You're no good, you're no good, you're no good, baby, you're no good.

One rainy afternoon a few years ago, I gave each of my kids a puzzle to complete. Noah had picked out a Spiderman puzzle and promptly set the box before him, ready to study it. Brow furrowed, he tackled the work starting on the corners and the edges like a good left-brain thinker. Isabel, my right brained child, started with the most random pieces, singing as she worked, and when I tried to show her the box so she could be guided by it she exclaimed indignantly: "No, mami! I want to be surprised!"

I should have known then what our journey through homeschooling would be like. Isabel draws on every paper and she devours books. I can't keep the bookshelves full enough for her. Noah sees everything as a problem to be solved and categorizes the world in terms of which parts of it can be built out of Legos. She is all creativity and he is all logic.

It is not surprising that math has been a struggle in our house from the beginning. One curriculum did not challenge Noah enough, while it brought Isabel to tears of frustration daily. Finally I had to choose two different curricula, which can be challenging, but it has restored the peace and love for learning in our home.

I still have to sit with Isabel and work through the math lessons. She and I spend a good bit of time each day hunkered down over the math book, playing with manipulatives, drawing the problem out, and such. With Noah all I do is give him his work and send him away to do it. He comes back if he has a question but for the most part he only comes to show me what he did and get his many check marks.  

Which is why I was so surprised a few weeks ago when they came home from church with a little "About me" quiz in which one of the questions was: "Are you good at math?" Isabel had answered "yes" and Noah had written "no" and I was utterly confused. That is until I thought about our math journey and had an "aha" moment.

I know Isabel struggles with math and I know how discouraged many girls become about their math and science skills by the time they hit middle school. So I have been telling her day after day how good she is at math because she does not let it defeat her. My mantra to her has been: "You are good at math because you work hard at it!"

I realized that while Isabel hears this day after day, I had not told Noah he was good at math because I assumed he knew this to be the case since it comes so naturally to him. But because I did not spend as much time working with him and telling him how proud I was of his efforts, he thought he was not any good at it.

So we re-defined what "good at" means in our home. You are good at something when it comes naturally to you, but you are also good at something when you don't let it beat you, when you work at it until you master it, when you don't give up. We decided you are not only "not good" at something when you don't even attempt it.

This morning I found an article that resonated with me and with the approach we've been taking. Here is the link for the article in its entirety: http://blogs.kqed.org/mindshift/2012/11/struggle-means-learning-difference-in-eastern-and-western-cultures/

The author talks about the difference in Western and Eastern cultures' understanding of struggle.  In our culture we think of struggle as a mark of lack of skill or intelligence. If you struggle with something then you are obviously not good at it. Eastern cultures view struggle as a "predictable part of the process of learning" (Spiegel). You're supposed to struggle. Everyone struggles some time. In fact, their academic lessons are designed slightly above the pupil's skill level. They believe it builds character and emotional fortitude.

And I'm beginning to agree.

I don't think there is anything wrong with telling your children they are smart, but when it comes to academics our family does not value being intelligent as highly as we value being persistent, hard working, teachable, and giving your best effort. A child who is willing to work hard and do their best, even if the work is difficult, will learn much more than a a child who is smart but refuses to do anything that does not come easily to them.

We are not filling our kids' heads with the song: "You are good at everything!," thus creating children who don't understand their limitations and have an unrealistic sense of their own selves. We are simply teaching them that just because something is hard they should not stop trying with the excuse: "I'm just not good at it." Of course our kids attempt, almost daily, to get out of something by whining: "This is haaaaarrrrrd!" I guess they expect me to say: "Oh, my darling, sweet baby, then you don't have to do it, my love" But they have learned it just does not work with this momma.

We understand that life and God will have a way to help the kids hone their interests, discover what they are particularly skilled to do, and put them in the path they should follow.  But while they are under our care, we will not put confines to their potential and dreams by pigeonholing them into only pursuing what is naturally easy for them to do. 

Because mothering ain't no small thang...

After the umpteenth time I encountered something on the subject, I finally surrendered.

I get it.

I. get. it. now.

This life, this small, insignificant life is not so inconsequential in Your eyes. I have been bombarded and attacked from every side over the last few days. Every story, every conversation, every blog, every devotional that passed my eyes spoke of the same truth:

I see you. I see what you do. I see who you are. And I am pleased.

I won’t lie. I have been struggling with feeling irrelevant. What is it that I do? I mother, I teach, I work, I write, I worship. But how does that change the world? Isn’t there something heroic I should be doing? Something exotic? Something radical? Something more?

So over the last year, five times I have made myself available to uncomfortable situations. The take-a-deep-breath-and-say “here-I-am-send-me” kind. And five times the doors have slammed in my face. Really, Lord? I was willing to do whatever.

But I’m dense.

Until last week.

**Today I'm writing over at my friend Christy's One Fun Mom. Won't you read the rest over here and leave me a note so I know you stopped by?**

The #1 Fly Killer

I was in the den working when I heard the noise. It was coming from behind the door of my bedroom. At first it sounded like the faint whine of a puppy and it continued in a slow crescendo until it reached a full, roaring scream: “mooooooommmmmyyyyyy, ahhhhhhhhh!” I would love to say I ran full speed to see what it was but I know my children are prone to drama, so I calmly walked to the bedroom and opened the door. 

I found Noah plastered against the wall opposite the window, sobbing uncontrollably, snot and tears mingling near his chin. His eyes were fixed on the window in sheer terror. I followed them and could see nothing. And then I heard the buzz. It was loud and disturbing but it was coming from a common house fly, ugly and big but harmless. 

Unless you are six. 

“What’s the matter, Noah?” I asked him. “It’s chasing me!” he wailed back. I explained to him that it would not harm him and that house flies don’t bite (do they?) and to keep reading his book so I could finish my work. I shut the door and went back to the den. 

About two minutes later I heard the screaming again. This time, with much less patience and an edge to my voice, I went back and reminded him that the fly would not hurt him, that I was too busy to try to chase it out of the room, and that he was a big boy, much bigger than the bug, in fact. I firmly closed the door and left him in his little private hell. 

As I sat in front of the computer the Still Small Voice enveloped my thoughts: “He’s only six years old, you know? He is just scared. Can’t you be more gentle and understanding?” See, I am very practical. Too practical even. It was just a fly, for goodness sake! 

But at that moment the Holy Spirit opened my eyes to my lack of empathy and helped me to see the world through the eyes of my little boy. I realized I often expect my children to think, behave and understand the world like adults. That fly was a monster against which Noah felt powerless to fight and he had no hero to show him how to conquer his dragon. 

So I breathed a prayer of wisdom and patience and went back in. I held him until he stopped crying and then I told him about how a simple magazine can turn into a magic secret weapon against flies. I showed him how to use it and, while we did not kill the fly then, I left him fully armed. As I was leaving the room I mentioned in passing that if he killed the fly I would give him a medal of valor.  

I returned a few minutes later when the silence was too suspicious and found him perched on the bed, still as a statue, weapon ready. I asked him what he was doing. “I’m waiting for the fly to come back my way so I can kill it!” he said with excitement. He spent the rest of the day chasing! flies until one let itself be killed by this tiny dragon slayer. As promised, I gave him a medal. 

(The medal says: "#1 fly killer: Noah, the valiant")

Empathy is powerful. Noah needed his fears validated, not minimized. Once he knew he was heard and understood, he became courageous. Once someone came to his side and empowered him, he believed in himself. This morning he even tackled a cockroach with his daddy’s help!

Grown-ups need empathy too. We may not wail in public despair at the sight of our fears or openly beg for a friend to come rescue us. “You just don’t do that,” we tell ourselves, perpetuating a lie that keeps us estranged from each other, unable to let someone else step into our shoes.

But we are just as terrified and helpless before our dragons as a six-year old before a giant house fly. And sometimes we just need someone to come alongside to pray with and for us, and to encourage us to discover that we can become dragon slayers. No perfect words or wise advice. Just a shoulder and a friend.

And we may not completely understand someone else's fear or pain. We may think "it's just a fly, for goodness sake!" We may even expect them to get over it or to realize, logically, why they should not be afraid. To behave like we would in that case.

But when we stand beside them and face the window from their perspective we just may feel how big and ugly the fly looks to them.  That fly may just look like a dragon we recognize. And suddenly, our eyes are opened to their reactions and responses. 

And empathy happens. 

Paul understood the strength that comes in numbers. He reminds us that God’s intention for community is for us to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. It’s a calling to never under-estimate the power of the words: “I understand. I am with you and you are not alone.”

Letting go...

Helmets on they climb their scooters and take off. Wind beating their cheeks, giggles of excitement erupting from their throats, they race.

"Don't get too far ahead of me!" I shout as I walk behind them. All I can see is their backs but I know they are smiling as one foot makes contact with the pavement, propelling them forward faster than I can catch them and faster than my mother's heart can bear. And I feel the separation almost physically. 

I want to reach out and grab her by the arm pulling her back to me, to the protection of my embrace, away from the road, away from any danger. But she is already too far ahead. He can't even hear me any more when I shout his name. 

And I love watching them. Their growing muscles extending, finding the balance to master the small scooter, the thrill of speed all over their screams and laughter. 

They are headed for the street and my heart skips a beat. But I have given them instructions as to how fast they need to go and exactly where they need to stop and I have to trust that they will. I have to trust that the work I've put before this moment, the practice rounds, the conversations about danger will do their job. 

I have to trust them.

They are old enough to do this. I know that in my head but my heart cries out "not yet! it's too soon!" Time flies and does not stop for me. I'm not ready. But they are. 

And this will be the dance of our lives. The constant struggle towards independence as I let them go a little at the time, asking the Lord for wisdom to know how far, how fast, and when. Feeling the pain of separation breaking my heart but keeping a smile of my face as I cheer them on. Because this is what they were meant to do: to grow and leave, to spread their wings and fly. 

And I am left to trust.

To trust that the years we had with them were rich enough in wisdom and knowledge to make their own decisions when I'm no longer there to shout their names or remind them of my instructions. I have to let go and have faith that the God who brought them to my life in the first place will continue to walk with them as they are forging theirs. 

And to pray.

To pray that they will never cease to seek, as they make their own choices, the wisdom of the same God whose help I sought in raising them. Because they know, now in their own adult hearts, that He is the only one who can be trusted to tell them exactly how fast to go and exactly where to stop. 

Isabel, the tooth, and the widow's mite.

A few days ago Isabel lost a tooth. After her daddy pulled it out and after the tears were dried her first words were: “The Toothfairy is coming tonight!” Then carefully, so so carefully, Isabel put the miniscule tooth into a red, Chinese box with a mirror that probably used to contain a fancy lipstick once upon a while. She snapped it sealed and placed it under her pillow. She fell asleep with her whole torso over that pillow, protecting her treasure fiercely.

And the Toothfairy came. This sneaky fairy tip-toed into Isabel’s room a few hours past the kids’ bedtime to do the job only the Toothfairy can do (or the little white mouse, if you live south of the Texas-Mexico border): to buy the long-wiggled, expectantly-yanked-every-few-days tooth. The exchange rate these days at our house is one crisp dollar bill for one white and tiny pearl. The Toothfairy had to pull and prod and, being careful not to wake her up, take out the little red box, and make the exchange. 

The next morning she ran, hopped, and skipped to our bedroom at a ridiculously early hour, a memory of Christmas morning all over again, with her little red box and more money inside it than a six year old knows what to do with. “Mami! It’s gone! My tooth is gone! And I got a dollar! I got a dollar!” Precious booty to a little girl who does not yet get an allowance and whose parents don’t tend to buy toys beyond Christmas and birthdays. 

Last year I bought her a three-piece piggy bank. It’s shaped like the letters A, B, and C connected, and each letter is a compartment. The A is for giving. This is the money she takes to church each week for Jesus. The B is for saving for bigger items she may want to buy. The C is for spending and this one is usually empty as the concept of “now” trumps the concept of “later” almost every time. 

As we sat at breakfast in the kitchen the morning after she became richer by a dollar I asked her to put her dollar into one of the three compartments so she would not lose it. Without hesitation she said she wanted to put it into the “Jesus” one. Eyes wide I asked: “The WHOLE dollar?” She nodded earnestly and happily. Because I am logical, thrifty, and practical, I offered to exchange her dollar for four quarters. “That way you can put a little into each box,” I suggested. Because she is generous, trusting, and much more obedient than I, she declined. “I want to give the whole dollar to Jesus!” she said. And pride and tenderness spilled out of my eyes. And just a few days before we had discussed our character trait for the month of April and its accompanying verse: generosity as found in 2 Corinthians 9:7

“God loves a cheerful giver”

And she embodies it. Like the little widow who put all she had into the coffers of the temple, so this child gave not from what was left after she bought her new toy, but the whole of her prize, everything she owned. She gave believing she would not lack and out of gratitude for the blessing itself rather than for what the blessing would bring her.  

And I don’t give like that. Ever. I tell myself I give sacrificially as I rationalize how little to give, as I add and subtract, re-arrange the numbers one more time, and frown over pennies and nickels. And when Jesus calls me to give just a little more of my money, my time, my energy, my resources, I grumble and complain and ask “Don’t I give enough already?” 

My children bring me great happiness every day. But every day they also teach me. And they partner with God to point out to me where my faith is lacking, where it’s little. I am the one who chooses the trait of the month for Isabel and Noah to learn to live out. I am the one who chooses the scripture that accompanies it. I am the one who explains it to them. 

Yet they are the ones who model it for me.

On teenagers...

In ten years we will be living with a sixteen year old and a fourteen year old. I have heard this should strike fear in the heart of the most courageous parent. Often I hear people say things like “Oooo, just wait until she becomes a teenager!” and “Oh, the teen years are horrible; just wait and see…” or “Your kids may be good now but they won’t be for long. When they hit adolescence…” and “Oh, nothing you do now will change the fact that teens are horrible!”

Sigh.

I don’t have a crystal ball. I cannot predict what the future will bring and neither do any of these naysayers. I have no idea what our life like with two teens will be. And more importantly, I will not be one of those parents who are blind and confidently say: “My child will never…”   

But I do know a couple of things.

While they are small and in these formative years I have two choices as we prepare for adolescence. I can either parent reactively, dealing with the stages of life as they come, inching ill-equipped towards adolescence and hoping for the best while bracing myself for the worst.

Or…

I can parent proactively. I can read all I can, learn all I can, listen to experts all I can, ask for advice all I can and, above all, pray all I can. 

I can work hard at parenting them these early years knowing that what I do now may not be the cure-all for adolescence problems later on but it is what the Lord has commanded me to do: to love them, to do my best at raising them in his ways, and to leave the rest to him.

I think of my children as vegetables. I can ensure a poor crop if I plant them and leave their successful growth to chance. Or I can plant them and water them with life instruction, and fertilize them with the Word of God, and tenderly care for them with boundaries and structure. I may still not get the produce I want, but I know the second approach gives me the better odds.

I also know that I will quit expecting the worst and begin praying for the best for my children. I don’t want to spend the next ten years in fear of their teens. I would rather spend this time laying a good foundation, enjoying their changes, and preparing the soil.

I plan to reap a good harvest. I know many teens that are a delight to their parents and I plan for my children to be that kind of teen. I am not being unrealistic, I’m being hopeful. I am not being delusional, I’m trusting that God will honor the hard labor Matt and I are doing today.

Yes, my children have choices. Yes, they may make poor decisions. Yes, they may be awful teenagers because they are, like all of us, sinful people with free will. They may, against all we have taught them, walk away from their faith. They may become defiant and disobedient. They may do all kinds of things we pray they won’t do. They may.

But…

I refuse to contribute to this by creating self-fulfilling prophecies for them. I will not let them hear me say that adolescents are horrible, even today. I will speak positive and encouraging words to them as they reach that confusing, hormonal, difficult time of their lives. I want them to know I delight in them no matter what they’re going through because I delight in the gift of who they are, whatever their behavior. I want them to know that even while they feel out of control with their emotions and their bodies their parents will be a rock for them.

I know this seems impossible and in reality, it is. But, just like we do in any other difficult time of our life, Matt and I lean on the broader, stronger shoulders of Christ. We can be a rock for our children only because we are standing on the Rock of Ages. We can extend impossible grace to them only because of the impossible grace we’ve been given.

Maybe if their parents embrace adolescence Isabel and Noah will face it with a more positive outlook. They don’t know any different right now. What if all they ever hear from me is how much I look forward to their teen years? How would that change their perspective? How will it change mine?

And can I ask something of you?

I don’t want any more warnings about the teen years. I’m not afraid. I choose to wait for them expectantly and joyfully come what may. It is a time of wonder when kids are becoming adults and finding their own way. Instead, please pray for our family, if you will. 

Rebellious teenagers are miserable teenagers. 

So rather than expect Isabel and Noah’s misery, please pray that they will break the mold and be happy-ish teens. If I’m wrong, I hope you lift us up in prayer while the storm passes by and help us with your advice and wisdom. If I’m right, I hope you rejoice with us. But the fact remains that only time will tell and I choose hope. 

Parents of delightful teenagers, speak up! What is one thing you did when they were small that you feel made a difference during their adolescence? And if your children became difficult teenagers, tell what you would do differently for those of us who are just beginning! 

Brownie...

We walked hand in hand into the Goodwill looking for nothing in particular, as we often did. Me, the lover of books, would peruse the paperbacks and find some treasures for a quarter. Matt would spend his time in the house wares finding salvageable oddities. But we always avoided the children’s section. Too painful. Too pointless.

Except that day. I don’t remember if we had already started the process of adoption or not but as we looked through the store we found ourselves walking down the last isle, next to the wall covered in broken toys and teddy bears. Up on the top shelf I saw it. It was a brown, fuzzy, child-size bear with a blue scarf around his neck. It caught my eye because it looked expensive and new. It was a Gund bear. The kind you find in fancy toy stores but at Goodwill discount. We took it down, inspected it, and carried it away.

And I named him Brownie.

On the way home I dared to dream a little of a time when Brownie may accompany a child into the land of dreams and protect him or her from the bad ones. It was the perfect bear for a little one: soft and friendly, seeing the world from the same eye-level, a relatable companion.

A couple of years went by. Isabel came and filled our lives with joy. Still Brownie was relegated to live on the guest bedroom bed. When Isabel went through a phase of dressing animals as people I held a silent hope for Brownie, who could wear her clothes easily. But Brownie was overlooked and left alone on his bed in favor of smaller Pooh.

 A few more years went by and we grew by one more when we brought Noah home. One evening as I prepared the kids for bed, Noah, not quite four-years old, asked to sleep with an animal as was his custom. This time he selected Brownie, who had moved from the guestroom into the large bin of stuffed creatures that now lived in the kids’ shared bedroom. Brownie, who was almost as tall as Noah, never left the bed again.

The fuzzy bear I dreamed so many years ago as a friend to the children I was yet to know  became more than a sleeping prop. Brownie is now the star of many adventures. He has traveled the world, he has lived in many countries, he has survived eating poison, he can breathe under water, he would put James Bond to shame and yet he has never left our house. He is also the baddest bear in the land. He steals money from Elmo, he lies and disobeys Noah and gets put in time-out a lot. He hits his friends and provides me with many teaching moments, as I explain to Noah why Brownie’s behavior is wrong and smile at Noah’s vicarious living through his unruly bear.

We chuckle to hear our children begin conversations with each other like this: “Remember when Brownie…” and we have to walk away so they don’t see us laugh when the other one replies: “I remember and he also…” filling one more detail of an adventure neither one of them witnessed.

I don’t know why Isabel did not take to Brownie. Maybe she had too many other choices. Or maybe their personalities simply did not “click.” My daughter is nurturing and prefers small creatures she could wrap in blankets and hold as babies in her arms. Brownie is a big bear, more of a pal than an offspring, so his charms did not work on her.

 It took a quirky little boy with mischievous eyes to see the possibilities this bear’s company had to offer. They are best buds. Brownie wears Noah’s clothes and, in exchange, Noah has made Brownie the star of his childhood adventures. It is endearing. And a little nerve-racking. The way this bear acts sometimes I worry he can be a bad influence on Noah…

I would have danced in the middle of that Goodwill with Brownie in my arms if I had known the life he would live and the small friends he would keep.  But the afternoon we met, I cautiously held him by the ear, trying hard not to get too attached and trying not to think about his loneliness and mine, were he never to have playmates.  

Sometimes you have to take a step of faith and buy a bear for an empty home, believing God keeps his promises. Sometimes those promises take you on a journey you did not expect because God’s crafted a different plan than you anticipated. And sometimes the earliest evidence of God’s plan in your life is brown and fuzzy, and wears a blue scarf around its stuffed neck.

Not just any ordinary moment...

Mama Kat had this prompt in this week’s writing workshop: If you could re-live any moment in your life, what moment would you choose? For me it would be a moment in two parts, each several months apart.

March 10^th, 2006 was a Friday. The weather was mild and the sun was shining. I was a month short of 28 and a few hours short of changing my life forever. We get up early that morning, didn’t really wake up for we had not slept; double-check the bag, the car, the route, and set out down a familiar road, yet down a path we had never traveled before.

Three hours later we are there. We take some pictures for posterity. This is us minutes before our world was turned upside down. Can you tell from the pictures how clueless we were? We thought we knew what it would be like; we had the bag packed to prove it, but nothing prepares you for when the moment comes.

The social worker carries a wrapped bundle  in her arms. Out of the bundle a little hand comes out to move the blanket so two huge, brown eyes can peer at us. Curious from day one. Then she is placed in our arms. “Here is your daughter.” I always imagined I would cry. But I can’t. I can only stare. And she can only stare back. We lock eyes. I never knew I believed in love at first sight. People are moving around me, talking, asking questions. I hear nothing. Time stops. I can only stare. And fall in love some more. She is beautiful. And so small. I count toes and fingers. I breathe in her scent. Something awakes inside me. Something instinctual and as old as creation. I feel it and I can’t name it. Not yet.

“Gaby, repeat after me: I promise to be your mom forever….” I can’t repeat that. I want to but nothing would come out of my throat. I am crying now. I want to repeat it, but all that comes out are tears. Of joy. Of gratitude. Of I-cannot-believe-this-amazing-baby-is-mine. We take pictures for posterity. This is us minutes after our world was turned upside down. This is us when us became bigger than two.

This is us, parents at last.

She is strapped in her car-seat. Our hands are shaken and the door is shut behind us. Go, be blessed, be a family. We stop to eat at a restaurant. I don’t know how to hold her. I feel awkward and inexperienced. A woman approaches us: “Your daughter is beautiful.” Thank you, I whisper. My daughter. How did she know? It must show. We must look it. The happiness must glow. This is the moment, part I.

Isabel is a year and a half old when the phone rings. “There is a boy,” they say. They share blood. Do you want him? What a question! “You can get him when your paperwork is complete,” they say. We are not prepared; we have no paperwork. Three weeks of running around and rushing. Three weeks of torture without him. Finally, September 6^th comes. It is a hot Saturday. We load the car, we pack the bag, we find the route, and set out down a familiar road, and down path we have traveled before but are no less nervous to take.

Two hours later we are there. We walk in. They bring him in. He is so small. And so beautiful. The siblings meet for the first time and it is a joyful meeting. 

I knew this time I would be able to repeat the vows: I promise to be your mom forever... But when I open my mouth, only tears come. Tears of joy. Tears of gratitude. I am overwhelmed with love as I was the first time. I can only stare, again. And fall in love, again. And count fingers and toes, again. And breathe his scent, again. We take pictures for posterity. This is us when us became four. Double will be the diapers, the laundry, the mess, the happiness.

How similar and yet how different from that moment months ago! I no longer feel awkward and inexperienced. I am no longer terrified. This time I am prepared when deep inside me the rumbling that is as old as creation stirs again. This time I know what it is: love so fierce and overwhelming it uproots me and my heart is forever wrapped around his. My son. This is the moment, part II. 

 

This is FAMILY.

What is family, mami? Are WE a family?

Well, Isabel, family is different for every person, for every circumstance, even for every stage of life. To me this is FAMILY…

The house is quiet. It is around seven am on a cold Saturday morning. Little hurried footsteps down the hall result in little arms and legs wrapping tightly around me, seeking my warmth and love under the covers. I feel myself being flipped onto my back and a tiny version of a person hoists herself on top of me and claims her rightful spot, belly to belly, head on my chest. Eyes still closed, breathing the scent of her hair. All is well.

Smaller yet faster footsteps running down the hallway result in a cannon ball to the middle of the bed.  An even tinier version of a person wrestles his way into the mix of covers and body parts. I feel him snuggle between Matt and I, his back to Daddy, his front, hands, belly, and face directed at me. I reach out to touch his soft cheek. Eyes still closed, feeling the softness of his skin. All is well.

Sleepy murmurs of I love you, You are MY Daddy, You are MY Mami, You are MY baby are whispered over clasped hands and fluffy pillows.

And I’m the lucky one. I have my hair stroked, my cheeks patted, my nose kissed. I have to referee, in my sleep, between two children who both want to hold my hands, be encircled by my arms, share my space. And as we compromise and find our perfect fit, the four of us we become like puzzle pieces that create a beautiful picture of a perfect moment: a family at rest. All is well.

This is FAMILY.

Later in the day, while everyone is in the kitchen, I steal away to spend some time conversing with my old friend of the black and white keys. Together we make Christmas music until a little voice joins me singing love songs to Jesus on his birthday. All is joy.  

Soon ten tiny fingers join mine on the other side of the keyboard, pounding the keys in dis-harmony, while the little voice continues to sing and the three of us play and sing and celebrate His birth. All is joy.

And then a man who loves jazz and who would love to be a jazz pianist begins to pick at a key here and there while I stroke the keys, and ten little fingers pound, and a little voice sings made-up words, and the four of us make noise that sounds like a masterpiece to my ears. All is joy.

This is FAMILY.

As the day winds down I find my way to the kitchen once again and I begin the process of creating a meal out of ingredients while the other three join me one by one. First comes the little chef who insists on helping me. And I have to create a job, a side-dish, a child-like recipe she can follow. And we laugh and cook together. All is sharing.

Then comes the tiny mimicker who drags his toy kitchen in to make his own creations and serves us while we stir and chop and season. All is sharing.

At last comes my companion, who sits and talks to me while I invite him to participate, to eat at the tiny kitchen of the little mimicker, to taste the creations of the tiny chef. All is sharing.

This is FAMILY.  

And as we separate at the end of the night, the kids to their bedroom and us to ours, after baths and prayers and last minute hugs, we will not be physically together again until morning, but we will rest in the tender knowledge that we belong to each other and we will sleep the sleep of the content, the protected, and the cherished.

This is FAMILY.

And we are blessed beyond measure…

The Wide-Eyed, Clenched-Jawed Monster

I lose my temper.

I’m not proud of this. I wish I were one of those people who, like my father-in-law says, are sweeter by nature than others are by grace. But I’m not. I have a short fuse, a quick temper, and a wide-eyed, clenched-jaw, scary look when I get angry. It’s not pretty.

Nowhere does my temper cause me more pain than in my parenting attempts. My children’s antics can make me go from zero to sixty in no time and anger me more than anyone else. I don’t like this side of myself and I’m trying to be a gentler momma. Sometimes I succeed, many times I fail.

One of those times happened this week. It was one of those days. You know, THOSE days. From the moment my feet hit the floor everything was a struggle. The kids woke up in their own difficult moods, the morning was hard, lunch was hard, life was hard. By the afternoon, I was tired, grumpy, and dejected. I asked Isabel to pick up some toys lying around the living room while I piddled in the kitchen. She came to the kitchen with all the toys, dumped them on the island and started to leave the room. When I turned around and saw the toys on the table I lost it.

Silly, right? It was just some toys on the table. Right. Right. RIGHT. I see that now. But at that moment those toys were the whole day’s worth of repeated requests, whining, and siblings’squabbles.

I…Lost…It.

With a clean motion of my arm I swept all the toys from the island.

- I TOLD YOU TO PUT THE TOYS AWAAAAAAY! growled the wide-eyed, clenched-jawed monster as she threw the toys to the floor.

As soon as the last item hit the ground I realized what I had done: Jonas, Isabel’s precious newborn baby she had lovingly “carried in her belly” for two days, and then birthed to great rejoicing of the whole family, was among the victims of my ire.

Too late.

Her little face crumpled into a look of such pain and betrayal that I wanted to crawl into the trashcan and be carried to the curb the way I deserved at that moment. All the anger evaporated in an instant giving way to nothing but shame and regret.

I once heard someone say that apologizing to your children only makes you look weak in their eyes. I pity the children who grew up in that household. Thankfully, I follow the One who is as gentle and humble as a lamb, so as quickly as I could I hit my knees to come eye-to-eye with my little girl and try to explain to her, between her tears and mine, how sorry, so, so sorry I was.

- Mami made a mistake, baby. I should not have reacted the way I did. Mami got angry, but she did not have the right to yell and throw Jonas to the floor. Please forgive me, do you forgive me?

Thankfully, she is learning to follow the One how is as gentle and humble as a lamb, so she nodded and nuzzled her head on my shoulder. Thank you, Jesus, for a child’s innocent forgiveness.

I teach Isabel many things every day. With me she is learning to read, to count, to cook. But I worry about the other lessons she is learning also; the ones I don’t want her to learn. My lack of self-control could damage her little soul and teach her ways to respond to anger for which I will have to give account. “In your anger do not sin” Paul reminds us in Ephesians. I want my children to watch me get angry and know that it is normal. I also want them to see in my response a reflection of the God I serve who is “compassionate, gracious, slow to anger and abounding in love.” (from Exodus 34).

I need your help. Will you please pray for me and ask me how it’s coming?

Monster

I wasn’t going to write this one. I didn’t know if I could tackle it in a way that would truly give voice to my thoughts in the sentiment in which they are intended. But I have quickly found that when something grabs me and won’t let go, it is blog-worthy. So please bear with me as I try to put into words some thoughts brought upon by a simple game of tag.

Last Saturday I took my kids to McDonald’s with my friend J. and her two little ones. It was a cloudy, mild day so we sat outside and let the kids play in the outdoor playground. Because the day was beautiful there were several other families with children eating outside and quickly the playground was swarming with kids between the ages of 2 and 5. They were running, laughing, and having a great time, while J. and I caught up on news and chatted. As I was watching the games, I realized all the children would run out of the slide screaming and laughing, calling out for the “monster.”

“-He’s coming, hurry, run!”

“-Ahhhh….run! He’s coming!”

I was half listening to J. and half processing this game when I realized the “monster” they were all fleeing was my son, Noah. It looked like an innocent enough game but I noticed they were using his name:

“-Run away, Noah is coming!”

As any concerned parent, I wanted to make sure he was a willing participant and that he was not being shunned by the other children. I caught him as he ran past me and I asked him: “Baby, do you like being the monster?” He nodded, smiled at me, and ran away growling and making paws of his hands. Ok, no harm done yet. He obviously did not think anything of being the monster they all avoided and was enjoying the role. I silently prayed, as I watched, that he would always have that innocent, open outlook.

As I reflected upon the events of the day, I realized it is a natural thing that happened. Noah is usually the youngest, he enjoys chasing other children while growling, and he doesn’t get his feelings hurt easily. What a better combination to be nominated monster of the game? But I am, by my own admission, hypersensitive to my children’s future struggles because their situation is, in so many ways, unique. So my wheels started turning...

When I taught high school I used to do an activity to raise awareness among my students about the ugliness of stereotypes. We would openly discuss the origin and validity of stereotypes they had heard or even believed at one point about people of other races. I loved how open and honest the kids were and I always felt that, by the end of the hour, we all walked away better informed, and more compassionate. We got to know each other more deeply and we had a more sympathetic understanding of each others’ ethnic backgrounds, cultures, and struggles as well. One of the questions I would ask is how many of them had ever been followed in a store by a security guard, had noticed people changing sides of the street if they saw them coming, or had, in any other way, been made aware that people feared them or didn’t trust them. Invariably it would be my males of color (Black and Hispanic) who would raise their hand. Every now and then I would have females of color raise their hands as well (I, myself, was followed in a JC Penny when I was in high school). Many of the kids who would raise their hands were straight “A” students, good kids who did not get in trouble. Others were kids who looked rough but had hearts of gold. Usually, they expressed dismay and hurt that this was the case.

The reasons behind this phenomenon are multiple and I’m not going to get into that. It’s just that lately, the voices of my students have begun to hit very close to home. I started to think about how cute Noah is. He has always been. When he was a baby, people would stop on the street to fuss over him. He has a dimpled smile, big brown eyes, and a winning disposition. As he grows, however, he will turn from a cute little boy to an ugly-duckling elementary school child, to an awkward, moody, teenager. And not just any teenager: a Black teenage-boy. I wonder if the same people that right now flirt with him in the grocery store will clutch their purses a little tighter when they see him coming. My little boy, a threat? My sweet little, compassionate Noah? It is a hard pill to swallow and yet it may just be his reality in a few years. It is what it is and I alone cannot change these facts. This is not a rant against society or an attempt at making any kind of social commentary. These are just the ponderings of a wistful mother.

A few months ago Isabel came crying to me because her little friend had told her they were no longer friends. My heart broke with hers but I knew what to say and how to console her: friends may be mean, they may have a bad day, they may be grumpy. She understood; she had been grumpy herself, she has been mean to others before. In a few years, when Noah comes to me hurt and bewildered because a stranger played “monster” with him and he was an unwilling participant, what could I say to mend his little heart? How do I explain that one?

"Contestamos"

“Mami, vamos a contestar,” is my afternoon request from Isabel. “Contestar” is her 4-year-old version of the Spanish word “conversar”- to converse. “What do you want to talk about?” I ask, knowing what is coming. “Tell me about S. and Charleston,” she replies inevitably. S. is her birthmother and Charleston is the first place she remembers. This is our afternoon ritual. When she gets up from her quiet time, she calls me to the bed or comes to sit on the couch and beckons me for our afternoon conversation.

This is actually my fault, though. When she was so small I wasn’t sure she could understand, I started telling Isa her adoption story. When she was about three a friend of mine came to the house with a big pregnant belly. I think this was the first time Isabel noticed this phenomenon and asked me what was inside my friend’s belly. This started a set of questions that inevitably led to the one I was dreading most: “Mami, was I inside your belly?” I knew Isabel knew she was adopted, but this was the first time adoption was connected to biology. I choked as I answered her. How I wish she had been! But, I tried to explain it all to her as matter-of-factly as I could. We have vowed to make adoption as normal in our family as having different skin colors, speaking different languages, or living in different countries: just another way people become family.

As she has grown older the story has expanded, details have been filled, and funny anecdotes have been revealed. It is a joyful time for her. She loves to hear the story of how badly we wanted her and how quickly we loved her. This is the part she revels in. She smiles as I tell her about the phone call that told her dad and I that she had arrived. She giggles at my impression of her dad driving like crazy to get her. She laughs when I tell her how the first time we changed her diaper even the dogs were covered in poop. For me it is a bitter-sweet routine. I laugh with her at the way our life changed that Friday morning, at how full my heart has been for the past four years, at the wonder of the moment we were given a daughter. I shed inner tears when I try to portray to her the sadness her birthmother must have felt at saying goodbye, when I think about how adoption is addition through subtraction, and when I imagine the day she will really come to understand what adoption means and grieve herself.

In the meantime, we “contestamos.” I answer her questions and I re-live the moments since our paths crossed, sweet and sad, afternoon by afternoon. She knows all that a 4-year-old can handle about her adoption and she thinks it is a wondrous thing; after all, seven of her playmates were adopted, including her baby brother. At times I wish we didn’t have to have this conversation; that she was another kid hearing how they grew in mommy’s belly, oblivious of the many other ways to make a family. I wish I could shelter her from the pain I know will come. But, this is who she is; it is who we are and it is who God has called us to be. Adoption was a God thing for us and we believe He brought us together. How else would this crazy multiracial, multicultural, multilingual family have come to be!

The Day We Lost the Panda

When my daughter Isabel was four years old, she had an affinity for dressing stuffed animals as babies. She would care for them lovingly for a few days and carry them around everywhere she went. Eventually they would be replaced in her heart by a new critter with clothes.

One morning she was cradling her newest offspring: a small panda dressed in a purple coat and matching hat. I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast when she walked in empty-handed and distraught.

- “I can’t find Baby Johnson Isabel!” the panda’s full legal name.

- “Oh, honey – I replied- where did you last see it?”

- “I don’t know, mami”

I was about to dismiss her to look for it with a motherly bit about keeping track of her toys, when something in her voice made me turn around a look at her.

- “Mami, my baby is scared!”

- “Why, honey?”

- “Because she is loooooost!” at which point she started to sob.

We spent the next 30 minutes frantically looking for a scared, lost stuffed panda bear. Baby Johnson Isabel was found hiding inside an old cardboard box to the delight of her mommy, who covered her in kisses and admonished her for hiding.

I reflected later about my little girl’s despair at the thought of her poor, scared baby. In her tearful reaction I saw compassion and empathy – two traits I had hoped to help her develop. Above else, however, I saw my own fears mirrored in my daughter’s response. We had recently begun discussing what she should do were she to get lost at a public place. We were working on her full name and phone number and discussing safe people to approach. She was most concerned about how I would react.

- “What would you do if I got lost, mami?”

- “I would look for you night and day until I found out!”

- “Would you be sad?”

- “I would cry and cry until you were home again.”

This conversation would repeat itself over and over, until she was satisfied that I would never stop looking and that I would be heartbroken over her.

Isabel learns from me; she watches me, and copies me. She wants to wear lipstick because I wear lipstick, she sits and “works” next to me, when I’m working, and she cares for her babies the way she has seen me care for her little brother. The day we lost the panda I realized she will also respond to the world the way I respond to it. In her tears that day, I saw a four-year old version of my biggest fears. Maybe that is why I helped her look so hard and rejoiced with her when Baby Johnson Isabel was finally found.