My second favorite household chore is ironing.  My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.  ~Erma Bombeck

When I was a kid, I thought I could be Wonder Woman, a teacher, and just a really good mom all at the same time.  You know, diaper and feed the baby, write the names of everyone who’s talking on the chalkboard, pass out some worksheets, spin around in circles (KaPOWPOW!) and run off in a glamorous leotard and cape to catch the bad guys.  Off go the dowdy glasses and on goes the boomerang tiara.  Ask my mom.  I had the Underoos and a bath towel cape.

Then I grew up and became a mom.  I got here, hearing passionate anthems, my dancing-through-meadows dreams reshaping my notions of superhero status into one, simple ideal:  Super Mom.  I’d just be her.  You know–able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, baby strapped to her chest, on her way to the closest fine art museum.  When I got here, I figured great motherhood was really about packing the most supreme educational experiences available into my child’s life, all while looking stunning.  I wanted to hear things like, “How DOES she do it all?”  ”And she always looks so beautiful.”  ” Just look at those kids!”  Then, after the first week, the soft focus started to just look blurry.  God gave me beautiful babies who’d wait until I had managed to feel a tiny bit elegant and then spit up all over my dress.  I learned that while motherhood is its own amazing adventure, it also makes you so insanely tired that you’re not sure you can spin around without falling down.  And the housework.  Even the word sounds boring.  I did not enter into motherhood with the idea that a hike would be getting from the door of the laundry room to the washing machine.  And am I the only one that wants to gag when I have to fill out the occupation line on paperwork and write homemaker?!  ”Stay-at-home Mom” never seems to do it justice either.  Where’s all the pizzazz?  Where’s Wonder Woman???

As a wife, a mother, a woman, well, I feel like I need at least space enough for a paragraph just to begin to describe the ins and outs of who I am and what I do.  It doesn’t seem fair for so many passionate, strong, complicated human beings to have to thump one foot on the floor, tap our fingertips on a counter top, and say, “Umm, let’s see…” when presented with a seemingly benign question like, “So, what did you do today?”  Personally, I break out in a sweat when I get that question, knowing that just by pausing I am fueling the ridiculous idea that I sit around staring at soap operas all day with chocolates melting in my mouth. But at the moment the last thing I want to say is, “five loads of laundry—clean, folded, and put away; sanitized the toilets, vacuumed the floor, returned toys to bedrooms (again again again), put supper in the Crockpot to cook, wiped fingerprints off the front of the TV, wiped who-knows-what off the wall, searched out the odd smell in my son’s bedroom, placed an unidentified black digital-looking object on my husband’s night stand (no idea what it is or where it should go), paid 3 bills, soothed a crying friend, prayed and recited “I can do this” ten times in preparation for homework when the kids come home…”   From somewhere within, I hear a tiny voice say, “You know, KAPOWPOW!” and then I think, “Wait, did I just say that out loud?”

From the time my own amazing mom started teaching me how to manage a home (I remember my “how to properly clean a bathroom” lessons, which always began with a poor effort on my part and ended with me standing behind my mom, watching as she scrubbed the floor and the toilets with Comet and a rag on her hands and knees.  “I don’t  believe in doing a half-way job,” she’d say through her teeth while I watched, “and if you do a half-way job, I just have to come behind you and do it all over again. Excruciating, but effective.) until very recently, I thought of housekeeping as a means to an end.  Housework: the chores you do because you have to if you don’t want to live in complete filth.  They are to be done well (Thank you, Mom!), but they are to be done as quickly as possible.  Then, maybe just maybe there will be time left over for something I’d really like to be doing.  Like saving the world.  You know, Amazon princess.

As a friend of mine once pointed out, “Heroines never do the ordinary things like scrub grime off a wall, or wash dishes, fold laundry, or heaven forbid—dust.  For that matter, they hardly ever go to the bathroom!  You will never read a book about ordinary women doing ordinary things because it’s just too…well, ordinary.”  And there’s not a person alive who really wants to be ordinary.  On the days when I feel especially mediocre, the last place I want to escape in the pages of a novel is into someone else’s bathroom, where I can just smell the Comet on my fingertips.  There have been days, when I’ve found myself thinking, “Really?  This is it?”

I am, after all, a Super Chick.  I feel it.  Come on, admit it.  You feel it too.  You’ve got enough passion bubbling up inside you to blow up a building, and you’re sweating it out on dirt that will be there again next week.  It sometimes feels like such a futile pursuit.  You know, even June Cleaver showed herself too spunky for her molded hair, her dresses, and her dinner-on-the-table-on-time role, raising her eyebrows just enough to let us know that while she tolerated Ward’s perception of who she was, that didn’t mean it was all that she was.  There were things I disliked about Pleasantville, but what I loved about that movie was the idea that it’s passion and adventure that make the world a colorful place.    No one likes to live blandly, and yet, as Simone de Beauvoir said, “The torment that so many young women know is to be bound hand and foot by love and motherhood, without having forgotten their former dreams.”  So the housework gets done because it has to, but women (and here and there a few men) live their lives just trying to get through it so that they can move on to the thing that we were really meant to do.

A few weeks ago, the kids had Spirit Week at school.  Every day, they headed out the door wearing a special shirt, or a specific color, or a wacky pair of socks (Adam turned his nose up at the loud socks I borrowed for him from one of the girls and opted for white.).  Friday was “Dress Like What You Want to be When You Grow Up” day.  On the way home from school that Thursday, Zoe started thinking about what she should wear.

“Mom, what am I going to wear for ‘What I Want to be When I Grow Up’ day?”

“I don’t know.  What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I want to be a nurse.  Nurses help other people.  I can wear a white shirt, and a streth—–What’s that thing that, you know, nurses and doctors wear on their necks and sometimes they put in it in their ears and they listen?”

“A stethoscope.”

“—-yea, okay I can wear that and you can umm make me a name tag that says ‘Nurse Zoe.’  ’kay, Mom?”

“Sounds perfect.”

So Riley chimes in. “Umm, Mom?  What am I going to be when I grow up?”

“I don’t know.  Something fantastic.”

And Zoe turns to her and says, “Don’t worry, Riley.  I’ll look in your closet and help you find something you can be.”

We got home, the tornado started spinning everything into a froth, and I completely forgot What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up Day.  The next morning, when I walked downstairs, the first thing Riley said was, “Mom?  When Zoe grows up, she’s going to be a nurse.  When I grow up, I’m going to be a witch.”

I slid my eyes across the room to where Zoe was sitting on the couch listening to Adam’s heart with her stREthoscope.  She shrugged.  ”Well, it was the only thing she had in her closet.”

It made me wonder what she’d dress me as if she walked in my closet.  Unfortunately, “Mom uniforms” don’t have nearly enough KAPOWPOW, and I’m starting to think we all need to do something about that.  It occurred to me, one recent Sunday when Kevin and I looked across the room at each other over a living room that was in complete shambles (we had a whole conversation in that one glance), that motherhood and managing a home really is about saving the world.  I confess that I’d been putting home management on the back burner, determined that now that the kids were all in school, I WAS going to WRITE.  EVERYDAY.  It sounded glamorous to me (writing is my ultimate passion, after all), and it sounded like time.  After all, the other stuff will always be there.  And it’s housework.  Just housework.

But our world was falling apart around us, and frankly, we all felt out of control.  And it’s not hard to feel like that at the Three Ring Circus, where typical morning greetings range from “Good morning, Mom” to “Good morning.  25 cents gets 39 gumballs!” to “Mom, why can’t we drink Windex?” In the space of that nonverbal conversation with Kevin it occurred to me that home management is not ordinary grunt work.  It is not just anything.   For my family, it’s huge.  It’s crucial.  It’s hard, hard work.  And it takes all the Superchick KAPOWPOW in me to accomplish it.  And it takes God, and the kind of Power He is to fill me up until I can focus away from myself.  In some crazy, unexpected way, it’s about saving the world—our little, crazy, offbeat world, where I can be standing on a ladder wiping grime off the top of my cabinets, and Adam will stand on a chair to show me a magnadoodle on which he has written 35:97, waiting for me to say the numbers back to him, just so we can talk to each other in a language that only he could possibly understand.

So, I have a new perspective on what we stay-at-home moms do everyday.  I can’t believe I’m writing this, but I actually get a little excited about turning my attention to the millions of things I do that used to be chores and housework.  I’ve got a new attitude (wait… Do you hear Patti LaBelle too?).  And a new vocabulary.  I have missions to accomplish, and I am flying (I LOVE flylady!!  www.flylady.net).  And I am not making light of any of it.  Not anymore.  It is not a means to an end.  It’s saving the world.  And it matters.

Oh…and just to pay tribute to strong, passionate, look-out-world women everywhere, I dressed as Trinity this Halloween.  Talk about a Super Chick.  Kevin was Neo, and Adam was the Matrix itself.  Because part of what Kevin and I do everyday is to try to help two of our children pull free of a million sensory distractions and challenges with communication that make it harder (harder…but definitely not impossible…they are the real superheroes) for them to engage in real relationships.  Ordinary work?  Never.  So I guess now if Zoe searches in my closet for a mom uniform, she’ll find Trinity.:)

You sometimes see a woman who would have made a Joan of Arc in another century and climate, threshing herself to pieces over all the mean worry of housekeeping.  ~Rudyard Kipling

Housework, if it is done right, can kill you.  ~John Skow

My idea of superwoman is someone who scrubs her own floors.  ~Bette Midler

The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes.  ~Agatha Christie

Moon Phases

an original poem

by Riley Henegar

A Moon about the Jupiter is the full moon

And it always lights up during the night

Was the darkest thing in the world

What does the moon look like?

It likes to live in the darknesses.

If you ask me, it’s just funky enough to sound artsy and kinda deep…

It rained the afternoon Zoe came into the world—one of those Summer downpours that brings relief from the thick, August heat.  Just like the rain, she blew in so fast our hearts quickened, and before we’d calmed down, we were holding her in our arms.

I’d had a little practice with childbirth, so even though I suspected her “grand entrance,” I waited a while to be sure and finished my work.  By mid-afternoon, I had to stop smoothing out wrinkles on Riley’s bed to hold on to something until a contraction passed.  Fortunately, we had a doctor’s appointment that day anyway, and Kevin never missed a single one of those—even for baby #3—so he sat downstairs in the office working.  One of my sister-friends, who’d spent the morning with me while our kids played, raised an eyebrow at me from the other side of Riley’s bed and said she thought it might be a good thing that she’d planned to stay for the afternoon.  She was right.

By the time we got in the car to go to our appointment, I counted time between contractions at 3 minutes.  I called ahead and told the receptionist at the doctor’s office that I was in labor, but I guess I sounded so happy about it that she hardly believed I knew what I was talking about.  The rain beat against the windows—the kind of rain that the wipers just don’t seem quick enough to sweep aside.  Kevin chanted Please don’t have the baby in the car Please don’t have the baby in the car Please don’t have the baby in the car.

When I got to the doctor’s office, they made me wait in the reception area, even though I warned them that things were happening quickly.  Fortunately, the doctor’s office was actually in the hospital, because the OB checked things out and then said, “Uhh, we’ve got to get you upstairs NOW” and “Why are you still smiling?  Aren’t you in pain?”  Somehow my joy over Zoe’s arrival just seeped out in spite of the pain.  I could not contain it.

Upstairs on the OB ward, they didn’t believe me either.  The data entry clerk passed me forms to fill out and asked me three times to repeat my social security number, despite the fact that I gripped the arm of the chair and had to stop writing.  Kevin, who is always so patient, kind, and mild-mannered, finally leaned over and said, “Could you please get this finished?  The baby is coming.”

In fact, I was hardly in my room before things burst into a serious flurry all around me, and still, I couldn’t help but smile.  We had decided not to find out the third time whether we were having a boy or a girl.  We had one of each, so it didn’t really matter, and we decided to opt for a surprise.  We had a boy’s name picked out—Cade (I remember Oma said it sounded like the name of a villian in a Western:))–and a girl’s name—Zoe (because it means life).  I remember telling Kevin just days before:  I know this baby.  This baby is Zoe Elizabeth.  This is a girl.  And so she arrived: a big smile that overwhelmed so much difficulty.

How could we have known the blessing she’d be?  I hope Riley and Adam realize one day how much she has meant to them.  In a dozen little ways, she’s tugged them free from their individual prisons.  When she had just barely learned to walk and climb, I watched her climb on top of Riley’s round tummy and just lay down, insisting that she see the pictures in the books her sister read.  She refused to be ignored.  Before he gave any one else the time of day, Adam used to walk by her and stop just to lay his hand on her head.  Zoe was the first person whose eyes he sought with his own.

A favorite gift..."some of those big goggles with a straw on them"

Last night, we decorated with streamers and glittery signs and tied a bouquet of helium balloons on the stair railing just outside Zoe’s bedroom door.  Adam, for whom balloons fall in life’s list of “top three favorite things (he LOVED the movie UP…all those balloons:)), woke long before Zoe did, untied her balloons from the rail and snuck them back into his bedroom.  His ceiling fan sucked up the balloons and their strings immediately, wrapping the strings tightly around its blades.  So, when Zoe got up she didn’t even know the balloons existed.  Mom asked her about them, vaguely remembering Adam’s voice in the hallway faintly declaring, “Balloons!” in the early hours of the morning.

“What balloons?” Zoe asked, wrinkling up her nose.  When Mom discovered them in Adam’s room, Zoe didn’t get upset.  She said, “Isn’t that funny?  Adam took my balloons in his room.”  She giggled and smiled, and told everyone in the house the story.

Zoe decided on her own to take a shower this morning and dress up in a beautiful chocolate brown dress Mom and Dad bought her at Children’s Place last night.  For months, she’s been telling me that she wants shoes with heels like mine, so Mom and Dad found her a few pair of low-heeled little-girl “sassy shoes” last night and got her those as well.  This morning, she came downstairs in her dress, a gold and silver studded butterfly embroidered into the gathers of the bodice, with sassy “diamond” and silver sandals on her feet.  She looked stunning.  I can’t believe how beautiful and grown up she’s become at six.  What are we going to do when she’s sixteen?

When Adam stole her balloons again later in the morning, Zoe went to Kevin and said, “Dad, don’t tell Adam to stop today.  I don’t want Adam to cry on my birthday.”  She’d gotten an e-card from a dear friend of ours, and as she sat watching it on the computer and giggling, Adam stood with her, getting more excited every time she pressed play to watch it again.  When she realized how excited he was, she let him sit in the chair, and she stood beside him asking him if he wanted to see it again and gently prompting him to talk to her.  She guided him so naturally, so patiently.  It was like watching a gentle wind inflate the sail on a boat.

“Adam, do you want to see it again?  Yes or no?”

When he said yes, she ran a loving hand over his head and clicked the button on the computer, standing behind him as he laughed and smiled and gathered more and more joy.

There are days when the combination of adolescence and autism make Riley one of the worst in the history of older-sister-harrassers.  She takes persistance to a whole new level, and her chosen methods of torture don’t always make sense, even to her parents.:)  Zoe gets this look of complete exasperation on her face, then she breathes in deeply and tries to handle the situation with grace.  Patience comes hard fought at the Three Ring Circus, and I’m amazed at how much Zoe has learned in such a short time about how to handle tough situations well, even when the other party is not cooperating.:)  She’s getting better and better at taking care of her end of things, and letting Kevin and me handle training her sister.

We sat around the table tonight after supper, taking turns telling Zoe things we love about her.  Riley started by saying, “What I like about Zoe is watching her open her presents.”  Hmm.  Well, it took a little discussion, but we finally got around to Riley thanking Zoe for letting her play with all of her new toys (something she did gracefully all day).

Then Opa told  Zoe that he loves the way that she loves her family and friends so well and so deeply, and PaPa said that he loves that she’s so loving and sweet-spirited.  I told her that I love so many things about her, but that one of my favorite things is that she is so concerned about others.  She’s doesn’t like to see anyone sad or lonely and always tries to figure out a way to make them feel better.  Once, she gathered up some of her favorite toys and took them to one of her friends at church.  Amazed that she could be so unselfish at such a young age, I said, “Zoe, I’m really proud of you for sharing with your friend.”  She smiled at me–it was almost a patient smile–and said, matter-of-factly, “Well Mom, she’s my friend.  That’s what you do for your friends.  And…she doesn’t have these, so I want to share with her.”  Kevin told Zoe that he loves the way that she always includes everyone, and that he thinks it’s especially cool that she tries to include Adam in games she plays with her friends.  With a little prompting, Adam offered Zoe a big smile and told her that he loves her.  Then Mom told Zoe that she loves that watching Zoe grow up is like watching me grow up all over again and reminds her of her favorite memories of me (I have to tell you that I think I love hearing that as much as Zoe does.  At the same time, every time I hear that I think, “OH NO.  There are TWO of us.  Heaven help us all.:)”).  She loves that Zoe is independent, passionate, emotional, loving, and sweet.  You know, every once in a while, we all just need to take the time to say good things.

Zoe got calls today from friends and calls from family singing to her.  She had a day filled with presents, balloons, chocolate raspberry cake with candles, singing, and the biggest blessing of all–the knowledge that she is loved, valued, and very, very special.

One day, I’m going to tell her a bit more about how she came into our lives at just the right time—a great, bright, sparkling light when we had just barely started out on a difficult and unexpected journey that has since become the grandest adventure of our lives.  God’s timing truly is always perfect.

Happy Birthday, Zoe.  We’re so thankful for you!

Rest is the activity of faith for today.~Kay Arthur

Okay, I confess.  I’m not the best about getting my rest.

Those of you who know me know this is true.  In fact, you’re laughing and saying something under your breath like, “So, tell me something I didn’t know.”  The thing is, I’ve always thought of napping as a “guilty pleasure (and it’s not just me; nearly every mother I know feels exactly the same),” and as for going to bed earlier, well, a girl’s gotta have a life after the kids are asleep.  And time for a marriage.  And time to figure out how to teach her children well during the hours when they are awake.

More confessions:

There have been days when I’m so tired that I don’t even feel like I have the energy to smile at my kids.  Zoe will say, “Mom, are you mad?” and then I realize, suddenly, that the joy I have isn’t showing up on my face.

One day, when I was frustrated with Adam about something he was doing (OH the repetition can be SO frustrating!), he got very upset (sounds wonderfully “typical,” doesn’t it?).  I stopped trying to talk to him about his behavior (realizing it was pointless to try to continue), and asked him why he was crying.  He looked at me and said, “Why are you scared?”  I knew, in the way only I could know about Adam, that he wasn’t asking me why I was scared, he was telling me that he was scared.  It was the question he wanted me to ask.

“Are you scared?” I asked him.  ”Why are you scared?”

He pointed to his mouth, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Happy?”

Sometimes, this is the way Adam and I talk to each other: a  few words, subtle gestures, and whole paragraphs from the eyes.  Adam was telling me that the expression on my face was scaring him.  I knew this instantly, and it brought tears.  I smiled immediately, and put my nose on his.  I heard myself saying something unbelievable, even to me.  ”Mommy’s happy, Adam.  I’m just tired.”  In a sense it was true, but not a good excuse.  Immediately I knew how unfair it was to expect him to understand that exhaustion made me less patient; that it sharpened my tone, that it wiped the smile from my face.

This is a battle that started when I was young.  You know, denying the need for rest is actually a childish thing.  What child will ever admit that rest is an important, necessary part of life?  Since I was the youngest, I had the earliest bed time in our family.  I hated that.  It’s so funny to me now, because sometimes I’d just love it if Kevin would sentence me to an early bed time.:)  Back then, I fought it.  Hard.  I couldn’t stand the idea that everyone else was still in there having so much fun without me!  We had a small house, and my room was separated from the living room by a short stretch of hallway.  I could hear everyone else in the living room, watching TV together, laughing.  I’d make up excuses to get up.  I’d go to the bathroom.  I’d sit in the hallway in my nightgown, my back against the wall, and listen, hoping Mom would make an appearance so I could talk to her and stall a little longer.  When she didn’t, I’d pretend to cry, increasing my volume the longer I went unnoticed.  Of course, now I realize how annoying this must’ve been to my mom, who was actually probably looking forward to the next hour, when my brothers would also be committed to their beds for the night.  Now I’ve been in her shoes more than once, thinking Okay, if I just wait and pretend I can’t hear her, she’ll eventually give up and go to sleep.

Once, I got in trouble for something (don’t remember what it was now) and I was given a choice:  get a spanking or go to bed half an hour earlier.  I know now that this was my poor dad’s feeble attempt to get out of having to spank me.  He figured I’d just choose the earlier bed time, and we’d both be better for it.  Nope.  I chose the spanking.  To me, nothing was worse than going to bed early.

My kids all feel exactly the same way.  I remember when they were little and I’d put them down for naps, ignoring their crying and protesting.  Whenever Oma visited, this drove her completely nuts.  Even though she’d walked in my shoes, being Grandma was different.  She’d try to negotiate for them.  “Maybe she’s not tired.  She doesn’t really want to take a nap.” She knew this argument to be completely irrational and useless, but still, she tried, and it makes me smile now to think about it.  I remember saying, “What kid thinks they need a nap?”

Even now, I impose a one hour by-ourselves-in-our-rooms rest period (My mom actually started this one summer when the kids were at her house, and I thought it was such a brilliant plan that I kept it going after they came home.) on days when the kids are home all day.  They all try to figure out how not to rest-while pretending to rest-during this hour.  Adam turns into a grumpy old man, grumbling as he goes up the stairs to his room, “Time for rest!  It’s rest time!  Bye Bye!  See ya later! Time for rest!”  Zoe presents me with a list of questions:  Okay.  So, Mom.  If I am in my room, and I am being quiet, can I read a book?  Play with dolls?  Play dress up?  Organize a marching band?  Riley turns floppy and sags her way upstairs.  ”Aww, Mom. (insert whiny voice here) But what will you be doing during rest time?  What will we do after rest time?”  My children consider it a vacation when they don’t have to take a break for rest.

For them, as it was for me as a kid, rest is the worst possible punishment.  I laugh privately while my steel-threaded Mom-voice says things like, “Look.  I’m not listening to this.  Either you two figure out how to be kind to each other…”

“Mom,” Riley interrupts, “we’re not ‘each other,’ we’re people, remember?”

My hand now covering the smile on my face (Sometimes I just love the way Riley tells me—and reminds me—that some phrases just don’t compute.), I continue.  ”…either you two quit fighting immediately, or you both will get to go to bed early.  Obviously you’re too tired to figure out how to be kind.”

OR

“You’ve got two choices:  You’re going to have a better attitude about this, or you’re going to bed early (or going to take a nap, depending on the time of day).”

OR, to borrow from Shakespeare,

“Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!”

I do not know if I am simply instinctively repeating a script I heard as a child or if I have just naturally translated the facts regarding my own issues into my parenting.  I know for a fact that I have less patience when I’m tired.  I’m more emotional.  I don’t think clearly.  I find it difficult to be as kind as I should be, and my attitude stinks.  Years upon years ago now, when I’d feel burdened and exhausted at the end of a long day, I started telling myself, Just go to sleep.  It’ll all look better in the morning. When I’m rested, the world is a rosier place.  Patience, kindness, and unselfishness feel a little more in reach, and life becomes not quite so completely governed by always and never.

Lately, those are Riley’s favorite words.  She’s one big emotion with legs.  She will never get to do that awesome thing again!  She always has to do homework. She never gets to wear the bag lady outfit she has picked out. She always misses her daddy (while he’s at work)…her friends…her sister (If she happens to wisely be sleeping in)…her Grandma (“I never get to laugh with Grandma anymore.”)… her Papa (“Mom?  Can Papa come to our house today? I never get to see Papa.“)…her Opa (“…I always wish Opa would take me on a date to McDonald’s.”).

She never gets enough rest.

The child will drag herself out of the bed by 6:30 am every morning, even on days when she’s been sleeping so hard that she has lines etched into her cheeks from the sheets.

I try “let’s think positively” games.  ”So, Riley.  Tell me 5 things that make you happy.”

“I’m happy when I get to do X-that-you-never-let-me-do.”

“Okay…what else?”  I smile, hoping that now that X is out of the way, we can get on to something that’s really positive.

“I’m happy about getting to do Y-thing-that-I-never-get-to-do.”

Okay, so it’s official.  Welcome to adolescence.:)  Adolesence with a child who won’t let herself rest.  I have it on good authority that most children actually need more than 9 hours of sleep once they hit adolescence.  With so much happening in their bodies, how could they not?

Another thing you know about me, if you’ve known me for very long, is that I do a lot of soul-searching at the beach.  I come away from those three weeks of Summer like a piece of sea glass that’s been in the ocean a while—all salt-glazed and reshaped, my sharp edges all smoothed by the waves.  I haven’t posted here for a while because I’ve been thinking and praying and letting all the divine whispers soak into my soul a bit.  Kevin and I have had so much opportunity in the last few years to think about the value of time lived well and the things that are truly important in life.  I’ve been asking myself a lot: If I knew I had one more healthy week, how would I spend it?

I can tell you the things I know for sure.  I’d laugh with my kids.  I’d spend hours having conversations with them about important things.  I’d enjoy every moment I have with my husband.  I’d let the laundry pile up without a second thought.  I’d clean no bathrooms.  I’d spend less time in the kitchen and more time writing.  I’d spend lots and lots of time with God—talking to Him, listening to Him, praising Him, being touched and shaped by Him.  I’d enjoy my life for all the small, wonderful moments as well as the huge, quaking ones.  And I would save up my energy and spend it on a smile for everyone I love.

The thing I think God has been trying to get me to see lately is that rest is an important gift.  It’s not a sentence; it’s a freedom.  Even more, in our fast-paced pack-as-much-as-you-can-into-one-day world, rest is an activity of faith.  But you know, things haven’t changed much when it comes to human beings and the issue of rest.  Years ago I saw a TV show or a movie (I can’t remember exactly which, so if you know it, please comment so I can add a clip.)  about these people who had re-engineered the human body not to require rest so that they could accomplish more things.  It was a wonderful exploration of what human beings might do if we actually could figure out how to pack more into one day.  In the end, the characters in this drama discovered that while their bodies no longer required rest, their minds still desperately needed it.  They went insane without a break from thinking.

In the Old Testament, God made rest a requirement.  Remember the Sabbath Day by keeping it holy. No work was to be done that day on point of death, and no manna would be on the ground.  God never has been one to mess around when making a point.:)  Though His rest on the seventh day of creation (rest Almighty God most assuredly did not need) offered humankind the basic yet profound truth that hard, creative work is good and important AND rest is good and important, God knew that his example alone would not be sufficient argument against our stubbornness.  So, God declared a day that His people must rest, remember Him and the work that He has done, and keep holy the day He had rested.  Yet the Sabbath wasn’t just about remembrance, it was about trust.  God wanted the people to be able to rest, knowing that He’d take care of everything they needed.

Over time, the Old Testament Sabbath laws have oft been misused and misconstrued, turned into an effort of hard work (for all their oppression) or worse, legalism.  It’s amazing to me to that historically, humanity has taken the gifted day of rest and trust and heaped as much misery, stress, and boredom on top of it as possible.  It was never meant to be so difficult for us to rest, but since it is, God will force the issue with us if necessary.  As much as I have always longed for my children to concede that they need a break, I know they never will.  I don’t mind making some rules and commanding them to slow down, for their own good.  I know they need the rest, even if they don’t.  Likewise, God knows I need rest, even if I’m unwilling to make it a priority.  The Sabbath was simply a precursor to all the other ways that God has slung His Mighty Arm about my waist and lifted me off my feet, laying me on my bed to force me to rest.

I can remember days when our children were all very young and weariness poured out of me in torrents of weeping.  On those days, Kevin looked me in the eyes and said, “Honey, please rest.  Do nothing else today but rest.  For me.  I’ll take care of everything else.”  Now, he says things like, “Rest and write, Babe.  Rest and write.”  It’s only now, loved so well by my man, that I can understand how much love was wrapped up in that Old Testament command.

I do a lot of reading about health and fitness, and I try my best to do the things I should to take care of this body I possess.  I try to teach my kids to do the same.  I wish you could all see Adam and Riley trying to do plyometrics with me in the living room in the early morning.:)  I get so excited when my kids choose healthful foods or show enthusiasm for fun physical activity.  And for all the articles I read about the importance of good nutrition and exercise, I read quite a few about the importance of rest.  Still for so long, I’ve looked upon my rest as an expendable luxury.  It has remained on the bottom of my priority list.  I’ve been telling my kids that they need to take breaks and rest, even forcing them to do so, without showing them that it’s important by doing it myself.  God provided the example and followed it up with the requirement.  I’ve had the requirement without the example.:)

One of the things I realized doing all my soul-searching this summer, is that as I teach my children to love others, to have integrity, to honor God, to work hard, to exercise, to eat the right things, to laugh and live well—I also have to teach them to rest.  I can’t just tell them though.  I have to show them.  Once I heard Beth Moore say, “Better to do one thing with excellence than many things in mediocrity.”  I really believe in that, but without rest, excellence is completely elusive.  And every time I come back to my one healthy week and the memories that I’d want my children to have of me, it comes down to communicating all the things that are true and important, even in the expression on my face.  So, these days, I’m trying my best to exercise a little more faith and choose to rest.  Everyday.

Time you enjoyed wasting is not wasted time. ~T S Eliot

Do you not know?  Have you not heard?  The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.  He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.  Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

~Isaiah 40: 28-31

One morning this week, Zoe walked in my bathroom (where I was getting physically and mentally “dressed” for the day) and said, “Mom, you’re the only one who loves me.”

I blinked a few times, put down whatever I was holding in my hand and turned to look at her.  ”I love you more than you can imagine, Honey, but no, I am not the only one who loves you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“What about Daddy?”

She considered this.  ”Okay, so you and Daddy are the only ones who love me.”

“What about Grandma and Papa?”

She started twisting her torso, one shoe pointed out in front of her.  She sighed.  ”Okay, so you, Daddy, Grandma, and Papa are the only ones who love me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“What about Adam and Riley?”

“Okay, so you, Daddy, Grandma, Papa, Riley, and Adam are the only ones who love me.”

“What about Opa?”

She sighed.  ”Okay.  Opa too, but you guys are the only ones.”

“What about Uncle Scott and Aunt Monica?”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she looked down, still twisting, another sigh escaping her lips.  ”Okay, but it just feels like you’re the only one who loves me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  It just does.”

I scooped her up in my arms and sat down on the side of the bath tub.   It’s amazing how many big talks happen in my bathroom.  I’m beginning to think I should move my computer in there and just make it my office.

“You know, I feel that way sometimes, too.  But I need to tell you something.  I’m not even a quarter of the way through the list of people who love you.  You have more love in your life than you can imagine.  You will be loved by people you don’t even know love you.  Whenever you feel like there aren’t very many people who love you, remember.  Think hard.  Make a list.  That simply isn’t true.  And, I’ll tell you  a secret.”

At this, she giggled and leaned in to me.  Zoe loves  secrets.  I pushed back her hair and whispered in her ear: The more love you give, the more love you’ll have.

As Zoe left the room, I thought, “How early does that have to start?”  She’s only 5, and she already wonders if she’s significant.

At least every other week, one or more of my amazing friends—all beautiful, passionate, fun and gifted women–will admit to me that she feels alone, unloved (or at least not loved by many), and insignificant. 

The worst lie I have ever believed is that I don’t matter to anyone else, and that whatever I’m facing, I’m facing it alone.   Ella  Wheeler Wilcox began her late-19th century poem Solitude with the words, “Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone.”  The funny thing is, she felt inspired to write those lines after she spent an entire train ride sharing grief with a complete stranger.  Having absorbed so much of her new aquaintance’s grief and carried it herself that long way, she couldn’t see that for this weeping woman, she was the someone else.  Indeed, the woman hadn’t wept alone.  She’d wept with Ella Wheeler Wilcox sitting by consoling her!

For every “nobody loves me” conversation I’ve had with Zoe, I’ve had three more of my own with my mom.  Even as an adult, there have been times when I’ve said, “Mom, I just feel so alone.  Like I just don’t matter to anyone else.”  Fortunately for me, Mom has never met these comments with any cooing and consoling.  I’ll never forget the first time she shocked me out of my self-pitying reverie with a sharp, “Now that is just ridiculous.”  I blinked, thinking, Did she just say ridiculous?  Before I could wonder more, she said, “You’ve got lots and lots of people who love you.  Then she listed and listed and listed and listed and listed until I saw what a fool I had been for believing the lie.  

Have you ever noticed that single predators in the wild rarely attack an entire herd?  They stalk the herd, waiting for one to get alienated from the group.  It’s the one struggling to keep up, the one left alone, that gets attacked.  Whenever I believe that I am truly alone and no one cares, that’s when I begin to wonder if I can survive.

I’ll let you in on a little secret:  For years, I hated the fact that I was always the youngest person at every table.  I have always been an “old soul,” and for most of my life, my friends have been older than I am (though these days I find that I have an equal number who are my age and younger too:)).  I’ve always seen a clear difference between the age of my body and the age of my experience and ideas, and I’ve never been uncomfortable having friends who are physically much older than I am.  In fact, the truth is that I never really think much about chronological age, unless a friend or family member makes note of it.  For as long as I can remember, other people have made an issue of my youth.  I’ll be caught up in laughter, thinking about how much I am enjoying the group I am with, and then someone will have to say something like, “What would you know about that?  You’re still a baby.”  Those words have always felt like a push away, an invisible hand that strikes out and separates me.  The worst is when the issue is pressed still further.  ”What were you doing in 1982?  You were probably still in diapers.”  No matter what I say in these conversations (“No, no.  I was actually in elementary school…”), there are rejoinders that seem to push me farther and farther away.  Suddenly, I feel alienated and insignificant, as though the strength of who I am is not enough to sustain my place in the group.  I hear the whispered lie, You really don’t belong here.  You really don’t matter.

For a long time, I believed the lie when I heard it.  For days, I wondered if my friends really found value in our friendships.  I carried on silent conversations with them.  Do you realize that making an issue out of the age of my body is like deciding how relevant I am to you on the basis of the age of the car I drive?  ”Oh, what do you know about love?  Your car is brand new.”  My body is nothing more than a vehicle in which my soul lives, laughs, loves…”

The point is that for years, this was the thing that alienated me.  Of course, everybody has at least one of those.  The trigger for the lie.  The thing that is said or not said that makes you feel alone and insignificant.  I always feel sorry for preacher’s wives because they are alienated on the basis of their husband’s profession.  More than once I’ve been in a laughing group of women and someone has said, “Uh oh, we’d better not talk about that, the preacher’s wife is listening.”  Suddenly she feels the invisible hand, pushing her back from the group.  It’s an innocent gesture, one I don’t think any of us usually think about unless we’re the one that feels the shove.    Sadly enough, most of us don’t ever confess the thing that sets us apart, so our alienators are innocent, never knowing that they have pushed us away.

For a lot of years, autism alienated me from other moms.  It still does sometimes, but these are usually young moms who don’t know that the secret to motherhood isn’t just spending quality time with your nearly-perfect baby who hasn’t gotten old enough yet to need any discipline or guidance.  One afternoon this week, we were at the pool for some sun and “decompressing” before the evening chaos.  I don’t know why (because he can’t really tell me), but Adam was in a very grumpy mood.  In general, Adam is a pretty steady kid (which is amazing given all of his challenges), but like the rest of us, sometimes he’s just grumpy.  The problem is that grumpy for Adam comes out differently than grumpy for a typically verbal 7-year-old.  Adam grouses and complains and sounds like an old man with an attitude.  Over the years, I’ve learned the difference between this grumpy chatter and disrespectfulness.  The grumpy chatter I respond to (“I know, you’re having a tough day.”) but then ignore.  This particular pool day, a new mom was bobbing around with her baby (who looked to be about 9 months old).  She sang to him, smiled at him, stared adoringly into his too-young-to-drive-her-nuts baby blues.  At one point, they bobbed right in front of Adam, who had started having a little fun splashing the water into his own face (I know, but whatever floats his boat:)).  Adam splashed baby-angel.  The mother frowned significantly at Adam (which means absolutely nothing to Adam), and whirled “baby-a” a little further away.  I got Adam’s attention and said, “No splashing people.”  I think it was an accident for Adam, but I wanted him to be aware that the mom and her baby were close by.  I gestured toward them.  Normally, Adam would have accepted this without much comment and probably just moved away from the mom and her baby.  Grumpy-Adam complained in his old man “nobody every lets me do what I want” voice.  The mother frowned again, raised an eyebrow at Adam, shook her head slightly at me (never making eye contact) and asked baby-a, “Are you ready to go home, honey?”

There was a time when this exchange really would’ve bothered me.  I’d have heard the old lies: You are alone.  No one understands.  She thinks you’re a horrible mom. In the past, there were situations like this one in which I actually went over and apologized, explaining my children’s challenges.  Not this time.  I guess this time, I recognized that mom.  I used to be her.  I used to think that if a kid was acting inappropriately, somebody wasn’t doing something right.  I don’t resent those moms anymore.  More than that though, I have so many friends these days who do understand.  I have friends with children who have ASD, I read books and blogs and listen to podcasts composed by parents and individuals living with ASD, and it’s impossible for me to believe that I am alone or that my situation is unique.  

The lies have been exposed.

I think because I’m no longer usually the youngest person at the table, I don’t often hear the you are just so young comments anymore.  Maybe it helps that on a few occasions I’ve actually admitted that those comments alienate me.  Maybe it also helps that I’ve turned it into a joke.  ”You know, you’re absolutely right.  One day, I’ll be pushing your wheel chair.”:)  I think more than all that, it just helps that the lies have been exposed.  When I start to believe that I don’t matter, I’ve learned to do exactly what I told Zoe to do.  I remember.  I make lists in my head of all the people who love me—family and friends (the truest friends…the ones who’d sit in the ashes with me) old and new.  It becomes impossible for me to believe that I am alone and insignificant, on any basis.

I’ve learned the freedom found in exposing the lie.  I’m telling you, do not believe it.  That thing that makes us say, “Nobody loves me” has no power over us if we refuse to believe the lie.  The truth is, there are very few people who really alone, and no one is insignfiicant.  Everyone matters, and not just to one soul, but to many.

I love John Donne’s Meditation XVII:

…all mankind is of one author and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.  God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all the scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.  If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were.  Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind…

This is the truth, and this is what I believe.  It’s exactly the message in one of my favorite movies of all time, Lars and the Real Girl:

An entire town supports Lars while he works out his fear, pretending that a plastic doll is his girlfriend.  I can’t even count the number of people who smile at Riley’s crazy hair, let her call them silly names, have one-sided conversations with Adam about numbers, letters, books, and all sorts of other things, and tear up when Adam sings a solo in worship, all because they really do love us and we really are significant to them.

Still, especially in my lowest moments, I hear the lie.  I feel the shove—the invisible push that alienates me from the people who truly love me.  It’s exactly what Elijah did in 1 Kings 19, after the most amazing battle of his ministry.  ”I have had enough,” he said to God.  ”Take my life.  I am no better than my ancestors.  …I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty…I’m the only one left.”

I’ll never forget a day when my kids were still really small, and I was completely out of energy.  It was one of those days when I felt like I had absolutely nothing left, a day spent mothering a year-old baby and two extremely sensory autistic preschoolers.  Having shuttled everyone from therapy to therapy and then tried to cram normal household maintenance and even some quality time into our day, I felt overwhelmed and largely unsuccessful.  I fell asleep that night knowing that I would wake up the next day feeling more exhausted still, with yet more work to do.  My emotions seemed to be bubbling and frothing and dangerously near boil-over.

 At breakfast the next morning, I had no sooner sat down to eat when one of the kids spilled their milk all over the floor below the table.  I got up, grabbed a pile of paper towels—some wet, some dry, and knelt down to sop up the mess.  One of the kids was crying, another was trying to walk into the milk, another was asking for more of something, and I just sobbed.  I sopped up the milk with one hand and caught my tears with another.  I prayed.  God, help me.  Please.  I’m all alone, and I don’t think I can do this another day.  Help me, please.

I sat back on my heels and realized that I was crying over spilled milk.  Just as I started laughing at the irony, the phone rang.  It was a friend.  I am sure she heard some quaver in my voice, because she asked me how I was doing.  I sobbed again, but denied her offer of help.  Another friend called just a few minutes later.  She heard me say just a few words and said, “I’m coming over.  I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”  No sooner had I hung up the phone, than another friend called.  She talked to me for a few minutes, hung up, and then showed up on my doorstep about half an hour later, with flowers.  When I opened the door (and the first friend was already there, scrubbing the kitchen floor), she said, “Okay, put me to work.”  

That morning, as I sobbed over a puddle of milk in the kitchen floor, I offered the lie up to God in much the way that Elijah had.  I’m all alone and I just don’t matter.  Help me, please.

In the space of a few hours, I heard the same mighty answer God gave Elijah, too:  Oh no you’re not.  You are not alone.  You are loved.

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.  ~Anais Nin

There’s a new act at The Circus.

Riley has assumed a new identity.  On every piece of artwork she creates, every letter of grievances against her sister, and on more than a dozen, neon-pink heart-shaped Post-It notes dotting her desk in her bedroom, she has written, “Marissa, age 7.”  When pressed, she will tell me that her full name is Marissa Chrissy Claires.  As with all of the wonderfully eccentric elements of Riley’s personality, we have met this new thread in our “grand adventure” with big smiles, privately raised eyebrows, and much shared laughter.  After all, Riley thinks this is hilarious.  In fact, she loves to tell other people (randomly) that she is 7 years old.  She tries hard to suppress the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth and looks off to the side, afraid that if she meets your gaze she will burst with laughter.   I find this especially funny when she chooses to tell someone who barely knows her or is significantly younger than she, because not knowing her true age or understanding her sense of humor, they are completely lost on the joke.

A few days ago, I overheard a conversation the girls were having on the trampoline.

“Riiilleeey, that’s not nice.  Don’t say that to me.”

“I’m not Riley.  I’m Marissa.  And I’m 7 years old.”

“Riley, you’re not 7.  You’re 9.”

“But…but…I’m just saying, Zoe, I’m 7 years old.  That’s what I said.  I said it four times. Because I like 7.  7 years old is my favorite age.  7 years old like Adam.”

Unfortunately for Riley, her body is definitely not 7 years old.  She’s growing up.  I’ve noticed.  In fact, I feel like I am strapped into a terrifying roller coaster ride, and we are at the part where the car we’re in is creaking ever-so-slowly up a huge hill.  The brakes on the train are screeching (that would be me, foot pressed desperately DOWN) and the car is straining, but in the pit of my stomach I know that when we reach the top we’re going to barrel down so fast I’m going to lose my breath in the process.  That, or I’ll just resign myself to the ride, throw my arms above my head, let out a half-crazed scream, and enjoy it.

I’ve been having conversations with Riley which we both call “big girl lessons.”  She gobbles up the attention like cake, but so far, her questions and comments have been few.  She repeats facts with me, reading many for herself, but while the wheels are definitely turning, I don’t think she’s accepted any personal application beyond the things which are visually pretty impossible to deny.  I’ve wondered how much she’s absorbing.

Physical and hormonal changes are difficult for any kid, but they cause a unique anxiety in children with autism, for whom any kind of change is riddled with acute fear.  In her fabulously insightful book Thinking in Pictures, Temple Grandin wrote,

“At puberty, fear became my main emotion.  When the hormones hit, my life revolved around trying to avoid a fear-inducing panic attack (88).  …I started living in a constant state of stage fright, the way you feel before your first big job interview or public speaking engagement.  …the anxiety seized me for no good reason.  My nervous system was constantly under stress.  I was like a frightened animal, and every little thing triggered a fear reaction (111).

In the wonderful book, Girls Growing Up on the Autism Spectrum by Shana Nichols (which I am still reading), I read about a girl with an ASD who handled the changes associated with puberty by insisting that she was a “little girl.”  She refused to wear deodorant or bras, telling her mom that “little girls don’t wear deodorant and bras.”  While she persisted in her denial, her mom pressed on with teaching the basics, and eventually, her daughter asked a question about physiological development.  After that, this young girl absorbed the information her mother offered with rapt interest.

While I haven’t noticed anything in Riley that outwardly looks like acute fear, I’ve seen definite signs that she feels anxiety about being unable to control or understand her own emotions.  With the tiniest indication that things will not be as she expected or desired them to be, she fights back tears and finally concedes, wilting into sobs.  While disappointed tears are certainly not unusual for girls at any age, struggling with the lack of control seems unique to puberty.  Little girls (Zoe Zoe Zoe) use their tears to advantage.  Riley fights a visible battle and then gives up.  When I ask, “What’s wrong?” and she says, “I just…I just…I feel like I miss somebody,” I can feel my own arms clinging to my mom’s waist as my tears soaked her shirt.  I hear my own young voice lamenting, “I don’t know…I’m just SAD.”

It is the human condition to mourn the things over which we have no control and often to deny the unexpected thing we see clearly coming on the horizon until we have courage and strength enough to bear it.  This is, after all, what growing is all about.  Still, sometimes I’d just rather not grow (or at least that’s what I’m thinking).  I long for alternate realities or a choose-your-own adventure life.  Oh, to choose a different ending (“If you want to fall into the deep dark hole, turn to page 5o.  If you want things to turn out well, turn to page 77…”  When we were kids, one of my brothers developed a method for reading those books so that he’d know how every single possible choice would turn out.) or, if I’m smart enough, maybe I can find a “soft spot” in the universe and walk through to a different world.  A “do-over,” maybe?

Ever since that Fringe finale aired, I’ve been joking with a few good friends (who appreciate my sense of humor) about my “alternate reality.”  Come on now, how many times (Mom?  Mom.  MOM!  Mommy?  Mommmmmyyyyy. Mom. Mom. MOM.) have you joked about changing your name?

“Who’s mom?  I’m Anastasia.  I’m 25.   My belly has never extended to the point that I look like I swallowed a  watermelon whole, and I have absolutely no idea what my body would look like with stretch marks.  As a matter of fact, what are stretch marks?  Mom?  No idea where she went.  Sorry, gotta go, I’m off to the beach.”

It occurred to me that my daughter is no different than I am when facing changes that I cannot comprehend or control.  Denial is a drug that soothes anxiety to sleep, putting it off for some unknown moment of readiness.  I remember all of the “alternate realities” I created for myself in the early days before Riley’s diagnosis with autism.  I told myself that Riley was just a late talking, very independent child who preferred quiet and solitude to exuberant social situations.  There was nothing wrong with my daughter (Side note:  Now I am certain that there’s nothing wrong with her, but equally certain she has autism.:)).  In the face of what appeared to be a truly insurmountable unknown, I told myself that if I just put forth my best effort, I could make sure that she developed as she should.  I could work away all of the challenges she seemed to face by the sheer force of my Iron Will.

Many times, I still try to convince myself that this is true.  In some vast, barren subconscious wasteland, I reason that if I exert enough control, I can keep all the variables in my life in a comfortably predictable state.  This too is an exhausting, self-defeating notion.  The moment my imperfection rears its ugly head, the illusion is shattered.  What is it that deludes me into thinking that it is weakness to admit to my own lack of sovereignty?  Perhaps it’s the child within.  It’s Marissa, age 7 , holding her but-it-must-be-this-way expectations in her fists.

Virtual and alternate realities…hidden, fantastic worlds…amazing new capabilities to side-step tragedy…this is the stuff of which science fiction and fantasy are made (Interestingly enough, fantasy is currently one of the fastest-growing genres in fiction).  I love to pretend that if I could hold “fate” in the palms of my hands and twist it at will, I’d be safe.  So often, I view my life like a giant chess game:  If I could just strategize 10 moves in advance, I’d win.  This doesn’t seem so silly to me (I’m an intelligent, capable woman, after all:)) until I realize that I have the life-chess Champion, the One who can see every single move that will ever occur, begging me to get out of the chair and  just let Him play the game on my behalf.

So even as I wrap my arms around Riley and press on, asking her to trust God with the days ahead, I know that I don’t always live my own life with that measure of complete surrender.  I understand her fear.  Sometimes, I’m still that little girl standing at the edge of one of life’s cliffs, trying to convince myself I’m not actually standing there.

I suppose that it’s testimony to God’s work in me that I have “my moments.”  In these Victorious moments, I echo Barbara Johnson’s mantra (Whatever, Lord!), reasoning that if a woman who lived through so much pain (the tragic deaths of two sons, a terrible accident that nearly took her husband’s life and left him paralyzed for a very long time, an 11-year estrangement from another son, and lately, a brain tumor) can surrender all of her unknown and unchosen paths to God, perhaps I too can learn to do so.  In truth, it’s essentially the single best thing God has ever allowed me to do for my children.  In my darkest days, when I wondered if Riley and Adam would ever speak (much less move on to have lives and families of their own), God slowly pried my fingers open and helped me release the expectations I held clinched in my little-girl fists.  I have learned, at least in this, to trust that whatever my childen become (and whatever they don’t), it’s all held in Mightier palms than mine, and His ways are always the best.

I’m a work in progress and so is Riley.  It’s just that I’ve stood at a few more cliffs and plunged down a few more hills with my breath caught in my throat.  One thing I have learned along the way is that it helps to open my eyes to the view, raise my arms up in the air, let go a little, and just try to enjoy the experience.

So on Saturday, Riley and I sat in the bathroom floor and I handed her a pair of toenail clippers and several bottles of nail polish.

“You know, I think you’re getting old enough to learn how to do this yourself,” I said.

I sat nearby and painted my own toenails, noting that Riley had chosen a bright, fire-engine red for her own.  I was careful not to interfere with her harmlessly independent opportunity.  When she finished, she had polish all over her slightly uneven nails and here and there on the skin around the nails.  There were smudges and inconsistencies, but she was so excited she could hardly stand still.  She flew down the stairs, plopped down at the breakfast table, and declared to her dad (flushed cheeks and all):

“Dad, I’m almost 10 years old.”

Funny thing: I haven’t seen Marissa this week.

God grant me the ability to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. ~The Serenity Prayer

Does freedom mean that you are allowed to do whatever you want to do?

Or we could talk about all the limiting influences in your life that actively

work against your freedom.  Your family genetic heritage, your specific

DNA, your metabolic uniqueness, the quantum stuff that is going on at a 

subatomic level where only I am the always-present observer.  Or the 

intrusion of your soul’s sickness that inhibits and binds you, or the 

social influences around you, or the habits that have created synaptic

bonds and pathways in your brain.  And then there’s advertising, propaganda,

and paradigms.  Inside that confluence of multifaceted inhibitors,’ she sighed,

‘what is freedom really?’

Mack just stood there not knowing what to say.

‘Only I can set you free, Mackenzie, but freedom can never be forced.’

‘I don’t understand,’ replied Mack.  ’I don’t even understand what

you just told me.’

She turned back and smiled.  ’I know.  I didn’t tell you so that you

would understand right now.  I told you for later.  At this point,

you don’t even comprehend that freedom is an incremental process.’

Gently reaching out, she took Mack’s hands in hers, flour covered

and all, and looking him straight in the eyes she continued,

‘Mackenzie, the Truth shall set you free and the Truth has

a name; he’s over in the woodshop right now covered in sawdust.

Everything is about him.  And freedom is the process that happens

inside a relationship with him.  Then all that stuff you feel churnin’

around inside will start to work its way out.’

~The Shack by William P. Young~

 

There are days when I’d like to hide my head in the sand.  

When I admit that, I always feel like I need to back-pedal and say that I am blessed beyond measure and know it with my whole heart, that I have been granted more joy than some unfortunate souls will ever taste, that I love my kids and my husband and our life together so much that there aren’t enough words to tell you, and that I would never trade Life at the Circus for all the world.  I am so thankful for the all enormous loves in my life that it would take pages to write it down, and still I wouldn’t be finished.

But there are days when I’d like to hide my head in the sand.  So, here’s the truth:  I am a free spirit.  

It’s true that I live life with a lot of self-discipline, planning, and organization, but this is a requirement in my line of work.  When you are the ringmaster, the lion-tamer, the tight rope walker, a trapeze artist, the woman wearing all the sequins, and the clown driving the little-bitty clown car all at the same time, and there are three main acts happening concentrically with you participating equally in each one, there is little choice but to live within some non-negotiable constraints.  I operate fairly well within the structure I am forced to impose upon myself, but free spirits are prone to rebellion.

It’s rebellion that causes me to turn into a corner and clinch my fists and indulge in a little private GRRRRRR when we’re trying to get our kids settled into bed and Adam cannot find the 500th specific stuffed animal he has selected to pile upon himself and follows me around the house asking me to help him find it; Riley, exhausted and melting down and clinging to me (“But Mom, I just want to be with you all the time…”), is weeping bitter tears about missing her friends and wanting to play outside and could we please plan something (anything…she just loves plans); and Zoe must have the perfect hair ornament and bun twisted on top of her head (even though she’s going to bed—she likes to sleep pretty).  Please note: this occurs at once.  Is it any wonder that I sometimes secretly want to walk to the front door, open it, and just run?  Wasn’t it David who wrote, “OH that I had the wings of a dove!  I would fly away and be at rest-I would flee far away…(Psalm 55, verses 6 and 7).”

Or, dial back just a few hours earlier and I am making supper, signing papers from school, supervising and checking over homework, folding laundry, threatening extra writing assignments (5 things you LOVE about your sister) to silence squabbles, answering 1000 questions (“Mom, how do you spell BOSSY?!”), praying for a friend who has a major burden on her heart, wondering if there is something I can possibly do to help someone else with so much more on her plate than I have on mine (because truly this is what I love to do), wishing I could call one family member or friend a day to catch up (and sometimes trying), and incredibly, though my heart wants to be completely unselfish (or at least the Spirit within is pulling for it), I indulge in a bit of rebellion.  In the midst of trying to be unselfish, I become incredibly self-centered.  OH, I wish I could… is like a snake curling around my joy and squeezing out all the life.  When my selfishness creeps in, Responsibility feels suffocating.  The process of fighting with my own selfishness is exhausting.  My free spirit throws temper tantrums, knocking and beating about in my flesh like an angry animal in a cage.

So, I have my own brand of freedom therapy that gets me through the days when my Responsibilities feel like a cocoon.  I lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes.  Standing at the sink, I skim through magazines like Coastal Living and Travel and Leisure and imagine that I’m strolling down one of those gorgeous white-sand beaches in a bikini.  Some of you are thinking, A bikini?! and others of you already understand.  My free Spirit longs to shed all the constraints that govern my life, and I wish to be as bare (of life’s STUFF) as I can be.  In those moments, if I could shed my body, I’d do exactly that.   Since I can’t, I want to feel the sun on my shoulders, the breeze dancing on my skin, the water reaching for my feet.  Just me and God…that’s what I long for…and hours to think and pray.  I want to sprint down the beach until my muscles throb and sweat drenches my face (because I am much, much, much more than muscles and skin and bone), jump in the ocean and wash off, and then fall asleep on the beach while my free spirit plays in my dreams.  I want absolutely none of the details of this life standing between me and the best relationship I’ve ever known—the love of a God whose Love is so big He must pour out power on me so that I can begin to understand it.  At the beach, it’s like His face is pressed up against mine and His fingers are thredded through my own.  I feel His power and peace in perfect rhythm, and all the details that push me around, frothing my life into a mad pace like unbidden tormentors, are washed away in the surf.  So, I go there for a few minutes.  Then I breathe deeply, unlock the bathroom door, and get with it.

Last week, I finished reading The Shack.  I love that book.  It’s not that the book provided a deep epiphany for me, but actually more that it articulated a description of the relationship I know with the God I love.  As I sat with Mack as he ate dinner with the Trinity, or worked in the garden with Mack and the Holy Spirit,  or took a walk with Mack and Jesus, I relished the freedom and joy of that phenomenal communion.  The most insightful moment of all (for me) came when Mack and Papa had a conversation about freedom.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve longed to feel free in those head-in-the-sand moments.  I realized, reading The Shack, that I tend to get a little lost in selfishness and see it all the wrong way.  It’s not that I am confined within my life and occasionally get to break free.  It’s that I am always free and choose constraints (for as long as I reside in this body) for the sake of those I love.  That’s a very different thing.  It’s not that I’ve been thrown into a prison, but that I’ve chosen to take up a cross.  In His awesome and fabulous way, God reminded me that this is exactly what Christ did for me, on a much, much, much larger scale, since He left heaven by choice to be a man and die and live again.  He chose to limit Himself for a time so that one day I could be free indeed.  It’s humbling, you know, to realize that my free spirit tantrums about all the Responsibility that comes with living out the abundance of my blessings.  There are those in this world who are truly imprisoned.  It’s my freedom to choose to limit myself for a while, so that my children can one day also be free.  To live is Christ.

I am reminded well that these desperate cravings for freedom, those head-in-the-sand moments, are one of my greatest blessings of all.  When my free spirit knocks about inside this flesh, it’s just a reminder that heaven is my home, and from time to time, I just feel a little homesick.  To live is Christ, to die is gain.  

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.  And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.~2 Corinthians 3: 17, 18  

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part, then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. ~1 Corinthians 13:12

Do you remember what road trips were like growing up?  We used to do things that would now be considered illegal.  I remember the rhythm of my dad’s feet down the steps and thumping against the driveway as he toted me out the front door in my pajamas in the wee hours of the morning.  I remember feeling exhilirated as I thought, This is it.  We’re going on a trip.  Mom and Dad would tuck me into my sleeping bag next to my brothers in the back of our full-sized station wagon (I still remember it’s dirty white paint) and I’d go back to sleep, lulled by the roll of the tires on the road and miles and miles of nothing but trees to look at.  In the early morning, we’d stop at a rest stop and Mom would pull out cereal in Tupperware bowls with lids and we’d sit in that back seat still in our pajamas and munch on Rice Krispies with peanut butter.  Somewhere along the way, at another rest stop, we’d change into our day clothes in the bathroom.  My brothers always brought along a tape recorder and made up exaggerated TV news programs and episodes of “V” as we motored down the interstate.  I did odd things like plot out a style of music to listen to on my headphones for each segment of our journey.  When I was younger, I’d take along a jumbo activity coloring book, ask my dad how many miles we had to go, and count out that many pages to work on, telling him to remind me to turn the page every time we went another mile (It’s funny to me now that I actually expected him to do that and never really seemed to get it when I would ask and he’d say something like, “Oh yea, you probably can turn about 30 pages or so.”

With all the regulations now about seat belts, it’s crazy to think that Kevin remembers riding perched in the middle of the front seat, right between his mom and dad, with a full view of the road as it opened out beneath them.

As with most things at the Circus, it’s taken us a while to find our “road trip rhythm.”  Once, we tried leaving for a trip in the wee hours of the morning.  My nostalgia melted the minute we discovered that there is no way to secure a three-year-old in a five-point harness without waking her up completely.  What’s more, when we walked in the bathroom at the rest stop to change clothes, Riley got spooked by the automatic hand dryers and screamed the entire time.  It’s a wonder no one called the police, because I know how it looked to them.  I walked out of that bathroom with a very tall, hysterical three-year old slung over my shoulder, a grocery bag stuffed with her pajamas in one hand, and I was in a hurry. 

Things are a little different now that the kids are older and more verbal and I don’t have to go everywhere with a thick diaper bag slung over my shoulder.  The kids have found their own unique ways to entertain themselves, as my brothers and I did years ago.  At one point during our track out travels, Kevin nudged me and gestured toward the back seats.  ”Look at them.  There’s a blog in this, for sure.”

I had been reading or studying or writing, and fully absorbed, I hadn’t paid great attention to what the kids were doing.  I turned my attention to them and chuckled.

From the very back seat, I heard Zoe involved in some elaborate drama with her stuffed elephant, Ella.  ”But why did you say that to me? (then, in falsetto) Because, we’re on such a LOOOOONNNNGGGGGG trip, and I’m sleepy.  (regular voice) Well, you shouldn’t talk to me like that.  Now go to sleep.  (falsetto) “But can’t we at least stop and find some new shoes for me?  I really need some new shoes…”

Adam was looking out his window intently. having discovered the joy of all those license plates with all those numbers and letters passing quickly beside him.  He had created his own game out of watching them and carefully called out the last three characters on every plate he saw.  ”five-nine-six…’y'-’y'-four…two-one-eight.” Adam could occupy himself for hours with all those delicious combinations.  I once heard an adult man with autism say (when asked on an interview about what he thought was the best thing about autism), “Well, I can appreciate really cool sensory information that few people who are not on the spectrum seem to even notice.  Like, a fan spinning.  That’s the coolest thing, and I can really appreciate that.”  Case in point:  No one (well, at least no one off the Spectrum) can appreciate license plates like my son.

Then there was Riley.  She sat playing with her Cinderella doll, Riley-style.  No dramatic dialogues.  No cuddling or chiding.  Just giggles, and crazy hair.  Baby Cinderella has a whole new look.

 So, you will understand when I say that in our usual off-beat, outside-of-the-box-kind of way, I see this quotation in a whole new light: 

“Remember that happiness is a way of travel—not a destination.”

Nine years ago today, they placed her in my arms, and I said, “She’s beautiful.”  She was.  She is.  Gorgeous.  Absolutely stunning.

 

 

4.26.00...all 5lbs 10oz of her

 

 

Right from the beginning, Riley had (as her Oma always said) perfect little “rose bud” lips and the most gorgeous skin I’ve ever seen.  She was almost completely bald except for a soft layer of peachy-blonde fuzz all over the top of her head.  We weren’t quite ready for Riley—certainly not for her immediate arrival (she was born at 38 weeks, and determined not to be an “over anxious first-time mom, I had not even packed my bag for the hospital) and definitely not for the “grand adventure” she would begin in our lives.

 

Notice the size comparison between Riley and Kevin's hand...

 

 

I don’t really think any of us are really ever “ready” for kids though.  How could you be?  In our early days with babies, Kevin said more than once (always wearing a smile) that he thought those who were already parents (and certainly the grandparents-to-be) had deliberately zipped their lips and failed to tell us things like, “Spit up will soon be your new signature fragrance,” and “Potty training will be one of the grossest experiences of your life,” and “Say goodbye to spontaneity,” and “Remember all that stuff you used to say your child would never do or you’d never do as a parent?  Yep.  You’re getting ready to see and do all of it.”  Having crossed over to the “other side” nine years ago, we now know that Kevin was right.  The truth is, we all sickly want to stand around sharing amused glances as the next generation figures out that the streets on this educational program are made of hard concrete instead of astroturf, and that being here feels more like jumping into basic training on the Biggest Loser—you sweat, cry, scream, say “I can’t do this,” fall into an exhausted heap, and then discover that it’s the best thing you’ve ever done, it’s the brightest most amazing adventure of your life, the adrenaline is addictive, and you’re a much better version of you than you’d ever have been otherwise.  

I’ll never forget that first day with Riley.  Kevin stood holding her, looking out the giant window in our hospital room, tears rolling down his cheeks and making his shoulders shake.  A nurse came in the room as I was watching them together and leaned toward me.  ”Are those happy tears or sad tears?”

“Happy tears.  Definitely happy tears.”

That first night, when our newborn baby girl cried and cried in her plastic hospital bassinet, Kevin picked her up, swaddled her tight and tucked her into the crook of his arm.  They slept together on the uncomfortable cot next to my bed, peaceful and quiet for the rest of the night.  Riley has been “Daddy’s girl” ever since.

By the time Riley was two, she had a head full of tight blonde curls, a beautiful smile, lots of frustration, and very little speech.  Twelve months earlier, she’d repeated every word we spoke to her.  I even tried long, strange words like platypus, and they rolled off her fat tongue like silk.  At fifteen months, all the repeating ceased, and Riley’s frustration mounted.  Our friends knew she was autistic before we did, or at least, before we could face that truth.  Afraid to tell me what she was thinking, one friend passed an article about autism to another and asked her if it sounded like my daughter.  I started visiting book stores, looking for answers.  When I stood in front of shelves of parenting books, the word “autism” seemed to glow nastily at me from all the spines in front of me that bore it.  Deep down I knew, but I didn’t want to know.  At that point, the sum total of my knowledge of autism came from what I’d seen on the movie Rain Man.  Somehow I couldn’t make the connection between my daughter and Dustin Hoffman’s character in that film.  Meanwhile at home, Riley lined all of her toys up in rows and seemed unable to play with them.  She wandered preschool and Bible school classrooms and seemed not to understand and unable to make natural connections with other children.  She woke up at 3 am almost every night, flapped her hands when she was excited, walked on her tip toes, and screamed, holding her hands tightly against her ears when we took her into the auditorium at church and everyone started singing.  One day, in the midst of filling out papers and getting wait-listed to take Riley for an evaluation at the child development center, one of Riley’s Sunday school teachers called me and said, “We don’t know what to do with Riley.  Something’s not right.  Do you know what’s going on with her?  We’re concerned, and we don’t know what to do with Riley.  Can you write down some guidelines for handling her?”

I sighed.  The teacher’s well-meant questions settled on my shoulders like a firm weight.  At a moment when I felt completely confused about my daughter and what I should do to help her, her Sunday school teacher was asking me to write an instruction manual.  I didn’t know what we were going to do, what was “wrong” with Riley, or what even the next day would hold for us, but even then, I knew the answer to her question.

“Just love her,” I said.  ”That’s all you have to do with Riley.  Just love her.”

When Riley’s evaluators finally spoke the word “autism” across the table where Kevin and I sat with our hands folded, I had one immediate question.  ”What will this mean for her life?  Will she ever be able to function on her own or will she always need to live with us?”  It was the short summarized sound of all of my dreams for my baby girl crumbling and landing in pieces in my lap, right there next to my heart, which had also shattered.

“That is entirely up to her,” one of the evaluators said with a generous, sympathetic smile as she nodded in Riley’s direction.  Then, she did the most wonderful thing anyone could’ve done for us in that moment.  She bequeathed a bit of hope.  She told us about Temple Grandin.  She told us about autistic adults with extraordinary lives, and then she admitted that some autistic individuals do need life long support.  I remember thinking, Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Not yet knowing a thing about Temple Grandin, I pointed at her name where I’d jotted it on a piece of paper in front of me.  ”If she can do it, my daughter can do it.”

And so it began, and what a phenomenal nine years it has been!  You had to know the beginning to fully appreciate the Riley we know now.  At nine, our girl is a study in extremes.  In her unguarded moments, she wears a seriously sophisticated expression.  I can’t tell you how many photographs we have in which Riley looks like she’s posing in a fashion magazine.  The funny thing is that this happens only when she has no idea that we are watching her, let alone taking her picture.  Riley’s social-self (and oh how social she is these days!) is silly and off-beat.  Even when we’re exhausted, she makes us laugh by saying her prayers in code.  ”Dear Heavenly Father, thank you so much for chair and table.  Keep cotton ball and tooth pick safe.”  When it comes to worship, this child who used to scream through the congregational singing now sings along in loud, confident voice.

For almost a year now, Riley’s been planning her birthday weekend.  A few years ago, Mom and Dad started giving her a shopping spree as a birthday gift.  Riley never forgets what they purchase on this shopping spree.  For the next year, every time she wears one of these outfits, she’ll say, “Grandma and Papa got me this on my shopping spree.  Mom, will Grandma and Papa take me on a shopping spree on my next birthday?”  She knows they will.  She just loves to hear me say “yes.”  So on Friday night, Riley and I stood in the dressing room at Children’s Place and then again at Justice for Girls (Riley’s personal request this year).  I watched her turn around in front of the mirror and then grin and giggle and hide her smile with her hand as she walked out to show her dad and her Papa what she was wearing.  

For at least six months, every single Saturday that Kevin has gone to the men’s breakfast at the church building, Riley has told me, “I want to go on a daughter’s breakfast for my birthday.”  So, yesterday morning, Riley, Mom, Zoe and I left early to get our hair cut and then have a girls’ brunch at the Olde English Tea Room.  I looked across the table and found my baby girl, who once got lost in lining up all of her toys, selecting Sweet Mint tea (and learning how to pour it elegantly all by herself) and Western Quiche, tossing back her golden bob with a giggle.

Saturday afternoon, Riley had us all out at Coldstone Creamery getting ice cream.  When we got home and Kevin asked her to step out in the back yard for a portrait session with Grandma, she muttered to Mom, “Getting my picture taken is NOT my favorite thing to do.”  I remember days when she didn’t have a single word with which to express herself!

On Saturday night, after Riley went to bed (When I kissed her goodnight, she said, “Mom, tomorrow I’m turning nine.”) I filled balloons with helium (to be snuck into her bedroom after she is buckled in the van to go to church).  Mom and I twisted streamers together and hung them from the lights and the curtain rods all over the living room and dining room.  We hung the glittery Happy Birthday signs in anticipation of her big day, the finale to a whole weekend of celebrating her (and oh the things we have to celebrate!).  

After church, we were supposed to go eat lunch at Andy’s, which is exactly where Riley’s been telling us for the last month that she wanted to go for her actual birthday lunch.  I keep thinking about how amazing it is that this child, who once seemed so closed up and frustrated is now such a girlie, glimmering, let’s-go-out-and-have-some-fun kind of girl.  The thing is, Andy’s isn’t a favorite for any of the rest of us, so while we were ultimately willing to concede and go anyway for her sake, we all tried to persuade her to consider other options.  Mom mentioned Italian at Ragazzi’s, but Riley said, “No, I really want to go to Andy’s.”

This morning, Kevin tried.  ”You know, Riley, we had cheeseburgers off the grill for supper last night.  Maybe you might like to eat something a little different for lunch today.”

Riley thought about this.  ”Yea…” Kevin thought he might have done the impossible.  ”I think I would like to have something different today.  I’ll have grilled cheese and fries at Andy’s.”

After church, on the way to the restaurant, I tried one last time.  ”Riley, remember how Ragazzi’s has those really great cheesesticks?”

“Yea…but I really just want to eat at Andy’s.”

Happily, we all conceded.  It is her weekend, after all.  When we pulled into the parking lot at Andy’s, we discovered that our old haunt had closed its doors.  I don’t know if the location has closed permanently or simply moved to a new spot, but the place was definitely empty and locked up.  ”I’m sorry, Riley.  It looks like Andy’s is closed,” Kevin said.

“How about Ragazzi’s?” Riley said, as if it was a brand new idea.  ”I’ll have some cheesesticks.”

This afternoon, it was our pleasure to finish the day with a game of kickball in the backyard.  The only two gifts Riley actually requested this year were a perfect meld of her personality—”dangly” earrings and a soccer ball.  It has been such a beautiful day that it seemed fitting to get out there and teach the kids the game we all played for hours growing up.  We used large yogurt containers filled with dirt as our bases.  Kickball with the Three Ring Circus is a whole new brand of fun.  We laughed till our sides hurt.  Every time someone hit a base with their foot and knocked it over or just nudged it askew, Riley stopped whereever she was (even if she was running for home) and went back to fix it.  After she finally understood that she was supposed to stay on the base she landed on until someone else kicked the ball, the crooked bases drove her insane.  ”Daadddyyyy,” she called once from first base, “that base is knocked over!!”  Kevin naturally relented and let her get off of her base to fix the other one.  Another time, Kevin was running for the kicked ball and had to jump over Riley because he realized too late that she had been so busy straightening her base that she’d not noticed the successful kick.  Meanwhile, Adam played happily with an inflatable toy that Mom and Dad gave him last year, something that resembles a cross between a pool float and a giant hamster wheel.   The idea is that you are supposed to get inside and walk around in it, but mostly, Adam rolls it where he wants it, folds it into a giant inflated mat, and bounces on top of it.  Every so often, he’d roll his toy into the middle of our kickball game, and Kevin would yell, “7th inning stretch!”  I couldn’t have dreamed up a more fitting ending to our weekend-long celebration of Riley than a game of kickball, Mr. Monk style, of course.

When I think about how far Riley has come in nine years, I always end up wiping tears away from my cheeks.  Mom and I love to talk about all the ways we’ve seen God’s glory at work in Riley’s life, and we both get all choked up in the process.  I already see glimpses of a pre-teen emerging in her.  She’ll draw one leg up into her chair, wrap her arms around that leg, and chatter endlessly about a million things, beginning every sentence with “And I was like…”  She loves to make us laugh, loves to hug us, loves to “glam up,” be a girl, and have fun.  Riley’s our sunshine, our rain clouds (like I said…extremes:)), our schedule-Nazi, our party-girl, our reminder that the music is often too loud and bees are scary.  Riley’s our joy.

Happy Birthday, baby girl.  You’re beautiful.

Ahh…it feels good to be back.:)

Every time the kids track out, I get sucked into an enormous funnel cloud.  We fly around in this fog, bumping against each other, flailing about, with toys, projects, suitcases, and load upon load upon load of laundry (mountain ranges—not kidding) knocking against us.  In fact, I imagine it’d be a little hard to see us apart from all of our chaos.  At times, life in the whirlwind is exhilarating (“Did you see that?”  “Mom, how does that work?”  “That was so fun!”).  We never know what amazing thing we’ll fly right into.  Then there are the days (especially at the end), when I want the cloud to just put me down and I’m feeling a bit tired of arms and legs buffeting against my own, and I teach my children new big words like exhausted, deflated, and uninspired.  Just when everything turns into one big blur and I feel stuck in a rapid spin cycle, it’s time to track back in.  I drop the kids off at school that first day back, breathe a sigh that speaks a million things (I love them so much~I’m so glad I got to spend some time with them~I can’t believe how quickly they’re changing~I am absolutely whipped~I am SO GLAD school is back in…), and think how wonderful it is to feel my feet touching the ground again.  Even though I know that this sensation will last roughly six hours until the school bell rings, it feels good.  Really good.

 I don’t think I ever told y’all the exciting ending to Riley’s first basketball season with Upward.  So, now (channeling my inner Paul Harvey), the rest of the story:

 

A few weeks ago, as we were all watching the NCAA basketball tournament (and I was losing miserably in our family bracket contest, though to my credit, I did pick the Tarheels to be the National Champions), Riley got excited and popped up off the couch.  She took center stage, blocking the TV (of course), and declared, “When I do defense, I guard my color like this!”  She crouched into a perfect defensive stance and skittered side to side like a crab.  A crab with a gigantic smile.  “When I’m on offense, I shoot the ball!  I play basketball because I like basketball.”

I couldn’t help but smile, both that a college game on TV would remind Riley of her own experience, and that her enthusiasm would inspire her to do a little impromptu demonstration for us.

 

In Riley’s last few games, we saw yet another amazing transformation in her.  She became a really good defensive player.  Having finally solidly mastered whom she was supposed to guard and how she was meant to guard them, she became as hyper-diligent about defense on the basketball court as she is about emptying trash cans (No full trash can ever goes unnoticed at our house.  When Riley sees a full bag, she instantly whisks it away and replaces it with an empty one.) and managing our schedule.  She stayed on her opponents like glue during those last few games.  Once, I even saw her try to follow the girl she was guarding back to her team bench during a break in the action.  The poor girl started sighing resignedly whenever she saw Riley coming toward her on the court.  As you can see in the video, she unfortunately spent a lot of time guarding her opponent from the back, but hey—at least she had the right idea.:)

 

The same day that Riley’s defense suddenly took flight she scored her first points.  Riley made three baskets that day, and the first time, I saw quite a bit of air between Kevin’s feet and the ground.  Coach Carl seemed just as elated for Riley as we were.  Yep.  Three baskets.  One on our goal.  Two for the other team.  Still, it was fantastic.  Riley’s spirits soared (and ours did too:)).

 

After the game, Coach Carl wondered if all the crazy socks (it was crazy sock competition day) had created some “mojo” for the team.  It was the girls’ first unofficial win (At Upward, there are no scoreboards, but as Coach Carl said, the girls keep score.:))  He suggested that the girls return in crazy socks for their last game, and when he found out how much Riley loves “crazy hair,” he told them to come in crazy hair too, if they wanted.  So, in all the pictures of Riley’s last game, you’ll see that she created yet another piece of “hair art” upon her head for the occasion.  The most wonderful part for me was the look on Riley’s face when she discovered that some of the other girls had done it too.

 At the end of it all, Coach Carl had a special awards ceremony of his own for “his girls,” presenting each one with her own small pink basketball.  He took some time to talk about each team member’s accomplishments, mentioning that he felt that Riley was “what Upward Basketball is all about.”  He told us afterwards that he had wanted to say more about her than he did (and what he said was very encouraging) but knew he’d not have been able to keep his emotions in check.  It feels good to know that she touches the lives of others the way she touches our lives every day.

 Kevin plans to take some photographs of our favorite volunteer basketball coach for his 100 Servants blog, so be sure to check that out. As a matter of fact, while you’re there, check out both of Kevin’s blogs.  They’re awesome.  

In Temple Grandin’s book Thinking in Pictures,” she attributes her success to teachers and special mentors who believed in her and pushed her to excel.  Just the other day, Riley said to me (and it seemed to come out of the blue), “Mom, what’s Coach Carl doing?”

 “I don’t know.  Do you miss Coach Carl?”

 “Yeah.  I miss Coach Carl.”

 Our thanks go to Coach Carl for all of his efforts with and belief in Riley, to her teammates for truly acting as a team and offering her encouragement, and to all the other Upward parents for cheering her on right beside us.  Every time we hear Riley say, “I’m a basketball player.  I play basketball,” we smile at each other, thinking back to that first practice when our little wonder-girl was so lost.  Riley has taught me more than I can ever write about the value of determination and perseverance.  What a blessing she is to us.