Enjoying the Present

My dad is convinced that as you age, you romanticize your past. This explains why when my great great aunt came to live with us at the age of 94, she talked about her deceased husband as “a saint”. He joked that he wants to go first so we can have time to remember him as a saint too. He doesn’t know it, but if he died tomorrow, he’d already be remembered as one. He’s one of the most generous and thoughtful people I know. But we’ll save that for another post.

I think there is some truth to this “romanticizing your past” theory. I see it happening already. The other day I mentioned to my husband that I didn’t think our older two boys had the “terrible twos” nearly as bad as our toddler does. He laughed at me. He reminded me that, yes, in fact, they had it every bit as bad as our two year old does now. And let’s not even talk about women’s memory regarding childbirth… can anyone say “rose -colored -glasses”?

But despite our desire to look at the past positively, I do think there are certain seasons and chapters in life that are just plain great: that we can appreciate fully even when we’re in them. I feel like I’m in one now. My husband and I are blessed in so many ways. And as we approach Christmas, I’m especially mindful of the sweet ages of my boys. Their anticipation and joy is palpable. And their desire to give generously is truly touching.

(here are the older two with Grandpa... Christmas 2008)

(Look at that joy!)

Recently they spent hours in the basement secretly working on gifts for us that they brought out when we decorated the tree.

It took me a few minutes to get over the fact that my tree wouldn't look like something that belonged in a magazine....

Until I realized it couldn't be more beautiful....

I know that this chapter won’t last forever. Recently I read an article from my beloved Erma Bombeck, “Christmas Chimes”. It made me know that this time really is something to treasure and that there is plenty of romance already present.

Christmas Chimes

Everything is in readiness.

The tree is trimmed. The cards taped to the door frame. The boxes stacked in glittering disarray under the tree.

Why don’t I hear chimes?

Remember the small boy who made the chimes ring in a fictional story years ago? As the legend went, the chimes would not ring unless a gift of love was placed on the altar. Kings and men of great wealth placed untold jewels there, but year after year the church remained silent.

Then one Christmas Eve, a small child in a tattered coat made his way down the aisle, and without anyone noticing he took off his coat and placed it on the altar. The chimes rang out joyously throughout the land to mark the unselfish giving of a small boy.

I used to hear chimes.

I heard them the year one of my sons gave me a tattered piece of construction paper on which he had crayoned two hands folded in prayer and a moving message, OH COME HOLY SPIT!

I heard them the year I got a shoe box that contained two baseball cards and the gum was still with them.

I heard them the Christmas they all got together and cleaned the garage.

They’re gone, aren’t they? The years of the lace doilies fashioned into snowflakes … the hands traced in plaster of paris … the Christmas trees of pipe cleaners … the thread spools that held small candles. They’re gone.

The chubby hands that clumsily used up $2 worth of paper to wrap a cork coaster are sophisticated enough to take a number and have the gift wrapped professionally.

The childish decision of when to break the ceramic piggy bank with a hammer to spring the 59 cents is now resolved by a credit card.

The muted thump of pajama-covered feet padding down the stairs to tuck her homemade crumb scrapers beneath the tree has given way to pantyhose and fashion boots to the knee.

It’ll be a good Christmas. We’ll eat too much. Make a mess in the living room. Throw the warranties into the fire by mistake. Drive the dog crazy taping bows to his tail. Return cookies to the plate with a bite out of them. Listen to Christmas music.

But Lord … what I would give to bend low and receive a gift of toothpicks and library paste and hear the chimes just one more time!

You need to get out more...

With a baby that sleeps all morning, and a toddler that sleeps all afternoon, school pick up is the extent of my social life these days. Parent-Teacher Conferences? A night out on the town for me! The other social experience is Target. I don’t know how it is I only run into people I haven’t seen in ten years if I’m wearing sweats with no make-up and have something embarrassing in my cart like Tucks or Hemorrhoid cream. One time I ran into a guy from my past in Target when I was buying lingerie. I didn’t even have a cart; I just tried to discreetly hide it behind my back. I guess that’s why there are special stores for that.

Anyway, for being a stay-at-home-mom, I don’t actually like to stay home all the time. I am an extravert (although I might have denied that for a few years while doing ministry). I need conversation… adult conversation. Once during the longest winter of history when I hadn’t left my house in months, I was so hungry for adult conversation that I let the Kirby vacuum salesman into our 740 square foot house to try and sell me a vacuum that cost more than my car. I just needed to talk to an adult… even if it was about dirt.

With naps and nursing and a baby at the height of separation anxiety, even getting a sitter just isn’t worth it. And so the computer… blogs, facebook, and emails, has become my link to the outside world. But tonight I made an exception to policy and attended not only one Christmas party, but two. It was great to know that I still can shake hands and make small talk while balancing a glass of wine and a plate of hors d’oeurves. And it is so nice to have that much craved adult interaction. And I did come home feeling energized... which is why I'm working on my blog past 10:00 at night.

But as I was driving home, I realized that the people I most enjoy spending time with are right under my own roof. Which is a good thing since my two year old was still awake (3 hours after his bedtime) reminding me why I don’t do this very often.

Becoming My Mother

When did I become that person? You know the one with hand sanitizer in her minivan that she lathers on her children after every errand. I think it was somewhere between the emergency room visits, the middle of the night breathing treatments, and the vomit.

When did I become the person who spends $40 on laundry detergent in Costco and actually uses all 180 loads of it... in a month?

When did I become that person that falls asleep on the couch in front of the TV?

I used to need company to cook a dish that uses a 9 X 13 pan, now I wonder if it’s enough to feed us all. When did that happen?

When did I start looking in the mirror and being surprised by lines around my eyes and mouth?

When did I become that person? You know, the one who worries and starts to look ten steps down the line at the consequences? I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but I remember one day on my way to costco seeing a motorcyclist going over 90 mph zigzagging in and out of traffic on the interstate. A few years ago I would have thought “cool bike”. Now my mind spun ahead to the poor driver who hits this crazy biker and spends years in jail for involuntary manslaughter. I thought of his poor mother burying her son. I thought of all kinds of worst-case scenarios and I realized that I was thinking like a mom, and not just any mom, but my mom.

Some of the things that used to drive me the most crazy about my mother, I find myself doing. I used to roll my eyes when she'd ask my dad to turn the music down, or call us to dinner like a drill sergeant, or come up with some ridiculous catastrophe that might happen if we didn't do whatever it was she thought we should. And headaches... who gets headaches all the time? A mom... that's who... or maybe it's just our sympathetic nervous system needing some quiet. Anyway, the more time goes by, the more and more I understand my mom.

Love is demanding, and no one loves quite like a mother. So this love manifests itself in all kinds of ways from nagging to hugs, but at the heart of it, is love. And love changes us. So much so that sometimes I don't even recognize myself. But I do see my mother!

Nursing

I know many women who have been unable to breastfeed, and others who made heroic sacrifices to nurse. One friend pumped everytime her baby ate since he wouldn’t nurse. My sister nursed for an entire year while completing her residency to become a doctor…working incredibly long and crazy hours in an intense setting. I know women who have had mastitis so badly that it required surgery. But I have been blessed that nursing my babies has always been easy.

Hmm… maybe easy isn’t the right word. I do remember the first few weeks with my firstborn son being so frustrating that I wondered if pigs and cows could do this, why couldn’t an educated woman figure it out? I have had moments of sheer exhaustion and utter exasperation. There were times in the first weeks after each of my children when I knew that I would quit if it didn’t get easier. But it always did. So maybe easy isn’t the right word….but fulfilling.

I have had a real sense of awe and wonder at how my body knew just what to do to nourish my child. I’ve been amazed that my child could grow and gain weight by nursing. I've been grateful that my baby can better fight off infection with my antibodies. I’ve taken better care of myself, knowing that everything I put in my body could be passed onto my child. I’ve been completely and totally astonished by how it can relax me better than a glass of wine, and bond me to my children.

And I've gotten more comfortable with nursing, even in public. Baby #4 has been nursed at baseball fields, restaurants, pools, church, and more places than I can count. When you are trying to juggle the needs of six people, you make some compromises.

Sometimes these compromises make me feel stretched and overwhelmed. But when I’m nursing, especially if no one else is immediately demanding anything, I often feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Although I spend large parts of my day juggling demands and occasionally feeling inadequate, when I’m nursing I feel like I’m enough. More than adequate. My baby delights in me and is satisfied.