Tag Archives: raising children

I lost it

With a month left of his high school career, my Boy Wonder was swamped with papers for several of his college classes. Unfortunately he had to skip out on a family outing to support my mini-me at a volleyball tournament. When we returned home from the day’s games, he informed us he had a lump on his leg that concerned him, and he had called the Ask-A-Nurse number for advice.

Insert screeching halt sound effects – Do what? You have a lump? You called Ask-A-Nurse? Since when do teenage boys call Ask-A-Nurse? Is my boy now a man? Do I have to change his pseudonym from Boy Wonder to my Superman?

After all those swirling thoughts calmed in my brain, we dissected the advice given by the voice on the other end of the line. He needed to get in as soon as possible. We made an appointment, not too worried because cysts have become a routine part of his story since the bus crash. I have lost count of the number of those that have had to be surgically removed. The one that required a delicate three hour procedure definitely hasn’t been forgotten.

Our meeting with our family doctor did not go at all how I had expected. After examination, he gave us four possibilities: a hematoma, a cyst, a benign fatty tumor, or a cancerous tumor. At that last one, I think I began having heart palpitations. Due to the size of the lump, he lowered another blow. My kids adore our family doctor, but his best advice was he was not the doctor we needed. A surgeon was required. I don’t care that my children have had over 25 surgeries in the last seven years. I turn to mush every time the “s” word is uttered. I am so tired of my children hurting.

The meeting with the surgeon came the day before the prom, and I was hoping that if a procedure was needed we could, at least, let him enjoy the final dance of his high school years. I never in a million years imagined what happened next. The doctor quickly ruled out the hematoma and the fatty tumor, and really didn’t think it was a cyst. He then went on to say that the lump was presenting as sarcoma.

The Boy Wonder was fast and furious taking notes on his phone so that he could do some more research later. Have I mentioned lately that he hopes to become a doctor? While he went into future physician mode, I wanted to ball up on the floor in the fetal position. I fought back the tears in my eyes and tried (very unsuccessfully) to be brave for my son.

Miraculously, the MRI machine was currently empty, and we jumped at the chance to get a diagnosis sooner rather than later. After about a half hour, the technician came out and asked if I was “the mom”. She then explained how the radiologist didn’t like the images and had asked for a dye injection. She assured me that the procedure would take only fifteen more minutes. Are you kidding me, lady? I would wait until kingdom come if needed for my son.

Fifteen minutes it was not. Forty-five minutes later, he emerged famished and eager to get back to school. We got into the car, and my steely resolve vanished rapidly. I tried to ask if he was okay, when he noticed the tears in my eyes.

All I could get out was “we’ve come so far”. I didn’t have to say anything more. He knew what I meant. He was weeks away from graduating from high school and clearly more than ready to spread his wings to soar. A diagnosis of cancer would change all that. Not to mention the surgeon’s words echoing in my head, “if it is sarcoma, then we wouldn’t be able to operate in that location”. Oh sweet Jesus, please let this cup pass our family. I lost it.

My incredible son looked me in the eyes and these are the words he said . . .

Oh momma, don’t cry. I don’t think it is sarcoma. I just don’t feel it is. Mom, I get it. You are worried, but here is what I know: there isn’t a challenge I have met in life that I couldn’t handle.

Although I was momentarily reassured, my thoughts kept running away from me again. When did he grow up? When did he stop being my little boy and become a man ready to make more of a difference in this world than he already has? When did he become the comforter?

The next few days were agonizing. We told only a handful of friends and asked them to pray. We plastered smiles on our faces, and we pressed on. We pretended that our insides weren’t melting to goo, our crisis survival skills weren’t kicking into high gear, and our thoughts weren’t questioning if we could endure another blow. Lots of prayers were sent heavenward. Memories replayed an MPR show from winter stating that 1 in 2 Minnesotans will be touched by cancer in their lifetimes. One in two? And very little sleep transpired.

The call finally came five days later. (In their defense, there was a weekend in there.) The radiologist found that it was NOT sarcoma (THANK YOU, GOD!). I only heard very little of the rest of what the nurse explained. The name of the diagnosis was extremely long and basically may or may not go away on its own. It will need to be watched, but it won’t take my son’s life.

After spending some time on my knees, my heart began to take its own roller coaster ride. As much as I wanted to celebrate, I couldn’t because my heart hurt for the mommas (and daddies) of the world who wouldn’t be receiving the same good news we did. They would be gearing up for the fight of a life (literally), and they would be enduring sleepless nights, searching for countless hours to find ways to help their child, fielding phone calls and e-mails and texts from well-meaning friends who have offers of miracle cures, and learning just how powerless they really are when it comes to their child’s health. All the while, they will be savoring each day, each moment, and sometimes each breath they have with their child. They will celebrate milestones and will put on plastered smiles and will cry in the hospital corridors and elevators so as not to scare their child and will do anything to make it a good day for their sweet babes. My heart cried out for them all.

Sometimes, I think God gives me these moments to remind me of those who so desperately need my prayers because I know firsthand how such prayers can give you that extra ounce of energy to take the next step forward. Prayers have bolstered my family in the darkest moments of our journey. A literal life line! I know I haven’t reminded us of this in a while, but please, please, PLEASE hug your kids tonight and be thankful for every day you have with them.

Here’s to you . . .

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Yesterday, I came home to a surprise sitting on my kitchen island, which will always be called “the buffet” because that is what it was for 15 years at my house and about hundred years before that until last fall we converted it into its new state. There was a bouquet of roses along with a card. The Boy Wonder was home most of the morning so I thought they were from him. Tears immediately pooled in my eyes when I realized that the gift was from a classmate of Reed’s, whom I have the honor of calling one of my other sons. His own mother is a woman I adore and every moment I share with him is one that I thank God for her and her willingness to share. Throughout the day, my thoughts wondered to all the types of moms in the world.

Today I am thankful for each of thoses mom. So here’s to you . . .

Moms of newborns who are just starting your journey. Welcome to the best and hardest job of your life. There will be moments of doubt and fear, but every time you look in your child’s eyes you will know whatever heartache you face will be worth it.
Mommas of little ones running around. The faster you pick up toys, wipe dirty faces and hands, and clean up spills, the faster it seems that they appear. I promise you, exhausted ladies, that someday they will pick up after themselves, and you will wonder how are you going to spend your time.
Moms of school agers who are starting to form the beginnings of their wings. Teach them to fly, sweet ladies – even when sometimes they pretend they don’t know what nest is home.
Mothers of teenagers and beyond – These are the bittersweet moments when you realize just how sturdy your knees really are. These are the times when you watch your children soar . . . until they don’t, and then you help them pick up the pieces and soar again.
Moms of babies who died in utero. There is no pain like the pain of never meeting your child, counting fingers and toes, or smelling your baby’s hair. I am sorry that often the world doesn’t recognize your motherhood. Please know I do and always will.
Mamas whose arms ache for a child carried in their womb, but that day has never come. I wish I could magically make that happen for you. Every friend’s child is a reminder of the hole in your heart. I am so sorry for the pain you face.
Mothers who have to lie about how many children they have because it is just too darn complicated to explain that one of your children has passed away. I know your pain. I have walked in your shoes. We close on houses and business deals, but never our children. A mother is not defined by the children you count, but by the ones we hold in our hearts.
Moms of children who are ill from disease or addiction or who are dying. Thank you for your steadfast love and encouragement. Your prayers and presence are guiding lights in so many lives.
Mommas who only recently learned that their child has a terminal diagnosis. You have every right to ache with every fiber of your being. Please know that there are legions of moms and friends who stand with you to lift you up for the days ahead.
Mamas whose own mothers had their own struggles and left holes in your childhood. Thank you for your forgiveness and for persevering and for being a voice of change for the next generation in your dedication to mothering your own children.
Mothers who work two and three jobs just to keep ahead of the bills and yet exhausted, still find time to be the best mom in the world to your kiddos. You inspire me.

May God cradle all of you mothers in safely under his wings.

Here’s to you . . .

Grandmothers who due to life circumstances stand in the gap to mother their grandchildren. You are an incredible gift to mother not one but two generations. Thank you for giving so selflessly from your heart and years of experience.
Mothers who have answered freedom’s call. You stand on every shore, soar high in the sky, and walk your boots on every continent on earth. Thank you for the sacrifices you make so we can sleep in peace. To your husbands and families who do all the “mothering” in your absence – May God grant them peace every day you are away.
Mommas who are holding down the fort while your soldier, sailor, airman, or Marine is far away on deployment. You are mother, father, counselor, comforter all while trying to hold yourself to together. Yours is a sacrifice often forgotten. Your family endures, every second your loved one is gone is a deep longing ache of terror and worry, mixed with pride. In my book, you are saints.
Birth mothers who have given the name of mom to another woman with the gift of life. Life – precious life. Thank you for courageously giving a priceless gift. To the moms who have adopted or fostered the children loved beyond measure, thank you for being an earthly example of our charge to love the widows and the orphans.
Moms who are absent from their children due to circumstances they could have never imagined. Whatever your story, I can only believe that you never wanted to spend a day away from your children. Please know that wherever you are, I know you carry your sweet babies in your heart if not in your arms.
Divorced moms who “share” their children with another “mom”. Thank you for being full of grace and love and mercy to show your children that love comes in many diverse ways. Your gift is one that will free your children some of the pain of their life’s story.
Teacher, counselor, social work or nursing mommas who love children in the hours that they are in their presence. What you do is hard work to love on a child in their darkest moments when often they are often struggling to learn or dealing with life’s curveballs. Thank you for giving from your heart and often generously from your wallets as well.
Mamas of influence. No, I am not talking about the amount of dollars in a bank account, but rather the amount room in a mother’s heart to love all the children and sometimes adults within her corner of the world. You pour out love in ways that may not always be recognized, but what you do matters. Someday, you might be surprised to find flowers on your kitchen counter too!
The spiritual mommas who love on those in their churches, houses of faith, neighborhoods, and communities. You are a rare gem. You give of your time to love others because you can, because it is the right thing to do, and because you have a gift to share. Yours is a commitment far beyond a blood relation but you love anyways in many amazing ways. Thank you for being the stitches that hold together the fabric of our society.

To the moms, mothers, mommas, mamas, mas, grandmas, nannies, grammies, grandmothers, and mom figures –

You are rocking this thing called motherhood!

I know there are long days. There are days that you make a thousand selfless sacrifices in a hour, let alone in a day. You worth could never be paid. Your love could never be measured. Your value could never be assessed. Without you, this world would be a really dark place.

You are important. What you do matters. Simply put, you are AMAZING!

And I am proud to stand among you!

Happy Mother’s Day for all the ways you love the world and its people.

To those who have lost their moms, my heart aches with you. I wish I could hug you all and whisper “a mother’s love never fades away”. Each of you are an echo of your momma’s dreams and hopes for the world.

For good measure, this is my own sweet momma as a little girl.

Music makes the world go round

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We mommas do what we can. Need some medicine . . . Mary Poppins comes to mind. More than once, I have sang “Whistle while you work” especially after spending the whole afternoon out in the garden. Dolly Parton and I are best friends (only she doesn’t know it) when I am balancing the checkbook online. Singing for me makes any day just go better, and some days, it is the best I have to offer.

Over the weekend, I drove my children crazy! It was a nice role-reversal, I will confess. We are in graduation mode, preparing for our first high school commencement, and thus, are really trying to keep on top of all the details. At the same time, it means that we must be ever vigilant (that right there would have caused at least one of my kiddo’s eyes to roll) at keeping the house clean. As we were cleaning this weekend, we were simultaneously scanning in thousands (no joke) of film negatives and finalizing DVD’s which hold hours of our children’s early lives. The trip down memory lane has been well worth it.

To most people who have visited our home the whirlwind of frenetic activity which describes our weekend is definitely not surprising. We do crazy busy – well. For casual readers, my confession about disliking messes (okay, I loathe disorganization) was shared in my annual blog on the leprechauns a few days back. A few mommas were intrigued not by our wee visitors, but by my explanation of the cleaning day list. When I still worked full-time (outside of my home – do not ever think this is not work) AND had three small children under the age of five, we had a cleaning lady.

Back in those days our life was blur! So much so that one time my parents came for a visit but were leaving for the airport after we had left for school, work, and daycare. When I got home that night, I was shocked (SERIOUSLY SHOCKED) that my sweet parents cleaned my house top to bottom. It was sparkling clean. Tears in my eyes and lump in my throat, I called to tell them how much their efforts meant to me. My dad stopped me cold. “Toot (don’t ask), we were enjoying our coffee, when this lady came right on in and started cleaning your house. We assumed you knew all about it.” First of all, there is something seriously wrong when my parents don’t check for credentials, but even more so that my life was so busy that I completely forgot it was cleaning lady day. On that second one; I am sure she was shocked because even though she always did a superb job, we ALWAYS cleaned for the cleaning lady. Lest she think we were living in a complete pig sty.

One day, we got the bright idea (I am telling you that sometimes we are parenting geniuses) we were not doing our children or the future college roommates any favors by letting them skip out on the day to day maintenance of this house. Who I am kidding? Once again, it is all about appearances. I did not want the college roommates to think my children were raised in barn. But seriously, mastering the skills of wrestling the world’s largest dust bunny, scrubbing a bathroom until it sparkles, and removing mystery stains from laundry should be required on college entrance exams. So with many tears (mostly shed by our children), we let the cleaning lady go to another lovely family. I’m pretty sure that “Help us!” sign I found later had been scribbled by one of our progeny. The sure give away was the “p” looked like a “d” and the “s” was backwards. Traitors! Sorry future college roommates! That day started the list method of cleaning.

While the list went well, there are other things (not list worthy) I just could not “let it go” (and yes, I did just totally sing that out loud) along with various other songs that just sprang forth over the weekend.

Here are a few examples:

After tripping over my children’s shoes at the front door, I decided to devise a system to say that unless they want me to break a hip and come to live with them in a few years, they better start lining up their shoes along the edge of the wall, toes touching the baseboards. I broke into “It’s all about the base, ‘bout that bass, no tripping. It’s all about that base, ‘bout that bass or you’re in trouble”. My kids then asked me how I knew that song. When I said I saw it over Thanksgiving, they informed me I was completely clueless because my version is a parody song about basting with butter.

The next shining moment came when one daughter stepped over the salad greens she had dropped on the kitchen floor to get more ice for her sweet tea (well, she is her mother’s daughter). This time I broke into, “Stop! In the name of love before you break my heart. Stop! And put that lettuce into the garbage can. Think it over! Do it now –ow- ow!”

My vast song memory (and although not required for this, my ability to sing) came in very handily this weekend. There was a brief rendition of “Don’t stop believing” when the faint-hearted among us thought the work would never be done. A few other songs joined my repertoire according to whatever grumble my children had at the moment.

This wasn’t my first foray into using song to get my point across. Long ago, back when our little town only had a small mecca of the South before it supersized, my children were asking me begging incessantly for a new toy. I finally had enough, and right there in aisle 17, I broke into a completely impromptu rap song about wanting more and more stuff. My children were astonished. My voice carried across the store, and I DID NOT CARE. Parents in the area were surprised, but I received more than a few “Atta girl’s”! The song was such a hit, that one dad even asked if I could sing it again. It was one of my proudest moments as a momma! Of course, this was long before cell phones where I am certain I would have been an internet sensation: “Crazy mom loses it in Wal-mart”!

Song-a-palooza or not, we got all the work done. The house was cleaned, another bazillion film negatives of precious memories were scanned in, various odd jobs were completed, and I think through the magic of music, I got my point across. Well, mostly. . . just watch that first step. Hope they are saving up for in home care!

My view while typing this blog.

And if it helps any momma (or daddy) out there needs it, here is the cleaning day list!

The wonder of a box

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I think every parent has been there. It’s Christmas morning, and there sits your child inside the box of the latest greatest toy you spent hours standing in line to purchase earlier in the month. Instead of dropping the big bucks on the toy, you could have headed to the office supply store and spent less than ten dollars on the biggest box available. Better yet, you could have put out a request to friends to see if any were making any large appliance purchases before the holidays and requested to “simply take the box off their hands”.

I remember as a child when one of my best friend’s family purchased new kitchen appliances. Jackpot! We spent the next few months creating an elaborate house out of the boxes. Using markers, crayons, scissors, and construction paper, we made windows and doors as well as decorated our corrugated home like it was straight out of the pages of Southern Living.

Over the years, my children have had similar experiences only instead of a house, they made the Batmobile, the Space Shuttle, and a personal favorite was the Tardis of Dr. Who fame. Of course, there were smaller creations, but these were the most memorable. One weekend last year, the wonder known as the box took center stage in my littlest’s plans. She had a sleepover with a friend. They didn’t have any big plans until . . . we decided to assemble the new recliners we had recently purchased. Both littles were great construction assistants, but as soon as the chairs were sitting ready, they flocked to the boxes like bees to honey.

After a long and lengthy discussion, they settled on becoming Wonder Women. They created “gold” bracelets out of the remnants of the Styrofoam tube packaging and instead of an invisible jet, they got to work creating their very own time machine AND a magic carpet.

They spent hours and hours just drawing and adding details. There were no squabbles or arguments, but plenty of words of encouragement for each other. They couldn’t have had more fun if we had planned a day full of activities. Uncomplicated, unscripted and unplugged – they embraced the moment. Completely content – oh the adventures they had!

I sent these pictures to the other momma with the caption of “Our Wonder Women”. Almost immediately, she acknowledged the lure of the cardboard box, fondly remembering both her own adventures as well as those of her sweet kiddos over the years.

Recently, I’ve been thinking (A LOT) about contentment and my tendency on occasion to compartmentalize life making all my details fit inside “my box”. In my ponderings, I remembered these two sweet little girls, and their unbridled joy when I said the box was theirs for the day. Making lists and checking them twice have been my strong suits for a long time. Keeping my hands busy was a close third on my compartmentalizing strengths. Gently, God has been nudging me to just stop and be present in the moment, just like the girls. This morning I saw a photo that perfectly captured my ability to be caught up in what I am doing, but miss the rest of what is going on around me. It is going to be an uphill battle, but I am ready to embrace what God has laid before me, open to all the possibilities.

Keep company with God, get in on the best. Psalm 37:4 (The Message)

And who knows? Maybe along the way that will mean time spent in boxes, blanket forts, and tents in the backyard! I’ll have the crayons ready . . . just in case.

About those weeds

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Dear kids – On your first day back to school, I missed y’all so much. Our house (although neater) was so quiet that I could hear the sadness echo in my heart. I had meant to write this letter to you long before today, but other blogs, responsibilities, and opportunities for fun took priority. I will never regret that last one, especially.

Although you probably wouldn’t want me to meet any of your friends on the street, none of you seem to mind when I don my old overalls, t-shirt, baseball cap, and garden shoes. You know my destination: the garden! What you didn’t know is it is one of the places on earth where I feel the closest to God. I know it’s hard to believe. I am out there crawling around on my hands and knees, looking like Ouiser Boudreaux, but it’s true! In every growing blossom, crawling bug, and whispering wind, I feel God is showing me how wonderful his creation truly is. When the sun shines down on my shoulders, I close my eyes and pretend he is smiling.

While digging in the dirt, I spend most of my time pulling weeds. Let me tell you I have learned quite a bit about the behavior of weeds over the years. One day this summer, those weeds reminded me of a few valuable lessons. Ones that I hope you learn much earlier than I did.

Some of those pesky plants are so invasive I still seem them after I close my eyes. There will be times that your real life struggles will feel the same way. No matter which way you look, your troubles will be looking right back at you. Times will come where you will only see darkness. I know that you have already experienced some of those times. I wish I could tell you that they were over, and now you have a free pass. But just as weeds pop up in my turnips; so, too will times of troubles come into your lives. Just know that God’s light shines the brightest in the darkest places. Cling. To. That. Truth.

and you will make it through.

When all the green little shoots poke out of the ground, it is really hard to discern weed from vegetable. Even though I have had a garden for years, I just don’t know which one is which. At times, the weeds resemble a produce plant. I will even admit some of them are beautiful in their own way. It isn’t until much later that the pesky thorns and thistles rear their ugliness. I have learned all too hard that the same is true of activities, idols, and sins in my own life. Things that often seem harmless enough in the beginning can spin out of control – fast. Don’t be seduced in life by the easy way out, the going with the crowd, or the just this one time mentalities. They will let you down – each and every time. We all fall short of God’s glory. Just don’t forget that faith is the first word in our family’s motto. If the way you spend your time puts that word last, then it is time to make some adjustments. It. Will. Take. Work.

but you will make it through.

Eventually, it is obvious what plants are keepers and which ones have to go. Then the real struggle begins. Many of the weeds send out deep roots and traversing tendrils that wrap around neighboring plants. When I go to remove them, some of the weeds have chokeholds so strong, good plants are ripped out of the ground. The ugly truth comes when we realize that there are people and obstacles in our lives that do the same thing to us. Sadly, you also know some friends are like gardens, they are meant for a season only. Our nature is to want to help when things are awry, yet God doesn’t call us to fix the world’s brokenness. Only he can do that. Just like my neglected garden can get, we can have influences and relationships – both good and bad – that bring us down. It is time to take a step back and realign our priorities. If we don’t, the very things we are called to do are left undone. It is a painful thing to walk away from a friendship, from a situation, or from a place of overwhelming suffocation. It. Will. Hurt.

but I promise, you will make it through.

Just like newly tilled soil is ripe with potential; so, too are new school years. This week was just the beginning. Stay strongly rooted in God’s and my love and be grounded in his Word. Try with all your might not to let the weeds of the world prevent you from growing and flourishing. I can’t wait to see what you produce!

I believe in you always –

Momma

The fitted sheet dilemma

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This summer, our lives have settled into a different routine than we had been dreaming about during our hygge moments of the long winter. One of the by-products of having an athlete injured is all your have-to’s and want-to’s were changed in an instant. Instead, our summer has turned into a pretty freeing one (although wrapped around doctor appointments and therapy) where each new day holds its own adventure. We wake up and decide what new and fun thing we are going to accomplish today. I just wish our carefree days were completely free of cares. But as I have alluded to before, we tackle Mt. St. Laundry each week.

Thankfully, though another by-product of being limited in choices of activities has been my children deciding there are certain chores that they prefer over others. As long as we aren’t looking like a pigsty, I don’t mind who does a job as long as the job gets done.

My knee brace-wearing girl has decided laundry is her thing. She has developed a Zen-like attitude about the whole process. She enjoys the washing and drying, but she has proven to be a true All-Star when it comes to folding. At times, she has even recruited her siblings in supporting roles, especially when needing to return folded items to their proper location. She has also learned about the thorn in my side when it comes to folding laundry. Our ninety-seven pound golden retriever thinks he is four-legged iron, laying on top of any item and pressing it flat with all his furry-ness.

At times, my basement family room appears to be a Gap store (more on that in a moment) with stacks of items arranged for a quick sale. I really should consider this a proud moment; however, more than once, I have encountered this scene in my travels up and down the basement steps.

Notice the beautifully folded and stacked clothes and towels. Did you also notice the wadded up pile of bed sheets. I decided to use this as a teachable moment. What follows next is the true conversation:

Me: Do you see anything wrong with this picture? (Imagine me doing my best Vanna White interpretation gesticulating my hands over the room.)

Oldest Daughter: Not really.

Me: How many times have I shown you all how to fold sheets?

OD: Not enough, I guess.

Me: It really isn’t that hard. Let me show you.

OD: (With as much enthusiasm as if I asked her to trim my toenails) Okay. But for the record, it only bothers you.

Me: I don’t think I am going to enjoy going to your houses in the future. All your sheets will be wadded up messes.

Oldest Daughter: Well, we don’t plan on washing our sheets like you.

Me: Whatever do you mean?

OD: We will wash the sheets. Dry the sheets. And then replace the sheet sets right back on the bed; thus eliminating the need to fold them.

Me: But you have flannel and cotton sets now. How do you plan on dealing with that?

OD: Maybe our spouses will know how to fold fitted sheets or maybe you can just bring your own set when you come to visit.

Argh! I have one leaving for college a year from now, and I am probably going to have to add lack of ability to fold fitted sheets to my letter of apology to the college roommates. I have tried. I have really tried. I use the fist method of folding fitted sheets, as in each fist in a corner . Then fist over fist until the whole works is folded into a quarter of the original size. A little smoothing out, a final couple folds, and Voila! You have a nice bundle that matches your flat sheet; both of which are placed inside the pillowcase for organized (read: not a crumpled mess) storage.

How can I reframe this utter disinterest for finely folded bed linens? My solution to this perplexing dilemma is to have a tutorial. If you think I am kidding, talk to my kids. The summer before their 7^th, 5^th, and 3^rd grade years, the big kids watched the how to “fold a t-shirt Gap style video” one afternoon, per their mother’s insistence. Then we practiced folding shirts like it was some necessary skill needed to return to school. That little tidbit came in handy in a folding contest against a football coach at a camp. Wasn’t such a big waste of time after all, was it?

So who could I turn to for assistance in my disheveled dilemma? The guru of all fine homemaking skills herself has a delightfully entertaining video on this very issue. But seriously, even I struggled with that tutorial.

This one is much more my speed. Not nearly as funny as the first one, I think we can follow Jill’s instructions in the second one. Although, I almost sprayed iced tea on the screen, the moment I saw the crumpled mess example. She gets me. . . she really gets me.

Guess we know what we will be working as we start collecting school supplies over the next few weeks. Because, I really do not want to wave the white ~~flag~~ sheet too soon. I still have hope that these young pupils are moldable and impressionable.

Of course, we will probably end up in as much giggles as the audience of the first video because you can never take yourself too seriously.

In all honesty, who do I think I’m kidding? I cried the day Reed finished 6th grade because I wasn’t ready for him to grow up. How small that worry seems today. So even if their sheets aren’t folded, I will still visit their future homes someday, just to be with them . . . wishing for the days when we previously used the sheets to build forts instead.

Hug your kids every day and let the laundry worry about itself!

The making of a Grammy

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My last few posts have been about grandparents and how the world is truly a better place because of them. Whether by blood, “adoption” or simply by taking an interest in the lives of children, grandparents fill a magical place in hearts.

A dear friend of mine, who I’ve always thought of as the quintessentially hip grandmother, had this picture posted on her Facebook wall the other day. If you knew my friend, the sentiment suits her. As far as being a grandmother, I think I fall somewhere between all things magical with a little bit of adventure thrown in for good measure.

Before any of my friends fall out of their chairs, I did not become a grandmother by blood. Not just yet! (My high school son just looked at me in horror.) Although I will confess, I do already have things stored away for when that day becomes a reality. I like to think of it as Grammy’s secret stash of goodies (remember the magical and adventuresome description). I now understand the trance that Cracker Barrel holds on all grandmothers.

There is a really long background story here, and if you ask me in person, I will be happy to tell you. We’ll grab some iced teas and chat! The shortened version of how I became a Grammy (more on that name later) is one of L.O.V.E. lived out through friendship.

When Jesus called us to love others as the second greatest commandment, there are those who embody his teaching. A blessing to me is how I am a recipient of that love. I have written and spoken about how once upon a time, a former student stepped up to “fill in for” but never to “replace” Reed as the big brother of our family. When he met the girl of his dreams and was married, our “son’s” mom gave me the honor of being listed as “honorary mother”. It was one of my life’s proudest moments.

Well this year, my son and his wife had their first baby. Before sweet little L’s birth, I had been knitting and sewing all matter of items. She had a rough beginning; so, my whole family (aka Team Stevens) had a very brief visit to give momma and baby the rest they needed. We gave L her knitted blanket, said we would be praying, and asked them to keep us posted.

When they were finally able to come home, I was out in my flower beds prepping soil. A series of text messages left me with a puddle of tears and one befuddled husband.

The first message told me that they made it home, and they received many compliments on L’s new blanket. My response was complete momma bear mode asking if baby’s health was okay now, and if they think of it sometime, please send a picture of her with the blanket. Within seconds, I had a picture of happy, healthy and sleeping baby wrapped in the blanket stitched with love and prayers. Tears began to well in the corners of my eyes. I told her parents that whenever I make any gift, I pray for the recipient; therefore she was wrapped in many prayers.

A quick whirlwind of text messages cleared my anxiety about baby L’s health, assured me my prayers had been answered, and amazed me with an honor I didn’t see coming.

The closing message was: We love you Grandma and the rest of the family.

Even though our county had been experiencing a drought for some time, that little patch of ground was watered with salty drops, leaving my husband perplexed. I simply handed him the phone, and he whispered, “Wow!”

Not only had one mom loved in selfless ways by allowing me to be “the other mom” at her only son’s wedding, but now two grandmas (moms) were sharing in a way I could have never imagined. Sweet L is the first grandchild of both flesh and blood grandmothers. I know these ladies personally, and both, along with their husbands, raised amazing children who daily live what it means to love others first. There are many other compliments I could give to both J and B, but honestly, that last sentence is the highest praise from my momma heart to theirs.

Here is where the Grammy part came in. L is one lucky little girl. She is blessed with amazing grandmas, who simply adore her! I would never want, nor could I ever achieve, replacing or being in competition with that love. Even though her tiny heart could not physically fill a measuring cup, she has enough room to fit some great-grandmothers, Grandma B, Grandma J, and me – one incredibly humbled and thankful, Grammy!

So yes ma’am! I am a Grammy through God’s love poured out through his Son and lived out in faith by my incredible adopted family!

My baby holding my grandbaby wrapped in a prayed up blankie! B-L-E-S-S-E-D!

Newfangled Laundry Woes!

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Growing up, my brother and I once played a colossal game of Clue. By colossal, I mean our characters spent about five hours trying to figure out where poor Mr. Boddy had been done in. With 6 suspects, 6 weapons, and 9 rooms, there are 324 possible outcomes. (Have I ever mentioned I love math?) I am certain we tried almost all of them. We were sure of the perpetrator and the weapon, but we spent hours trying to determine where in the cat hair this murder took place. Complete and utter aggravation! Eventually, frustration overtook us or perhaps it was our early bedtime. We looked into the mysterious envelope to discover the error in our logic.

It was Miss Scarlet with the knife in Colonel Mustard. He might have been a big man, but I think he would have taken umbrage with his comparison to being as big as a room. Honestly, I don’t blame him.

It was our original card choosing and not our logic at fault. Whew! We laughed for days. Looking back now, our parents should have been proud of raising persistent children.

I recently ran into another one of those moments of frustration. Since I love to cook from scratch, I create stacks of dishes. Since none of my ~~workers~~, children, are particularly persuaded by mine or Madge’s promise of extremely soft hands, I am (alas!) the cheese. You know the cheese stands alone washing all the dishes and cookware which appear to multiply when we leave the room. I envision Lumiere (of Beauty and the Beast) lighting up a rousing rendition of “Be Our Guest”, inviting all pots and pans to a luxurious hot tub soak.

Warning: Not a staged photo. These are the real dishes that accumulated between lunch and supper today.

When I am doing the dishes sans help, I have a system that works for me, but not necessarily for my small kitchen – the bane of my existence as a foodie. My method involves allowing the dishes to drip dry until . . . the saints come home. Since my sink-style drainer can only accommodate the silverware, three or four cups, and the plates, once upon a time I placed dish towels all over the counters with the remaining piles of sparkling dishes on top.

I am a nothing if not a woman committed to progress. My archaic system went by the wayside like the daily sweeping of my ~~golden retriever rugs~~ laminate floors did before God’s greatest invention since sweet tea, the Roomba. A chance encounter with an end cap special at the Mecca of the South and Voila! Instead of piles of dish towels, my counter had a lovely, little, rapid-dry dish mat.

Although not coordinating with my décor, the colors reminded me of the beach; so why not? Do what makes you happy! At least, my super soft hands can pretend they are in the Gulf of Mexico while my eyes are stimulated by the colors of my beloved Emerald Coast. If I poured sand around my feet, then I would have the complete package. That, however, might tax my precious Rosie (my beloved Roomba). “The Jetsons” fans would totally understand my attachment to her. Seriously, I adore her.

All was fine until my drying mat (who has no name – yet) encountered a wayward marshmallow. Really, who leaves a marshmallow, a green one nonetheless, to bake in the sun on my dish mat buddy? Oh wait! I get it now! One of my children just wanted their new little mallow friend to enjoy the illusion of Pensacola Beach like their mother does when Calgon doesn’t take her away after meals.

Wonder Twins (aka washer and dryer) to the rescue! Only that’s not what happened. Instead of a quick cleaning, I had to get an advanced degree in laundry terminology.

A cursory glance at the tag on the mat had me just about as frustrated as that Clue game of my childhood. My first thought was, “What in the mayonnaise am I supposed to do with this?” If Rosie had been more like her namesake, she mostly likely could have interpreted. She was no help – whatsoever! I was stuck trying to decipher what to me appeared to be the Rosetta stone of laundry.

One not prone to waving a white flag hastily, I managed to come up with the following instructions. Add one Alka Seltzer tablet to a glass of water, use not one but two drumsticks on a percussion triangle while listening to your favorite 45 play on your record player, and whatever you do – avoid bumper cars.

While I would love to sit around and bang drums all day, I failed to see how any of that was going to clean marshmallow (he seriously should have used sunscreen) off my drying mat. Acquiescing to husband’s sage advice of “this isn’t rocket surgery”, my quest for truth, justice and the laundry way led to a resource, with a saucy little name, which enlightened my laundry knowledge.

Frankly, I think my instructions had much more pizzazz, but at least the decoded ones actually work. I am attaching them here to save another mom or dad or better yet, teenager, the agony of a deer-in-headlights feeling of not knowing what to do. http://www.textileaffairs.com/c-common.htm See what I mean by saucy: textile affairs – which leads me to wonder if they know about any trysts involving wayward socks.

Oh well! Never take yourself too seriously, and next time, I think I will just have kids dry the dishes.

Messing with my memories

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Not that long ago, I had lunch with a new-to-the-journey, grieving momma. While this isn’t how I expected my life to go, I am thankful that God has given me a heart that can help others find peace. However, if it were up to me, this would be an exclusive sorority, and we wouldn’t be having any new pledges. Sadly, though there will be other children that pass away, and we will have new members in this club that none of us ever wanted membership.

I am not an expert on grief. I am just one momma with a prayer that God would give her a heart that breaks like his does. God does answer prayers. Hence my journey of sharing our story and the agonizing aftermath that grief leaves in its wake.

This year our family has chosen joy as our theme word. We are committed to finding joy in our daily lives. Personally, what I didn’t expect in the hunt were the auxiliary truths I would uncover: beauty, creativity, resilience, silliness, simple moments, but mostly, contentment.

“Be careful what you wish for” certainly has its merits as well. Because even though we were in search of joy in God’s plans for our lives, this does not mean that there haven’t been obstacles. Along the way thus far, we have had several moments of sucker punching despair. I mean, lie in the bed for four days and cry despair! The dark place which stays that way until we ask for God to illuminate our path.

Every single time he does.

The journey to joy is a long and twisted one.

Most days are really good days; as it was when I was savoring every bite of my salad with my new friend.

How do you do this?

The simple answer is you just do. This amazing woman of faith needed real answers while her heart was freshly broken, and I really felt led that day to bare my soul, even if it meant to pick a scab off one of the scars of my heart.

You will get through this.

God grieves with you. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but he does.

Experiencing this deep of a hurt has truthfully allowed me to learn to love with abandon.

Eventually we settled back into a comfortable Q & A session about first birthdays and holidays, and then she asked a question that I had forgotten that I had an answer.

How do you get anywhere in this town without driving by a memory?

I stopped mid-bite, my mind transported back to the alternate routes we would drive to avoid seeing places that Reed loved. At six years later, like words written in the sand, my mind completely washed away the sanity saving (albeit not time saving) measures we had taken to avoid the crash site and various other places that were just too hard to endure.

Time had erased that particular pain.

My honest answer was we simply figured out ways to avoid those locations until our hearts told us we were ready to go back again. One grieving momma’s solution was the only response I had to offer.

About a month later, I was driving by one of those memory locations. After a quick look to my right, I felt like the weight of the world tumbled down upon me.

To everyone else in the world, it appeared to be an old forgotten football field replaced a few years back by an event center (in a different location) with fancy turf, not plain ol’ Minnesota sod. The bleachers had been neglected from the glory days of football games, marching band events, and concerts.

Progress often stops for no man . . . nor a momma’s grief. What my eyes espied was no different. Bulldozers and earth movers were ripping apart the ground to create a new regional sports complex.

My heart hurt because the last Memorial Day he was alive, Reed, Sawyer, and Erin (along with their Scout troops) helped place flags there in honor and memory of every soldier that had been killed in Iraq or Afghanistan. It was a sea of flags.

He was so proud to place one in memory of our local fallen hero.

Later that night, we took our whole family out to reflect before the flags would be removed the next day. I remember him so tenderly kneeling down trying to explain to his two-year-old sister what the flags meant.

These weren’t just any American flags. These remembered heroes. These are special.

So was that moment.

The old stadium might have been forsaken, but in my heart, it was hallowed ground.

The progress that will surely make our town even more amazing was messing with my memories. How did I know that I would have a new answer for some distant question about dealing with changes to your memories?

As I sat in my parked car with tears in my eyes, I remembered that God had shone his love in every part of our story thus far. Today would be no different. Although his creation was being changed, my memory of that beloved moment had not.

From here on out, it will be lovingly held in my heart – a safe . . . and joyful . . . place forever.

Laundry woes

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Two times of day, I have peaceful solitude. The first is early morning devotions, and the second is when the day is done. The house is quiet and I check in on what happened in the world. For the latter, sometimes I sneak in a conversation with one of my friends. Those small touch point chats encourage me for bonding moments where we swap stories and giggles. So it was a few days ago while talking online with a friend. Truth be told, she and I have only met once, introduced by mutual friends. Initially, our friendship was sparked over a common life experience – losing a child – but we have since learned that we share many other interests.

During this chat, we shared more than a few laughs as we talked about our busy days. At some point, the tone of the repartee took a cathartic turn bonding over things that frustrate us– like chores that never end and lessons we are continually teaching our kids. Since we’ve only met the one time briefly, she quickly relayed that she loved her kids, lest I think otherwise.

Do not get me wrong! I realize that our “worries” are first world problems and that much of the world would love to have has many dishes to wash because that would mean there is food to eat. I also realize that the beast, also known as laundry, pales to those who don’t have adequate clothing or shoes. My world is a blessed one compared to a majority of the world.

Yet, I completely understand her thinking. My children are the world to me. PERIOD. However, they much like their mother are not perfect, and there are days that I feel like I am instilling the same lesson over and over. It is tiring, humbling, and on more than one occasion, frustrating. I have even warned my children with drafting a letter to their future college roommates sending my apologies and explaining that I did my best.

Instead of futuristic letter writing, I decided to put my years of training as a classroom teacher to good use. If nothing else, I got my frustrations out, and had a good chuckle while doing so. What is written below is the result of my overactive imagination.

Laundry Quiz

Carefully read through each question and answer to the best of your ability.

Section One: True or False

Please circle the appropriate answer.

True or False. The appropriate time to remember that you stashed dirty clothes in your closet and under your bed is when Mom has finished all the laundry for the day.
True or False. Mom’s van also serves as a closet for your stinky clothes following sleepovers, playdates, or sports practice.
True or False. The best place to store uneaten candy is in your pants pocket.
True or False. The best time of day to remember you need your jersey washed for tomorrow’s game is at 2:00 AM.
True or False. Clothes that have been worn for less than an hour and are not stained should immediately land in the dirty clothes pile.

Please go back and look over your answers in Section One. Your choices might determine whether your mother chooses to reveal herself as Emperor Palpatine later at dinner tonight.

Section Two: Multiple Choice.

6. Places where your dirty clothes should not be found

a. Mom’s van (HINT: you might want to go back and double check your answer to #2)

b. Your floor (especially if your room is next to the laundry room)

c. The dirty clothes pile/basket

d. The bathroom floor

e. Both a & b

f. Answers a, b, & d are correct.

7. When walking downstairs while carrying nothing, a good use for your hands and arms might be

a. Try to find the best location for future tattoos

b. Flex your muscles to see how much time you need to put in at the gym

c. Pick up dirty clothes pile and take to the laundry room

d. Practice stiff arm placement for Irish dance lessons

8. When you do not put away clothes from your own assigned basket, the message you are sending your mother is

a. Oops, I forgot! (Remember your mother wrote a song about this, and she would be happy to share it on YouTube.)

b. Cha-ching! Extra money for college funds! Reasoning: We don’t each need a room. We would like to live hostel-style. All of our clothes can be kept in the laundry room, and we can rent out our current rooms.

c. We don’t really like our clothes all that much, and we hate to break our mother’s heart. Feel free to donate those clothes to less fortunate children.

d. Winter has been hard in Minnesota. We hear that they are in need of warm materials for bed linings at the Humane Society. Stay warm four legged friends!

9. The thing to be done with clothes hanging on the drying rod is:

a. open a rather eclectic boutique in the basement.

b. fold them and place in the owner’s basket.

c. offer them as wardrobe for the next class play.

d. hide behind them in an epic game of Hide-N-Seek.

10. If you are able to read English and you are suffering from no mobility issues, you are also capable of

a. Placing a load of dirty clothes in the washer and starting said washer.

b. Placing a load of clean clothes in the dryer or hanging clean clothes on drying rod.

c. Folding clean and dry clothes.

d. Getting a job of any means to pay for having the family’s laundry sent out.

e. All of the above are correct answers.

f. Okay, a, b, & c are more realistic answers.

Any given day of the week . . . sadly

Meanwhile . . . back to reality.

Mothers (and fathers) of the world – JOIN ME!

Well, maybe you can . . . after you unbury yourselves from Mount St. Laundry.

Who knows, I might just start penning that letter . . . after I get the next load of laundry done.

Sweet Grace Blog

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Tag Archives: raising children

I lost it

Here’s to you . . .

Music makes the world go round

The wonder of a box

About those weeds

The fitted sheet dilemma

The making of a Grammy

Newfangled Laundry Woes!

Messing with my memories

Laundry woes