A Life Worth Celebrating

I really believe life is precious; worth celebrating. Whether big or small, young or old, neuro-typical or not, life is worth celebrating. So are milestones. You know, like birthdays and anniversaries and major accomplishments.

But, on the eve of a very significant milestone, I find myself ill-prepared, not ready to celebrate. My son turns one today. One year ago right now, I was in the hospital, working very diligently to bring this boy into the world. He didn't arrive for another twenty hours, but who is counting (besides me)?

It has been a very difficult year. Instead of being amazed at how quickly the last year has gone, we have made very slow progress; each month marked not by celebration and milestones, but by survival and sickness.

Admittedly, baby J isn't as sick as some. But I am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted by his needs. The energy and effort required to mount a celebration is simply not there. And that makes me sad.

Baby J will not pass this milestone uncelebrated, however. His big sisters worked on a cake, and his grandma is coming to visit in the afternoon. We won't make his favorite dinner (a long-honored family tradition), because he can't tell us what he wants. But he will eat cake and blow out candles to the tune of "Happy Birthday."

And I will have a choice; to focus on celebrating my sons first year, or on the fact that I am too tired to throw him a party. Honestly, I feel like a terrible mom for not doing a better job with birthdays in general. Instead of letting I ruin my day, however, I am going to make the most of what I've got. My son is a gift. His life is a precious treasure. And though the last year has been incredibly challenging, his is a life worth celebrating.

Walking the Marble Halls

I recently spent several hours on the campus of my state capital. That in itself is not too big a deal. but, I wasn't alone; I had five children with me, all under eleven. The day was wonderfully educational. I learned several valuable lessons (I'm sure the kids learned something, too).

First. I learned that our state capital is most definitely NOT family friendly. Parking is terrible. Any spaces relatively close to the building itself are reserved. Residential parking is available for an hour a day, and (if you can find one) visitor spaces are available for $1.50/hr. $1.50 adds up quickly (especially when it takes 15 min just to get unloaded), and an hour can be incredibly short.

Also, capital buildings are filled with very serious looking people (mostly men) who ave completely forgotten what it is like to be a small child. Not only have they forgotten what is like to be a child, I think many of them have forgotten that they were children, or that they are suppose to represent the children in their districts as well as the lobbyists in the marble halls.

Finally, I learned that the marble halls (which can be quite intimidating) are really not so scary. And even in such lofty places, filled with powerful men (and a few women), real people still walk. It was a truly amazing experienc; one I hope to repeat again some day. Next time, though, I want to do it on a sunny day (when I don't mind walking several blocks), before nap time, and with plenty of snacks; for my children, and for those who have forgotten what being a child is like.

Journey through the desert

The last year has been long and difficult. It started with sickness; it ended with sickness. Isolation; journeying alone in the darkness of fatigue, disappointment, and discouragement. Failure, or perceived failure, perseverance, footprints in the sand.

Not every day has been filled with sand and dust. Simple pleasures and small successes; redefining success. Lowering expectations. Again. Seeing God's hand amidst the dunes, finding a quiet oasis of rest and refreshment.

Mothering was never my dream. Africa, medicine, evangelism, saving lives. Those were my aspirations. All sacrificed on the altar of obedience, though not willingly or completely. Taking up my cross daily, by changing diapers, wiping noses, teaching (unsuccessfully, it seems) reading, writing, arithmetic; teaching my children God's laws as we rise up, and when we fall down. Battling to focus on what is truly important instead of what the world values; helping my children do the same.

Finding gifts where they've never been before. Choosing to embrace gifts never expected or desired. Celebrating through tears.

Jesus spent time in the desert. He understands this journey, even if I don't. The lesson I am learning: trust. The gift; leaning on the everlasting arms, rediscovering true success and ultimate joy.

This journey is not over. I've only taken the first step. But if a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step, at least I'm on my way.

Babies DON'T keep!!

Many mamas are familiar with the poem, "Song for a Fifth Child" by Ruth Hubert Hamilton, but I've pasted it in below because I needed the reminder. Babies can not and do not wait. Days may be long, with diapers to change, laundry to wash (and dry, fold, And put away), meals to cook (and clean up), and much, much more. But the years are very, VERY short. One day you are holding a tiny baby. The next, you are staring in the face of an adult! What is the more important investment; your house or the future adult in your arms?!

Social pressures weigh heavy. We think everyone else keeps an immaculate home, and if we are good mamas, we will, too. Medical wisdom pushes us to parent for convenience, with the goal to as quickly as possible have our babies sleep through the night, on their own.

After 16 years of parenting, and lots of baby rocking (with eight kids, I've had plenty of opportunity), I know that dust and dishes will definitely keep; mine have! Babies don't. Even if you rock them all the time (like I have with my youngest, due to severe reflux and sensory issues), babies don't stay babies. It is hard, because the tasks are so obvious and absolutely necessary, but Ruth Hubert Hamilton was right, babies do not keep. Here is the poem, in its entirety. Enjoy...

"Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,

Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,

Hang out the washing and butter the bread,

Sew on a button and make up the bed.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?

She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,

(Lullaby, Rockaby, lullaby, loo.)

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due,

(Pat-a-Cake, darling and peek, peekaboo).

And out in the yard there is hullabaloo.

But I'm playing kanga and this is my Roo.

Look aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?

(Lullaby, Rockaby, lullaby loo)

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,

But children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep,

I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep."