Nature, Like White Paper

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We aren’t really playground material.  Unless, that is, if no one else is using it.  Then it can become an obstacle course for an intense game of tag or a jungle gym for my children who find no joy nor challenge in the “correct usage” of the equipment.  They go up the slides, climb on top of the swing bars, and try to spin themselves into white-knuckled, near-projectiles on the merry-go-round.

My four year old climbed a five foot fake boulder at a playground while I watched from about ten feet away.  Another mother was soon spotting him from below, asking anxiously, “OH HONEY!  Where is your mommy?”

“I’m here,” I said, giving a little wave, “He’s fine.”

Her eyes told me that he was indeed not fine, but she moved on.  I appreciate her care, I do.  If he’d been wandering toward a busy road or had been being bullied by some big kids, she’d be one I’d want to have around; a protector, an ally, a do-er.  Unfortunately, we don’t always see eye-to-eye about what constitutes acceptable risk.  I find the current culture of helicopter parenting to be exhausting.  Have you been to a playground on a busy day recently?  Kids are followed around, constantly!  They are directed on how to use the playground “correctly”.  There is a chorus of mothers saying “OKAY, no, no, honey, we only go down the slides.  NO, no, sweetie, take turns.  Oh, say you’re sorry for bumping into that boy.  OKAY, kids, not so fast on the merry-go-round; now stop it so this girl can get on, okay, go slowly, NO STANDING, okay stop it and let him off, okay….”  It’s like this delicate dance of politeness and correctness and fairness and safety, and really, I didn’t come here to direct a ballet; I came so that my children could dash about, climb, spin, and work off that boisterous and overflowing energy which is there for a reason.  And if you don’t follow the Momicopter Culture?  You’re shamed.  Shamed for letting your kid carry a small stick.  Shamed for letting them climb.  Shamed for letting them jump off the swings.  Shamed for letting them throw snowballs.  Shamed for not making them slow the tire swing down to a speed other parents comfortable with (even if it’s just your own kids on it!).  Shamed for letting your kid stomp in the rain puddles and get understandably cold.

I vividly remember the playgrounds of my youth.  They were made of wood and metal; they had precipitous drop offs, unforgiving angles, and slides that could fry eggs in the summer.  Tall towers to climb, high swings from which kids could launch into glory, and wondrously speedy, large merry-go-rounds.  And the moms?  Stationed on a park bench, book in hand, happy to have a rest while the kids exhausted themselves.  Kids got splinters, bruises, and the wind knocked out of them, sure.  They also got to navigate risk.

I took my kids to our local playground today, which was blessedly empty.  I noticed that the huge wooden ship, where many of my kids’ early memories were staged of harpooning imaginary whales, leading a band of pirates, or braving typhoons, was gone, replaced by an open stretch of newly seeded grass.  First had went the open stairwell to the ship’s interior, boarded shut “for safety”.  Then the mast.  Then the slide. Then the whole boat itself.  I noticed quite a few more missing attractions; without a doubt they were deemed “unsafe”.  There remained nothing exciting; no apparatus which caused any tingle of fear.  There was no risk.

My kids solved it.  They climbed in the no-climb zones (atop partitions, over low walls, etc).  They dragged big gnarly downed branches in and made weapons and tools out of them.  They plunged headfirst down the small slides.  Their developing brains made accommodations for the lack of risk.  I scribbled out these thoughts on a scrap of paper in my purse and tilted my face to the sun.  “Nature is like blank white paper; anything can be wrought upon it; it can absorb any story you draw on it.  Playgrounds are like coloring books; the stage, the lines, are set, fixed.  There is a degree of success expected because of the proferred design:  here is how to enjoy this; follow the rules and it will turn out nicely.  Playgrounds with helicopter moms in full command are like paint-by-number pieces, where even the minutest details are not left to chance in the pursuit of excellent, safe, play.  I can think of no greater threat to imagination and safety than this current state of affairs.”  I wrote it out in hurried cursive.  My baby clambered past, slipping on patches of snow.  He hollered at the icy cold on his bare hands, shook off the snow, and carried on.

Appropriate risk is crucial to developing brains.  Overly coddled and protected children don’t have the tools to interact with their environment in the absence of their parent.  I’ll never forget the time when I hosted a stream-stomping birthday party for my son in third grade and invited several boys from his class.  One boy, whose mother was on the extreme end of helicoptering, asked if I was going to hold his hand on the walk to the park (it’s just through a development, no major roads nor traffic).  When we arrived at the stream, the boys clambered down through the brush and started exploring, splashing, and pretending.  He turned to me and asked “Where are the steps to get down to the water?”

“Um…there are no steps, just walk through the brush.”

“But what do I do?”

I was shocked.  Had this child ever been allowed to interact with nature without an adult telling him how?  “Just go explore, feel the water, run around, be a kid!”

After the creek stomp we headed back and I let the boys build a fire to cook our supper on.  The one boy looked on with a mystified expression on his face.  Fire was danger, danger is for adults.

I don’t pretend that every adult reading this is agreeing with my point of view, but I do ask you…if 100% of kids love to try to climb up slides, why are we always telling them not to?  When the worst case scenario is as benign as getting run into by a kid coming down, which automatically teaches the climber the risk involved and how to hedge against it, say, by observing by sight and sound whether another person is up at the top, why are we interfering?  Couldn’t it be that kids’ minds know what they need to do to grow?

It is my contention that good playgrounds enable rather than inhibit appropriate risk, and so do good parents.  I think the magic of kids’ play really takes place when they not only navigate bodily risk, but also learn the give and take of social interactions (sharing, apologizing, being considerate) without a parent prompting them.  When they screw up, of course a parent should pull them aside and reiterate expectations, but that should be a rarity.  They’re there to play, to learn, to risk, and to grow.  That will only happen if we get out of the way.

Until then, I prefer nature itself; there is no “correct usage” of a fallen tree spanning a small creek.  Maybe it’s a bridge, maybe it’s a pirate ship’s plank to walk, maybe it’s simply the risk-du-jour that needs experienced and conquered.

 

 

I Didn’t Know THAT Was Going To Happen

I was a pretty proficient funeral director as a child.  The small mammals of our house were always laid to rest with soft tissues lining their checkbook box caskets.  I wept over them, sang my dirges, and laid flowers over their backyard graves.  I’d visit their plots, I’d agonize over them being in the cold, dark earth, all alone.

All of my love had nowhere to go, no furry heart to land on.  There was Murphy the Gerbil, Lougee the Mouse, and Blueberry the Hamster, plus a neighborhood bird with a broken wing.  If love could cure, they’d have lived forever.

I’ve read a new book, “Piggy In Heaven” by Melinda Johnson which gently and joyfully tells of a beloved guinea pig’s first day in Heaven.  He rolls in the grass, munches, and hops about, sans cage, and his new pig friends gradually reveal where he is and why.  When they’ve ever so tenderly explained to him that he died he responds, “I didn’t know that was going to happen!”  Isn’t that just the bewilderment that children experience when their pet dies?  How I wish I’d had this book as a grieving child!  It would have revealed to me that God too loves his creatures; that I was not alone in my love, nor my grief; that the end of earthly life means a beginning of eternal life.

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What is perhaps most beautiful to me personally is the reminder that love is never wasted.  We do not need to hold back our fullest and deepest love in order that we might be less vulnerable to eventual losses.  We can live full-heartedly, and hope in God’s wonderful mercy that the ones we love might just be waiting for us on the other side.

So, if the little ones in your life are mourning the loss of a pet, consider this beautiful, hope-filled book, and if you’re crafty I’ve included a pattern I made with the help of my dear friend Kristina Wenger (Plush-Maker Extraordinaire!) for making a stuffed Piggy to go with it!

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Materials needed:

  1. minky fabric, 1/4 yard in the color you like (you can make several piggies with this!)
  2. a small bit of felt, I chose light brown
  3. pink embroidery thread or a stuffed animal nose or button
  4. black beads or stuffed animal eyes on posts
  5. fiberfill
  6. needle and heavyweight thread
  7. Piggy Pattern printed (say that five times fast!)

 

To make, trace out the pattern pieces on minky fabric, or any other furry material that delights you, being aware that the fluffier it is, the harder it will be make the eyes and nose findable!  Make sure you flip the body pattern piece when you cut the second one so that you have the fur right side out on both sides.

I recommend cutting out the furry parts outside as you will indeed be covered in foof, and the pieces can be shook out to disperse the fluff out of doors rather than on your floors.  Also, you will now look like you’ve taken up another job at a pet grooming shop.IMG_8157

Cut out the ears from felt and pinch together and hand stitch to make a curved shape.

Clip open the ear slot and either machine or hand stitch the ear in place.  If using stuffed animal eyes, insert them now too.  If using beads as eyes you’ll attach them later.

Using a 1/4″ seam allowance, sew one side to the tummy panel (right sides facing) beginning and ending at the dots A and B on the pattern.  Sew the opposite side to the tummy panel as well.  Sew shut the back, leaving a 1.5″ gap for turning it right side out.  Double check all seams to make sure there are no holes.

It may be tricky to work the presser foot around the eye posts, so hand sewing that area may be necessary

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Turn right  side out and if using a post nose, snip a tiny hole at the front and insert and secure from inside the piggy.

IMG_8177Stuff with desired fiber fill, hand stitch the hole shut.  For beaded eyes use heavy thread, doubled, and a long needle.  Position the needle and pull the thread through the face to the other side making sure the eyes will be even.  Add a bead and plunge back through, adding the other bead, and go back and forth until the eyes are quite secure.  Pull the thread slightly so that the eyes sink inward, forming the face shape  guinea pig style.  Double knot and snip threads close to the surface.  The same looping-pull is done if you used eye posts to give it a nice shape.  If you didn’t add a nose yet, use embroidery thread to add a pink triangle nose.

 

Have the eyes disappeared on you?  Time for fur-scaping!  Using sharp, small scissors trim away the surrounding fluff so that the eyes stand a chance of peering out at the world.

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You are done!  Snuggle at will.

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Dancing Little Screens

I’m the only one looking around, seeing trees swaying in the wind, and the play of shadows over rough bark; the way the light streams through twisting leaves.  Even the children, even the littlest ones, their faces still and passive, their squirming ceased, their eyes riveted by the dancing little screens, they miss the squirrel racing around the trunk and chattering.

Their parents stare hard and scroll, scroll, scroll, their thumbs stroking the glass of their miniature portals into otherness; other peoples’ beach photos, rapid-fire recipe videos, artful platings of food, and memes unending.  Now and then they’ll look up, around, at their child, and then, as though there were an invisible elastic from their neck to their wrist, they bend to it, raising their phone-clutching hand, and they leave again.

Grocery lines, stoplights, carpool pick-up lanes, waiting rooms, restaurants; they are no longer experienced anymore…they are only escape spaces to distraction, to otherness.

I love elderly people.  You still see their eyes; their eyes greet you, see you; there is a sense that they’d gladly connect and share life for a moment.  They remember the times before people carried all-engulfing entertainment in their pockets and used them at every opportunity.  They remember courtesy, conversation, presence.

I am alarmed.

Ever-reaching for phones, ever-scrolling, compulsive behavior that is becoming “normal”.  I’ve experienced it myself.  I don’t have a phone, and hopefully never will, but my husband’s smart phone is terribly tempting to reach for on the long drive to church.  I don’t even know what compels me to “check it”; what on earth am I longing for; why not let the passing landscape form my thoughts, rather than absorbing the experiences of others?

In my home my laptop is a severe temptation; always promising a moment’s escape from domestic cares and hollering toddlers.  But again, I have to ask, what am I longing for?  Do I ever feel any sort of fulfillment from “checking in” and “catching up”?  No.  Rather I feel the weight of wasted time and attention.  My childrens’ behavior also changes when I tune out; they are more irritable and uncharitable with each other.  They ignore my words, sensing that I’m not really “there” anyways.  Presence is necessary.  Not just at home but out and about in the world.

I will endeavor to change; to allot a time for online reading and interaction, writing, answering of emails, and ordering supplies for my business.  Lord, help me!  I don’t want to be absorbed by a screen, nor feel myself pulled towards it.  I am mindful of the little eyes that watch how I live; do I need a screen or use a screen?

Please, dear ones, consider.  Leave the phone in your car, don’t let your kids play with one whenever they’re bored or fidgety (it’ll prevent them from growing in imagination and creativity and being present), and don’t teach them that zombie-like staring at screens is how to live.shortstory8

The Time The Children Wept For Me

They gather in their pajamas as Henrik looks over from his pack’n’play, sitting themselves on the tattered rug from Goodwill with all the colors on it trying so hard to make our mismatched furniture look intentional.

We are in Proverbs, chewing on a few verses at a sitting.  Digesting them together in the earliest of mornings or the dark of evenings; in all those holy times of beginnings and endings of days.  Those are very real and very slow times.

“When there are many words, sin is unavoidable, but the one who controls his lips is wise.”

Proverbs 10:19

I talked about how words can be like swords flying out of our mouths (which made them giggle), and how they can deeply wound others (they sobered).  I said that cuts on our skin heal within a week, but cuts on our hearts from words can take decades to heal, and even then, they might reopen and bleed again.

I talked about how words can be like giving each other treasures, beautiful gifts that each can store in their hearts, bringing them joy all their life.  I told them some of my treasured words that were given to me, that shaped me and encouraged me.  They smiled and told me about which words were given to them.

Then I told them words that had wounded me, right to the marrow.  It was a teacher in middle school screaming at me that I was stupid, stupid, stupid because I messed up in following a list of computer lab instructions.  As I related how she screamed at me and how quick I blinked not to cry, their eyes filled with tears.

My children wept for my wounds, right there on the colorful rug, right there in their jammies.  It was as if they were sitting in that hard plastic computer lab chair, being whipped by words let fiendishly loose.  They felt the sting and pain of them.  They cried for the broken place in me that always cringes if I make a mistake, for the wound that keeps telling me that I’m stupid, stupid, stupid.    For the ways I try to bandage that wound by trying to appear smart, smart, smart.  Reuben crawled up on my legs, draping himself over me with a groan, whispering “You’re not stupid, Mommy”.

The three little blond heads tucked under my chin, I prayed for wisdom for all of us; that God would help us to think and discern before we let our words fly out.  That He would ever remind us that words are powerful, for destruction and for building one another up.  Their potential is all out of proportion to the ease with which they are uttered.

They are now tucked into their beds and the crickets are calling one to another, and I can’t quite wrap my mind around the holy moment on the colorful rug when my children wept for me.

 

And Then There Was Today

There was yesterday, sitting in the evening light chewing on dripping honeycomb fresh from the hive and feeling the breeze cool my sweat-soaked shirt.  Sophia and I sat, half peeled-out of our bee suits, chewing wax and guzzling cold water, smiles on our faces.   We had seen both queens; one which I helped the queen-less hive to raise by bringing in egg-laden frames from the strong hive, week after week.  I was satisfied.

We’d been through a scare the evening before on a walk; Edison tripped and landed on his wrist awkwardly, causing great pain.  A cast again, really?  Just, please, no.  I had him soak it in the cold stream.  Returning home I wrapped it, tucking a steeped comfrey leaf (knit-bone herb) inside.  If it still hurt the next day we’d take him in for x-rays.

All day yesterday he improved, using his arm more and more normally.  This morning, he had no pain left at all.  We ran some pre-trip errands and then the crazy started.

Three times as I worked at Mt. Ever-Laundry came piercing shouts and cries from my outdoors-romping boys.  Reuben stubbed or broke his pinky while playing with a basketball.  Hot tears and worst fears all over his dirty face.  Ice pack, a homemade splint, taped digits, and googling of “difference between stubbed and broken”.  Again the assurance that if it hurt the next day we’d take him in for x-rays and such.

Then the hollering panic of Edison with his first-ever bee sting.  More ice, a dollop of lavender essential oil, then a paste of clay and lavender oil to dry it out.  The cries subsided fast (thank you, lavender!), quickly replaced by what we call “jibber jabbering” (the non-stop talkathoning that excited children do) about bees, what their stingers look like, the possible motivation of the bee, etc.  My ears nearly fell off.

I sprayed poo off of the cloth diaper, folded another load of laundry, put two meatloaves and potatoes in the oven, and started hacking away at heads of cauliflower and broccoli, willing the evening to wind down all nice and quiet.  The aioli sauce filled the kitchen with garlic goodness, and supper was served amidst candles and a tenuous peace.

We set up a collapsible drafting table that we’d scored at Goodwill for $6 and laid out a puzzle on it, all pulling chairs up to the wide workspace, and tried to put the puzzle, and our day, back together.  It was while I washed the dishes that the final screaming cry rattled through the wavy glass windows.

I found Edison sprawled across the sidewalk, having tripped over a log piece that has time and again been moved about the yard for “creative purposes”, and having landed directly upon the previously injured arm.  I was about 30% compassion and 70% anger right about then, and it came out in my frustrated response:  “Just what in the wide world do you think you’re doing?  Do you want a cast?  Can you please JUST STOP HURTING YOURSELF?!?”

His pitiful whine/cry/lament accelerated to a higher pitch and I gathered him up and hauled him into the kitchen which was feeling more like a triage unit.  I washed away the dirt and examined his arm gently, though my face masked none of my irritation.  Soaking, wrapping, clove tea for both boys to help them sleep and ease their pain.  More cold cloths.  More whispered prayers.  One mama wrung clean out.

When Dustin arrived from his side job at eight, I motioned towards where he could find his supper and crashed into the couch to type out my day, to let it drain out my fingertips, right into the keyboard, and flung out to you, that you may commiserate with me.  Or at least shake your head at me.

When Henrik cried out, having been awoken by Ed’s crying, I just told my husband, “I’m done.  I’m.  Just.  Done.”  He soothed him back to sleep and I sank deeper into the couch.  There was today and today is closing like a chapter that a child rumpled and worried into crinkled pages and sticky spots.  Tomorrow may find us getting casts on limbs right before we head to the beach, or awakening to healed pains and wiping those worries off of our foreheads.  We’ll see, but it is just one bad day, and I can still breathe thanks to Him who saw it all and holds us all.

Just. Walk.

IMGP4158 Sometimes my kids make squirrel herding sound easy.

What is it in kids that makes them zigzag back and forth while walking, makes them climb every set of steps, and tip toe across low retaining walls, and swing around the sign posts?  What makes them take a dead stop right under your feet or walk backwards or make mad dashes that knock a sibling over?

We walked home from a church gathering tonight and as usual the children were scampering everywhere, catching lightning bugs, wrestling, and carrying on.  Sometimes this makes  me smile the benevolent smile of a content mama.  Other times it makes me cranky and weary.  “JUST.  WALK.  FOR.  THE.  LOVE,” I’ll bite out between clenched teeth, like enunciating would soften my words too much.  Some days I just can’t handle one more moment of exuberant wildness.

This pregnancy has been a rough one; lots of exhaustion and nausea, probably exacerbated by taking care of four other high-energy little ones.    Not trying to complain, but it helps to frame why my reserves of patience and good humor are running on fumes.  But just here is a place where deep change can be wrought.  Just here where the world would say, “Yeah, see?  THAT’S why I’ll never have that many kids.”  Just here where suffering is taken to be an altogether horrid and avoidable thing.

I get cranky when I fast.  My temper grows short and I feel like a walking ball of irritation.  How does a grumbly tummy cause such a sour attitude?  Because we are mind, body, spirit, not divided in neat boxes but smeared all through and through.  A sad thought produces our eyes to drip.  Embarrassment flushes our face red.  An empty belly makes us hangry (hunger-angry).  But I don’t avoid fasting because it’s unpleasant; I know too well the humbling that chastens my heart as I see my sins so very un-masked, so very laid-bare.  Because we feel we are awfully good and nice when we’re well-fed and feeling super.

Suffering, if not run from, if borne well, can serve our souls.  Through it God trains and breaks our whining flesh, making us stronger from the inside out.  He causes us to know our selfishness, our self-centeredness, our weaknesses thoroughly.  Knowing them, we can watch out for the rearing of their ugly heads.  We are awake.  Pain awakens.

The breaking of the alabaster box and the anointing of the Lord filled the house with the odor, with the sweetest odor. Everyone could smell it. Whenever you meet someone who has really suffered; been limited, gone through things for the Lord, willing to be imprisoned by the Lord, just being satisfied with Him and nothing else, immediately you scent the fragrance. There is a savor of the Lord. Something has been crushed, something has been broken, and there is a resulting odor of sweetness. –Watchman Nee

 

If thou art willing to suffer no adversity, how wilt thou be the friend of Christ? –Thomas à Kempis

 

We all know people who have been made much meaner and more irritable and more intolerable to live with by suffering: it is not right to say that all suffering perfects. It only perfects one type of person …… the one who accepts the call of God in Christ Jesus. –Oswald Chambers

 

But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world. –C.S. Lewis

My husband has little caches of Aleve all over our vehicles, our home.  When he gets a twinge of headache, he pops a few.  He doesn’t want the pain, so he avoids it.  He has no patience with his wife, who flatly refuses to do likewise.  “The pain is information,” I say, “My body is telling me something.”  So I’ll go lay down, drink water, be quiet.  Both choices are valid, but not when we do the same spiritually.  When we categorically avoid doing things which might involve suffering.  When we don’t listen to the pain, nor to the God who permitted it to cross our paths.

I walked a mile with Pleasure
She chattered all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow
And ne’er a word said she;
But oh, the things I learned from her
When Sorrow walked with me.

Robert Browning Hamilton

So when the squirrely children have worked on my last nerve, when I can feel anger pouring up my throat, and feel my tongue poised, ready to strike, just there, I can breathe a prayer past all that black, a prayer that God would help me, enable me, fill me, that He’d give me the grace to suffer well, to love well, to persevere.

And God smiles, ready to help.

Don’t You Know What Causes That?

It’s the first of June and I can smell summer.  Henrik is just below me, sitting in a basket of Lincoln Logs, industriously and determinedly throwing them out onto the floor.  He’s too young to have the weight of consequence bothering him; no idea that messes made mean messes that need cleaned up by the mess maker.  He pants with exertion as his chubby fists fling another handful of logs.

It’s strange, the variety of reactions you get from people when you share that you’re having your fifth child.  I’m sure you can imagine the tenor of the remarks.  Head shaking.  Eyes rolling.  Eyebrows lifting in silent disapproval.  Laughter.  “Better you than me!”, “Don’t you know what causes that?!”, “Oops?!”, or the perennial, “You guys are nuts”.  Some think we are carelessly making a gigantic mess, like Henri flinging Lincoln Logs.  I think the most cutting remark I’ve heard has been when my children were acting up one day and it was whispered, “And you want more children?”.  They laughed, I didn’t.

silence2 Then there’s my favorite response, “Oh, that’s wonderful.  I grew up in a big family and my siblings and I are so close.  There was always someone to play with.  We made such great memories together, and even though we didn’t have as much as our friends did, we had each other”.

As I write, Reuben is out on the front walk singing Amazing Grace and punch-dancing.  I kid you not.  My life, and as you see, my writing, is peppered with humorous interruptions. And now Reuben is standing beside me with a strawberry from our patch, taking a bite, and dramatically exclaiming “SO JUICY!” while he swivels his hips in delight.  Back to my train of thought…

I make no claim that big families are better ones.  Not in the least.  Your decisions and/or physical limitations are your business, not mine.  Likewise, our decisions to have a big family are our business, not particularly yours.  Imagine me coming up to a small family and snorting derisively saying, “Don’t you know how to make kids?”.  When people make negative comments about the size of our family, I’m seriously tempted to call the children over, line them up before the commenter, and saying, “I’m sorry, which of these shouldn’t we have had?”

We all choose our chaos.  Really.  Some people with two kids are WAY busier than we are; schedules packed with cello lessons, rugby, clubs, and PTO meetings.  Some industriously set about making an ever-better version of themselves by striving to maximize their personal potential (marathons, French lessons, career advancement, plastic surgery, etc.).  Some immerse themselves in ministry.  Some faithfully keep up with a dozen tv shows each week.  We choose.

We chose wash lines full of diapers, always making at least a double batch of every recipe, NEEDING to garden and can in order not to empty our account at the grocery store, NEEDING to make most of our food from scratch to stretch our food budget, wearing secondhand clothing, sleepless nights with sick children, and, for me, having my body stretch out to gargantuan proportions every couple of years.  But this is not flinging Lincoln Logs across the floor heedlessly and carelessly.

We are building something.

Memories of boys jumping on our bed wearing underwear on their heads.  That first breathtaking look into each newborn face.  The wonder of seeing these chubby toddlers stretch up into leggy kids every time I blink.  Seeing Reuben holding open a door for an elderly couple with a huge proud grin on his face.  Sledding.  Hiking.  Walking streams together as the sun slants down.  Mother’s Day homemade cards with all their love coming out in crayon hearts and misspelled perfect words.

Henri 184 Gifts.

work8IMG_4615 Yes, we know what causes this.  Apparently we know very well.  Yes, it certainly does look like my hands are full, sir.  They are full of very, very good things.