Interview With 10 Year Old Matt

1. What is your favorite T.V. Show? Grizzy and the Lemmings

2. What did you have for breakfast? Cereal and yogurt.
3. What do you want to name your future son? Marek (I mean, I guess I can think of worse names. It's a Slavic name that means warlike one.)
4. Favorite Food? Cheeseburgers. But I do like everything.
5. What food do you dislike? Cooked broccoli.
6. What is your favorite color? Red.
7. Favorite lunch? Peanut butter and jelly.
8. What is your favorite thing to do? Reading or watching TV.
9. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would it be? Ireland.
10. Favorite sport? Football.
11. What do you want to name your future daughter? Leia. (Simply because he likes Star Wars. Every woman wants to be named after Princess Leia, I'm sure. Insert eyeroll.)
12. Are you a morning person or a night person? I'm a totally night person.
13. Pets? Tessie. Ollie. Hamilton.
14. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I have a new cousin named Sophie. She's my biological aunt's baby. (Awww. Cute.)
15. What do you want to be when you grow up? An actor.
16. What is your favorite candy? Lollipop.
17. Where is the farthest place you've ever been from home? Israel.
18. What is your favorite book? Star Wars books.
19. What are you most proud of? That I have a good family.
20. What is your favorite movie? Star Wars. The Force Awakens.
21. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The chicken.

And, for fun, I asked him the same questions that James Lipton asks at the end of Inside the Actor's Studio.

1. What is your favorite word? Word. (Er. Ok.)
2. What is your least favorite word? onomatopoeia (I asked him if he was serious and he said yes because it's hard to say)
3. What turns you on? (I rephrased with, "What do you like?") Going outside.
4. What turns you off? (I rephrased with, "What don't you like?") Bullies.
5. What sound or noise do you love? Tap dancing noises.
6. What sound or noise do you hate? Styrofoam 

7. What is your favorite curse word? Stupid.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? A director.
9. What profession would you not like to do? Be in the military.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? (I omitted the "If Heaven exists" part)? Your sister wants to see you. (Good thing this was the last question. I'm basically a puddle of goop now.)

Ten Years Old

Dear Matthew,

I hope you see this as a "Mom's been really busy with teaching and studying and chasing Will and I'm glad it was late instead of not at all" and not a, "Wow, guess she can't even remember when my birthday is" letter. I DO know when your birthday is. I bought cupcakes for school and we had a party and you had presents and everything. Remember? It happened. Six entire days ago BUT IT ALL HAPPENED.

Happy Birthday! You are, somehow, ten years old now. I guess an entire decade has gone by but I hardly comprehend how.

This past year was a pretty big one for you. You saw your birth parents and all your siblings this year. You hadn't seen your mom since you were just over a year old and you hadn't seen your dad since right after you turned two. I'm sure I've put it in writing somewhere before but I'll leave it here for you also. Our goal has always been to try to discern what is best for you right now AND what is best for you once you're an adult who very well may want to have all your parents and all your siblings in your life on a consistent basis. So we hope and pray that we're doing right by you now and we also hope that translates into healthy adult relationships with all of us. And so, of course we flew to Texas to attend your sister's graduation last June. And of course we welcomed your dad when he came to visit in November. It was a big year with big feelings and I hope you know how very much we all love you, how much we all loved you from the minute you came into our lives, and how much we will all love you forever.

You are so uniquely you. You're smart and hilarious and stunningly handsome. You just pulled straight A's except for a pesky little B in keyboarding. You got straight E's too. Well done, you. You love science and are so looking forward to 5th grade because you'll get to do a science experiment! (To anyone else who might read this, my son is a crazy person who hasn't yet realized that the science fair is the bane of all existence. BUT HOORAY FOR ENCOURAGING EXCITEMENT IN STEM MINDED KIDS!) Hey, Matt...you're STEM brained. I don't know what to do with that. We might need to hire a Standby Mom that we bring in to perform the role of Science and Math Mom.

"In tonight's performance, STEM Mom will be playing the part of Actual Mom."

Speaking of standbys, I DO know what to do with your love of acting and theatre and that is to FOSTER THE HECK OUT OF THAT PASSION. No, you can't have the agent you've been asking for since forever ago but you CAN come with me to see Wicked and I will for sure take you to the stage door to get pictures and autographs and I will direct you in church Christmas plays and I'll keep putting money in that NYC Trip Fund we started. I'm not sure about the Hamilton tickets you requested but time will tell.

Sports. I don't know, man. You keep trying new things, looking for your niche. This fall you tried taekwondo and you were doing really well. You loved it at first and then that kind of fizzled. You played a quick season of basketball and really seemed to enjoy it. Now you're signed back up for baseball. Here's to hoping you find something you really, truly love some day.

You continue to be a man of a few close friends. You're still quiet and reserved until you really get to know someone and then you turn into a total goofball. You love your alone time but you love being cozied up to the family for a movie night. You are complex in ways I am not and simple in ways I am not. You are introspective and brilliant. You adore Garrett--when you're not busy trying to fist fight him--and you're great with Will, who you love so deeply but who you also struggle to tolerate in all his two-ness.

I really can't believe you came shrieking into our lives an entire ten years ago. The only one to scream and scream and scream and refuse to be consoled and yet, the quietest one of the trio now. I had no idea what kind of adventure you were about to take us on. But I'm so thankful you landed here, in my arms. I cannot imagine life without you. Happy double digits dude.

Love,
Mom

That Girl

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.

It has everything to do with the fact that I saw Wicked three times on its current Salt Lake City run. (The first step is admitting you have a problem.) (Also, to defend myself, the first time was a gift to Matthew. The second time was a deeply discounted gift for a friend. The third time was her lottery winning gift back to me. So it isn't quite as bad as it sounds. Obsessive, yes. But less expensive.) These three times are in addition to the several times I'd already seen it in previous years.

If you've been reading this blog for a hot minute or two, you know that I looooove Idina Menzel. This deep affection began long before she originated the role of Elphaba. It began in my college dorm room in 1999 when I obtained the Rent cast album and declared my undying love for her right then and there. And so, of course, I was thrilled when she won the Tony for her portrayal of Elphaba, beating out, among others, her costar Kristen Chenoweth. 

Elphaba/Galinda. Glinda/Elphaba. (You see what I did there?) The roles are equally iconic. Until yesterday afternoon I believed that the Tony winning role--all else being equal--is Elphaba. And I suppose that I sort of still do. It's her story, really. She's the one who belts The Wizard and I, Defying Gravity, and No Good Deed all alone on stage. The role was written to earn the Tony.

Maybe it's the phenomenal performance by Kara Lindsay that got me. Maybe it's that I saw the show from the second row and that gave me a perspective on Glinda's character arc not afforded to anyone sitting beyond the first ten rows or so. But my goodness does Glinda ever grow. She is crazy and caffeinated and hysterical and snobby and awful but she is also incredibly tender and strong and beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful. She doesn't really get even one show stopping song. Popular is as close as she gets and, though arguably the funniest scene in the entire show, she still shares the spotlight with Elphaba. In fact, the only song Glinda sings alone on stage is the reprise of I'm Not That Girl. 

And so Elphaba wins the Tony (and I'm not complaining because Idina slays). But she wins it for her vocal solos and the fact that it's called Wicked instead of Good. I have long loved Elphie. So much so that I named my cat after her before finding out that our cat was actually a boy kitty and changing his name right quick to Oliver. But I finally realized that Glinda is, maybe, (I struggle to even put it in words) the more challenging role. GASP.

Or Kara brought a depth to it I've never seen before. It's one or the other. (That's not to say that Jackie Burns--who I have also long loved--didn't absolutely bring down the house. She's amazing. Incredible. A joy to watch and listen to. Stunning and phenomenal.)

During the past three weeks, I have become one sidedly acquainted with Ms. Lindsay.  She seems like such a true delight. I'm 99% certain that we would be fast friends. I am not so certain that Idina would want to be my pal but I honestly believe that, if I ran in Broadway circles or Kara was a teacher at my school, we'd be instant buddies. In an interview, she said that she leaves her dressing room door open so that anyone who wants to can come in. She also said she believes that the relationships forged offstage inform the performances onstage. I love both of those statements so much--from a teaching perspective, from a ministry perspective, from a life perspective.

Yesterday, I was telling my husband that I really see so much of Elphaba and Glinda in my own personality. Maybe everyone does. Perhaps that's the point. Or, perhaps, it's somewhat unique to me and that's why I have loved this musical so much for the past 15 years. Somehow along the way though, I've lost a lot of that Glinda spunk. I miss her. I told him that I wanted to pull out that buried part of my personality--to live naturally caffeinated, to not be quite so reserved or rigid. I suppose it's the teacher and mother in me. If I had to choose between Glinda and Elphaba to raise my children or teach my classes, I'd pick Elphaba every time. Flying broomstick notwithstanding.

I told him I was tired of being a toad. (I'm not comparing Elphaba to a toad in any way except skin color.)

But Glinda has more fun. She may lose the guy but does she ever HAVE MORE FUN. And better costumes. I want a big blue ballgown. And a crown. Or, at the very least, I want to find that part of my personality that would wear a ballgown and a crown. I want to dig up that girl who doesn't worry quite so much, the one who knows what she wants and goes for it, the one who doesn't win a Tony but maybe plays the more challenging part. The soprano. (Just kidding. I am unapologetically an alto. Or a tenor, probably.)

Glinda takes care of serious business in the end. She is a strong, good leader, but she still comes and goes by bubble. She seems to be the very best parts of herself and Elphaba. She doesn't win the Tony. But, by the end of the show, I don't think she cares.

Excuse Me, Sir!

Shall I regale you with the story of tonight? My friend, Abi and I were downtown. We parked in a spot that said 2 hour parking and we walked off. Fast forward about a half hour. We returned just in time to see a meter man walking away from my van--which was sporting a shiny white ticket under the wiper blade. We were so confused. Both of us are college educated women and we've both been reading for several decades. We approached the vehicle and stared at the parking sign. It said two hour parking. It did state, toward the bottom, that Saturdays were free but that was it. Not being a frequent visitor of downtown Salt Lake, I, apparently, do not know how these things work.

I've seen many a movie where the ingenue gets pulled over but talks her way out of the ticket. Since there was truly no ill intent and I was honestly confused, I decided to try my hand at getting out of the ticket. I chased the meter man down the road. "Excuse me, sir! Sir! Excuse me. Excuse me, sir, I have a question."

I was ready. I was ready to turn on any charm I might have. I was ready to explain my utter confusion and, thus, my innocence. I was ready to put the ole theatre degree to work if need be. "Sir!" The meter man turned toward me, clearly annoyed.

It was at that moment, after howling the word SIR several times, that I realized my big mistake. It was most assuredly a meter MAID (or a female parking enforcement officer if we're being PC). And she was not happy that I'd just called her a dude multiple times. She stared at me.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I only saw your hat!" And any hopes I had of getting out of that ticket were scattered on the cold sidewalk. No amount of charm would get me out of this one. I still sort of feebly tried but to zero avail.

And listen, I know she was ticked because I'd questioned her femininity but she was wearing her standard uniform plus a gray beanie. She had NO hair whatsoever poking out in any direction. Sure, women have short hair. That's cool. But maybe a pink hat or a purple one? Something that would otherwise identify her as woman so that the poor unsuspecting ingenue of the story didn't accidentally and completely insult her.

So the moral of this story is Salt Lake City needs to be infinitely clearer with its parking signs and, also, that one should correctly identify the gender of the parking enforcement officer BEFORE screaming sir.

As a result of my failure to sweet talk my way out of it tonight, I am now raising money to help pay for my parking ticket. If you found any humor in this post, please send me a quarter via Paypal or Venmo.

JUST KIDDING, of course. About the Paypal/Venmo thing. Everything else is, sadly, quite true.

Yeti Jammies

It was a Thursday morning in Walmart. The youngest boy and I had just gathered several items, checked them out ourselves, and were heading out of the self-check area when we noticed a small boy wearing what we call Yeti Jammies. Will owns said pair of pajamas with snow monsters on them.

Will: He has my yeti jammies.

Me: Yes. He does have your jammies.

Will: He give them back?

Me: Oh, Honey, no. He has the same jammies. Those aren't yours. Yours are at home.

Will: He went into the laundry and took them?

Me: No. Those are his. Yours are still at home.

Will: He came into my house and took my yetis? 

None of this was said with any malice. He truly just assumed the baby, who looked like he was just shy of a year old, broke into our house to lift one blanket sleeper. He never raised his voice but instead kept talking in a normal, albeit slightly concerned, tone.

Me: He has his own. Those are not yours.

Will: Can I get them back from him ever?

Me: Will. I promise that your jammies are safe at home. I will show you when we get there.

At this point, I told the mom of the other boy that my son couldn't understand why her little boy was wearing his pajamas. She smiled and laughed and then pushed her cart, her kid, and his yeti jammies off in another direction.

Will: Wait! He still has my yetis on!

Me: Ok. Baby. I promise to show you your jammies as soon as we get home.

The entire way to the car, he calmly explained to me that the little boy still had his jammies and he had obviously stolen them from our home and he would like them back at some point. There was no reasoning with him. When I got home, the first thing I did was run up to his room. I opened his pajama drawer and...

THE YETI JAMMIES WERE NOT THERE.

I panicked briefly before remembering that they were in the dryer. I ran down and pulled them out.

Me: Will, look! Here are your yeti jammies.

Will: Oh! He already bringed them back! He is a nice boy.

Sigh.

The Tailor's Wife

Olive wood crosses scattered themselves across the walls. Pictures of family members--probably dead and gone--stood in cheap frames on the shelf. It was busy with figurines depicting biblical stories. The smell was something I cannot place but which immediately catapulted me back into my Israel days. Walking in to the alterations shop was exactly like walking into a business in the Holy Land. The sign says, Tailor Ibrahim from Bethlehem. He wears his homeland like a badge of honor.

Israel is somehow a swirl of foreign and comfortable, different and right. There are moments of longing to be home while simultaneously knowing that you already are. I do not know if it is this way for an unbeliever who finds herself there on holiday. But for me, it was as if my soul understood its connection to this place. As though the Spirit inside me was somehow pleased to be home, standing on hallowed ground. Truly, and inexplicably, I find myself longing to be there for always. Oh, to plant my feet in the Galilee, to wander the city streets of Old Jerusalem, to explore its beauty both assaulted by Antiquity and, seemingly, somehow, touched by nothing but the glorious hand of God. You cannot know until you have been there. You cannot understand the way it instantly pumps wonder and joy into your very life blood. I did not know I would love the Holy Land. And yet, I have never met a person who has been there who did not return home feeling as though they would always sense a magnetic pull back to land of our Savior.

It is why I can watch a video of Jewish women making challah bread and believe that, though I cannot understand a word they're saying, they are somehow speaking my native tongue. It is why I can walk into a tailor on State Street in Midvale, Utah and, somehow, want to stand inside forever. It looked like Bethlehem. It smelled like Bethlehem. Its people were Bethlehem.

Troy had dropped his pants off there a few days before and he told me about talking to the wife about the church in Shepherd's Field, his tours to Israel, and his love for the country. I wanted to go with him to pick them up. As he tried his pants on in a small, makeshift, dressing room, I stood staring at the pieces on the walls. I was taken back to the olive wood shop we have given our business to in Bethlehem. Aside from the sewing machines and row of pants hanging on a garment rack waiting to be altered, everything felt so very similar to those souvenir shops.

"Do you have children?" the tailor's wife asked me. I told her we had three. "How old are they?"

"Twelve, nine, and our youngest, he's two.

"A boy?" she clarified, her eyes beginning to sparkle.

"Yes. They're all boys," I answered.

When I tell people that I have three boys, I am generally met with a look of deep pity. Often I am asked if we're going to try for that girl. Occasionally, I've even gotten an I'm sorry. Several times I have had people say, I'm so glad I got girls. I don't even know what I would have done with boys. Or, I never could have handled boys--as though they are a wild creature in need of immediate taming. This is the western world's response.

But this Palestinian Christian from Bethlehem widened her eyes, "Oooohhhh," she somehow whispered as she inhaled, a quiet breath of excitement. A smile of awe tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Three boys! The Lord has truly blessed you." This is a Middle Eastern response--the reply of a land where boys have, traditionally, meant everything. It stood in stark contrast to the sad sighs of people who see my family and shake their heads, sorry that one of them is not a girl. It was beautiful to my heart.

In 2005, on my first trip to Israel, I crumpled a small piece of paper into a tiny ball and stuck it deep inside a hole in the Western Wall. It was a prayer, the deepest cry of my heart. Oh, that the Lord would give me a child. Standing in that land, with its foreign sights and smells, its unfamiliar culture, its ancient customs, I somehow believed that if I could just get that prayer into the depths of that wall, it would be answered. I was Hannah. I was Rachel. I was Elizabeth.

The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. Not one time. Not two times. Three beautiful times. It was not easy. Not a single one of them came to me without tears--enough to fill many bottles. Still, out of that adversity came these men. I believe that all children are a magnificent blessing from the Lord. I would have liked to have had a daughter. I miss her so. But I do not need or want pitied glances. The Lord has truly blessed me. He has given me boys.

I could have stood in that shop forever, maybe, listening to the lilt of their accents, smelling the flavors of Bethlehem, feeling that connection to a land that is somehow Home, my heart dancing in the blessing of a woman who looked upon me with joy.

Psalm 127:3 Sons are indeed a heritage from the LORD, children, a reward. (HCSB)

The Real Point of This Post...

I've seen Wicked way too many times. That didn't stop me from trekking downtown yesterday at 4:00 pm, in a blizzard, to try to get lottery tickets to see it again. I was unlucky. Although, they did call a Laura Burham and I held my breath for a second because, see, I'd waited in the freezing cold so when I wrote my name down on the card, my hand was numb and I thought, "Maybe I accidentally wrote something that looked like Laura Burham." But then the real Laura Burham started screaming and hooting and hollering so I was pretty confident that she was the actual winner. After the lottery, they offered discounted tickets.

Now, being a bit of a theatre connoisseur, I knew that if I wanted to buy tickets at full price right now (I don't) they'd be a pretty penny. I also knew that the good evil people of Salt Lake City are selling their tickets online for three times what they paid for them. So when they offered discounted tickets, I jumped on that deal. And that is how I ended up seeing Wicked again. Three days after I'd just seen it. It's kind of like going to see a movie more than once. If movies cost a whole hefty bunch more than they do, that is.

One of my biggest life laments is the cost of shows. Or maybe the lament is that I'm not wealthy. If I had more money, the cost of shows would be completely inconsequential. Well, that's neither here nor there. Shows are expensive and my wallet is slim. The end.

I just really felt that if Laura Burham got to see the show last night, I should too. And I'd driven through a crazy snowstorm to get there. So my friend and I graced the theatre (this particular one which happens to spell itself "theater" and I shudder whenever I see it) and I viewed the musical yet again.

On my way there, though, I thought about turning back several times. I prayed even, as I saw cars stuck in snow banks on the side of the road, "God, should I turn back?" In the absence of a clear answer, I just kept driving. I called Troy, "Husband, should I turn back?" He told me he thought it would be smooth sailing once I made it to the freeway. And he was right. But I said, "Okay, well, if I happen to die on my way there, I love you."

"At least if you die, it'll be doing something you love," he replied.

Except that I'm not sure that driving through the snow to try to win theatre lottery tickets is actually what I love. Now, if I'd been in the show and a lighting fixture had fallen on my head, then maybe we could say that I died doing something I love.

It was at 3:15 pm that I said to my husband something along the lines of, "I think I'll set out in this blizzard and try to get Wicked tickets for tonight. I'll be gone until 11:30 tonight and I'm leaving you with a sick toddler, mmmkay?"

And he was like, "Be safe. Turn around if you don't feel comfortable. Call me if you need help getting out of a snow bank. Have fun."

It was at 5:30 that I texted him and basically said, "I didn't win because I am not one bit lucky when it comes to winning theatre lottery tickets but they're offering discounted tickets which are way more than lottery tickets but also way less than actual tickets so is it okay if I go ahead and do it?"

And he was like, "Sure. Yes."

Ladies, find yourself a man like this. My husband isn't perfect and sure there are things I would change. Just like I'm sure that he wouldn't mind one bit if I didn't sing show tunes all the time. But he is always willing to support me even if he doesn't quite get it. I'm sure that driving downtown in the snow to see a show I saw three days ago seemed insane to him. But he never said no. He never cautioned me against it. He basically said, "Be safe. Have fun."

I told him he was great last night. It doesn't hurt to say it again, more publicly.

But the real point of this post is that there's someone living in my city with the name Laura Burham and she likes theatre. I don't know if Salt Lake is big enough for the two of us.

Both Sides Now

I think that I think about her all the time. When I see the bouncing raven curls of a child suspended between toddler and little girl, she is there. When I stare into the deep chocolate pools of her brother's eyes, I imagine her there. When I wander through the purple frills and pink lace, rows of dresses she'll never wear, even then, she is there, at my side. For brief moments, her tiny hand slides into mine and we walk together. I see her. I feel her.

I think that not a day goes by when she isn't on my mind.

But I am wrong.

There are times and moments where I long to be in San Diego so that I can stop by and wipe the dirt from her grave marker. I'd say hello to the girl who isn't really there and leave a flower. There are days when I hate being so far away.

Still.

We were just in San Diego for Christmas. I thought about going on Friday because we were nearby but I didn't because I knew her daddy would want to go and he wasn't there yet. I thought about going on the way home from the airport on Sunday--just her daddy and me. But the flight was late and the cemetery was closed.

And then it was Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and the day after Christmas and in all the celebrating and all the festivities, I didn't think about going. None of us did. I stared at the stockings and wished there was one more to be counted, but I didn't think of the cemetery. Later, on Friday, we were close by once again and it would have been the easiest of things to drive over. I even commented, staring at my niece and my son fishing together, that she should have been standing there too. I thought about her. Still, I somehow forgot to go to her.

I forgot until the middle of the following week. We were already back in Utah. The boys were getting ready for school and Troy was getting ready for work. I was being lazy, buried under the warmth of the covers. Suddenly, like when the mom in Home Alone finally realizes she's left Kevin at home, it washed over me like a wave.

I hadn't gone to my daughter's grave.

My parents are so, so good to her. They frequently leave flowers or holiday decorations. They acknowledge the day her body came into the world. They make every effort to show us that they count her as equal to their five other grandchildren. And I didn't go to my daughter's grave.

When this wave of realization and grief washed over me, I was hysterical. 

I felt like a terrible parent. Who forgets to visit her child? WHO DOES THAT? All I could think about was how I needed to go right that second--but, of course, I couldn't. So instead, I pulled the covers over my head and sobbed. 

I know that she is not there. I know that it doesn't make a bit of difference to her if we visit the cemetery every day or never, but it matters to me. In the realization that I'd remembered until I'd forgotten, came the awareness that time heals. 

In many ways, I suppose that I don't want to be healed.

I don't want to reach a place where I don't see her in the face of a stranger or hear her in the echo of a transcendent giggle. She is only as tangible as our memories--all the things imagined as we waited for her. It is strange, the way grief ebbs and flows. In the busyness of Christmas joy, the tide washed out. Then all at once, it rolled back in, reminding me of what I've lost.

Four years.

It takes four years to forget to go to the cemetery. 

Four years.

And there are still days I sob hysterically.

My goodness, do I ever miss what I never had.

Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

-Joni Mitchell

Remembering Kathryn (Kate) Ella-Grace who was born into the arms of Jesus on January 19, 2015, just seven and a half weeks before her due date.

Love Is...

The other day, my toddler looked up at me and, in his adorable little voice, said, "Mommy, I love you too much." It's a thing he occasionally says because, apparently, he thinks the words too and so are interchangeable. I often tell him that I love him so much. He returns the sentiment by telling me that he loves me too much.

It melts my heart.

But, in order to keep me humble I guess, he got mad at me a few hours later and shouted, "Mom! I don't love you!" Thinking (hoping!) that I'd heard him wrong because he's two and not fifteen, I repeated it.

"You don't love me?"

"No! I don't love you. I'm fwustwated!"

Well.

Toddlers are tyrants. And also they are adorable and fun and hysterical. Sometimes they love and sometimes they try to wound with words. They're kind of a coin toss.

I Never Expected to Live This Long

2018 was not the Year of Writing. This blog fell by the side of the road as we whizzed through the year, running here and there and everywhere. When my older boys were very small humans, I used to wish they would stay small forever while simultaneously praying that they would grow up just a little bit because there were certainly days that seemed long and hard. I look back on those charmed years where our commitments were limited to park play dates and church chili cook offs and I wish we could return to them. The truth is, motherhood just gets more intense with each passing year. Life really does begin to be measured in report cards, baseball games, science fair projects, taekwondo classes, and rare nights at home. I can't imagine how fast it will all seem when I have teenagers--and a little one, still. It is exactly what we signed up for. It is beautiful and exhausting and there isn't much time for writing.

Which is a cryin' shame because my toddler is maybe the funniest person on the planet right now. All toddlers are hilarious but our extremely verbal one leaves us in stitches regularly.

There was nothing life altering or earth shattering in our family this year. And so I look back on it, smile and nod. It was a year. The kids grew and changed and turned more into the people they will become. But I have noticed something.

I have noticed that I am no longer young. The groove in my forehead, just above my nose, is deeper. The bags under my eyes are darker and more wrinkly--especially in the morning. I am not old. But I am not young. It has been nearly 20 years since I graduated from high school.

And sometimes I feel like I should still be there, laughing with my friends, only vaguely recognizing the future years that will come and go like the tide.

Today, I watched as an old man walked past a baby. The child was in the front of a cart and, as he passed, the man reached out and gently tickled the baby. He never slowed his already slow pace. He just touched the little one as he shuffled past. I saw this and wondered about the very old. They seem to be drawn, intensely, to the very young. As I watched, I wondered. Do they, without even really thinking about it, long to connect, for just a single moment, with a beginning? Do they, without even really thinking about, feel the inevitable winding down of their own lives?

My grandfather will be 92 soon. As he walked out the door after we'd celebrated Christmas together, he looked at me and said, "I never expected to live this long." In some ways, I suppose that's true for me. That forehead groove will be something else if I live another 55 years. And yet, I cannot imagine not living to be 92. There is so much more I want to do and see and be.

I have noticed that my oldest boy is standing on the edge of childhood. The ground has been covered. There is not much left to traverse. It is behind him. Ahead is the true test of his character. Who will he become? What will he become? For Christmas, as a quick little add on gift, I bought him a travel case full of Axe products. I thought he might roll his eyes at me. You got me body wash and deodorant spray? Golly gee, thanks, Ma." Instead, he insisted on taking a shower as soon as we were done so that he could try it out. Then he made me carve out a spot under the sink just for his Axe products. And I thought, he wants to smell good. I'm trying with all my might to embrace this new season of our lives together. I can't seem to slow the hands of time, no matter how hard I try.

In the absence of time for writing, I have noticed laughter and tears. I have responded to anguished texts of a friend's marriage falling apart. I have thought of my own marriage and how we're never promised another tomorrow. If not destruction, perhaps death. So I cling, more tightly now, to my own. An entire life--and the lives of three children--are woven so deeply through the core of that man that I don't even know where he begins and I leave off. 

I have prayed for friends and the tiny child of a friend who have heard and responded to that dreaded word...cancer. I have prayed for friends over their children's diagnoses...autism spectrum disorder. And yet, in all of that, I have laughed until I cried and thanked the Lord for friendships, humor, and blessings.

We never know what tomorrow will bring. Joy. Grief. Blessings. Sorrow. 

But I have noticed that we look back, on December 31, and judge a year when, in reality, tomorrow is just another day. We are only one day older. Nothing much will have changed for most of us. 11:59 turns to 12:00 and the world keeps spinning. Still, it seems just as good a time as any to reflect. I predict that my life will only get busier and crazier in the coming year. My babies will keep growing, Lord willing, until one of them turns into a teenager, one of them turns into a three-year-old, and one of them remains in that sweet spot between toddler and teen. My marriage, Lord willing, will only get stronger. But, perhaps, as the groove on my head deepens, I will linger longer near that baby in the cart, soaking up her fresh beginning, as I discover the years between brand new and I never expected to live this long.

Merry Christmas

And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:10-12)

This day. There is happiness found in the traditions, in the delicious foods, in the faces of our children, in the time spent with family. But the joy, the true reason we celebrate, comes from the Gift sent to us--the Babe born to die-- for you and for me.

Merry Christmas to you all. "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased." (Luke 2:14)

The Tale of Two Fingers

It's been twelve days since I've been flipped off by an angry driver. This is noteworthy because, in 21 years of driving, I had previously been flipped off exactly twice. Once was at a gas station. I was a teenager and I still don't know what I could have possibly done, AT A GAS STATION, to warrant such behavior from a middle aged woman. It bothered me for far too long.

I don't recall the details of the second event but I was in my twenties and I probably accidentally cut the guy off. Or something. I don't know. It also bothered me for far too long so the fact that I cannot remember the details is actually a blessing for this obsessive individual.

Twelve days ago, I got the bird. But the weird thing is, just four days prior, I'd also been flipped off. After two middle fingers in 21 years of having a license, I got two more. IN FOUR DAYS. And the real kicker is that I have ABSOLUTELY no idea WHATSOEVER why either man felt the need to display his longest finger angrily in my direction.

The first situation occurred on a Wednesday. I was driving my oldest and his best friend from one extracurricular activity to another. They were in the back of the van laughing and talking and were oblivious to the whole ordeal. It was dark. I changed lanes (to a slower lane) to get onto a different freeway. The ONLY thing I can think of is that, perhaps, I was going slower than the car coming up behind me and this sent him into a state of anger reserved for only the greatest of all atrocities. I used my blinker. I checked my blind spot. I changed lanes safely. I was driving the speed limit, if not slightly faster. As I drove on in this particular lane, a truck pulled up beside me and laid on the horn for far too long. It startled me and I jumped. I thought the guy was honking at someone else (because, again with the, NO IDEA WHAT I COULD HAVE DONE thing) but he stared me down when I glanced at him so I quickly deduced that he was honking at me. He went on his merry angry way and I kept driving.

I took my exit onto the other freeway and continued to drive. About three minutes later, I began to pull up on the left hand side of a truck that was slowing down to exit. I'd moved on and didn't even realize this was Honky Truck. That is, until the driver leaned his entire upper body out of his window and began slamming the outside of his car door with his fist. He screamed at me. His face was, perhaps, the angriest face I've ever seen. Finally, after several fist punches to his car door, he jerked his hand up and stood his middle finger straight into the air. As though that wasn't enough, he reached his arm as far out of his window as he could as I passed by.

I couldn't imagine what I had done to warrant such behavior.

The following Sunday, after Troy discussed the above mentioned situation in a sermon (although he very politely omitted the flipping off portion of the event), I was driving home from church. It was broad daylight. I was not on a freeway. I was driving along minding my own business. My boys were in the back. I was in the faster of the two lanes and changed into the right lane a good and safe distance ahead of a truck pulling a horse trailer. I continued driving the speed limit, if not slightly faster. A minute or so later, we came up to a light. Behind me, I noticed that the truck and trailer moved into the left lane. We continued on. The truck changed lanes ahead of me, back into the right lane. Just ahead, he slowed to turn right. As he pulled into a turn lane, I passed by. Just as I passed, he stuck his left hand out his window and flipped me off.

"What is happening?" I yelled out to no one in particular.

"What happened?" Garrett asked.

"That guy just flipped me off," I told him.

"What? Why?" Matthew asked.

"I DON'T KNOW!"

When we got home, I had the boys run inside to get Troy--who had gotten home ahead of us with Will. He came out.

"Can you walk around the car and make sure there's nothing written on the back that says, 'Flip me off!'" There wasn't, of course, and I haven't been flipped the bird since. My name is Lori and I have been bird free for twelve days. (Hi, Lori.)

I have thought extensively about both middle finger experiences and I have no clue what I could have possibly done--in either situation--to warrant such angry expression of hostility. In my 21 years of driving, I have never once flipped off another vehicle. How mad does someone have to be? And if I've made someone that upset, shouldn't I have the slightest clue as to why?

As we approach this Christmas season, may we remember to take deep breaths, be kind, and reserve our middle fingers for people who talk loudly during theatrical productions. I'm just kidding. Keep your middle fingers down in all circumstances. Remember that Jesus came as a little tiny baby in a feeding trough so that He could one day die for our anger and our middle fingers. Treat one another with compassion and love.

Merry Christmas!

Little Sino

Last weekend, I had a few women over to watch a movie and eat too much. I was having a particularly difficult time getting Will to go to sleep because SNACKS and PEOPLE. He pulled out all the stops. He needed a drink. He needed to be rocked. He needed his foot scratched and his head rubbed and his tummy tickled. He needed his blankets to be different. Nope. Wait. They were better the first time. It was ridiculous. Finally, he asked me to sing to him.

"Sing Little Sino," he said. And he pronounced it sigh-no.

What? I thought and my brain worked double time to try to figure out what in the world he was asking for. I asked him if he meant this song and I asked him if he meant that song.

"No. Little Sino."

"Does Daddy sing it to you?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. But Daddy wasn't home so that was hardly helpful. His frustration built because I simply couldn't figure it out. I could almost see him thinking, I cannot communicate what I mean and it is breaking my heart. I told him I'd be right back and I went down the stairs. One of my friends watches Will on Tuesdays and another one watches him on Wednesdays. They both happened to be at my house.

"Do you have any idea what Little Sino is?" I asked.

"Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star?" One of them asked, "That's what I sing to him."

"I turn on the radio," the other one replied. Neither of them had any other guesses. I figured I'd try Twinkle, Twinkle. Up the stairs I went. I began to sing and he didn't stop me so we assumed we'd figured it out.

Fast forward to the next night. He requested Little Sino again and I immediately launched into Twinkle, Twinkle.

"NO! LITTLE SINO!" he shouted.

"Oh. Is this not Little Sino, then?"

"No," he sighed. "Sing Little Sino, pwease."

Just then Matthew walked by his door. (He'd been in the basement playing video games the previous night.) "Hey, Matt, come in here." He walked in. "Do you have ANY idea what Little Sino is? He wants me to sing Little Sino and I just...I don't know what it is."

"Ummm," he thought for approximately three seconds and then he began to sing, "Jesus loves me, this I know."

"YEAH!" Will screamed.

Little ones to him belong= Little. This I know= Sino.

And there we have it folks. I've always referred to that song as Jesus Love Me but it is, in fact, Little Sino. Or at least, it probably will be to our family for a good long while.

"I Tan't. I'm Busy."

"I tan't. I'm busy!" he told me when I asked him to calm down. While this child may never be a Rhodes Scholar or graduate as valedictorian of his class, Will is smart as a whip. When he told me he was busy, he wasn't referring to his own jam-packed schedule. He was citing Merriam-Webster's second definition of the word. "Full of activity: bustling." He was using it negatively, as the reason he couldn't possibly comply with my request.

The Internet, keeper of all knowledge, says that, "By age 3, a toddler's vocabulary usually is 200 or more words, and many kids can string together three-or four-word sentences." Will is most definitely in the "or more" category of three year olds and he won't even be two and a half until December. As for stringing together three or four word sentences, well, he speaks in paragraphs. But beyond that, he understands concepts and ideas. The concept of busyness, for example, isn't lost on him.

I'll readily admit that this started with me. From the moment Will could crawl, he demonstrated an energy that seemed almost inhuman. It's an energy found in monkeys swinging endlessly from tree to tree or modeled, perhaps, in a battery that outlasts the rest. I have often joked that we could power our entire house using just Will and I've long mentioned his hyperactivity as a sort of preemptive apology. It was one thing when he was one and had no idea what the heck I was talking about. But it's become clear to me that he's simply too smart for me to continue using this kind of language around him. And, perhaps because I have made so many comments, it's become the common rhetoric of others. (Although, complete strangers have also felt the need to inform me that my child is "busy" as if this was information that had somehow escaped my attention.)

If he's able to use it as an excuse, he's definitely able to understand that comments about his energy and his busyness are said, at least 99% of the time, as a negative--as though there is something wrong with him. The most common thing I've heard (over and over and over and over and over again) is that people just don't know how we do it. My perceived implication of this is that Will is so exhausting that people have no clue how we could possibly deal with him all day every day.

Like I said before, this started with me and I take full credit for leading the charge when it comes to joking around about Will's energy. Even today, even after I've made a conscious effort to not make such comments around him, I said, "You're a maniac." Granted, he was long past nap time and zooming around my school like the Energizer Bunny on an upper, but still. I need to check myself and my language because he is so intuitive and also, he is not a maniac. He is not a person exhibiting extreme symptoms of wild behavior, especially when violent and dangerous.

Will has a lot of energy. I'm not in denial about that at all. He very well may receive a hyperactive diagnosis at some point in the future. But I do not want him defined by that. I do not want him to use it as an excuse because he's been overwhelmed by the sheer number of times it's been said to him. We are learning, through research and trial and error, that Will is incredibly sensitive to sugar and probably red dye. We're trying to limit his intake of both, and up his protein, and we've seen improvement in his ability to focus and respond.

As for how we "deal with him all day every day" well, we don't. We GET to have him in our lives. Are we tired by the end of the day? Yes, indeed. But we were tired at the end of the day with our other boys, too. When you have held a stillborn baby and you beg the Lord to bless you with another child--one whose heart is beating--you try not to complain when that child rarely stops moving.

This is by no means meant as an attempt to call anyone out. If you've talked to me about how busy or crazy or maniacal Will is, you're in good company. His own parents are the former presidents of that particular club. It's just meant to explain why we will be trying not to use that kind of language moving forward. He's too smart and I believe that it will soon begin to define his self worth.

Will is JOY. He wakes up with the biggest smile and a, "Hello, Mommy!" ready to face the day that he seems so eager to experience. Sometimes, it is as though he is just so thankful to be alive. I can't help but wonder if he just feels the need to soak it all in at once. We will be his advocates in all things. For us, it happens to be starting at age two. This is why, when we receive comments about difficulty in parenting him, we will respond with positive language, reflecting the fact that we are blessed, every day, by the amazing kid God gave us.

"He's so busy."

"He does have a zest for life."

"I just don't know how you do it..."

"We count it all joy."

Toddler Talk

I used to blog all the hilarious things my toddlers would say. Then they grew up, got busy, I got a job, and I abandoned my blog like one of those creepy, old, empty amusement parks. But I have another toddler now. This toddler was talking well before either of his brothers ever did. He speaks in full sentences and paragraphs which means that he often says hilarious and also adorable things.

Will is obsessed with this old stethoscope we have. I just had shoulder surgery and he likes to bring the stethoscope in and listen to my chest to make sure my shoulder is okay. Or something. Troy and I were discussing that we want to get him a doctor's kit for Christmas. That made me think that Will probably doesn't remember Christmas from last year and certainly doesn't remember Santa.

"Hey Will," I said. "Do you know who Santa Claus is?"

He paused, looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Um. Mommy."

He had absolutely no idea what he was saying but I laughed out loud. It was so funny. I'm guessing that with big brothers refusing to sit on Santa's lap, this little one might have some questions about the validity of Santa. He may not last too long but I sure hope we get to do Santa for the next couple of years.

Last night, he was being naughty at the table. I wish I could say this was an isolated incident but we're raising some combination of Dennis the Menace and every Little Rascal. I asked him what would happen if he didn't stop. "Mommy will slam my face into computer."

His big brothers erupted into hysterics. One of them informed Will that I'm not violent. I was glad for the support. I repeated my question and he said some other outlandish abusive thing that I might try. I wish I could remember what it was. I have no idea where he came up with any of it. Mommy has never ever, not once, slammed anyone's face into her computer.

His voice is so sweet and has the most precious cadence to it. I mean, sometimes it's whiny without intention and often it's whiny because he's two but the rest of the time it's just straight up adorable.