Aching to Be Older

Dearest Tyler,

Today, you made me some promises. And, since you are four (and a half), I am documenting them here because I plan on claiming these promises for about the next five, ten, fifty years.

Today, you were not so happy you are not yet in kindergarten. You express your utter disdain for that fact every single week. It is one of many elements of your life with which you get disgusted. I get it. Kindergarten sounds so fun when Noah talks about parties, bingo nights and all the fun things he gets to do. At least once a week when we drop Noah off, I get to hear you, very indignantly, state that you are going when you are five.

Today, I tried to offer some solace by telling you how very grateful I am that you're four (and a half). I told you that I'll be sad when you're all grown up because there will come a day when you won't fit in my lap anymore. To which you made your first promise...

Even if I can't fit in your lap anymore, I will still kiss and hug you, Mommy.

And then this string of promises...

I will still see saw with you.

I will still draw you pictures. And drawings of hearts.

And I'll still draw you snowballs. If we get white paper.

Today, you made me the best promises a four (and a half) year old can make a Mommy.

Someday, I'll hold you to them.

Especially the kisses and hugs part.

And maybe even the see saw part.

Fastest Mind in the West

I hear too many great conversations to let them slip by. So here is a new label called, "Conversations of Note" to help me remember these someday when I'm rocking in a chair at the old folks' home and need a good chuckle and a reminder of what the good ol' days were like.

Dad had gathered boxes for our upcoming move. As he loaded them into the van, he said, "This is a good one for your records."

I tried to think of a gentle way to break the news to him as I leaned over and whispered, "Hey, Dad, they're called CDs now."

To which he replied, "I meant your financial records."

Fast thinking on your feet, Dad!

A few years ago, a friend shared a very helpful way to keep from being overwhelmed by all the artwork the boys create. Because, seriously, between MOPS, church, school and just playing at home, the boys create a lot of masterpieces. Sometimes I actually wish they'd station a recycle bin by the exit doors so parents can discreetly leave some of the fistfuls of papers we get every week (our minivan wishes that, too). While we are faithful to give each piece of art the ooh's and aah's it's due and while we truly are touched by and proud of the effort put into them, it would be pretty well impossible to keep each and every one.

Instead, Brenna's strategy is to keep the most special pieces and take pictures of the others before tossing them.

Anyhow, I'm sharing some personal favorites (that I'm keeping) from recent weeks.

First, here's a photo of some "flowers" Tyler picked for me. The Homeowner's Association is all for "Show Your Mom You Love Her by Picking Her a Weed." I totally love my weed.

The boys love Chuck E. Cheese's photo booths. The problem is the pictures fade within weeks because of the poor ink they use. Tyler has one pretty standard face he makes when getting his picture taken. I simply couldn't let this darling photo fade into history.

Sometimes Noah practices his spelling on construction paper...

That would be his version of "buttocks."

Noah fondly recalls the camping trip we took with some friends.

This is Kennedy, Kendyl and Noah (Tyler is nowhere to be seen because that's how fondly Noah recalls Tyler) dancing to Boom Boom Pow.

And here is a gem Tyler colored. He told me he drew a picture of me and I was so touched because he drew those red roses and hearts to show me what a very loving and loveable Mommy I am.

And then he set me straight and told me, "This is a picture of you yelling when we are being naughty."

I guess if the gigantic red fireball coming out of my head wasn't clear, the crazy eyes should've been a dead giveaway.

But then there are really tender emotions expressed in art and they make up for all the naughty behavior...

And, once in a blue moon, your child may start out writing a letter to one of his grandmothers and instead turn it into a note to you because you let him help you cook dinner.

Radical is Radical

So I'm finally reading Radical.

Wow.

Ouch.

And, wow, again.

I decided a hot bath with chapter four would be relaxing and get me closer to achieving my goal of finishing one book this season.

Why is it that being a mom suddenly means I no longer finish books?

As a side note, let me just mention I've learned that Radical isn't a book you take to the tub if you intend to relax your mind. Nor is it a book to grab if you are hoping for someone named Calgon to take you away.

Instead, you might find yourself sitting upright, vigorously scrubbing away layers of both dead and live skin cells and hair follicles as you suddenly feel the need to run 42 miles except that it is 11:30 p.m. and you are naked because you are in the tub. Also, it is 33 degrees because Texas has finally realized it is DECEMBER. So, instead, you get all that energy gained from, "This book gets it!" and you turn it into exfoliating to the fifth layer of the epidermis (yes, I wikipedia'd that).

And then you might find yourself so connected to the book you start adding your own notes to the front and back covers of the book because the words are just pouring out of your heart. You don't even have to think.

So here is what I wrote (and more...because you know I'm wordy)...

So many years of restlessness. A deep-seated desire for there to be more. I was following "the plan" for my life. And I was happy. College degreed, married, living in the suburbs, going to church, having kids, etc. But something didn't sit right. Was I going to get to heaven and go, "Well, what was all that about?" Was I going to be hanging out with James at the banquet table and say, "Man, that was a great life. I tried not to sin, I forgave others, I cried for starving babies on t.v., I taught Sunday school and, get this, Jim...I even went on some MISSION TRIPS. I lived to be pretty old but I could still take my grandkids skiing. And, then I DIED IN MY SLEEP because that is the American Dream right there. Pretty sweet, huh?"

Awkward pause because James is just so in awe of the awesomeness of my life. To help him out, I ask, "So...how did you go, Jim? What was that? You died by the sword? Like a beheading?"

My turn to deliver the awkward pause.

Then I turn to my left and there is Abednego. And I can't really make conversation with him because, HELLO, he walked into FLAMES for God.

Thankfully, Luke is across the table and I know this guy was a doctor. I just know he owned my dream house on a lake. And Andrew is next to him. I remember something about him fishing and dropping his nets or something. I'm gonna guess he got some good fishing in once he retired from following Jesus.

But, seriously, when I think about the end of my life and I ask, "What was that all about?" I don't want to have missed the point. I spent many years feeling like, somehow, something told me life as I knew it wasn't it. There had to be more. We've got one life to live. Shouldn't there be more to it than the stuff?

But it couldn't just be that I had some need to be some kind of awesome. To live on the edge just so I could stand a little taller at the judgement seat or so I could feel important and have "an identity." A "legacy."

No, it can't be about me and simply filling a need for my life to count.

Instead, it's gotta be about His glory and His purpose. If everything is made FOR Him, then I am grouped in there. He sets eternity in the hearts of men. We all have that itch to do something with our lives. We all have that deep-seated something that says, "There's something much bigger than living and then dying."

I used to have a "go with the flow" attitude toward the American Dream. To do what was expected, to get to enjoy comfort, family and security.

No more.

I want to get to heaven and be able to say, "A-HA."

"So that's what that was all about."

Promises Kept

Three times I have been to South Africa.

Three times I had to kiss my babies and my husband goodbye.

Three times my heart felt like it was ripped out as I drove away from the ones I love most.

My first trip, Noah was three and Tyler was one. I went back one year later. My last trip, in January, Noah was five and Tyler was three. Anniston was weeks old inside me and I was excited to know at least one of my children was going with me.

The first time I had to walk into my boys' dark rooms to kiss them goodbye, they stayed asleep. Watching them breath in and out, Noah in his big boy bed and Tyler in his crib, and praying fervent prayers for them before I walked away was one of the hardest things I've done as a Mom. That first trip, Brian held me in the living room as I bawled and said, "I can't do this."

But I did. And they did.

And then I went back for more one year later. That time, the boys stayed overnight at my parents' house since Brian had to work. I left a letter for them to read when they woke, but Tyler woke up before I was able to leave. I remember his small body on my Mom's back as my Dad and I pulled out of the driveway and headed to the airport.

This last trip, by far, was the hardest. Three times is a lot of times to leave your children for ten days and go halfway around the world. This year, they were old enough to know what what happening. Tyler remained asleep in the bottom bunk while Noah stirred the moment I walked in their room. Noah is the hardest sleeper so I knew his anxiety made him easily awakened. Brian held him as friends picked me up to take me to the church. I heard him yell out, "I love you, Mommy!" as I watched him cry in his daddy's arms.

This time, when I got home, I hugged Noah and vowed, "I will never go to South Africa again without you." I surprised myself with that statement because it's pretty bold to say in light of the fact that my plans don't always align with God's. I had a small moment of, "Uhhhh, now what am I going to do if God calls me back and I've also made this promise?"

Well, it turns out that is a worry I no longer have to hold. Because this time, as I go back, I will indeed be going with Noah. And Tyler and Anniston and Brian.

And I will be fulfilling a childhood dream about 30 years early.

Because it looks like we have a move in our very near future.

I'm sure it would take a book to explain how we got to this point (with all my wordiness, it probably feels like you've been reading one!). But what we're sharing today is that we have a very real calling to go to South Africa next year. Likely, late summer. Brian is going on a scouting trip in January to, hopefully, gain some clarity on where we're moving.

Someday I'll try to share the process God took us through to get here. It boils down to this...we opened our hands and released the things we held so tightly to and surrendered. I don't know that I'm bold enough to say we truly surrendered all, but we've surrendered this part of our lives. All to Him, our blessed Savior. While there are so many unknowns, months of training ahead and peace still needed for our families, we have been astounded by the peace God's given us.

Because, along with the promise He's allowing me to keep with Noah, He's made some promises, too.

Peace I leave with you, My peace I give you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. John 14:27.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways, acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5,6

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you. Psalm 32:8

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Isaiah 40:29

My grace is sufficient for thee, for My strength is made perfect in weakness. 2 Corinthians 12:9
Faithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass. 1 Thessalonians 5:24

We're so thankful for His promises and to know His plans for us are good.

Jeremiah 29:11

A is for "Apple." B is for "Buttalks."

There is that phrase, "All I need to know about life, I learned in kindergarten."

Hot dog. It's proving to be true.

And then some.

Noah has come home with all kinds of new words lately.

A couple weekends ago, we went camping with some friends. And, in the midst of all our getting back to nature activities like dancing to Boom, Boom Pow (blaring from the speakers attached to the MP3 player) and playing Go Fish, I hear Noah say something to Kendyl about, "my Mom." As in, not "Mommy." Just "Mom." As in, he's suddenly too cool to be my baby. I am secretly licking my "I Want to be Mommy for Awhile Longer" wounds when I hear him say something like, "Give it to Jen."

So now the six year old and his "Mom" are on a first name basis.

Wounded.

We are a few weeks into kinder when Noah trots through the door one day and announces, with a little too much gleam in his eyes, that he needed to "take a wizz." Kid, I realize as I type this, I don't even know if wizz is spelled wizz, whiz or wiz. But, it turns out, "Jen" is not cool with the phrase, "take a wizz."

Then there was something about, "I can fit my butt in my mouth." And though I'd like to think I have a sense of humor, I'd also like to think that "butt" of his isn't so small it can't be swatted because he knows a line has been crossed. Oh, the boy knows. I see the gleam in his eyes. I see right through you, Noah Jack.

So, yes, we have had some nice Jen and Son convos about choosing good words and not repeating everything others say, etc., etc.

I have a feeling we'll be having these conversations for the next 12 years.

Then there are some things that just go with boyhood that I'm, oddly, finding myself okay with.

Take, for instance, the armpit toot.

Noah came home one day, hand in his armpit, pumping his elbow up and down so fiercely I almost called him derrick and checked for oil. It was fruitless labor as he didn't quite have the proper technique to achieve what he was working toward. That is one of those delicate balances where much more can be achieved with much less effort. Sort of like whistling. You wouldn't get a good whistle by blowing with too much force.

Did I just devote an entire paragraph to the art of the armpit toot?

Why, yes. Yes, I did.

Did I ever in my life expect to string together the words, "the art of the armpit toot?"

Why, no. No, I didn't.

But, it turns out, I'm the "Mom" of two boys and, I'm sorry, but when your kid is sitting in the tub and he looks up at you with big, sweet brown eyes and sincerely asks, "Mommy, can you teach me how to do armpit farts?" how can you say no? I felt like I'd be letting him down if he couldn't join in the playground symphony of the armpits. There are just some things a boy ought to know, I suppose.

So, a few weeks into kinder, I find myself in an out of body experience as I take a deep breath, place my hand under my shirt, cup it over my armpit and do my best to demonstrate. And to take this to a new level of surreal, I am actually adjusting and readjusting his hand over his armpit and encouraging him to never give up because, "you just have to practice and I know you'll get it, buddy."

Out. of. body. experience.

The problem is (there are so many problems with this), I've never in my life actually been able to produce an armpit toot. I just know of the ideal hand placement and I do all I can to talk him through it. I find myself the next day actually encouraging Brian to get in there and show Noah how it's done.

And, I feel I must add, Noah conquered the art of the armpit toot within 24 hours.

Pride. It's right here. In Jen's heart.

Two nights ago, I wanted to spend some one on one time with Noah. He'd had such a great evening and I was looking forward to reading to and just hanging out with him. We were shoulder to shoulder as he listened intently to the story of the blind man healed by Jesus in John 9. I tried to make the story come alive as we pictured together how it must've been before and after the man's healing. We imagined Jesus spitting into the dirt and creating a clay to place on the man's eyes. And, man, what it must've been like to see for the first time. Ooh, such good, good stuff.

As that story finished, Noah asked me to tell him a "fiction" story. So, I weaved together a tale of a sapling who, year after year, grew more jealous of all the things around him that were taller...the grass, the weeds and the flowers. And in the end, while the sapling so longed to be like the things around him, what he didn't realize was that his roots were deeper and stronger and how it's so much more important for what's unseen to grow than it is to be tall or beautiful, etc. on the outside. I was so proud of mine and Aesop's ability to piece together a good fable as Noah and I started to list how we grow our insides to be strong...by loving others well, being kind, using nice words, etc.

And that is precisely when Noah knocked me back down to earth by saying, "Like, we shouldn't call someone a buttocks..."

Here is where I wanted to say...Hey, Kid. I told you a cool story about Jesus and His awesomeness in giving the blind man sight and then I went all Aesop on you and made up a pretty sweet story with a moral to it and now you are concluding this special Jen and Son time by pointing out that we shouldn't call someone a "buttalks".

While we're at it, let me just clear things up for you.

No, it is not okay to call someone a "buttalks."

No, it is not okay to call someone a "little big butt."

And, no, it is not okay to use the phrase, "butt crack."

In fact, let's just do away with the use of "butt" altogether.

No, you will not "take a wizz" or, let's just establish it before you ask, "take a leak" or "pinch a loaf" as long as you are under this roof.

No, I am not interested in hanging out with anyone whose "butt can fit into their mouth." For one thing, that's not even possible.

And I am glad you are so super duper excited that you have achieved the perfect armpit toot. So much so that you now greet me with the sight of you vigorously pumping them out as I make my way up the carpool lane to pick you up. I am one proud Jen. (Though I am sorry your armpit is red and raw from all the practice you put into learning how to do armpit toots. In one day. There is a such thing as being overzealous. Maybe you'll learn that in Kindergarten, too.).

And, one last thing, child of mine. You are a boy. And you are in kindergarten. And you know how to armpit toot. And, you may call me Mom in front of your friends.

BUT. The fact is, I notice you still call me "Mommy" when it's just the two of us.

Yep, I see right through you, Noah Jack.

Bingo

I finally came down with the sore throat that plagued Brian at the end of last week. I knew it was coming. Just knew I'd be tacking it on to the string of physical ailments that have been my thorn in the flesh since Anniston was born. The cold sores are going on 7 weeks, so it's only fitting that I'd catch the first bug Brian brought home from high school.

My ailments like to tag team. They are little wrestlers.

Today was also our first PTA meeting. It was so tempting to stay home and skip the meeting and the Bingo tournament following. But, the elementary schools know how to get parents in the building. THEY TELL YOUR KIDS ABOUT THE PRIZES, BINGO TOURNAMENT, PRIZES, PIZZA AND, YES, THE PRIZES, ALL DAY so that, when your child comes to you and says the word, "Bingo," like it was gold, you know you're going.

It soon followed that Noah, Anniston and I found ourselves pulling up to the school driveway, ready for some PRIZES Bingo. Brian and Tyler stayed home. Apparently, daddies were not born with the guilt gene that all mommies are saddled with. Right next to the gene that hears your kid throwing up in your doorway in the middle of the night and you hear it but, miracle of miracles, your hubby sleeps right on through it.

Not that we have ever experienced that in our household.

Anyhow, so began the Bingo tournament and the lesson I didn't see coming.

Noah and I must share a little superstitious gene because both of us stayed loyal to our cards through most of the rounds we played. We figured our respective card's one shining moment had to come at some point. With each round, our cards disproved our theory and the tension mounted.

TENSION.

Because there were PRIZES involved. Glorious water bottles, sticky hands, silly bandz...the stuff dreams are made of. Oh, the excitement. Oh, the PRIZES.

And I pray and I pray. I so deeply want this for him, my competitive child. I want victory, I want success, I want a prize, a thrill for him. I glance at his card and at mine, double, triple checking. I long to hear his voice call out, "Bingo!" For him to know the proud march to the front to prove his win and gain his prize. At some point, I realize I am not even enjoying the game, so badly do I want this for him.

And I see he wants it, too. His eyes are dancing, he's on the edge of his seat. He scans his card diligently, boldly marking his card and even counting down how close he is to winning. He has to pee so bad, he's squirming, but he's afraid to leave. Finally, rounds into it, I convince him he needs to get thee to a bathroom. We make quick plans for me to watch over his card as he races to the boys' room. In no time, he is back, ready to re-join the competition.

And I pray and I pray. My prayer is in nearly every breath. Lord, I want this for him. I want him to have this win. Please, God, let him win. Not for any glory. Not for any competitive nature in me. Not for the silly bandz. Simply because he's so excited and what parent doesn't want their child to know the thrill of the win?

And then he speaks The Words and I know instantly he will not win tonight. I keep praying, but I know. He says, "I just know I'm going to win." And, with those words, I knew. I knew. Something told me there would not be sweet victory. Instead, he would learn something tonight in heartbreaking defeat. He would learn that we can set our minds to some things, but simply deciding we will win will not, in fact, make us win. And, he'll learn something else that's hard for any of us to learn. Maturity and completion come through trials. Hmm...seems like that's Biblical. Something/Someone tells me Noah will walk out with a character lesson instead of a school water bottle and silly bandz tonight.

All of this forces me to examine myself. What is it that I truly want for him? The easy win, the luck of the draw, the victory for which he truly did not work? Or, do I want the big picture? The hard lessons that must come if he's to be any man I hope for him to be. The lesson that says you will not always get what you want no matter how hard you believe you will. Believe and work hard, yes, but know that belief does not have the final say.

"I hate myself." I don't know why or even how a six year old speaks that. But he did. As soon as we were in the car, he declared it. So deep was his disappointment. And this is where I really knew that Noah was meant to learn something tonight. There is so much pressure to say the right things, to shift his focus to the correct perspective, to balance understanding and sympathy with truth, to teach him that we can have gratitude for the time spent together and for the chance to compete despite defeat, to say that we'll fight another day at the next Bingo tournament...so much I wanted to say just right. Because I know I was given that moment.

I don't know how much he heard tonight. How do you reason with a six year old? But, if he hears us say these things enough times as he grows, maybe they will sink in someday. I don't have all the right words, I'm sure of it. I only know that I am his mom and I'm given moments like these to mold him. I do my best and I rest in the fact that Noah got a dose of character building tonight. That he did not walk away with a prize in hand, but with the testing of his character as his prize.

Sigh.

This parenting thing makes my brain and my heart work too hard sometimes.

Noah, Tyler and Annison, I want victory for you. I want you to taste the thrill of the competition and to know the proud march to claim your prize. I want to see the dance of your eyes. I love the childlike belief that you can do anything you put your mind to.

But, I want for you to be humbled, too. I want you to know defeat so you will learn how to handle victory with class. I want for you to be disappointed so you will know how to be grateful. I want you to fall on your face so you'll know the kind of digging deep it takes to stand up again. I want you to believe you can do all things IN CHRIST, but to know that, win or lose, the big picture is that it truly is all about Christ's glory. And I hope Christ got some glory tonight. Noah, I hope your little heart got something bigger and better than a bouncy ball and some candy. Something more lasting, more eternally focused. Something that makes you a better winner and a better loser. A better man. A man who knows all things are temporary and who learns to set his heart and mind on things above.

Because THAT is the ultimate prize.