A Tale of Two Birthdays {Part Two}

I'm going to confess something here.  When I was 20 weeks, and the ultrasound tech said the word "boy", I cried silent tears on that table.  David didn't want to know what we were having, but he told me later (20 weeks later) that of course he knew it was a boy by the dazed, weepy expression on my face when I came out.  Boys?  What are those rough, sweaty, rowdy little people all about? Wrestling-near-the-wedding-china, baseballs-on-the-windowpane, rock-dings-in-my-new-car kind of people, I thought.  That's what they are.

  

And sure enough, the first three years were rocky.  That precious son sweat nonstop when he was supposed to smell like Baby Magic.  Even in the bathtub he would sweat, just a small little thing lying there hot and bothered.  He walked at 10 months--no, he RAN--and I chased him frantically across parking lots all over Leon County, a tiny man-child in smocked Jon Jons and sturdy white walkers who would sprint away giggling.  

still sweaty.

Returned by a stranger one morning. Found in our busy street, wet diaper and no clothes, along with our (very naughty) beagle who had snuck out the back gate.  Vaulted over crib rails and guard gates by 16 months.  Cracked a poorly swung PVC baseball bat across my 8-month-pregnant forehead.  Oh, those salty mama tears--they continued to flow as I tied pink bows in the sunny hair of my precious and perfect daughter and watched my toddler son destroy tea party after tea party. 

There was a part of me deep down inside where I, in my immature and exhausted state, resented the huge sum of energy I lost to keeping that child alive.

Blessed--truly blessed--with not one son, but three.

Flash forward all these years. If you met this child, I would wager that you wouldn't see an ounce of the boy I have described.  For as he grew older, there was a refining of his soul and my soul as I began to understand Paul's words: "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully, just as I am fully known." (1 Corinthians 13:12)  What was once unpredictability, aggravation, and frustration has been transformed into trustworthiness, admiration, and joy.  I only wish I knew then that the mirror was dim, trusting more and holding fast to the vision of the young man he would become.  The first one up every morning.  The coffee-maker, lunch packer, silent helper.  The tender babysitter, fun-loving big brother, diligent scholar, quiet Christ-follower.

The kindnesses he has shown me are too many to list.  

He is a servant leader, a trustworthy friend, a fierce competitor, a disciplined heart, and a most fine example of brotherhood and son.

The tears, they have turned to tears of joy. So on his 10th birthday, a party felt in order--a celebration of God's perfect plan kept in the dark and dim and made brighter and brighter still with each passing year of this life I feel privileged to share.

Remembered the custom cake, forgot to pick up candles. Ah well.

Every boy's dream: the win.

Much loved by brothers and sisters,
AM even gave him nine bucks (she kept the tenth so she could buy a Coke...not surprising)

When they say "I like how it feels to go uphill",
you indulge in the road bike.

So this is how Collin finished up his special day--with a little brother love.

Happy birthday, my beloved son.

Role Reversal {Friday Photo}

 

So this happened in the wee hours of the morning....

 

First tie ever. Lookin' good, little man. Now off to work!

 

My Reply to Ms. Hall

Today started off sort of strange. In the pseudo-world of Facebook, I'm seeing well over a dozen repostings of this blog by well-meaning mom Kim Hall on my news feed from friends all over the country.  To summarize, Ms. Hall is annoyed by a girl posting a provocative photo that her teenage sons can see on their social media.  She is both encouraging clean posts by teenagers and drawing a line in the sand for what her family will permit their sons to see.

I have a radical suggestion for her that may not go over well, even with my closest friends: get your kids off social media, period.

Trying to sneak my iPhone, are ya?

I know, it's crazy.

This is a modern world.  Am I just not "with it?"

Listen, I see lots of positive uses for social media.  But is it a realm that I want my two oldest tween children engaged in?  Is it thoroughly uplifting, wholesome, positive, and honorable?  Is there any real way to monitor what's being posted and said and videoed and shared?  No, no, and no.

And here's the thing: even though I feel they are on the mature side for their age, there are many times that my older kids act immature.  They're KIDS.  And although I haven't parented full-on teens, from what I have seen, sometimes the maturity issue slides downhill with the ramping up of hormones.  Yes, they have imperfect judgment skills and their friends also have imperfect judgment skills.  Am I really going to put them in a "digital room" where they can all expose each other to their evolving and whimsical thoughts, words, and actions?  

It's sort of like giving knives to a room full of kindergarteners.  They will seize the chance to have access to something novel and adult-like and, by golly, they will use it.  At first it might be smooth sailing and everyone following Mom's instructions, but eventually, with time, somebody will get hurt. It evolves into something that I, as the parent, never intended for it to be--a time consuming distraction that gives others influence and access to my child.

Even by policing my kids, I know I can't go back and change the damage when it occurs.  As my dad said many a time when I was learning to drive: "It's not you I'm worried about. It's the other guy."

A real live book!

When I look at my kids' lives, they are missing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING by not being on social media.  Their days are brimming from start to finish with life-building, spirit-affirming endeavors.  They are focused on schoolwork, running, swimming, chores, teams, piano, afterschool clubs, homework, and family time until they flop in their beds tired and satisfied after a full day.  

In an age of instant communication (which takes little to no skill), their lack of access to texting and social media (although they have plenty of access to technology as needed--cue the family newsletter that is desktop published each week by my eldest) is about us helping them engage others in an authentic manner and keeping them focused on what's important--knowing God, learning to be a servant-leader, and developing trusting in-person relationships with their friends.

They have complete freedom from the distraction of posts, photos, status updates, their number of likes, must-see videos, and push notifications.

Freedom to just be kids.

This seems like common sense to me.  Not to you?  It's okay--I know I'm in the minority here. I have many friends who have supplied their kids with iphones, itouches, Instagram accounts, Facebook pages, Snapchat (!), and more.  I know they are well-meaning parents trying their best, just like me.

But for now, this mama is going to keep her kids as focused as possible on the things that we deem worthy of their time--those treasured, finite years of childhood--and I'm unafraid to say that social media is out.

A Tale of Two Birthdays {Part One}

I've been thinking for a long time about getting back to the blog.  I know, 2 years is a long time to think. I'm easing into it with a (very) little writing and a bunch of photos from the past week, when we celebrated the birthdays of two boys born exactly nine years and three days apart.  This is what it's like to turn one in a big family....lots of familiar faces trying to blow out your candles, open your packages for you, and generally share the love.

  

I can spot Mamaw's giftwrapping job a mile away. He loved it.

Josh's favorite food is pizza crust--hence the Momo's XL.

Told ya.

This kid loves anything with wheels.
He was almost airborne while pushing his new dump truck fast, fast, fast.

When the sprinkles were all swept up and the masses of extra pizza put in the freezer, 

we started to plan for the next round of fun....

Two Lauras

I should count myself blessed

to live eighty-nine and one-half years

and find myself sitting
in a far-away house

holding tight to my namesake

who shares my blood, the life of my life,

the passing on of my heart,

the handing down of the things that matter to me.

That matter to God.

I should count myself blessed

to arrive here and see

my own eyes in a young girl’s face.

Touching my cheek to hers,

as close as can be,

making invisible the lines

of nine decades of simple living,
of questions and tears, 

of wondering how it all ends

and praying on bare knees

and handling the here and now while always,

always looking to the future.

But here is the future:

time gathered together,

bound tight into the only moment that matters-

The very special space of

now.

To sit with that future

held to my chest,
where two hearts beat together,

hammering the rhythm of life,
of dancing days.
Even now,
as her locks flow down

and small hands reach up

asking for love, giving love,

struggling to say:

Here,
here in the only real space
we can love each other,

are the answers to the questions,

to tears
and to prayers
and the wondering how it all ends.

For it ends with a beginning.

taming the beast

My home skills have been very slow to evolve, despite the fact that I’ve had domestic independence for twenty years.  The tasks that make my list of “High Dislike” include cooking (very unfortunate for my family), emptying the dishwasher, weeding, and cleaning grimy glass shower doors.  But there is one constant task that reaches the defcom level of "Simply Despise": the laundry.  

Now you may think this is because I have six people churning through several outfits a day, but you are wrong.  My laundry woes date back to the newlywed era when I finally had to take some responsibility to keep the two of us out of dirty wrinkly clothes so that we could both keep our professional lives intact.   I asked around a lot about this particular topic (some might call it complained constantly), and I vividly recall begging an unsuspecting older woman in my bible study to help me solve my laundry conundrum, as if I could tap into some special magical powers to get the piles processed without dominating my life.

Things devolved as kids were added to the point that I was pretty grumpy about any mention of laundry, and the kids were pretty grateful when their favorite nightgown happened to show up in their drawer.   This summer we started what I optimistically dubbed the “Laundry Sing-Along”, which involved a weekly gathering of clean laundry into one big pile – more like a mountain really, inevitably becoming a mosh pit for the kids – and singing together as we all sorted and folded each person’s clothes into enormous bins.  Success rate: moderate but grueling.

I am happy to report a complete revolution has overthrown the laundry dictatorship, and I want to tell you how (because I know you are simply dying to see more pictures of my unkempt laundry).  I devote this solution in its entirety to a woman I would aspire to clean shower doors for indefinitely out of sheer gratitude for her suggestions:  Debbie Pittman.  She is a hilarious blogger/mom of many/organizational consultant/laundry mastermind who not only wrote about her approach for her 11 kids (yup, eleven!), but spent valuable personal time emailing me back and forth on how I, too, could tame the laundry beast.

I will let you read the eloquent details here, but her main points are:

• Do a load every single day
• Put away your load every single day
• Every. Single. Day.

I know, I know, it seems so simple.  But somehow it’s taken me 20 years to get to this solution. So, just for kicks, here are my cute little baskets from the dollar store, tagged with the strategic title “Team Roberts,” along with nicknames and pictures for my non-readers.  The kids are responsible for taking the baskets and putting everything away in their proper drawers.  Even at 2, 4, 7, and 9, they are perfectly capable of taking this one for the team.  Dad was alarmed at their small size, but it’s helped me know that I’ve gotten behind if my mini-baskets are brimming.  Call it portion size for the laundry, if you will.  So take that, you beast you.

the sum of today

Walking on the beach, it is chilly and gusty but the sun is pleasant and warms us as we stroll along.  The children are animated, invigorated by the cold and brave enough to splash along the ocean’s edge.  They look for shells and chase birds as I hold the little one’s hand.  The waves frighten him just enough to stay close.  The beach is vast and desolate, we have it almost to ourselves.

 

My feet sink in the damp white sand as I reflect on the happenings of this single day, reviewing them one by one.
 
Today I ran my first half-marathon.
Today my grandmother, estranged to me, was buried.
Today my children found four starfish.
Today I found out that a relative is terminally ill.


I marvel that these sentences can be strung together in a single script, the easy statements next to the heartbreaking ones. What is the sum of each day, the sum of a life?  How can wonder and accomplishment and death and illness all hover side by side until they crash into one, a heavy white wave that hits hard and knocks the wind from me, leaving me staggering and stunned and in need of saving? 

It’s the radical extremes that hurt, the warm sun and the jolting ocean chill, the satisfaction of raising up this young family and the witnessing of another part of it dying. Just as much as I savor the joys, I want to accept the hard sentences, the facts both difficult and unavoidable. 

I walk under an unending blue sky and feel so small and humbled by how meager my ability is to understand life. 

I can only think that all of these things, the blessings and the sufferings, I must take to the cross, deliberately, carefully, unquestionably. For at the cross, the Lord faithfully performs the miracle of transformation, taking every single heartbreak and weakness that I bring and returning it to me as a gift.  At that place, where the blood and pain of God’s very son was transformed into the ultimate gift - neverending grace for the world - I find hope.


“In His death Jesus Christ gave us life.  The willingness of the Son of God to commit Himself into the hands of criminals became the greatest gift ever given - the Bread of the world, in mercy broken. Thus the worst thing that ever happened became the best thing that ever happened.  It can happen with us.  At the Cross of Jesus our crosses are changed into gifts.”  (Elisabeth Elliot, The Path of Loneliness)

I look down at the little one, still grasping my hand.  He sees his father very far off down the sandy beach, so far ahead that we seem forgotten.  I walk with confidence because I know where I am going but he feels lost and scared and cries out in a panic:  “Daddy, Daddy, wait for me, wait for me, it’s Reidy!”  


He calls the name of the father.


“It’s okay,” I lean over to say.  “You don’t need to worry.  I’m right here holding your hand.  I’ll walk with you all the way home and never let go.”


My reply hovers in the sun-soaked air, is caught up by the wind and swept towards the heavens.