on Mother's Day

Growing up I often thought I'd have four or five children -- and, like so many girls, I had names picked out from early on.  None of my actual children have any of those names.  And that's OK.  Like so many other ideas my seventh-grade self had, things haven't worked out exactly as I thought they would.

This mothering business has been uniquely and immensely challenging for me, and I know it will remain so for a long time to come.  It isn't as I envisioned before I actually became a mom.  It is both better and far more difficult than I could've guessed.  Sometimes time passes so quickly that I have no idea where it goes -- it's a blur of Mack trucks, dishes, diapers, Legos, laundry, books, meltdowns, tickle fests, baby dolls, snacks, silliness, sniffles, messes, tears, and laughter.

But here's the thing: with my beloved, these children entrusted to our care are pivotal to our path to heaven.  The way we respond to Christ present in each of these children (as well as in each other and those around us) is the stuff of this life -- the main point. 

I once heard in a homily a story of some brick layers.  One saw his work as that of just piling up one brick after another day after day.  Another was spreading mortar and laying bricks with a similar attitude.  Their colleague, on the other hand, doing the same rote tasks, knew that he was building a cathedral.

It is easy for me lose sight of the forest for the trees, but then by some miracle I'm blessed with the awareness that in fact I'm here to help these children become the person God calls each of them to be, so that when the time comes for them to discern his will for their lives, they will be equipped to do that. 

Whatever my shortcomings as a person and mother -- and there are many -- I pray God will make up the difference between what I can offer to my children and what they need at any given moment.  By his grace, they will draw upon the lessons of their childhood to become true heirs and willing servants of God and neighbor, knowing without question of their mother's love for them.

leftovers

At bedtime I was the happy recipient of a big smooch planted on my cheek by the younger lad.  "That's leftover from last week," he said.  "I didn't use it, so I gave it to you."

time for tea

We got all gussied up this afternoon and went to a tea party in the elder lad's preschool classroom.  His teacher worked so hard to put together and help her students present a lovely tribute to their mamas. 

He's been so excited about this special event. This morning he whispered to me that today he'd be able to give me the card he'd been working on.  When the younger lad, lass, and I arrived at the classroom, all the students were seated and most of their mamas were already there.  When my lad saw us come into the room, he beamed and gestured for us to come sit with him. 

There's a sweet picture of him signing "I love you," a potted plant (in a neat vessel he and his schoolmates made of concrete and peat moss), the card, and -- in the hallway of his school, a picture he drew of me in a purple skirt (which I do have but hardly ever wear).  The caption reads "My mom is special because... she loves me."

That I do. 

That he knows this means the world to me.

wonders never cease

My diminutive but spunky (some might say fiesty) maternal grandmother Fran would be 96 today.  Lately my younger lad has been singing little ditties, some with words, others just improvised melodies, as he goes about his doings.  In this way, he reminds me of the little badger Frances of the Frances books.  Sunny little fellow that he is, I think my grandmother Fran would revel in him just as much as the rest of us (and I bet she does from her vantage point in heaven).  He'd probably find her equally delightful.

Speaking of spunky, the multitude of prayers being offered for my friend paralyzed in late January by complications of bacterial meningitis are being answered!  In March she relocated out of state to a hospital devoted to spinal cord injury patients.  Since her arrival there, she has weaned off the ventilator, can move both arms (which means she will one day be able to hold her baby boy, who is growing steadily and may soon get to leave the NICU for home), and can wiggle her fingers.  Her husband, daughter (who shares a birthday with my elder lad, remember), and two-and-a-half year old son visited her this past weekend.  She's been able to speak to her family by phone and is now learning such skills as how to use a computer via voice recognition.  We continue to pray for complete restoration of her faculties and a reunion with her family very soon.  As evidenced by these hopeful strides, truly wonders never cease.

tough questions

This one posed by the elder lad caught us (more than) a little off guard: "What's cancer?"

My first internal reaction was Where did that come from?  Mercifully, this is not something with which we are contending presently such that we would even be discussing the topic.  When we asked him where he'd heard about it, he didn't answer.  I hope our simple explanation that cancer is a disease that sometimes can and sometimes can't be cured was satisfactory to him.

On the heels of that initial response, my thoughts turned to those families -- including very young children -- for whom cancer and other life-threatening and altering diseases are a defining reality of their daily lives.  Our health is such an precious gift. 

So for these families, I pray God's mercy be upon them.  If it be his will, may those afflicted with such maladies be healed.  And whatever his will, may his grace infuse every aspect of suffering experienced by those touched by disease of any kind -- those going through it themselves and the people who love and care for them.

gearheads

Our family has an interest in classic cars, so it came as no surprise (but was still funny) when the lads opened up a couple of "vintage" shop manuals and told me "Mom!  There's the master cylinder!"

Do I know what a master cylinder is?  Nope.  But I don't need to, seeing as how I live with these gearheads.

clearing the decks

I am by no means a neat freak.  I'm actually a pretty skilled architect of stacks.  I've made it a crusade of mine, though, to rise above the temptation to put things into stacks to deal with "later" and instead process them as they come in.  This applies to such things as mail and schoolwork and hasn't filtered down to all the areas of my realm (like closets).

I loves me a nice, clear, clean counter top.  This is not to say, however, that they are always free of clutter, as they tend to attract such matter. When the counter tops fill up with stuff, I get kinda antsy.  As it stands today, the counters need some lovin'.  They're not at their best after this past week.  (They're not alone in that regard.)

This waffling back and forth between letting things pile up (in the closet, for example) and having a (next to) zero-tolerance policy on counter top clutter is a fairly recent phenomenon and remains a mystery to me about myself.  But then again, I do eventually reach a point when I will tackle the closet and reign in the mess.  It's just less of an ongoing maintenance process like the one I employ on the counter tops.

There's something cathartic about clearing the decks.  I'll try not to let the compulsion get out of hand...