags are the tiny messages God continues to include with my gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)

Twelve Days of Thanksgiving: H

Home.

I’ve been thinking about the concept of home lately. I have committed to an art project for the ArtHouse Co-op in Brooklyn, NY. Their annual Sketchbook Project asks artists to fill up a standard Moleskine sketchbook with art, words, and whatever creativity expounds around a specific theme. My sketchbook theme was chosen randomly — “…you’d be home by now.” I like it. The theme lends itself to humor and introspection with a twinge of regret or wandering. For me, it explores the question of “if” and of how we view the journey to home.

As I’ve been thinking and sketching for the project, I’ve settled on the idea that we really take “home” with us. Whether it’s mental snapshots of a particular house, memories of sights and sounds and smells we treasure, conversations with friends or foes we knew at different times in our lives, the feeling of ownership at claiming our own space, the joy of building a nest and so on. We find our “home” in many places. And while some of them are associated with structures, it’s often our own interpretations and feelings about those spaces rather than the sheetrock and glazing that enclose them.

I lived in the same house from the time I was a baby until I left to attend college. I can still see the wallpaper my mother hung, the arrangement of the furniture, the placement of treasured items in my room. The place my Mom & Dad created has colored my expectations of my own home. I am thankful for the sense of togetherness my parents created in that space. For the sense of celebration that permeated it, even on regular Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I’m thankful for the creativity exhibited there that fueled so much of my life and work today. I’m thankful for the communication, “you matter” that occurred there each day. My parents no longer live in that house or that town, but the “home” created there has an indelible place in my spirit. It has remained my benchmark for all that is normal. It became what I look for and seek to build in my own home.

As I go about my days of mothering, I’m so grateful for the privilege of creating a home for my little ones. The opportunity to build that place that will serve as THEIR benchmark is such a blessing–and a huge responsibility. I remember after Little Drummer Boy was born, I clearly remember having the realization, “I CAN NOT get this wrong.” I wanted to live each moment with the long-term in mind, reminded of the reality that little moments string together day after day to form my children’s lasting impressions of home. Their expectations of how family should be. Their assumptions about love and celebration and habits and responsibilities and all the other daily things that make a life. It makes me take greater care with the daily and with the unconscious habits I allow to continue within these walls, knowing they become unconsious expectations for their future lives.

Beyond the blessing of feathering nests, there is another “home” I’m recognizing, and one I’m hoping LDB, Bug and Baby Girl will find. We are each created with purpose and gifts that can be used to bless in this world. Life has a way of distracting and deceiving and wooing us outside of ourselves and those gifts. The view we have of ourselves can become unrecogizable to that person we really are–who we were made to be. The realities of what really makes our heart beat at its strongest can become clouded. In times of wandering and wondering, the old adage “home is where the heart is” rings true.

Wherever my heart finds a resting place becomes home. Wherever my heart breathes in a clear space becomes home. Wherever I find my joy and fulfillment becomes home. Wherever I can give unencumbered. Wherever I can give with the full weight of support urging me forward becomes home. That “home” may be defined differently for each of us, but we can rest assured that our heart knows it. Our heart can recognize it. Our heart seeks it. Our heart wants to be in that place where we can be ALL of what we’re made to be. I’m thankful for that homing device built inside us. The one that helps us find our way through countless turns. To ourselves. At home.

Motherhood and the Art of Celebration

“You have in store an outpouring of one of God’s greatest blessings on Earth–the joys of the gift of a child.”

My mother wrote that prediction in a book she gave me for my first Mother’s Day as a mother. I was blessed enough to be able to spend the holiday this year with both my mother and my children. And, as it so often happens, the day played out with Mama spending most of it serving me. Mothers are remarkable creatures, indeed. As you may have surmised from last week’s posts, that first Mother’s Day holiday for me came just a few days after Little Drummer Boy was born. I was still reeling from the sheer joy and wonder of actually being able to see and touch him. Mama was right. Being a mother to LDB, Squiggle and Baby Girl has been the most soul-changing, incredible, challenging, rewarding, frustrating, amazing, exhausting and joyful experience of my life. All at the same time. I’m sure most mothers would say the same thing. It’s the nature of the job. When Little Drummer Boy was born, I remember feeling so unprepared, but I sort of fell into the role led by my love for this incredible little human before me. And my mother helped.

Mama stayed with me for several weeks after Little Drummer Boy was born, as she did with each of my gifts. She was on-hand to offer support and to help with the requisite diaper-changing, bathing, answering of questions, sleeplessness and general cooking and cleaning. That practical service was much needed, of course, but she helped me in ways she probably never realized. And, it started long before Little Drummer Boy’s birth.

As a child, I remember my mother talking to me. I remember her reading books like Are You My Mother? and admonishing me to put my own book away at bedtime as I grew older. I remember her asking me every afternoon about what I did that day and listening to the answers. I remember her giving me time. I remember her baking cookies and decorating them. I remember her putting money in a small envelope in the cabinet for our vacation. I remember her planting violets and marigolds and looking at wallpaper and sewing patterns. I remember creamed tuna on toast with English peas. I don’t ever remember sharing a negative word about Mama with anyone else, not even during those teenage years. There was just something wrong about it, something of a betrayal of her endless effort on my behalf that kept me from falling into that all-too-common mindset of growing up. Perhaps it was because I grew up as an only child. As such, I spent a lot of time around grown-ups, mainly my mother and father. The enjoyment, conversation, togetherness and anticipation of family time was ingrained in me at a very young age. Somehow Mama instilled in me a love of spending time together.

In all these mundane and daily experiences, I remember Mama’s ability to elevate the commonplace to the level of celebration. I’m not sure that was really her conscious and well-conceived intention, but I’ve always felt that the art of celebration was–and is–her gift. I grew up and came of age knowing that paying attention to the joy of life’s daily experience was important to her. Knowing that celebration itself is important. Knowing that it can be a way of life, if you’re just willing to make it so. Beyond her cooking ability, her penchant for gardening, her prowess as a seamstress, and all the other womanly and motherly traits she possesses, that skill of celebration–that discipline–is the one that rises to the surface this Mother’s Day. It has colored a thousand other experiences for me. It is the chief lesson I have sought to incorporate into my own home. It is the mother I want to be.

Far from being a formula, as I think about those memories of childhood and the approach my mother took to homekeeping and mothering and celebration, some themes emerge–lessons I’ve noticed that characterize her way of living, her way of raising me and even her way of being a grandmother now. It’s these lessons my Mama taught me about being a mom, about keeping a home and living a life that I strive to put into practice, just as she did.

Effort is worth making.
It is. I grew up knowing that if something needed to be done, my Mama could do it. And, she would do it. She wouldn’t let anything get in her way. No setback, no empty jar of something or another, no shortage of fabric or icing or whatever requirement for the latest task would deter her from making a project be what we wanted it to be. At age 40 with my own mothering experiences, I now understand that in all actuality, Mama couldn’t do everything. But, there remains a common sense of ingenuity and creativity that was fueled by her insistence that something be special. It was her necessity. Something she wasn’t willing to give up. And she made it happen. Through her own demonstration, Mama taught me that common experiences are worth the extra effort. I don’t mean that things were always perfect or that our home was an issue of Martha Stewart Living. No, we lived a real life. But, Mama put equal effort into making both Beef Wellington and Cheesy Dogs seem special. It was a gift to the people around the table, whether they recognized it or not. Whether it meant staying up late until the turkey was done, chasing down red hots for snowman cookie eyes and buttons, or taking the seam out three times to be sure it would lie flat, I grew up knowing my mother would put in whatever effort was required. I want my babies to know that too.

Little things are important.
They are. My parents were both public school educators. Mama taught third grade. With those professions in Mississippi (or anywhere, really) I’m sure their budgets were on the meager side of adequate. But, I never wanted for anything. Anything. I’m sure there were things and experiences that I missed out on, but I never knew it. I never knew of a time when I didn’t have an abundance. I attribute that overflow to my mother’s ability to make little things important. I didn’t need big things. The small details were given greater significance because of Mama’s attention to them. And because we experienced them together, while giggling and talking and sharing. I came to appreciate the unfinished doll house at Christmas rather than the fully-outfitted one–because I had the fun of Mama helping me choose our own wallpaper for the tiny rooms, sewing the tiny curtains for the plastic windows and painting the front door before hanging the tiny wreath on it. I came to appreciate that we rarely had a meal without placemats–because they just changed creamed tuna on toast and cheesy dogs somehow. I came to appreciate the extra ruffle sewn on a pillow case or the seat cushion covered in coordinating fabric or the bow added to the standard lampshade. These were the little things that made a house a home, and a home our home. I hope I can give my babies that same abundance.

Memories matter.
They do. Mama kept things. Whether small trinket gifts from her third-grade students, the churn top that belonged to her grandmother, the last remaining (albeit chipped) cup and saucer from her wedding “everyday” tableware or some framed “artwork” I made in preschool, these artifacts adorned our home in some fashion or another. One thing I learned from my mom through her tendency toward not throwing “stuff” away is that things are things, but they also often hold the memories and impressions of experiences. They are tangible evidence of joy and struggle and the full gamut of the life we partake. The value of “things” doesn’t necessarily rest merely in their shape or the material of which they are constructed, but in the memories they hold of significant times and places and people. Through Mama’s celebration bent, I learned that traditions and keepsakes are how we bring experiences forward to the next ones. They are how we string experiences together. Telling stories, keeping reminders, and displaying the artifacts of our experiences can teach us the context from which we come and offer a framework for the places we’re going. I hope I can move those memories forward with my children.

Above all the lessons in the art of celebration imparted by my mother, perhaps the one most poignantly seen even today is that motherhood is serving. And, it’s a lifelong endeavor. Mama never fails to fold laundry while at my home or to read a book to a grandchild. She has taught me as much in my adult life as any other time that mothering is giving. Time, money, energy, effort, wisdom. Motherhood is giving–even when it hurts. Giving when it’s frustrating, when it’s painful. Giving. When it’s hard. And as I watch her example and strive to put that particular lesson into practice, I’m finding that motherhood has a unique ability to pull from a deep well of love-fueled resources. It finds the ability to give when it seems there is nothing to give.

For me, these are profound lessons for motherhood gleaned from my life’s best demonstration. And, oddly enough, they happen to be pretty good lessons for life beyond motherhood as well.

Thank you, Mama.

First Fruits

Little Drummer Boy, my firstborn, turned five yesterday. You can all share a collective sigh of amazement with me, and possibly pass the tissues. He’s my firstborn. And he’s five years old. It’s taking some getting used to. In August he will start “big school” and launch a whole new trajectory of independence. As with every stage, he’s forging the way Bug and Baby Girl will follow all too quickly.

Whether we like it or not, firstborns seem to prime the pump by virtue of their very newness. They are the first fruit of anything (or anyone) else to come. LDB set the scene for pregnancy, childbirth, infancy, and all the developmental stages beyond. He christened me in all those areas. I was wide-eyed in wonder most of the time and hyper-sensitive to each nuance. He formed the assumptions upon which those same experiences with his siblings to follow were based. While I’ve resisted the urge to compare and contrast, it happens. His has been the benchmark by which all their stages have been measured — not in terms of good or bad, but in the way of expectations and the anticipation of growth or change. His has been the benchmark of change in myself, the transformation of woman to mother and all the complicated soul-immersion that title entails.

I named him Little Drummer Boy in this venue because during his toddler years, he always seemed to follow the beat in his own head, and he pressed anything and everything around him into the service of articulating that syncopation. As he’s grown, he’s become less enamored with the perpetual and all-encompassing trap set, and more involved with the typical car chases, fire emergencies and train adventures in which boys are usually found. However, I still notice his beat. It’s the one heard in his plethora of very distinctive sound effects. It’s the one found in his unending toy sagas where rockets and dinosaurs seem to thicken the plot every time. As I wrote in his introduction to the cyber world, I have yet to find it in my heart to call him anything shortened for blog-aging purposes. This particular Drummer is and will always be MY Little and Boy as well.

He was born four weeks early, to the day. Little Drummer Boy’s unexpected birth on May 2 came after some minor concerns during the last part of my pregnancy. My doctors’ good care and cautious natures recognized that the risks possible with LDB were minimal, but insisted on consistent sonograms and stress tests to confirm their suspicions. Therefore, I saw lots of pictures of Little Drummer Boy before he was born. Those sonograms were difficult emotionally. The fear in waiting for results each time was inescapable, even though I knew there was likely no need for concern. They were difficult because they made LDB so real. Yes, I knew he was real. I had felt his early movements. But, in seeing his tiny and newly formed body, I fell in love with him. Completely. It changed me. It changed so much about how I saw things. How I saw Little Drummer Boy, how I saw myself and my life, and how I saw the rest of the world. I think I’m only just now getting past that gripping fear of knowing my whole world was wrapped up in this other new person.

Little Drummer Boy offered first glimpses of that wonder of having another human being formed inside me. The most amazing thing I remember about being pregnant with LDB was feeling him move. I so vividly remember that feeling of having him touching me from the inside. It was strange and amazing all at the same time. And, while I wasn’t overly romantic or existential about this unique womanly experience, it was unforgettable. I can also clearly remember that moment when he was out of my belly. There was such a void there. I was empty, but relieved all at the same time. It brought so much joy to hear him cry and see him and hold him in my arms the first time. I remember those feelings with each of my children, but I suppose they were most poignant with Little Drummer Boy. My experiences with Bug and Baby Girl were certainly no less precious or significant, but their births simply had the reality of not being first. The wonder was still incredibly wonderful, only not the wonder of a first “weaving.”

Little Drummer Boy offered me first fruits… The first fruits of watching my very heart sitting outside my body. The first fruits of love that is unquenchable–by the dirtiest of diapers or the loudest shout of “no” or the most frustratingly tearful bedtime. First fruits of wishing I could control the entire world, but knowing I’ll never be able to do that. First fruits of being sure I’ll never know any greater joy than this moment, only to have the next moment surpass it. He offered the first fruits of realizing this other person, this other tiny soul, is totally dependent on me. The first fruits of dreading that day when he’ll be disappointed. First fruits of knowing, as impossible as it seemed during those beginning years, that he would live to make a wrong choice at some point because that’s what humans do. Firstborn sadness of seeing that wrong choice and knowing I’d give him ten thousand other chances to get it right, plus one more. Firstborn fruit is sweet. And bitter. And utterly defying of description, although I’m desperately trying.

When I think about how small Little Drummer Boy was when he was born and how he just covers me now when he sits in my lap, I can’t believe it. I find myself thanking God he still wants to sit in my lap. LDB is a gentle and curious spirit. He has a big vocabulary, loves books, and loves stories–mainly telling them. He always has a story line going on in his head. It incorporates everything he’s interested in at a given moment, so his story is a precious picture of his heart and mind I want to discipline myself to hear with undivided attention. My Little Drummer is very inquisitive, but also very cautious. He is my child who always contemplates before making a move. He doesn’t always do new things very quickly, but he’s a very thoughtful child. He is quick to say “I love you,” perhaps because I tell him so often myself out of sheer necessity in my soul. He says it without being prompted. He often says it first. First fruits from my firstborn. He changed my life.

Little Drummer Boy, my firstborn, turned five yesterday.