A River Runs Through It

I never really think of myself as particularly "artistic," mainly because when I draw or paint with my three year old son, well let's just say I haven't progressed much in my rendering ability since my childhood. But, I've recently begun to realize I tend to think in pictures. When I'm having discussions with people, and I'm articulating my point, I usually have distinct metaphorical images in my mind.

Today as I was explaining the place that I now find myself in with my oldest child, images of water swirled in my brain. In the past, particularly while I have navigated post-partum depression, parenting has felt like the ocean for me: vast, unknowable, unending, with forceful waves relentlessly pursuing me at the shore, threatening to tug me under.

But, at the moment we have reached this place where things have evened out for both myself and my son, and parenting doesn't feel so much like the ocean, as it does a river: twisting, always surprising, where I will at times find roaring and frightening rapids with jagged unseen rocks to navigate, only to find just around the bend a serene and smooth stretch, where I regain a sense of wonder, and peace, and I can rest. Presently, I'm floating seemingly effortlessly along with the current. I'm blissfully in the moment, not fretting about what has come before, nor nervously anticipating the geography of the landscape ahead.

While an ocean indiscriminately covers and conceals the terrain, its depths largely unmapped, its tides powerful and unceasing, a river is a different force; a river changes the surface of the terrain. A river has a plan, that flexes to the land, but doggedly pursues its end to create a "wide, flat valley where it can flow smoothly towards the ocean."

In those moments of peace as I am carried by the smooth waters of motherhood, I appreciate the grooves and valleys that the River has carved, and marvel at the steady force that has reshaped the topography, leveling mountains in its wake. In those peaceful meanders I restore myself for the rougher waters ahead.

Photo by Jim's outside photos

A Constant Gardener

My husband likes to say, "track-record, track-record," when referring to the true nature of people. Many times I protest that he is being overly cynical, but I have to concede that often times he is correct. My track record is that I am a "serial starter," but not always a faithful “finisher." This probably causes me the most angst when I'm trying to find my way, whether that is figuring out how to parent, or how to realize my intentions and goals. I often feel frustrated that the bloom of enthusiasm can so easily wither on the vine. The metaphor is apt, because without care and tending, what started out with so much potential can be allowed to degrade and ultimately die out. As a mother, that keeps me awake at night, fretting over every misstep and implication of my bumbling through the daily challenges of raising my children. But surprisingly it isn't a given, and this gives me great hope.

We are blessed with a large and beautiful backyard. Our house needs a lot of TLC, but we bought the place because we could see our kids in this backyard. While we have sacrificed and scrimped a lot to be here, and to live our lives according to our values, one of the luxuries we allow ourselves for now is a gardening service. The gardener, and his father before him, has taken care of this yard since the original owner, and each occupant has kept him on. I have a little plot within our larger backyard where we like to plant flowers and herbs. The gardener largely leaves this area to our whims. Once, as a gift to me, my husband made a detailed plan and planted several carefully selected varieties. We tended it well for a good deal of time, but nevertheless over time, our attention drifted, and some things flourished while others did not survive. We blamed this on our lack of a carefully disciplined approach to tending the area. If we had tried harder, and held ourselves more accountable, things would have turned out better we scolded ourselves.

Once, someone gave me a mini rose bush, and we planted it there. We had planted at least one other before, that died, but we put another out there nevertheless. We didn't really over think it, just planted it and let it grow. This weekend, out on the porch, while enjoying the first of the beautiful spring weekends to come with my children, I noticed, really noticed, that the rose bush had grown and thrived. My husband told me that the gardener often goes and tends the bush, even when we are not being as attentive as we should. It seems he simply cannot help himself.

It gives me hope that even when we get lost and inattentive, there is a constant gardener looking out for our little rose bushes.

The photo is mine. Please ask permission for reproduction.

It's a Question of What You Give Your Focus To

I've been quiet blog wise the last week or two. Life was mostly busy with the celebration of my firstborn's third birthday, which was so much fun, because this year he "gets" the hoopla. In fact, he thinks that every Tuesday is his birthday at the moment. All wants and desires are prefaced with "maybe after nappy? On my birthday, on Tuesdays?" I tell you, moments I want to hug him tight and tell him to "full stop" getting any older than this magical age! That is until the next tantrum, because his burgeoning will has been thwarted by the tyrannical Mother Overlord. In those moments, I'm projecting forward 20 years and hoping like hell I've made the right decisions to help him come out the other end with both of our sanity in tact.

The other event that had me taking a mental retrenching was my parents complete obliviousness to said three year old's birthday. Long and painful episode vastly edited and truncated, I have had to dig deep to realize that their actions are their actions and choices alone, and to further call upon my faith to find compassion and let that rule my regard for the situation. I'm vastly grateful and proud frankly that it didn't plunge me back into the abyss of depression, and that I credit to will and grace (not the TV show). Simply put, I'm moving on. I choose to focus on something else.

Something I'm focusing on this week in my goal to be more present for my family is taming the lure of constant connectivity. This week in honor of Earth Day, I've taken the Great TV Rebellion of 2010 Pledge, and I'm also using it as the official start of more organized homeschooling activities in our household. I'll share what we are up to as we go along on this new journey. Want to join us this week in turning off the TV and electronics and tuning into the outdoors and your children? Head here.

So, if I'm quiet, you know what I'm up to. The TV will be a cinch...Twitter, now that's gonna hurt :)

And God Said: "You're Not the Boss of Me"

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." – Jeremiah 29:11

Do you know what's good for you? If you are like me, you think you do. You know that if things could just be... everything would be just fine, am I right? The Bible passage I quoted comes up frequently in my small group discussions. Often we talk about how God always answers prayers, but it's not always the answer you wanted.

I had a moment this morning when I woke up next to Little Kidlet where it was as if a veil obstructing my understanding had been lifted and I realized something important. In making my way through this postpartum depression, I have fixated on the fact that Little Kidlet would not sleep neatly and compliantly in the wonderful and comfy little co-sleeper I had set up next to my bed. I lamented to myself, and yes, said prayers, that if this child would just sleep where I needed him to sleep (emphasis on I) then I would be better rested, my husband less cranky, etc., etc.

I didn't set out to bed share with my children, although I wasn't opposed to it...up to a point. With my first child, he hated the bassinet, and ended up sleeping with us for several months, but ultimately we transitioned him to his own room and a crib by the time he was six months old. The transition at night was just fine, although daytime took several more months. We had no need of even contemplating the loaded and loathed method of "cry-it-out," and nor would I have pursued that option. In fact, I took pride in honoring my mother's instincts and after attending a "sleep specialist's" talk to my local moms' group, only going because daytime sleeping was an issue, I flatly rejected her proclamation that I could never expect my son to be able to sleep interchangeably in the bed and crib--it had to be one or the other. I went back to the drawing board, tuned into my son, equipped myself, and in time he did just that with no draconian methods employed. He's been a "good sleeper" ever since.

When number two was imminently arriving, I made plans to be able to have the baby with us as we had had my oldest, but with an added measure of safety with the co-sleeper. The Husband doesn't sleep as soundly because he was/is paranoid that he will roll onto the baby. Ultimately "the plan" was to transition Big Kidlet into his "big boy bed" and have the baby join him later in the room in the newly available crib. I figured by six months, we should be fine. Cue laughter of the reader to this obvious example of "the best laid plans" of an overachieving delusional mother. I blame it partially on my background in management. I was used to people doing what I (benevolently) directed them to do.

To say that parenting has been a "humbling" experience in this regard would be a massive understatement.

So when Little Kidlet had a different agenda, in my fog of exhaustion and depression, I cried out to God, "Can you help me out with this? I need this kid to give me some space, I'm drowning here!" And He didn't answer this perceived need, at least I thought he didn't, until I awoke this morning.

When I woke this morning snuggled to my child I realized that God had given me exactly what I needed. Because, I was drowning, and I needed a life preserver...a little warm bundle of life preserving wonder that would not leave my side...even in the dead of night, or the deepest darkness of my depression.

God blessed me and answered my prayers for help, but not in the way I directed Him to.

Photo by woodleywonderworks

Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow. ~Swedish Proverb

The house is quiet (well, if you ignore the snoring of The Husband) and the baby sleeps (for the moment) in the co-sleeper. Last night he slept a tiny bit in the co-sleeper, but was still keen to be snuggled next to me. I had one of those deep in the pit of the night moments when having unsuccessfully tried once again to resettle him in the co-sleeper, I had to leave bed and have a terse conversation with God. But as I prayed curled on the couch, a calm voice overtook my frantic mind and said that I had to be more patient, and the start was just that--a start. I returned to bed and snuggled my little one back into me, not so much resigned, as accepting of the fact that I would end up perched and crinky in body on the edges of my bed, but hopefully we would both sleep and breathe in unison once more (for now).

Today dawned as a day of re-centering. Wednesdays are my lifeline days, they are the days I mindfully and intentionally walk with God. This Wednesday was also especially anticipated for a special time set aside to celebrate a friend.

The subject of today's study was "Treasure and Worry" based in Matthew 6: 19-34. The discussion prompt started with "What do you worry about? What are you anxious about?"

...

In view of the fact that I was voted "Biggest Worrywart" in my senior class "gag" awards, I decided to remain silent...this could take a while. I decided to let the other ladies around the table have the floor, and studiously avoided the eyes of the facilitator as she guided the conversation.

I answered the questions silently, making mental notes about points to explore in writing later, and listened to the women around me. That was until the woman next to me suddenly turned to me and said, "What do you worry about?" All eyes swung my way and I mentally went through the humorous response I could use to deflect and move on. I knew one person at the table fairly well, and the rest are virtual strangers to me. The person I knew well is hooked into my local network of moms. How much did I want to reveal?

I decided to be real.

It was scary, and I felt ashamed, still feeling that if I could just be stronger/better/saner I wouldn't be whining about things that virtually every new mother goes through, but I'm having a ridiculously hard time coping with.

But that's what this study was about. Confessing brokenness and weakness, and placing trust in God (and friends).

And that's what I'm doing.

Later that evening, the person I knew at that table, suddenly appeared on my doorstep with a meal and a hug to share.

I felt very humble, but very encouraged in faith (and friends).

Photo by chefranden

On Scarlett O'Hara, Attachment Parenting, and Prayer

Oh Scarlett O'Hara in all her crazed and delusional glory would be so very proud of me. I've been "After all...tomorrow is another day"-ing myself silly these last few weeks. We, and by "we," I mean Big Kidlet and I, have hit a mother of a rough patch and we are keeping our seats, but just barely. Each day as the sun sets, I resolve to try again the next day to navigate the deep and treacherous ruts on this particular fork of the road we find ourselves on, and not fall prostrate in the mud, thrashing and flinging it all about (metaphorically speaking of course, but hopefully you get the picture).

I should preface the rest that follows with the statement that I am a praying woman of faith. At this point I'm not so much an "evangelical" in my Christian faith, as I am a "searcher." I don't pretend to have the answers, nor do I discount the wisdom of other traditions. However, for me, since I was a small child, Jesus has always been there--He just makes sense. Never more tested has my faith been than in the difficult moments with my children, so you will understand me when I say that this morning, it was literally by the grace of God that we made it.

Big Kidlet's trigger to full scale, intensely angry, meltdowns is very very fine at the moment, as is mine frankly. As closely as I can tell, the novelty of Little Kidlet's arrival has definitely worn off, and behaviors I was relieved to not have seen early on, such as trying to hit his little brother, have emerged when he is in the throes of a temper tantrum. I get this much clearly...the little man is really pissed off when he has to do just about anything any other way than he decides to do it. Control, oh brother do I get it, he doesn't like being controlled. One of these days he'll come to the fundamental question of life that I encountered as a young college student, studying Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales: "do we act of our own free will, or are we acted upon?" Ah, I could go on about that for an age, but I'll spare you.

This morning was going fairly peacefully, and we shared a rare private breakfast together while Little Kidlet slept in. We were on track for an on-time departure for my weekly mother's Bible study and his playschool program. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I have literally been counting the days and hours until this precious break; things have been rough and it is truly something I do for me that keeps me sane. The peace was broken when he was not invited (allowed) to come into our bedroom to bounce around and all over a just awakened Little Kidlet (that's a lot of energy to handle two seconds after waking up for an adult, never mind an infant). What followed was akin to what I think it might feel like to be caught in the whirling edges of a tornado, in other words, it royally sucked. No royalty is to lowly, I'd venture to say it biblically sucked. We needed God. Right. That. Second.

And that's what I did. I prayed fervently to God to still our hearts, and minds, and voices, and hands, and show us what to do. Although my son had been previously protesting that under no circumstances would he a. let me change his stinking-to-high-heaven diaper nor b. accompany me to Bible playschool, and we were so hopelessly late, so that it was highly doubtful that there would be room for him anyway, a voice urged me to try, to leave the house, and on the double. Miraculously it seemed my son stilled, allowed me to change his diaper calmly, get him dressed and in the car without further fuss, and finish loading us up. All the while I plotted a plan a,b, and c, but come, well, hell, or high water, we were leaving this house, and now.

When we arrived, I fairly sprinted in front of another late comer with a similar aged kid bound undoubtedly for the same drop-in playschool program. I prayed that God and this mother would forgive my selfishness, but this was a mayday situation, and I needed to get him safely cared for and away from his verging on speaking in tongues mama pronto. I still feel chagrined about that one, but we both got in, and I started praying that he would be OK as fragile as he had been acting all morning. I watched that pager like a hawk for the first ten minutes, but it never went off.

As is so often the case in my life of faith, serendipitously the study being taught by a friend that day was about "Learning to pray from 'The Lord's Prayer.'" I have loved The Lord's Prayer since I was a tiny child, and I kneeled with my grandparents each morning when I would visit them in the summers. My home with my parents was devoid of faith, or at least a "don't ask, don't tell," policy on the subject. But in my grandparents house, faith was the soft click of the clock that marked the passing of each moment of each day. Each morning was begun with the prayer of The Lord's Prayer. As my friend taught, the daily opportunity for encountering God in intimate relationship through this beautiful, but more importantly instructive prayer, made me understand the reasons that my grandparents began each day by praying it not by rote, but remarkably in sincerity.

Many days I struggle to practice attachment parenting principles with my children, but I continue to try because my faith leads me to feel this is the way I am intended to parent. I see a correlation to my mandate as a parent when God invites us into a close and intimate relationship, where we are encouraged to trust that we will be loved despite our flaws and foibles. I hear the truth of drawing my sons close, firmly guiding them in how to live a life lit by God and intended just for them, assured that their mother unconditionally loves them. I picked up my son from playschool and once again had the energy to love him just where he was.

In our discussion, we spoke about prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise, and here are mine:

• My prayer of puzzle is why when I so fiercely love these children it is so surprisingly easy to hurt them in my own brokenness.
• My prayer of petition is that God will guide my son in stilling his own anger and hurt even when his parents are not capable of guiding him.
• My prayer of praise is that despite my brokenness, in those frightening moments of despair, a voice continues to tell me to try.

What are your prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise?

Photo by TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³