Table Power

Weird title, I know. But bear with me. Tuesday night, something made me grumpy towards my husband. I don't know if he said or did something, or didn't say or didn't do something. I honestly do not have the slightest idea. (Which obviously shows it was not a big deal and he probably did not actually do anything wrong.) But I was aggravated! I mean, not quite fit to be tied, but while I was preparing a simple and light dinner, I was grumbling under my breath and not thrilled with him in the least. With our son having already eaten and me annoyed and it being a not-elaborate or messy meal, I would have been perfectly content to grab the tv trays and plop down in front of the tv on the couch next to him.

But then a weird thing happened. I told Lino dinner was ready. But instead of reading my mind and heading into the den, he grabbed his plate and our son's hand and walked to the table. I followed suit and went to the table with my food and a snack to occupy our son. We strapped him into his chair and, not reading my mood, smiled and reached out his hands for our prayer. I prayed. We began to eat. And we began to chat. There was no earth-shattering conversations or revelations that will lead to world peace. But sitting there, facing my husband, my aggravation melted away. I didn't confront him. He didn't apologize (which he did not owe me.) Nothing changed except the scenery, the view, the setting. We had the television off. We had eye contact. We shared our day's stories. And I found myself content, happy, at peace with him, our son, myself, and the world.

We committed to one another once upon a time that our kids would grow up eating family dinners around the table. We knew it was healthy and important for their well-being. And most of our dates consist of going out to eat. Because it leads to great conversation, catching up, and reconnecting as a couple. But we had really slacked off for a long time at the whole "dinner table" concept. I think we rationalized that it would matter when our kid could, oh, talk! But my mother was right. (She usually is, you know. Really. Not being sarcastic. She's a fantastically brilliant woman.) The table should be a habit built from an early age and memory. And now I see, the table isn't just healthy for our kid. It's healthy for our family. It's for all of the relationships and dynamics within this family. It's healthy for us as individuals.

I'm glad we've gotten much better at this and hope to continue this trend. I love that our son expects the connectivity between us and with God in a meal-time prayer. And quite frankly, I don't even know what we used to watch on television, nor do I miss it. It turns out, the dining table has magical powers of which I was even previously unaware. And I grew up with the family dinners!

Tables are more important than I knew. But I will not forget or take it for granted.

Snap shot of the future?

This week, I have the pleasure of watching my neighbors' children, ages 4 and 6. Having never had a 4 or 6-year-old child of either gender, I must admit I was a wee bit nervous. I wasn't sure what to "do" with them, what to feed them, how to entertain them, etc. Today was the first day and I kind of feel like I got a small glimpse of the future.

Now granted, when I have more than one child, I'm sure it will be different. I'll be very familiar with their likes, dislikes, routines, personalities, and the likes. Jackson will (obviously) be the older child as opposed to the youngest. Having three children running around is drastically different than having one.

But it was cool and crazy and fantastic. It was fun having kids around with words. They actually told me what they wanted and didn't want. They have great senses of humor and it was ridiculously awesome to hear the "-isms" from the mouths of babes. I love their logic and rationale. The insights and observations honestly surprised me, in a really good way. It makes me so stoked for when my own knucklehead starts talking! It was nice not having to worry about coming up with things for them to do. Instead, my role was more of judge and timekeeper. "He gets the toy for two minutes, then it's my turn." "Hey, I don't want to be pushed on this lap!" "Is Jackson almost up from his nap? What time will he be done? Can we go get him?"

They all got along really well and it was a different kind of joy to be so surrounded by little ones. So it makes me excited for the possible future of having more and older kids. (Although I am absolutely LOVING this stage.) All that being said, I had a great time today. I'm looking forward to the rest of the week.

Easter Weekend

Today was Good Friday. Good Friday always causes me to pause and be simultaneously overjoyed and heartbroken. I am overwhelmed with gratitude at what Jesus willingly agreed to suffer through for my sake. I love that He was so human He begged for there to be a way not to do it. His humanity makes me trust Him. But I love that He did it anyways, without reluctance, hesitation, or whining. I am heartbroken that He suffered physically, emotionally, spiritually. I hate that He was beaten and bullied. Most of all, I hate that it was my fault. Come mid-afternoon, I can't help but wonder what it must have been like that day in Israel. Darkened sky, Temple veil ripping from top to bottom. The detailed descriptions of that day and that week always amaze me. The authors didn't just say that the veil had a little snag or even was torn. It was split all the way, starting at the top. I think if I heard and saw all that happened that day, it would have at least caused me to reevaluate things, if I didn't already believe.

Easter Sunday makes me so stinkin' happy I want to cry. I pretty much smile all day on Easter. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the gift of Life, Love, and Salvation year round. But there is something so intrinsically special about Easter morning. I mean, Christmas without Easter is meaningless. Good Friday without Easter is meaningless. Conquering death forever is pretty spectacular. And I relish in the love and joy and mercy and peace that abound because of what Jesus did Easter Sunday.

But Saturday has always intrigued me. I'm a very curious girl and time has done little to quelch that curiosity. In my mind, I refer to it as Silent Saturday. (After all, most of the other days get spiffy names.) Silent because nothing is written about the goings-on that day. Did the whole world collectively hold its breath, waiting for Sunday? Waiting to see if He was for real? What did the apostles and disciples think and feel that day? What did they do? What did they talk about and say to one another? And how about Lazarus, the recently departed and resurrected? And his sisters? What of Mary, Christ's mother? And His siblings? What must their emotions have been? I know Lazarus' sisters had been on a roller coaster of emotions (our brother's dead; our brother's not dead; our best friend is dead; is he really?)

We have all lost loved ones. Some have lost parents and siblings. Others grandparents and friends. Still others a spouse. All these losses are deeply painful. For those in Christ, we know it isn't a forever end but the pain is still real. And those deaths are permanent on this side of Heaven. How do you grieve for someone you honestly expect to see in two days? Do you grieve? Do you patiently wait, having those around you assume you're in denial? What happened on that Silent Saturday?

And Jesus - what must His soul, His spirit have experienced during the time His body was deceased? I cannot even fathom. I believe in near-death experiences. But this was not an NDE. This was really, truly, all the way dead. Did He want to put back on the shackles and pain of humanity? I mean, I know He was willing to because it was the only to reconcile. But what happened on that Silent Saturday?

That's what I'll be continually pondering tomorrow. And probably one of the first questions I'll ask on the other side of Heaven. But until I get there, I'll just have to wait and wonder.

Refuse to be a Victim

Life happens. Adversity happens. We all face some level of challenge, trial, or pain. Sometimes, it's of our own making. Sometimes, it things far beyond our control. But regardless of the source of adversity, regardless how big or small our challenge is, we all get a choice in how we react and handle it. Life isn't a competition of who's life is better or who had it worse. It's about how we play the cards we're dealt, whether we're the dealer or not.

People die. People get abused. People make poor choices that negatively impact the lives of those around them. People are abandoned. I am not trivializing any of these occurrences. They suck. They're hard to get through and hard to face. I hate them and wish none of us had to face trials. But the people I admire are those who refused to play the victim. I am inspired by those who refuse to say, "Woe is me." I am in awe of people who have every right to shut down, but who rise up, who become more than the sum of their parts. I love it when people choose to find the positive in nasty circumstances, who learn from other people's pasts.

I know someone who is grateful for the work ethic instilled in them by someone who also caused great heartache and pain. I know another who didn't know their parents, was raised in the system, ended up on the streets in a bad way, but now has a beautiful life with a spouse and child. I admire a person who's father didn't show much affection, didn't give hugs or tell them they were loved very often, who is now an amazing, loving, affection, and giving spouse and parent.

There are so many people who have been victimized in some form or fashion. But I know and respect numerous ones who refuse to be victims. I also know people who've had it seemingly pretty good. Life's been kind and easy. Yet their outlook, their attitude, is one of "poor, poor, pitiful me." They're never satisfied. They never have enough.

Life is all about attitude. It's how we handle the good, the bad, the ugly. Do we choose to be victimized? Do we choose to roll over and say "uncle" when crummy things happen? Do we check out of life when the unimaginable occurs? Do we choose to be jealous because someone else has the latest, greatest, spiffiest toy? Are we sad because someone else's house is bigger or car is fancier?

Or do we wake up in the morning, glad that we woke up that morning? Do we relish the time we had with a loved one instead of lamenting what never was? Do we look at how bad someone else's life has become through their own choices and know we can refuse to walk that same path?

There are always choices in life. Not in what happens, but in how we respond. Refuse to be the victim. Remaining victimized turns people bitter. Instead, we must choose an attitude that allows healing. If we let it, Life will become sweeter again.

Can't Believe it's April!

I cannot believe it is already April. If the calendar didn't exist, I would even go so far as to argue the point. But I suppose the old adage is true...time waits for no man.

It's April. That means my son is having another birthday. Can you believe the audacity of this child?!? He is having the nerve to turn 2! I used to laugh at my sister-in-law when she would tell me she wanted to put bricks on her sons' heads to keep them as they were. Now I get it. Where are cinder blocks when you need one? I can't believe it's been almost two years already.

Two years since I went into labor. Two years since my little boy was born. Two years since my husband, the Elvis fan, announced our child's birth to my parents on the phone by telling them, "Jackson has entered the building!"

Two years since I wondered what he would be like, look like, act like, sound like, smell like. Now I know, at least two years worth of answers. I wonder what the next year, and five, and twenty, will be. But I know the first two have gone too quickly already.

Two years since I first held that little boy with big ears and bird legs. He's grown into his ears nicely and his legs have filled out. (I once had someone tell me he reminded them of a Shar-Pei because his skin was so loose! I laughed.) Two years since I discovered that getting spit-up on by your own kid isn't nearly as gross as when anyone else's kid does it. Two years since my life was irreversibly and fantastically flipped upside down.

This sweet little boy has captured my heart and imagination. He's affected lots of lives around him. He's impacted people's days and moods, through even the briefest of interactions. I have come to the full knowledge and acceptance that I may well be known from this time forward as "Jackson's mom." And that's just fine. Two years ago, I was Christy. I was a daughter and a friend and a wife. Now, I'm a mom.

A lot can change very quickly in life. But if we let it, let God, life can be more than we ever dared to dream. Almost two years ago, my craziest, wildest, and boldest dreams were blown away by reality. I love my little man.

Now, where's that brick?

Different Strokes...

I know my last post was a bit of a downer. I won't apologize for that. It's what I felt. And I'm really glad I posted it. I received encouraging feedback from others who helped take the guilt off my shoulders. I love it when people remind me of truths I know but temporarily forget or of which I lose sight. Thank you.

I forget that my younger nephew was a slow-poke to talk. And now that he has figured it out, he's making up for lost time! :) (Poor Matt & Kristin!)

As stupid as it sounds, I forget that kids are individuals, just like grown-ups are. I think because I am around Jackson all the time, I assume other kids have the same interests. When your child is your "normal," it's almost surprising when other children are different. I think that's why I'm so impressed when other kids talk. But I'm also surprised when they are more shy. Ok, so my kid won't talk. He makes sounds constantly. He makes up songs and dances. He likes to flip through books and pull things out of my kitchen drawers. He loves to put our hats on his head.

And this kid is so quick to smile, it's ridiculous. I mean, if there was a quick-draw competition with smiling, he's tops! He'll make a grumpy Gus in the grocery store smile. There's even a cashier at Wal-Mart who keeps his picture in her bag! She told me she looks at it every day and even shows it to her own kids. His personality is infectious and (I know I'm biased) fabulous.

He may not have words yet. But when he runs at me full speed and falls into me with giggles, I know he's happy. When he leans forward in the grocery cart to give me a hug, I know he loves me. (He's also adept at letting me know when he doesn't care for something, but that's another post.)

As my mother reminded me this morning, "He's his mother's child and will not be told when to do something! He'll talk when he's good and ready and has something to say." Oh, let him not be his mother's child! If he is, I'm in so much trouble. And I'll have lots of apologizing and explaining to do to my darling husband! But she's right. I was pretty independently-minded from an early age. And time hasn't done much to curb that.

I suppose there are worse things. I have a free-spirited, independent thinking, music-loving, creative, ball-throwing, dancing machine, cuddle bug. Tell me again why I was sad? I look in those deep, gorgeous eyes and I can't even remember. Other than that I want to protect him and give him the world...

I Have Guilt.

I think some level of guilt at some point in time is probably natural in parenthood. I'm guessing. I'm a first-timer, so I'm certainly no expert. But I think the desire to do well by one's child inevitably leads to guilt over something. Oftentimes, over things out of our control.

Right now, I am experiencing guilt that has not been brought on by anyone else. No one is telling me I'm a bad mommy. No one has chastised me or given me a dressing-down of things I should or shouldn't be doing. But I still have guilt and I don't know how to alleviate it. My kid is less than a month away from his second birthday. He still says very few words. I talk to him. I point things out. I try to take the sounds he does make and hone them into words upon command. (i.e. "What does a dog say?") But I don't know how to make him talk.

I see so many kids around us, many of them younger, speaking so many more words. I hear them speaking clearly and stringing together series of words. I see them respond appropriately to the situation or question asked. I get jealous when I hear parents have conversations and exchanges of ideas with their little ones. I feel like I'm not doing something right and I don't know what it is.

I try. I really do. I point out body parts during bath time, story time, diaper and clothes changing times. I tell him about the wind that's blowing through his hair and the trees. I tell him about the birds he hears in the morning and the pretty smell of flowers while we're on our walks. We listen to music and I sing the alphabet song to him. But he won't point to his nose if I ask him where his nose is. He won't tell me when he's hungry or thirsty or tired or just needs a hug. I know he knows these things. He'll point to a cow in a book. He'll do the puzzles pretty well. But I struggle, worrying that his lack of words is my lack of parenting.

It's not like he's growing up in a silent household where no one ever talks. Nor is he growing up without pauses and silence where he has the opportunity to talk. He makes noises all the time. He makes up tunes and jabbers with inflection. He dances and leads me places he wants to be. He'll bring me his shoes when he wants to go outside or leave the house. But he won't use words. And I don't know how to make him.

I know he's not an idiot. I know he's smart in certain things. I know he's social and fearless. But still, I wonder. Truth be told, tears are falling as I'm typing this. Tears of frustration. Tears of worry. And tears of guilt.