Waiting for Blossoms

Watching the determination of my small children is at the same time frustrating and amazing. Were they not so hard-headed, they would never crawl, walk, put on their own clothes, feed themselves—none of that! And although their persistence in doing it “their” way drives me bonkers at least once a day….ok, at least a dozen times a day, when I see how fast they develop into independent little munchkins, it’s awe-inspiring. I just have to suck in some air, count to ten or twenty…or thirty, and patiently wait while I let them stumble along the way to figuring it out for themselves.

The pics here today are proof that my patience is needed if the people in my life are going to grow to their full potential. Amelia has been learning how to maneuver the exersaucer and get the lion in her mouth as well as turn the monkey wheel.

Wyatt has decorated his first cake—it’s not how I would’ve done it and, in fact, it looks pretty disgusting to me since I know he licked his fingers after putting on each M&M, but he was very proud of doing it himself. And although Emerson isn’t pictured, he’s having to learn to be happy without mommy holding him and walking him around all day long. He’s the star today because after naptime today, he was the proud owner of a new tooth.

The last picture of my rose bush spoke to me today as an example of what happens with patience, care, and the right environment. When we lived in Denham at Doug’s paternal grandmother’s old house, under the backyard oak tree, there was this scraggly little rose bush that looked more like blackberry brambles or weed briars since it had been continuously mowed down by former tenants (and by my husband). Despite the way it was treated, it was a tenacious plant that always managed to keep coming back. So, knowing it was an old rose of his grandmother’s, I decided to stop Doug from mowing it down and let it grow. Passing down plants through the generations to my children just seems like such a neat idea to me.

During the three years we spent there, the bush bloomed only one single blossom, but I chalked that to up to it not getting enough sun where it was. When we moved up here to Watson, I made sure to dig up part of it and plop it in the ground next to a trellis in one of the sunny parts of the yard. After one whole year, the bush was HUGE, stretching up more than double my height and encroaching several feet into the yard. But still, it didn’t bloom more than a couple blossoms. Most people would’ve dug it up and planted something else. I left it.

It is now 2 years since I planted this rose, and just last month, it started setting blossom after blossom. What I feared was just a “dud” rose bush is a fabulous, old fairy rose—the bush has dozens of unopened blossoms just beginning to pop open and grace my yard with their beauty.

Had I not been patient—two years patient—had I not provided the proper environment for its growth, had I not cared for it, I wouldn’t be blessed with this beautiful plant in my yard. When I looked at Wyatt standing by it today, I couldn’t help but think how I need to be patient, provide him, Emerson, and Amelia with the proper environment, care for them…..and wait, allowing them to mature and grow at their own rates, in their own time. I shouldn’t get worked up over growth curves and percentages and lists of “what your child should be doing” at this and that age.

They, too, will bloom when they are ready.

The Positives of Persecution

A pastor, Craig James, spoke at my church on Sunday night about his experiences preaching at three pastors’ conferences in India & Nepal this past January. He told how when someone in those two countries becomes a Christian, he does so with the knowledge that he could easily be signing his death sentence. For this reason, they do not baptize any child under the age of 18. Christians’ homes and churches are repeatedly burned. Christians are beaten, threatened, and killed each day. Christians lose their families. And yet he spoke of their amazingly great fervor for Jesus, in the face of a life of terror that I have never once experienced…a fervor much greater than my own.

One story he told was about how, due to a flat tire, his group was nine hours late for the first conference. NINE HOURS. And yet the thousand people were waiting in joyous anticipation for him and four other pastors to come preach the Word of God to them. Nine hours! And they weren’t ticked off that they had to wait! After that, the people sat for 12 hours to listen to preaching. He showed pictures of teenagers with their Bibles open as they listened and took notes, enraptured by the Word.

He also told how at one of the conferences, Hindu militants stood outside the windows of the building and yelled threats. At any moment, they could have burst through the doors and taken the life of every Christian there, but even with that threat, Bro. James said he never sensed fear from those inside. They truly believed the words of Elijah in 2 Kings 6:16: “‘Those who are with us are more than those who are with them.’” Before their third conference, the pastor’s brother was beaten and the Hindus threatened to kill him if the pastor didn’t call off the conference. When Bro. James asked if he ever considered doing just that, the pastor said, “Never. My brother would be ashamed of me.”

I so much take for granted that I can pray and read my Bible when and where I wish, that I can assemble with fellow Christians, that I can post my beliefs to my blog and not fear that I’m in the crosshairs, under attack by some cult—and because I take these things for granted, I don’t appreciate the privilege. And what I don’t appreciate, sometimes I don’t do or I sigh about doing it. How spoiled and pampered I am compared with Christians around the world. It’s so easy to take a stand when there are no repercussions.

But, when I think about it, I believe Satan uses this “ease” of being able to worship or not to worship as a pit to ensnare Americans. A take-it-or-leave-it salvation is not true salvation at all, but that’s what most Americans have. And what I have discovered about myself is that the hardest days and weeks of my life are when I am the most adamant about Christ, when the very marrow in my bones wants to shout for Jesus and accomplish something great for Him. When I am not suffering or going through a trial, that’s when my attention to Jesus fades and the minutia of life comes to the forefront, clogging my mind with meaningless, worldy, fleshly concerns like plaque in an artery.

I pray for these persecuted Christians. I cannot imagine their suffering. But, perhaps Americans should actually envy these Christians whose persecution makes them more committed to Christ than ever, makes them never go a day without their Christianity ever-present before them. Seeing how they take a stand for Jesus, how they suffer daily for the cause of Christ and how I don’t even have that chance to suffer like them in an apathetic America, how I don’t have the chance to see if I would stand when suffering in such a manner for my faith----it makes my faith seem so small, so insignificant, so untested…so weak.

I know that’s ridiculous—we all have our trials, and my faith has been tried by fire the past 4 years and has remained not only firmly grounded but has deepened and strengthened to become a wellspring of life, hope, and promise within me. But still, the trials God has given me seem so insignificant compared to these people’s trials.

I thank you God for all the blessings you have given me, and I repent of my own selfish complaining over everything that is meaningless in light of eternity. I count my trials as blessings because they keep me close to you, something which is extremely difficult in a culture that offers me so many diversions that could easily take up all my time, energy, passion, and love if I let them. I praise you for knowing that hardships are best for transforming my soul, even when I would rather the easy route.

E-nun-ci-a-tion

Wyatt's vocabulary is blossoming much faster than his enunciation is. I can't tell you how many times a day we roll with laughter as I try to understand him, asking him to repeat it just one more time, and he always does, giggling at his dumb mommy. Tonight, I was putting up laundry in the dresser as he bounced on our bed, continuously repeating this one phrase. After about ten repititions, I finally figured out he was saying, "I Triple Ripple Toucan. Squak! Squak!" Yeah! That's a sentence I would expect out of his mouth! He was pretending to be Triple Ripple Toucan, a bird in a Strawberry Shortcake book we read two days ago. Mommy needs a little more context!

This week, he learned the concept of "friend," so one morning, he started through his list of friends: "Jonah (the cat) my friend. Fish my friends. Allana my friend." I tried to extend that list by saying "Jacob is your friend." Nope. Not gonna have it. Well, I guess mommy was wrong! He also learned the concept of "I can't" this week. Ugh. That is such an awful phrase. "Go potty Wyatt." "No. I can't pee pee. I can't poo. I can't!" And then he goes in his diaper.

Imagination and make-believe is huge with Wyatt right now. And he recreates the scenes from all his books, which is adorable to watch, but he reads so many books that, well, I just can't keep up with the vocabulary list to know which words he could know and say. Tonight, he was in the tub having his monkies reinact Oh Bother, Someone's Afraid of the Dark, a Winnie the Pooh book. From this book, he's learned the words "shadow," "Heffalump," "a howling boo," and "constellation." You haven't lived until you've heard a 2-year-old say, "Hey! Look! A constellation!" This evening's theatrical show involved him having one monkey say, "It's probably a Heffalump" and the other monkey replying, "No, it's just an alarm clock." Doug and I just cracked up.

We are to blame for all these big words. We love to read and both our careers involve daily writing. So, we just naturally have extensive vocabularies that we use at home around Wyatt, mostly unintentionally. It was adorable to start with, teaching him that tomatoes have lycopene. So, now when he sees a tomato, he shrieks "Lycopene!" But until he learns to enunciate, he needs a translator. Everybody normally comes to me for the translation. And even I am finding that the more words he learns, the more it sounds like he's speaking a foreign language.

A Culture of Narcissism

In the midst of the chaos that is my life, I sometimes tune out the crying, fussing children and retreat to the far corners of my mind just to think. And lately, my brow has been more furrowed than normal because I just can't turn off my thoughts, my growing concern for people I'm reconnecting with. A couple of them, I can see how alcohol and the party scene still rules their lives even though most of them are now approaching their mid-thirties and will be 40 in the blink of an eye! And when I learn--yet again--that someone I know is getting a divorce, it just breaks my heart. But, I think I've put my finger on so many of the problems I'm seeing in others' lives. Narcissism.

America has an "All About ME," a "How Does This Benefit ME," mentality. From the "self esteem" movement being imparted to our children (such that teachers like me are discouraged from using "red ink" because it's psychologically damaging to tell a student s/he did something wrong) to the media and the government telling people they can "have it all" (and that they deserve it all), we're just a bunch of narcissists who, at our core, only care about ourselves.

This really could explain so many divorces, so many families falling apart for no real reason other than "we grew apart"--if I care about me more than I care about my spouse, I put myself first and care more about my feelings and desires than I do my spouse's feelings and desires. Yeah--that's the way to build a healthy marriage. Marriage is hard. Marriage takes work. Marriage takes sacrifice of self for the good of the family. Narcissism preaches the exact opposite of that: take care of yourself first.

I've been thinking about this a lot because when I read someone's blog the other day, his entry addressed the desire to never grow up, to always remain young at heart. Sounds good, right? I'm not so sure anymore. Being young at heart was equated with acting irresponsibly and foolishly because it was "fun", embarrassing oneself by one's actions, and making alcohol a big part of one's life, all of which seem to have contributed to his losing his wife.

And it started me wondering if at the very heart of this desire to not "grow up" is merely a tendency towards narcissism. Children and youth are nothing more than little narcissists--I live with three of them, so I should be an authority on this subject. It's all about them, all the time: what makes them happy, what they want to do, what they want to "have", etc. Who cares about anybody else. So, in one way, a desire to "stay young" means I want the ability to do what I want, when I want to do it; I want to live in the moment, have fun, and not have to worry about "real life" or how my actions affect others. I want to look how I did when I was young and feel how I did when I was young. I, I, I. Narcissism.

I'm not saying we shouldn't take care of ourselves. That would just be stupid. But I do wonder how many families and lives would be healed if we all put others' needs before our own petty desires. I'll admit that it's much easier to not care about others. It's so easy to live in my own little world and not get involved with anyone else. It takes so much time and energy to care. The more you're involved with others, the more you see and feel their pain, the more you agonize over the poor choices they have made and are still making, the more you just want to shake some of them and say, "Wake up! Fight for your marriage! Don't just let it go gently into that good night!"

The more Jesus makes my heart like His, the more my heart swells with sorrow for so many people. At times, it's overwhelming, almost suffocating. But sorrow isn't enough. It just leaves me knowing I'm personally not making enough difference in this world. I can give every excuse in the book, but on judgment day, they will count for nothing. Action is required. Self sacrifice. Getting involved. Taking a stand against this narcissism.

Self Image

My entire life, I have struggled with self image. I remember my first boyfriend my senior year of high school telling me I was beautiful--that is never something that had crossed my mind before (and I seriously mean never) . Me? No. Apparently, I'm not alone--SIRC.org reports that 80% of women are unhappy with what they see in the mirror. EIGHTY percent? And what's really scary is that "how children view themselves is strongly influenced by parental body image, and often this is set by the age of six" (BodyImageHealth.org).

That terrifies me more than anything--I don't want Wyatt, Amelia, or Emerson to have this hang-up. I want them to really believe that beauty is not determined by a number on a scale or on a clothing label. But, I worry that no matter what I say, my words will get lost in the hurricane of mean children calling them "fat" or the media's vision of beauty that swirls around us constantly, even if we don't watch TV.

This picture is an article from Us Weekly from December of 2008--they thought I'd subscribe if they sent me magazines--nope, just made me more convinced I didn't want that in my house! The woman on the left is beautiful! But, after they photoshop her, that version of beauty is unattainable! In fact, SIRC.org states, "The current media ideal for women is achievable by less than 5% of the female population – and that's just in terms of weight and size. If you want the ideal shape, face etc., it's probably more like 1%."

So, what, then, is my problem!?!?! What do women have to do to be happy with the way they look? Hypnosis, maybe? I mean, I don't want to be a vain "I look good and I know it" type person, but I would like to be able to look at a picture of myself and not want to tear it to shreds. I believe I am "fearfully and wonderfully" made--but "beautifully" (to someone besides God and my husband) just doesn't fit most days.

I just wish I knew how to look at myself with God's standard of beauty versus the world's standard of beauty that has been imprinted on my brain for 32 years. My husband told me just this week, "I wish you could see my wife." I'm working on it--if not for my sake, than for my children's.

Three's A Crowd

Scene One: I'm walking into church tonight with my purse and the diaper bag flung over my left shoulder, Amelia's carseat weighing down my left arm, Emerson's carseat in my right hand, and Wyatt hanging on to Emerson. If I hired some deep-voiced man to narrate my life, he would have said something like, "It was the triple threat--rain, moving cars, and the thought that she might at any second drop some of the 50 pounds she was carrying if her toddler didn't stop pulling down so hard on the carseat!"

As I get into the building, Alana (age 3 maybe?) meets us at the door as she screams, "Wyatt's here!" Then, she looks at me, struggling to get everyone inside, and says, "What's that?" I reply, "Babies." "Why?" I'm glistening by now (yes, Southern girls "glisten", not "sweat")--it's an hour-long marathon to get everyone ready to go to church, driven to church, and carted into church, so the best I could come up with was, "Because I couldn't leave them at home." Not good enough: "Why?" "Does your mama leave you at home alone?" "Noooooooo."

So, I start to lug the kids to the back, and she reaches over and plants a kiss on Wyatt. I was surprised, but I thought it was precious. He and Alana have been pals since they were the only two in the nursery together. She's maybe 6 months older than him, so she has spent most of the last year thinking of him as a baby, but since his verbal skills have started taking off, they're playing together more as equals. Then, when I was driving home, I realized, Wyatt got his first kiss from a G-I-R-L tonight! How am I supposed to feel about that? Am I supposed to go, "No!!! Not my baby! Tell mommy you love her, Wyatt. Give mommy a kiss." Or am I supposed to start having thoughts of, "Well, she comes from a Christian family, so if they ended up married, that would be fine." I choose neither--it was just sweet. And I do pray he finds a good Christian girl to marry.....when he's much, much older.

Scene 2: This is NOT a flattering picture of me at all, but it gives you a good picture of my real life, not the life of those relaxed-looking people in the pretty Easter picture from yesterday. It's evening--my hair is frazzled from glistening and working outside in the wind during the afternoon, there's a cloth diaper on my shoulder because I just fed babies, and I probably smell like spit up, too. Wyatt has lost his pants after one too many trips to the potty. The babies have had enough playing by themselves, so I have to hold both of them while I read Wyatt a book because what else are you supposed to do when you're stuck inside but READ? In the upper left corner sits Kira (cat)--she's waiting for them all to go to bed so she can come to get a little lap cuddle time from me. To my left, you can see my ever-present "To Do" list. And to the left of that is my laptop, which is open because I squeeze in some work from my paying job throughout the day. That picture makes me tired just looking at it.

Family Pictures

When we went to take our first family Christmas photo in Nov. 07, I had done bath duty the night before (something I never did because it was Doug's job) and had put the baby oil in Wyatt's hair after the shampoo. As I brushed his hair in the car the next morning while Doug drove, only then did I realize my mistake, so we had to swing into my brother's house, wash Wyatt's hair to get the oil out, blow-dry it, and then head out again. Chaos. This past Christmas, my mom got a stomach virus on the morning we were to take the babies and Wyatt to get their Santa picture taken; she sent daddy in her place. Only after the picture was taken did I realize he had put Amelia's dress on backwards and left her hair ribbon at home.

So, I decided this Easter's pictures would not repeat any of those mistakes. Yesterday, I diligently ironed all our outfits so everything would be ready. All the shoes and baby outfits were in the van, the hairbrush was packed, and Wyatt's treats were stuffed aplenty in my purse--I was prepared. Then, last night, Amelia cried every 30 minutes from 3:30 until I got her up at 7:30, so we were not well rested. As my bleary-eyed self went to put on Wyatt's outfit, I discovered that even though I tried it on him about a month ago, in that short period of time, he's had a huge growth spurt so that now the suspenders were too short. I thought he was looking taller, but honestly! The result: he couldn't wear the outfit even if I moved the buttons, so I had to call my mom and have her iron and bring over my brother's little white suit from when he was 2.

At the studio, as soon as we sat down for the first picture, Emerson started fussing, bucking, and crying. I kinda expected that, so I would have been ok with crying babies in the photos. But the photographers had jingle bells, and as long as they were ringing, Emerson would quit crying. My mom also took turns calming down Emerson and handing him back to Doug for more pics. Without her, I would not have even attempted the pictures, and apparently, I'm not alone in this thought--every woman in there with a baby had her mom with her. In the end, we got some surprisingly good shots where nobody is crying and everybody's eyes are open. Sure, the babies have the deer-in-headlights looks, but what do you expect from 5-month-olds who don't get flashing lights in their face every day?

We almost had a disaster when they pulled down the spring background--it's like unrolling a super-long scroll that's hung from the ceiling and then we sit on part of the scroll to take the picture. The "floor" of the background looked like brick, and a brick path wound toward the back where it appeared there was a pond. Pretty realistic 3-D image. Too realistic. Wyatt didn't see them pull the screen down, and when he came in, he looked at it and started "walking the path" towards the back. We caught him just as he was stepping on the background part that wasn't flat on the floor. I can just envision him ripping it down.

Our outing ended with lunch at La Madeleine's with Aunt Liza. REAL food, not Chick-fil-A kids' meals, which is our normal fare! Wyatt thought it was grand to sit outside to eat his soup, Liza's chicken, and jelly-bread. Then, the sparrows arrived--they must've seen Wyatt and knew he'd be an easy target since he requests to "feed duck bread" weekly. And sure enough, Wyatt threw one of Liza's croutons to the bird, which promptly took it and flew off. But, in the end, his own desires (versus the birds' hunger) won out, and he ate the rest of the croutons himself.

Thankfully, we don't have to do pictures again until November. I'm exhausted.