On losing our “forever family” pet

Posted on July 15, 2015 by middleofthemadness

“Mom, can Roxy sleep with me tonight?” the six-year-old implored as he climbed into bed. “Honey, Roxy is dead,” I gently reminded him. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought about the afternoon. The wag of the tail as she greeted our visitors. Her disappearance as we talked. The phone call from my sister relaying the message from a sweet man who had found her….and stayed with her so she wouldn’t be alone until we got there. But she was already gone…

…and I was alone. In fact, my whole family was around me, but I was alone as I called the boys together outside and told them she had died. I was alone as I gathered up her food dishes and leftover treats and emptied them into the trash can.

I was alone as I sat on my bed in the quiet of the night, eyes stinging from the tears. I was alone.

Single mom.

Three boys.

No little dog.

Those dark moments are when the world crashes and the weight feels unbearable. When sadness drapes your heart. When guilt condemns you for not having kept her inside, for not keeping a member of your family safe, for failing to be the protector. When you can’t yet see the light even though you know it’s there and will return.

Super Tall Guy wanted to keep the collar “in our house.”

We have now made it past twenty-four hours. Friends have expressed condolences and texted kind thoughts. “How are the boys doing?” is a recurring question.

The Little Guy in his concrete stage of thinking spent the day telling everyone he met, “Our dog died. Rund over by a car. She didn’t look both ways.”

Super Tall Guy woke this morning and said, “I cried for Roxy while I slept last night. We need another little dog that looks like Roxy and we’ll name her Roxy until we get our big dog.” Emotions generally are not part of his vocabulary (despite recently watching “Inside Out”) but he misses the morning hugs.

Mr. Ornery lay on his bed again tonight and said, “I’m sad Roxy died. Will she come back alive? Will we see her again? Is she alive in Heaven?” and moved on to “When are we going to Kennywood again? I’m only going to ride that circle snow thing ride the whole day.”

Seems to me that they cope better than I. That they don’t know yet the finality of death. That they don’t worry about whether I could have prevented it. Gave Mr. Ornery a hug today and said, “I cried last night when Roxy died.” He paused. “I would cry if you died.” Fair enough.

I cry. I cried tonight when I peeked into his bedroom as is my nightly habit and miss seeing the white furball cradling his head or sleeping along his back. I miss the dog more than I thought I would. Turns out, I must have actually loved the sometimes trouble but genuinely sweet little girl.

It is a shift in our household, yet we grieve and learn and grow. And I am learning how to handle my own grief as I walk my sons through their first pet loss (Lightning McQueen the beta fish did not have the same effect). Time heals, they say. I wait for time.

Beware the grief

It calls upon the demons

It beckons the darkness

It smothers the flame.

Beware the grief

It tarnishes the beauty

It robs the love

It spoils the soul.

Beware the grief

It heeds no boundaries

It follows no clock

It finds its own path.

Rise up, oh strong one.

Lean in to others

Seek comfort

Accept the balm.

Rise up, oh strong one,

Rest the soul

Cry the tears

Let healing begin.

Rise up, oh strong one,

The heaviness shifts

The dark shall disperse

The light shall shine.

Hold on to joy.

Hold on to memories

And keep the gift alive.

10 Things you do Reflexively after Having Kids!

Posted on May 25, 2015 by middleofthemadness

Maintain at least one child-length distance from the galloping child in front of you as you go down stairs. It is nearly impossible to predict the sudden stop three steps from the bottom to pick up a crumb, fix a twisted sock, or oh wait! To jump off the step! Of course he was going to jump. (step 3, step 4, step 5….Quit it!!)
Tense every muscle in your body to prepare for impact as a flailing child comes hurtling towards you at full speed. The possible damage is entirely unpredictable and best to assume defensive posture with wide stance and arms reflexively protecting sensitive body parts.
Pick up the discarded bandaid, the teeny tiny Lego hand, the empty juice cup, the toy blockade, the shrugged-off blankie as you walk by, all the while promising yourself that “next time” you will most certainly and definitely require the kid to do this menial clean-up. After all, it really is such an important part of their early learning. Next time.
Avert one’s head at the slightest sound of air intake made by any child under age 5 (or even age 10 for that matter). You knew coming into this parenting assignment that you were going to get puked on, peed on, pooped on, but really….a full-force cough spewing droplets right into your own face? Just not right.
Kiss a boo-boo. Any boo-boo. Knees. Toes. Fingers. Bellies. Foreheads. Even if it’s not your own child, because we all know the golden kiss heals all boo-boos (or at least temporarily stops the screech!).
Nod and mumble “Uh, hmmm” repetitively to signal that you are paying “close” attention to the lengthy detailed story emitting from a child’s mouth even though you have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about (including sonorous descriptions read from Pokemon card collections). Clarifying questions are sometimes needed if you’ve become completely distracted, but notice a word or phrase indicating that you might actually need to know a bit of this information.
Inspect all toilet seats as you approach. There really is no need for the cold wet discomfort of knowing you forgot this time. They are boys, after all.
Run your fingers through a kid’s hair as they cuddle up against you. The soft curls. The fine strands. There’s nothing quite like it as you send messages of love through their body without saying a word.
Jump sideways and backwards at the sight of a falling sippy cup. There is no greater pain than 8 ounces of milk inside a plastic projectile colliding with one’s big toe…unless, of course, you consider unexpectedly stepping on a Lego. It’s a nightmarish toss-up.
Catch your kid’s eye in the rear-view mirror or before the school play or in the midst of a soccer game and flash them the “I-love-you” signal, letting the warm flush of love course through you as they grin back reception of your message.

Parenting is subtle. Day in and day out you usually don’t notice the patterns and reflexes that you’ve developed. Some are protective. Some are loving. All are because you’re inextricably tied to this delightful little being.

Savor the craziness. It doesn’t last forever.

“Legally Free For Adoption”

Posted on April 19, 2015 by middleofthemadness

Her name is Jaleah. Her video on the PA Statewide Adoption and Permanency Network Facebook post caught my eye last week. I stared at her profile late into the night. She’s 15 years old, a beautiful girl, and is “legally free for adoption!” With the exclamation point! The phrase bothers me. It’s not like she’s a dog in a shelter (though she could very well be living in a shelter).

Credit: http://www.rileysplace.org

She’s a girl in the process of becoming a woman. She’s a dreamer envisioning her future. She’s a child craving a family, wishing for someone to sit in the audience to clap and scream her name as she bounces through her cheerleading routine. She’s a fragile, vulnerable teen looking for a family.

I’ve heard teens are hard. I’ve heard that teen girls can have so much “attitude” as they push and strain and yearn for independence. I’ve joked that I’m happy to have boys so that I won’t go through the teen girl “drama” phase.

And yet, it seems to me that this is such a crucial time in a child’s life. As they push and shove and strive for independence, they still cling to the comfort of knowing they are loved and that someone will always be there for them….no matter what they do.

But what about Jaleah?

Her profile weighed upon my heart this week. Jaleah and all the teens who are waiting for a family (almost 21,000 teens across the states in 2013). Maybe they pushed too far for independence and crossed the line they didn’t intend to and find themselves without that family they thought would always be there for them. Maybe they made a bad choice which led to another and then to another and before they knew it they were in over their heads and yet fighting the consequences so hard they couldn’t see the shovel digging deeper. Maybe it had nothing to do with them and their family imploded or fractured and they found themselves drifting in the hull of the “system” coasting further and further from the world they once knew.

Do you know that if no one steps up and says “I will” in front of a judge in a courtroom and becomes her Forever Family, Jaleah will never have someone cheering her along? She will stop her gymnastics and cheer activities without someone to drop her off and pick her up. She will walk onto the stage to receive her diploma and throw her mortar board into the air with lackluster enthusiasm. She will struggle with college applications and give up when it’s becomes daunting. She will walk down an aisle in white without a man in black beside her to bless her new union. She will welcome a new baby into the world and dream of what it would be like to have a beaming grandmother cradle her newborn. She will sit with her loneliness and think of what might have been. “Aging Out” of the foster care system without a home is too costly when these children have lower rates of high school graduation, higher rates of homelessness and unemployment, and greater engagement in the judicial system.

Without a family, Jaleah might wilt. Or she might beat the odds and chart a completely different course.

But it just seems that life would be a little bit nicer if she had a family.

She wouldn’t mind having younger siblings (or a dog) it says in her profile. She’d like to continue her activities, it says. She’s going to have tough days like everyone else. I read the profile over and over and I sit. I have a set of three who might enjoy a big sister. But my house is so full. My heart is so stretched. My hands are so laden. My schedule is so packed. My boys are so demanding. What am I to do?

What I can do is pray for a family for Jaleah. And what I can do is continue to tell everyone I meet about the children who are waiting. (Click here!)

The children who are “legally free.” The children who desperately want something that seems so simple. Their commitment and parenting needs would be costly, but their gratefulness would be huge.

They need someone who loves.

Think about it.

Little boys do and will grow up

Posted on October 19, 2014 by middleofthemadness

Once upon a time, there was a little boy. He was a mighty cute little boy. He had wispy blond hair and striking blue eyes. His face danced when he smiled. His lips curled into a perfect little “o” and he giggled the most delightful giggle. Oh, how he was loved by everyone who walked by and tickled his belly or stroked his hair.

But none could love him more than his mother. Yet with the fiercest of love, she also was the most generous with love – for she shared her little precious boy with me. He was four days old when we met and it’s been twenty-eight years of non-stop love. I babysat as often as I could. I used to wait at the entrance of the church for the family to arrive and I would snatch up that little bundle and carry him around on my hip as if he were my own. We were so attached, he and I. When he fell down and scraped up his knee, he’d walk past his mom and come to me kiss away the “boo-boo.” He’d cry when I left and quiet when I approached. We were so bonded, he and I.

When I left for college, I returned for his birthday parties. I spent the summers with him. I went to Disney with the family as his friend. As he entered high school, his mom would call me and say “He’s having a hard day, can you call him?” and I did. As he moved on to college and to his time in the service, we continued to talk and share and connect. When he took classes in the city, he would spend the night each week in our “toy room” and wrestle the boys in the morning before we all left on our separate ways for the day.

Any “normal” mother would have been threatened by this relationship, worried that her son had no love for her. But R.S. was no “normal” woman – she was amazing. She loved with abandon and taught her children to love as eagerly. I once asked her if she was concerned or “didn’t like” how close her son and I were in his early years. Her response was simple and profound – “the more people who love my son, and the more people he knows love him, the better he will be.”

And she was right. He did turn out to be fantastic. Oh, it was not easy. He had an abundance of stubbornness and strong-will. He did not care to sleep through the night for years. He had enough curiosity to rack up hundreds of dollars in damage. He had enough passion to punch a hole in the wall. He had enough courage to serve his country. He had enough self-confidence to ask the girl of his dreams to marry him.

And yesterday he walked down the aisle with his beautiful wife and his face smiled and his eyes danced. In our firm embrace at the end of the pew, I told him how happy I was for him and how proud I was of him. I turned to walk out of the church with tears in my eyes – thinking, “there goes my little boy all grown up,” at the same moment that I turned to look behind me and …. “and there are my own little boys.”

There come along three stubborn, strong-willed, curious, active, and loving boys. There come three bundles of joy who have more energy in a millisecond than I have all day. There come three determined souls pushing against all the limits placed upon them, eager to engage the world, conquer the world, master their universe. There come three eager, yet anxious, boys calling out for reminders that they are loved – hugs and cuddles, kisses and “lovings.”

And I am reminded that it is my job to continue to seek out and build relationships with others who will be able to come alongside my sons. Who will love them. Who will model all of life redeemed for them. Who will cheer at their games and pick them up when they cry. Who will tell them that they are AWESOME and will correct them when they stray. For children need to know that there are at least five adults outside their family who love them so much, such that as life tosses them around, they can keep finding their feet again. I want that for my boys. There may not be too many “Nonni’s” in the world like I was, but there will be lots of love.

For one day, I will watch them take the hand of a beautiful lady and beam with joy as they walk through a gentle cloud of bubbles. And I will thank all who helped me shape the man. For little boys will grow up.

Same Day Surgery

Posted on August 5, 2014 by middleofthemadness

Scanning the surgical waiting room, I know that every parent here has just done the same heart-wrenching thing I did….turned and walked away from one of the most precious things in their life….their child strapped to a narrow Operating Room bed.

I had my hand on his arm as his eyes closed from the “magic air” flowing through the mask on his face. “Sometimes they do just drift off so quietly like that,” the anesthesiologist offers. “Now kiss his hand good-bye.” “No wait!” I wanted to scream ….from that tiny voice in the back of your heart that always wants to scream and warn “this may be the very last time you see your child. This may be the image forever burned into your soul. This could be it. Cherish the moment.” But the moment is fast. When you need just a few more seconds, they usher you out of the cold, efficient, sterile room as the surgeon, nurses and techs stand poised ready to spring into action – willing you to leave their domain.

The tech makes pleasant conversation as you join her to “follow the green squares on the floor” that lead to the waiting room. Her rattling tries to push your fears aside. You walk alongside, numb to her words. You check in with the waiting room attendant but can’t remember her instructions; you’re too busy memorizing your child’s “number” so you can jump up every few minutes to check the “board.” It doesn’t change. “11788: OR in.” You wait. “11788: OR in.” Wait.

A couple sits side by side, absorbed in their respective iPads. A pinkified two-year old skips circles around the man playing solitaire and another couple hiding in their magazines. Parents pop up and down to check the board. Phone calls beckon families back to the recovery rooms. Surgeons gather families to talk in the “consult” rooms. A constant hum, constant motion, constant and welcome distracting dance of people’s lives. I put my book down. I can’t read anyway. I wait.

On this day, there’s no greater joy than in seeing your baby’s face again – even if he is 4-foot-7 and 87 pounds. He’s still my baby. But the alligator tears that spill from his eyes at the sight of me pierce my heart. His bravado, his cool, his composure melts at my touch, at the warmth of my arms around him, and the gentle kiss. This is when the tongue really hurts and the tears flow. I search briefly for a tissue, but wipe the wetness away with his blanket. I ache to soothe him, but my words and touch are of little comfort. Within minutes, another bit of medication through the IV site sends him back into sleep. My baby snores. I stroke his face.

Knowing that he’s safe again, I sit back and cuddle into the warmed blanket offered by the gentle nurse. I pause to be thankful that my touches of the “health care system” have all fallen within “the normal kid stuff” – the tonsils, the stitches, the corneal abrasion, rashes, sprains. I can cope with this normal. Yet my heart aches for the families who sit in the waiting room for the ninth or tenth time for their child. For the parents who never hear the surgeons say, “It was all routine. No problems. He’ll be just fine.” For the ones who walk away from their “sleeping” child on that cold table and never hold them again.

There are deep dark fears in loving and parenting. There are deep dark moments that remind us to cherish each breath and each smile and even each time the boys hit each other. As my heart swirls and thunders and catches itself today, I look upon my baby and lift up a prayer for him….and for all the other families.

Let the images be burned into my soul forever.

I shall cherish the love.

Wasn’t expecting to be so verklempt this weekend

Posted on August 3, 2014 by middleofthemadness

Every few weeks, the moment that Super Tall Guy stumbles into my room and climbs into my bed coincides with me getting into bed myself. I would sit and read and spend a few minutes counting the length of the pauses in his breathing. It never reached my doctor definition of “scary”….but the fact that he would just stop breathing never sat right with me.

So at the end of June, we spent the night at the sleep center with him hooked up to a tangle of wires and enough “goo” in his hair to send us for a buzz haircut the week after. He was a good sport about it and proclaimed it as “fun.” I was exhausted for days after.

Super Tall Guy is a mouth-breather. He drooled until he was 4 and a half (who does that?). And, he has mild to moderate Obstructive Sleep Apnea.

And, he’s scheduled to have his tonsils out in two days.

And so – I’m an emotional wreck. Because I’m a mom and I’m worried. Because I’m a doctor and I can tell you all the things that can and do go wrong. Because I’m a human and I’m good at getting stressed about the new and the foreign.

So I came into the weekend with this nagging in the back of my heart. After two nights of little sleep in preparation for a community yard sale, I spent ten hours yesterday encouraging deal-finders to spend more for the “kids at the crisis nursery.” Just as the sale was wrapping up, I took Super Tall Guy down to the church that had hosted his summer day camp. He was getting ready for his very first night away from me. He didn’t seem concerned at all. Huh. Not like his mom

I came back to the church for the 6 o’clock service to see Super Tall Guy sing and sign four songs at the start of the service….and I fell apart. Tears streamed down my face. They sang

“Savior, He can move the mountains

My God is mighty to save; He is mighty to save”

I was a wreck.

I wiped the tears. There in the front row was my little boy – the one that God had saved and was saving. The one that was born to a woman caught in the cycle of homelessness, prostitution and drugs. The one that was born so tiny and is growing so big. God saved him from the life that he was born into and moved him to a new life.

Anyone who knows Super Tall Guy knows this was a momentous weekend. He was chosen to be part of the kids’ choir and he accepted. He was invited to spend the night at the church and he did (AND he stayed dry ALL night!!). He sang and signed in front of 5 different groups of worshippers and he hates to be in front of people!! He sat almost perfectly still (except for a bit of fiddling and nose booger-fishing) during five sessions of communion before singing again and begging me each time to “save me” some grape juice. He pulled it all together and kept it all together.

And then he fell asleep in the car….right after I asked him if I could drive past Gammie’s house and just keep driving for a bit so that he could sleep. He nodded.

He was emotionally and physically tired.

As was I.

I watched my baby boy grow up a little this weekend. I watched him do things I never thought he ever would this weekend.

It’s been a long journey.

There have been some pretty high mountains

And some pretty low valleys.

There have been battles

And rules drawn

And struggles

That have challenged us and caused heartaches and pain.

And yet, there are these huge moments of joy

There are these glimpses of grace

There are reasons for great pride

Those moments hold me

They remind me

They assure me that the long hours

And the physical and the emotional weariness of parenting

It’s all worth it

In the moments.

And so I wept in thankfulness that he was saved and that he came to me

And I wept in nervousness about this week and what the surgery holds.

And I wept in joy.

Finally writing Part 2: The Arrival of Mr. Ornery

Posted on April 6, 2014 by middleofthemadness

There are three things that I remember about the arrival of Mr. Ornery (well, four if you include the fact that he wasn’t “ornery” from the beginning….it’s just that he’s earned the name from learning over time that he’s so stinkin’ cute that he tries to get away with things!).

1. You should never ask someone, “Are you sitting down?” unless you’re a bus driver about to take off and you genuinely want to make sure your passengers are safe. But if you’re my sister and you’re calling my cell phone fifteen minutes before the start of my second-ever board meeting at my new job, I start panicking that something has happened to one of the two-year-olds at daycare! (At least our day care center has the courtesy to call and say, “Hi, this is KinderCare and the boys are fine. Now, could you please turn in that health physical form before our inspection next week!!)

My sister, however, asks, “Are you sitting down?” “Um, should I?” “Well, Super Tall Guy has a brother.” Then she paused. And it took a while….but then I got it! Oh, my goodness, a new baby was coming into the house!

2. Which leads me to “thing” number two about his arrival – I was about to go in to a 4-hour-long board meeting (oh, I’m sorry, a “strategic planning session”), and, I was just four months into the job and really worried about my role and what I was supposed to be doing. So when my sister said that they wanted us to pick up the baby in 15 minutes, I said that she should go (she was working from home at the time) and I’d get home as soon as I could. I have regretted that decision for 5 years now. I’m not entirely sure why….but it sort of feels like I missed his “birth.” I know that’s not the case, but I missed being “there” the very moment he joined our family and I mourn that in a way. And particularly because I have since figured out that my boss would have been fine with me taking off to go pick up my newest son….had we known all this looking back. I know it’s not that big of a deal in the scheme of things, but isn’t it funny what events really stand out to each of us in terms of wishing we had been present at that moment.

2.5 (I have trouble counting, so I like to sneak in numbers in my listings). Let me go back to that, “when do they want us to pick him up?” “In fifteen minutes, but I asked for an additional fifteen minutes to find the infant car seat.” Let’s think about this. The baby has been in the hospital for 2 full days. The mother is in the county jail (where children do NOT go), so we all know that the baby is not going home with her. And we know that the baby is going to foster care. And we know that the CYF agency is going to call the foster parents who have the sibling first in an attempt to keep siblings together. So, knowing all these facts….they still want to call FIFTEEN minutes before they would like this little tiny baby out of the hospital!?!? This is why I sometimes say that most people have around eight months to think about the fact that their family is about to expand….we have fifteen minutes!

3. The third thing that I remember about Mr. Ornery is walking into the house later that Friday afternoon and seeing Kathy holding him while sitting on the couch. I sat down beside her and she handed him over – my second son. A beautiful tiny little bundle with soft fine hair and a sweet sweet smell, and do you know the first thing I said to Kathy? “You put THAT outfit on him to bring him home??!?” Isn’t it funny – 5 years later, you could put all our newborn baby clothes of five boys in a pile and I could pick out that outfit. I see it in my mind still. Guess I didn’t like it much!.

Okay, one more thing that I remember about Mr. Ornery’s arrival. Kathy told me all the “facts” about the newborn….I vaguely remember that he was a little over 8 pounds (much heavier than the 6 pounds 4 oz of Super Tall Guy who rapidly grew into his enormous hands and feet). What stuck in my head, though, was that he was “white.” That made sense. He was fair and we knew the birth mother is white. A few days later, however, I took him in to the pediatrician’s for his first check-up. I told her the story of his arrival while she examined him. I was telling her how brown Super Tall is and that his brother is white….when she said, “Actually, I don’t think he is.” And that’s the moment I learned how to identify races in newborns (ahem, shading of the “privates”….if you’d like to know. So when they said the same thing when we picked up The Little Guy a couple years later, I just thought in my head, “I’ll see….wait till I get him home and undress him a little”). Of course, the skin coloring of the boys doesn’t matter to me at all. Their ethnicity doesn’t matter to me at all. The fact that they are beautiful and healthy boys… the fact that the brothers are growing up together….the fact that they are my sons…..that’s what matters to me. That’s what matters.

Glimpses of joy

Posted on December 15, 2013 by middleofthemadness

As you might imagine, I “generally” try to only tell my boys the truth (for example, there is no Santa in our house, though Super Tall Guy still wants to believe in the Leprechaun due to the damage in his pre-k classroom thanks to a creative teacher). However, when I tuck them into bed and try to creep out of the room and they say, “stay.” I reply, “I’ll come back in 5 minutes.” They counter, “one minute.” “Okay, one minute,” I’ll say….and nine out of ten times I do not come back and probably 99% of the time certainly don’t make it back within a minute. The other night, though, I tucked in Mr. Ornery, walked some dirty clothes downstairs and then came back up to “check on” the little guy. I bent over to his small form tucked into a sleeping bag and kissed his forehead.

A slow smile spread across his face as he acknowledged the warmth of my lips. And I thought – “joy” – that was it.

It could have been happiness, but I’m going to argue for joy. That at that very moment, Mr. Ornery knew of my indescribable intense love for him and he was filled with joy. (Or maybe he realized that his mother actually stuck to her word this time and that made him happy!)

These boys bring me joy. They bring me stuffy noses and colds. They bring me sleepy eyes and a tired body. They bring me incredible frustration and a wildly sharp temper. They bring me poopy diapers and Legos underfoot. They bring me a range of emotions that I had no idea existed. And they bring me joy.

I have great joy in adopting The Little Guy this year and making him a permanent part of this wild family of boys. I see joy in the rare and yet incredibly touching ways in which the boys show each other brief moments of tender love. I feel tremendous joy when the Little Guy whispers “I love you, Mommy” in the middle of the night when I tuck him in for the umpteenth time….melts my heart and makes me just a little less frustrated to have been called out of bed again and again.

And I know of just so much joy as we trim the Christmas tree, unwrapping porcelain ornaments of the boys over the years and we smile at “how cute” they were and how much The Little Guy looks just like Super Tall Guy when he was little.

We are not always a happy family….but we sure have many moments of “intense and ecstatic” joy.

When you don’t really want to cuddle with one…

Posted on November 3, 2013 by middleofthemadness

Strangely, I’ve continued to meditate this week on the theme of a couple weeks ago of “I really would like some space around my own body.” I feel like I need one of those sumo-wrestler suits (except that I hear they are tremendously smelly inside from multi-person use!).

Here’s the thing. I love my three boys. And I’m pretty sure I love them equally, it’s just that I love them differently. I love the gentle spirit and heart within Super Tall Guy, even though it’s often masked by his excessive body movements. I love the quirkiness of Mr. Ornery and the fact that he absolutely positively must have chocolate milk every morning and evening – and I MUST sit beside him while he gulps it down in under 2 minutes. And I love the spirit of the Little Guy who gets involved in anything that happens, forgetting that he’s only 28 pounds and likely to be squashed easily by any of the other 4 bouncing-ball boys!!

But I’m going to be honest – I actually enjoy draping my arm around Mr. Ornery for his 2 minutes of milk inhalation, yet I cringe whenever the Little Guy comes flying towards me. It’s quite a strange phenomenon, but our bodies just don’t seem to mesh at all. Could it be that he is all pointy and boney and I am all pointy and boney….and our points and bones keep jabbing each other? Or maybe it’s the unexpected fling of an arm that catches me across the bridge of the nose leaving an imprint from my glasses rims. Or it could be that as he clambers up my leg, his fingernails dig in like a cat scampering up drapes. He does give the best hugs and often walks up to me and says, “Mommy, I need a hug,” in a most darling and adorable voice. But more often than I would have thought, I’m peeling him off me saying “ow.”

It’s not easy to admit this. It feels somehow that I’m a mean mommy and being negative about one of my boys, that maybe I don’t love the Little Guy as much. But I don’t think so. I think I’ve had to admit it to myself that everyone comes in different shapes and sizes and sometimes those shapes and sizes don’t fall into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes, those shapes and sizes bump into each other and scratch and bruise. I want to acknowledge this so that I don’t see our clash as an annoyance, but as a difference. To allow myself the freedom to truly know my boys in their uniqueness and in the way that we come together as a family. To allow myself to love each of them in our own special way and to celebrate the different kinds of love. This is not to say that I avoid being physical and loving to the Little Guy, it’s just that I see the need to accept that this is not our perfect “language of love” and that we need to develop in other areas. And that’s okay. Because sometimes in the middle of the night I hear him talk in his sleep….and a dreamy voice rings through the hall saying, “I wuv you, Mommy,” and I call back, “I love you, buddy” (even though he probably doesn’t hear me in his sleep).

For I love my three boys.

Love is patient, love is kind. It…

Posted on July 21, 2013 by middleofthemadness

4Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

8Love never fails.

The other day I was playing “catch” with Noah – which essentially means that I try my very best to throw a baseball directly into his half-open stiff baseball glove despite him occasionally jumping out of the way when he judges that the ball could possibly touch him. Throw after throw, I reminded myself that “this” is what it means to be patient…and suddenly the 1^st Corinthian’s verse (13:4-8) popped into my head. And I began to wonder why it is used in almost every wedding ceremony I know to describe the love of two adults….

…..when clearly it was written as encouragement for parents.

Love is patient – and that’s not just in playing catch, it’s in repeating 3 times “do not spill the water, Do not spill the water, DO NOT spill the water…..ahhhh! You spilled the water!” Right. Big breath. Patience.

Love is kind – it is going out of your way to do things for your kids. For example, we’ll just say that maybe the chocolate flavoring was empty and the other night I ran to Target to get some chocolate for Noah’s morning cup of milk….just because I know how much he likes it. Wow – that was nice of me! (boast)

It does not envy – okay, let’s be honest, sometimes it does envy the single friends who go home and sit on the couch, have a quiet dinner, watch some TV and sleep in late on a Saturday morning….

It does not boast. It is not proud. – I certainly don’t boast (too often) about my “love” for my boys – but I love to “boast” about my boys! There’s something so delightful in being proud of your children. When they take their first step. Pedal on two wheels instead of four. Ride a roller coaster solo for the first time. Jump off the diving board. The heart flutters and the mouth wants to scream “that’s my boy” – and you know that usually the only one who understands the depth of this pride is another parent (or grandma!).

This though – this is a hard one. “It is not easily angered.” This one can be a struggle for me. We had a lovely day at Idlewild Park today – just perfect – and I knew we should probably have left around 4pm for the hour drive home. But we were doing “just one more ride” and letting Noah get on the roller coaster for the first time….and it was closer to 5 when we headed to the car. By that time, though, Micah had surpassed his coping threshold and sat on a bench refusing to walk to the car. Threats. Bribes. Cajoling. Tons of energy and finally he dragged along behind me as I pushed the stroller and kept Noah beside me.

When Micah picked up a handful of rocks, though, Noah began nervously looking over his shoulder – I knew he was wondering if Micah would throw them at him. We got to the car, I opened the doors to tuck Seth in….. Micah showered the rocks against the back of the van. I flipped….long streams of meaningless words….got him into the van, demanding that he get in his seat and buckle up. It took 15 minutes and two stops alongside the road “to rest” before his tears and my anger subsided.

“It keeps no records of wrongs” – oh yes it does! Actually, the behavior (“that was really a bad decision, Micah” – substitute in the word “stupid” a couple times, though I keep trying not to) receives consequences (no TV for the next 3 weeks unless you earn some time back), but I have to be able to let it go. I have to work through the frustration of “you ruined a perfectly good day by having a fit at the end.” I have to think through how I could have helped that transition go more smoothly. I have to figure out how to not “flip out” the next time myself.

I sit here still this evening, saddened by the darkness that reared in ugly fury. Frustrated. A true dragon.

Yet, I cling to these words – for these are the words of a parents’ love: “It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” Read them again.

We hug. We snuggle into bed. Kiss goodnight.

Tomorrow we will do better.

Love will not fail.