The Loving Touch

I'm on my third go-around with a toddler.

Kid 3.0 is a budding almost-two-year-old (my very firstest Mr. Boy) who is the human equivalent of Jell-O. I love that kid. The process of getting each child to elementary age in one piece teaches me something new every time.  With my first child, I learned that car seats work best when buckled down with a seatbelt. One day in the car, she was making a weird little squeaky noise I'd never heard before. When I looked behind me, I realized it was because she was getting to experience her very first time being upside down since the womb. Let me just say though, those car seat handles make awesome roll bars. Do not try this at home.

With my second child, I learned that the outcome is precisely the same whether you sterilize the dropped pacifier before giving it back, or whether you just lick it off and rub it on your pant leg… actually nothing happens. She never exploded!

Another thing I keep noticing is that toddlers mimic what their parents do. 

This can be good, bad, or hilarious. Like when I'm going all Jackie Chan with a fly swatter and yelling, "Die, bugs! Die!!" and I hear a little voice behind me holler, "DIE!!! DIE!!" while the child maniacally smacks the floor. Or when we're in traffic and someone honks a horn somewhere, and a child in my back seat yells, "What is WITH you people??"

But lately I've also been getting to experience again how sweet it can be.

I went to the doctor for a checkup today, and Mr. Boy came with me. While the nurse took my vitals, he watched her like a hawk. When the blood pressure cuff went on, he laid his baby soft hand protectively on my other arm and looked at me with concerned question in his eyes. "It's okay, Buddy," I reassured him. After the nurse left the room, he toddled over to the counter, climbed up on the padded bench next to it, and snagged a tissue from the box. He proceeded to dab my forehead, the corners of my mouth, my eyes, and my cheeks with it, all while whispering sweet little babbles of loving care three inches from my face. I relished the sweet scent of his graham cracker breath and baby shampooed hair. Then he sat in my lap and patted my shoulder for a while. After we got home, we played in his room for a few minutes before his nap. He covered me with his blankie, and mimicking the exact process by which I always put him to bed, he spoke his babyish blessing over me and stroked my hair with his little hand. 

When Jesus said that the kingdom of God belongs to such as these, he wasn't kidding!

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The Grand Event

Years ago, a good friend asked me to be the music teacher at a little K-8 Christian school where he was the principal. I must have blacked out, or had a small fit of insanity that temporarily dispossessed me of my ability to think logically. Because when the meeting was over, I was nodding my head and shaking his hand while he explained my salary by muttering something about "Christian service." I was now a music teacher. 

How hard could it be, though?

I figured I'd teach the kindergarteners some music theory by drawing funny faces on a staff and handing out percussion instruments, hoping they didn't use each other's heads as cymbals. When that quit working, I'd remove my ear plugs and teach them hand motions to a song. They could later perform this dressed like sheep. How adorable would that be? I'd teach the 1st and 2nd graders how to play recorders so that by the end we could subject their parents to a chorus of semi-recognizable tunes played on what sounds like constipated teapots at full boil. I would teach the 3rd and 4th graders how to play hand bells, and just keep highlighting notes on the score and tapping my baton on the music stand until that feeling that I'm driving a truck through a wind chime factory started to dissipate. I'd teach the 5th graders to be dramatic… wait, no instruction needed there. Then I would teach the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders to be a choir, assuring them that it's okay to risk looking like an idiot in front of everybody. Thankfully, I lead by example really well in that area.

Every day, I went home mentally exhausted.

I remember my name being on the program as having directed 150-odd kids in TWO unified productions of full-costumed dramatic and musical splendor. Heck, there were even kids at the back doing sound and lights. To this day I don't think it should have said "Director" next to my name on that program. "Befuddled Ringleader" would have suited better.  I don't know how all those kids managed to get organized into that gorgeous, cohesive unit that made the parents cheer. What I saw during class didn't give me much reason to predict that outcome. What I didn't see was that God had a plan for those kids that year, and he had a plan for me that not even I could screw up. He went before me and cleared a path. He gave me just enough mayhem to bring me to my knees, but never push me over the edge. He sent parents and teachers and generous donors into my life who brought fullness and sparkle to my meager efforts. He shaped me into what was necessary for that time by lavishly supplying everything I needed, and even beyond. I went into almost every situation a clueless impostor and came out smelling like a rose. I was the cracked pot (or crackpot) that held water anyway. I was the crooked stick that drew straight lines. What I did at that school was impossible for me. That's why God was glorified. Only he could do all that. But that's biblical. 

"Whoever speaks [should do so] as one who speaks oracles of God; 

whoever serves, as one who serves by the strength that God supplies—

in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ. 

To him belong glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen." —1 Peter 4:11

Am I saying that volunteering to do jobs for which you are uniquely unqualified is always the way to go? Hehe. NO. I'm saying that you should do everything by the strength that God supplies so he gets the glory. It's just more obvious that's happening when you're out of your depth. 

Want to see something freakishly fantastic about this verse? 

That word "supplies" up there? The Greek word used is "chorēgei." It means "funds and leads a chorus of performers, bearing all the expenses necessary to stage a grand event."  Are you freaking kidding me right now?! Amazing! Obviously, nobody knows better than God how much effort and expense goes into a theatrical production. When he "supplies," that's the level of supply we're talking about. God is so serious that his son Jesus be glorified in our lives, that he supplies us with everything we need to make our lives into a grand event that makes people say, "Wow, God did that?" He's not about spray glitter and cheap illusions. He sends in real tigers and lights the batons on fire! 

Well, I only lasted a year being a music teacher, but I'm still out of my depth. I'm a mom now.

And being a mom is a lot like directing a theatrical production. I am so encouraged that even though I'm still the Befuddled Ringleader, I have a heavenly Dad who not only leads my little chorus of performers, he completely funds my efforts with strength and creativity when I have none of my own. He makes this grand event I call my life a success. He even does special effects! The applause at the final curtain will be his.

                                                          Leave me a comment! :D

"Sometimes I Feel Ugly..."

My little Winkerbean just said that to me today.

"Sometimes I feel ugly, and I want to hide." My heart broke when I heard those words come out of that pretty little mouth. Those beautiful, perfect, cupid's bow lips that I used to steal kisses from when she was a sleeping infant were now speaking of ugliness. Her own ugliness? I realized two earth-shattering things at the same time.

First, my little girl isn't so little any more.

Little kids think about life inside their little universe. They delight in the tickle of ladybug feet across their palms. They chase bubbles. They are just beginning to understand that there are other people in the world besides themselves and their immediate family. I have yet to see a little kid who is self-conscious. Winkerbean isn't little. She's starting to consider how other people see her. She's going to be nine years old before I blink.

The second thing I realized was my ghastly mistake...

I'm horrified when I think about it. I have tried on clothes with a disgusted look on my face, muttering under my breath that I should just wear a potato sack instead, to hide my ugly body. I have yanked out gray hairs and bemoaned the fact that I'm getting old too soon and don't want to lose my pretty brunette locks. I have compared myself to others whom I find more attractive than myself and given in to discouragement... all while my daughter looks on and absorbs everything. And now, with tears streaming down my face, I realize what I've done. I've taught her that what she wears is for other people to see and appreciate. That getting older is not an honor, but a dreadful curse. That the way to tell if you're beautiful is to look around you and see how you compare.

I would never say those things to her. But I have... just not with words.

This is one more example of how the student becomes like the teacher. But this teacher has just repented. I know my loving heavenly Father is heartbroken to hear me utter words of ugliness... when I believe the lie that my beauty comes from the outside. Just as heartbroken as I am when my little girl says those things about herself. It sounds preposterous to me that my little girl feels ugly, but it is no less preposterous when I feel it. The truth is, God made us both, and he's the one who gets to decide what ugly is.

"I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. 

Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well." —Psalm 139:4

I'm not on the ugly list. Maybe I am to some people, but not to my Creator.

"For the LORD sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, 

but the LORD looks on the heart.” —1 Samuel 16:7b

I'm so sorry, little Winkerbean. I made a mistake, and I was so wrong. I AM beautiful... because God made me that way. I forgot that. God help me, I need to be a better example of that from now on. You are a breathtaking, lovely girl, inside and out, because God made you that way. You have a beautiful smile, a beautiful mind, and a beautiful heart. Don't ever hide that.

Ten Motherhood Confessions

Motherhood is an adventure, not a science. The evidence...

1. My children regularly eat their siblings' leftovers as a snack.

2. I find a great deal of cleaning motivation from watching Hoarders.

3. That little first grader with bits of oatmeal in her hair, running to catch the bus, wearing one sock and carrying her shoes? Yeah, that was my kid.

4. I often eat chocolate first, then pray when I feel a little better.

5. I've had this happen more times than I can count: Having just imparted a particularly profound nugget of grown-up wisdom to my eager young children, I realize they ran off about five minutes ago and I've been talking to myself.

6. I sometimes stay up later than I should to get some "me time." The next day, I frown more than I smile.

7. I have a dog primarily to clean up food and beverage disasters. She stays busy.

8. I fell asleep in a pile of laundry earlier today.

9.  I've had to look up my own phone number before.

10. During my sleepy days with my third newborn, I came within three seconds of walking out to get the mail with one boob hanging out. 

And there are so many more, but we'll leave those for another post. ;) Things like this are the reason I know God can draw a straight line with a crooked stick. It's only logical that He get the glory for how awesome my kids are turning out.  Can you relate to any of these?

The Curse

There's a joke on my side of the family…

We call it "The Curse." It began with my grandmother, who, worn down by witty comebacks, told her young daughter in a fit of exasperation, "Someday you're going to have a daughter and she's going to be just LIKE YOU!" To begin with, stories about my grandmother's humor are legendary and retold to this day. She had a sort of warped, random humor that gave her a love of poetry such as this: 

Starkle, starkle, little twink,

Who the heck you are, I think?

I'm not under the ocfluence of inkahol,

Although some thinkle peep I are!

Oh I fool so feelish, I don't know who is me,

And the drunker I stand here, the longer I get.

Grandma was the one who would be going about her day and randomly say things like, "'BALLS!' cried the queen. 'If I had two, I'd be king!'" She was also the one who loved to retell the story of the time she went to the store and couldn't find the Tampax. The cashier called the stock boy over the intercom (yes, the whole store could hear) and asked him to bring some Tampax up to the check stand, but he misunderstood. Thinking she was asking for tacks, he called back over the intercom and asked, "Is that the kind you push in with your thumb, or pound in with a hammer?"

My mother, who is also a bit warped and random, adds punny to the mix for good measure. Her particular brand of humor is a charming, self-deprecating kind of humor. She doesn't mind being the punchline sometimes, and she calls things as she sees them. (For example, dining room light fixtures are not "chandeliers" in our family, they're "table hats.") 

"The Curse" apparently came true when I was born. 

I am JUST like my mother. Although it seems with every generation, a new facet of humor develops. I've taken my grandma's warped randomness, combined with my mother's punniness, then added my own cerebral brand of dryness and an odd (rarely helpful) ability to memorize one-liners to it all. Lord, help me. And one day during my childhood, my mother, worn down by my witty comebacks, told me in a fit of exasperation, "Someday you're going to have a daughter and she's going to be just LIKE YOU!" When Winkerbean was born, I thought I'd escaped. She's just like her daddy. 

But then Sweet Pea was born.

This girl is such a character! She describes being sick as when "your fever is sticking out and your nose is gone." She steps on the scale and says, "I'm just going to weigh my feet." And she threatens her sister with zingers like, "If you don't quit being bossy to me, God is going to turn you into salad dressing!" But is she really just like me? Everyone else says so. That scares me a little, because I realize more and more that it isn't just my humor that I'm passing on. 

"A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone when he is fully trained 

will be like his teacher." —Luke 6:40

This verse tells me that I've got little disciples in my house, and when they're fully trained, each one of them will be like me in some way, family "curse" or not. By watching me, are they learning… 

• Not to take themselves too seriously?
• To have a gracious attitude toward others who inconvenience or wrong them?
• To open their Bibles and let God speak to their hearts on a regular basis?
• To persevere in prayer, even through the tough and boring parts of life?
• To put Jesus first before any other earthly loves?

I could get really freaked out about whether I'm a good enough example. But I'm not going to. Why? Because I'm going to screw it up regularly and have to repent before God and my kids. I'm going to have to let them know I've sinned and that by God's grace I'm becoming more and more like Jesus each day. I'm also not going to worry because we're told in Scripture not to be anxious about anything; but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let our requests be made known to God. (Philippians 4:6) So I thank God for my Short People. I thank God for the weighty responsibility given to The Captain and me to disciple their little hearts. And I ask the Lord to begin his good work in them and bring it to completion himself, so that He, not I, will get the glory for that. 

And the next time Sweet Pea cracks a joke about broken automobiles needing a "CAR-o-practor," I'm just going to hug her and say, "Someday I hope you have a daughter who's just like you."