Lately I have witnessed so many amazing characteristics in my children; characteristics that are not exactly hereditary, but rather a product of innocence, that I can't help but want to be more like them.
It's weird to think about that. As we grow up, most of us want desperately to be like our parents at some point in our lives, and parents, I believe, relish that. I watch as Chastity puts on my shoes and wants to wear my make up. Elijah pretends he's a student like Daddy and always talks about going to school. They love us so unconditionally in this moment, and they want to be like us. What they don't know, is that I want to be like them.
Matthew 18:3 says, "And he said, 'I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.'" This was a response to the question the disciples posed to Jesus asking, "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?" I have heard multiple sermons on this topic, and they have all addressed the fact that children have unbelievable faith and the ability to humble themselves in that faith. I witness that in every aspect of my days. I can tell the children anything and they believe me. This might give some parents a power trip, but it makes me more careful. I have yet to even broach the subject of Santa or the Easter Bunny. They talk about them because they hear about them on TV, in books, and from other people, but it's a topic I don't know how to discuss. I LOVED believing in Santa. It made Christmas so magical, but I also remember the first Christmas when I knew he wasn't real. I was devastated and depressed. I don't know that I want, even for a second, my children to feel that way or to think that I lied to them, because then what will they think about the stories I've told them about Jesus?
What I haven't heard in sermons are all the OTHER reasons we should strive to be like children, but I am a witness to it every day.
Generosity
Before we moved, I told Elijah and Chastity that we had to get rid of some toys. It's amazing how many toys they've collected over the years. Their beds were covered with stuffed animals, and the toy box not only couldn't be closed, but there were toys stored in the living room, under their beds, and in their closet. We did not need to move all of those toys. It didn't phase Chastity. I don't think she fully understood what I was saying, and she didn't care to, but Elijah became very upset. I cringed, not knowing exactly how to explain it.
"See, Elijah, the church is having a rummage sale. If we give some toys to them, they can sell them to little boys and girls who can't afford brand new toys. Most of your toys are in great condition, and other children might really like to have them. They might not get new toys to play with on Christmas and birthdays like you do."
That was the end of that. "Mommy, can I help you give toys to the kids?" He was actually excited. We finished dinner and I went to the basement to get a box for the toys we'd be taking to the church. With every step, Elijah wanted to make sure I wouldn't do it without him. Of course I wouldn't have anyway. The whole point in telling him about it was that I did not want to be that mom who just got rid of his toys without his permission. However, I was still concerned that he would have difficulty picking toys to give away.
I remember preparing for yard sales when I was much older than Elijah is now. My sister, Kristin, and I had a large toy room. We had a lot more space for toys than Elijah and Chastity have, but every so often we had to go through things to get rid of. Kristin and I were easily distracted. With each toy we found, it didn't matter how long we'd gone without playing with it, we'd sit there and play with our long lost toy as though it was a present we just opened. I can remember my parents finally coming in, shaking fingers in our faces, "If you don't pick out toys to get rid of, we're going to do it for you!"
I expected to eventually have to threaten the same thing. Elijah beat me to his room. I carried a large box in and decided I'd be happy if it were half full when we were done. We began sorting through toys. Chastity was slightly distracted, but she still responded honestly when I'd ask her, "Keep, or give away?" Elijah plucked out toy after toy with great discernment. The box filled up and was overflowing. A few of his newest toys I even had to convince him to keep! His attachments to these material things were much less than my own, as I watched memories of him growing and learning land hard in the box of give aways. But even through my sadness, I had to admit, he was perfectly honest. The toys he rarely ever played with were the ones in the box, and those that he played with regularly went back into the toy box. When all was said and done, the toy box was the box that was half full, and Elijah asked, "Can I come with you to give them to the kids?" He got up early on a Saturday morning, helped me for hours at the church rummage sale, and never even flinched when another child or family walked out of there with one of his toys. I was amazed.
Forgiveness
Elijah and Chastity fight like any young siblings might. They sometimes have issues sharing with each other, and they occasionally are even tired and grumpy enough to hit one another, but they are still best friends.
Chastity became mad the other day because Elijah was riding on her bike. We've recently moved and all the bikes are in the living room because we have no storage space. Chastity had the right to be mad. Elijah has two bikes, a big wheel he got for his 2nd birthday and a Lightening McQueen bike he got for his 4th birthday. Chastity only has one, used Fisher Price trike. He knows she can't reach the petals on either of his bikes, and so I believe he gets on hers just to tease her a bit from time to time. He refused to get off her bike, and as I turned around to Chastity's screaming, I watched her smack him in the face. I didn't have to say a word. Elijah's chin started to tremble. She didn't hit him that hard, but his feelings were visibly hurt. Chastity immediately knew she was in the wrong (she's two! How is it that I don't have to intervene?!), and her face softened. "Sorry, Lijah!" she said, still somewhat yelling. "It's okay!" he replied, still somewhat crying. I felt I still had duties as a parent, and so I set them aside explaining to Elijah that he shouldn't take her bike, but telling Chastity that she still shouldn't hit. Within five minutes, they were on their own bikes, racing around, playing and pretending as if nothing had happened.
That is only one example, but I could tell you of a number of times their tempers got the best of them, they instantly apologized, even hugged each other without prompting, and picked up right where they left off. Children have this amazing ability to forgive the way that Jesus calls us all to forgive.
Adaptation
So...the ability to adapt is not actually a virtue, nor is it really all that impressive, but some of the things we've thrown at our children have been received in the most cheerful ways imaginable. Things have not always (hardly ever) gone my way in my life. I am ashamed to admit that I have not always handled things the way I should have. Jesus doesn't call us to be happy only when things go our way, and children are often the least likely representative of those who don't throw fits when things don't go their way, but you'd be surprised how well they can handle change.
I realized the other day that in Elijah's less than five years of life, we have moved five times, and lived in three different states. In Chastity's less then three years of life, we have moved three times. Each move has been more difficult than the last. Each move takes more of my time away from them in cleaning, organizing, and creating a new home. Each move has created incredibly long days for each of them, yet they have embraced the changes cheerfully. During this last move, we had to spend our first night on the floor. Jelani and I had an air mattress, but the kids slept in their unfurnished bedroom, in complete darkness (night lights hadn't made the move yet), in sleeping bags. They could not have been more thrilled. You might say, "Well of course! Kids love a sleep over!" but my kids know nothing of sleep overs, and I promise you, it was not a night of sleep that I, as an adult, was all that thrilled about, and I had an air mattress.
Perhaps the tantrum throwing reputation adults tend to give young children is a little misunderstood, or maybe, off the mark entirely.
What I'm trying to say, is that adults should be striving to be more like children in many more ways than the popular sermons address!
Try as I might to adapt happily to changes thrown my way, I am never as cheerful about it as my children.
I have always tried to be a forgiving and understanding person. I like knowing and trying to understand all sides of a story. However, I have never been able to let go of things as quickly as my children, let alone move on in that relationship as though nothing has ever changed. I think most adults tend to hold onto some of the bitterness, keeping themselves from ever again being close to that person who hurt them.
As generous as I try to be, I have never been as generous as Elijah was on that day a few weeks ago with his toys. I am not even as generous with my time as he was with his treasured toys.
This all brought me to a revelation. I'm not very brilliant, and I'm probably not the first to stumble upon this, but I thought perhaps this whole world would be a lot better off if parents tried desperately to be more like their little children, rather than the other way around.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Highlights
We recently moved into a three bedroom town home. This is the largest living space we've had since owning our own home in North Carolina 4 years ago. However, it has the smallest kitchen I've ever had, with the least amount of shelves and cupboards and zero storage. There is no attic, no basement, no garage, and no pantry.
And so, I have found myself sorting through boxes of memorabilia; our entire living room, ironically overflowing with our entire lives.
Among the rubble, I found a box labeled "Videos." I had gotten rid of most of my movies on VHS and replaced them with DVDs a long time ago, so what was in the box was mostly recordings of things I had taped from TV along with some of my college videos I made during my brief stint as a media studies major. I decided to start popping them in to find out what the unlabeled ones were, figure out which ones worked, and decided which ones were worth keeping. One of the first ones I discovered was a highlight video my dad had put together for me my freshman year of college. It had all of my most memorable clips from my high school games my last two years. I had been struggling with confidence my first year at UB, and I wasn't playing like myself. He wanted to remind me of what I could do. I discovered that the tape worked, only I couldn't bring myself to stop it. What can I say. I loved the glory days.
Now most of you, whether you are a sports fan or not, have gotten some glimpse of Sports Center/ESPN highlights at one time or another in your life. They are typically 5 to 10 seconds long, showing the final, awesome outcome of a play. So you are probably thinking that I sat down to watch play after play of my awesomeness, and if you know anything about my game, you're probably wondering just how many three pointers one can watch over and over without being completely full of themselves. Well, that is not how my dad puts together a highlight reel. In fact, many of the highlights have to be watched over again just to figure out what he was trying to highlight. To learn to spot the things my dad considers a highlight, you need to be able to think like a basketball coach. And not just any coach, but a coach who has studied the game most of his life. At first glance, this highlight tape is laughable. There are missed three point attempts, missed free throw attempts, and clips where I downright fall on my face. Several clips are minutes long, encompassing entire plays filled with mistakes and one itty bitty triumph. My dad doesn't just look for the final outcome of a play. He looks at the play in its entirety praising the work that leads up to the awesomeness.
I'll never forget the first time I watched that tape. He mailed it to me, and when I had the chance, I sat down in my dorm room to watch it. I remember calling him and asking him why there was a clip of me missing free throws. The camera had just scanned the scoreboard. It was a tied game and I choked at the free throw line. His response was simple. "Did you see the hustle from Allison to tie up the ball and get it back into our possession?" I watched it again. My teammate Allison, hustled after the rebound of my missed free throw, gaining the ball back for our team. That play eventually led to a basket by me soon after. In another clip I completely brick a three pointer, but what my dad wanted to highlight was how I hustled after my own rebound, got the ball back, and dished for a three pointer by my teammate, Kristen.
One particular clip is nearly 5 minutes long. He highlighted the entire end of a game we had against Athens. It was a game we had been losing. We were even down by 22 more than half way through the third quarter. My dad told me he couldn't edit out the end because of the incredible team effort that brought us back into that game. It's funny. Looking back on the video, when Athens takes a time out with only about 3 or 4 minutes left in the game, the camera angle shows the scoreboard as well as our team jogging toward the bench. You can tell we are tired; we look almost defeated. My dad, our coach, had to point up to the scoreboard to show us, "You are only 4 points down!" We had been chipping away, and working our butts off, and had no idea we'd even come back into the game, and the camera captured that moment. We went on to win that game with a buzzer beater, but I will never forget my dad's chosen highlight of the game. It wasn't my nearly half court shot that won the game, or the steal I had a few plays before that led to a layup, or even the three pointers hit in the second half by myself, my sister, and Tiffany. The play when I stole Athens pass to go on to score and tie up the game, there's a quiet hero. It happened so quickly, it was a play only my dad could see. While Athens was getting ready to inbound the ball, Kristin, my little sister, denied her player the ball so hard, that the inbounder had to throw it over her head to try to get it inbounds. That is the pass I picked off, but that is not my highlight. If not for Kristin's hard work, and her determination in not letting their best player catch the ball, that steal wouldn't have even been an option.
Contrary to popular opinion in my home town, my dad did not care about my personal statistics. It didn't bother him if another teammate outscored me. He wanted me to be successful, sure, but success to him wasn't how many three pointers I could hit, or how many fast break layups I could get. He taught me that the success was in the hard work, and the only score that mattered was the one on the scoreboard at the end of the game. My dad was never disappointed with any one of us for missing shots. He was only ever disappointed by a lack of effort.
Basketball has taught me a lot of life lessons, as silly as that may sound, and this last one grasped me as I was reliving the glory days yesterday, on a living room floor cluttered with the highlights of my life. The highlights are more than just the triumphs and more than just the final outcome. They involve more than just one player, and more than just one play. The highlights, and some of the most memorable moments are in the plays leading up to the success, and in the support you get from your team, leading to the victory.
I will likely remember every potty training accident my children ever have. We don't quickly forget cleaning up poop with our own two hands. But without those moments, the moments we've tried and failed, the moments we've fallen flat on our faces and found ourselves in a pile of poo, what would that final victorious, mess-free, moment on the potty mean.
Jelani graduates this weekend to become a Physical Therapy Assistant. What would that even mean to our family if we hadn't gone through years of struggles and hard work, lay offs, and financial pressures? Not to mention the fact that we wouldn't even be here without the help of some very important teammates of ours; our family.
Sure, the highlights are great. Everyone loves a slam dunk and a three pointer or two, but don't forget the plays and the players which have led you to that glorious moment. That is where the truly unforgettable highlights can be found.
And so, I have found myself sorting through boxes of memorabilia; our entire living room, ironically overflowing with our entire lives.
Among the rubble, I found a box labeled "Videos." I had gotten rid of most of my movies on VHS and replaced them with DVDs a long time ago, so what was in the box was mostly recordings of things I had taped from TV along with some of my college videos I made during my brief stint as a media studies major. I decided to start popping them in to find out what the unlabeled ones were, figure out which ones worked, and decided which ones were worth keeping. One of the first ones I discovered was a highlight video my dad had put together for me my freshman year of college. It had all of my most memorable clips from my high school games my last two years. I had been struggling with confidence my first year at UB, and I wasn't playing like myself. He wanted to remind me of what I could do. I discovered that the tape worked, only I couldn't bring myself to stop it. What can I say. I loved the glory days.
Now most of you, whether you are a sports fan or not, have gotten some glimpse of Sports Center/ESPN highlights at one time or another in your life. They are typically 5 to 10 seconds long, showing the final, awesome outcome of a play. So you are probably thinking that I sat down to watch play after play of my awesomeness, and if you know anything about my game, you're probably wondering just how many three pointers one can watch over and over without being completely full of themselves. Well, that is not how my dad puts together a highlight reel. In fact, many of the highlights have to be watched over again just to figure out what he was trying to highlight. To learn to spot the things my dad considers a highlight, you need to be able to think like a basketball coach. And not just any coach, but a coach who has studied the game most of his life. At first glance, this highlight tape is laughable. There are missed three point attempts, missed free throw attempts, and clips where I downright fall on my face. Several clips are minutes long, encompassing entire plays filled with mistakes and one itty bitty triumph. My dad doesn't just look for the final outcome of a play. He looks at the play in its entirety praising the work that leads up to the awesomeness.
I'll never forget the first time I watched that tape. He mailed it to me, and when I had the chance, I sat down in my dorm room to watch it. I remember calling him and asking him why there was a clip of me missing free throws. The camera had just scanned the scoreboard. It was a tied game and I choked at the free throw line. His response was simple. "Did you see the hustle from Allison to tie up the ball and get it back into our possession?" I watched it again. My teammate Allison, hustled after the rebound of my missed free throw, gaining the ball back for our team. That play eventually led to a basket by me soon after. In another clip I completely brick a three pointer, but what my dad wanted to highlight was how I hustled after my own rebound, got the ball back, and dished for a three pointer by my teammate, Kristen.
One particular clip is nearly 5 minutes long. He highlighted the entire end of a game we had against Athens. It was a game we had been losing. We were even down by 22 more than half way through the third quarter. My dad told me he couldn't edit out the end because of the incredible team effort that brought us back into that game. It's funny. Looking back on the video, when Athens takes a time out with only about 3 or 4 minutes left in the game, the camera angle shows the scoreboard as well as our team jogging toward the bench. You can tell we are tired; we look almost defeated. My dad, our coach, had to point up to the scoreboard to show us, "You are only 4 points down!" We had been chipping away, and working our butts off, and had no idea we'd even come back into the game, and the camera captured that moment. We went on to win that game with a buzzer beater, but I will never forget my dad's chosen highlight of the game. It wasn't my nearly half court shot that won the game, or the steal I had a few plays before that led to a layup, or even the three pointers hit in the second half by myself, my sister, and Tiffany. The play when I stole Athens pass to go on to score and tie up the game, there's a quiet hero. It happened so quickly, it was a play only my dad could see. While Athens was getting ready to inbound the ball, Kristin, my little sister, denied her player the ball so hard, that the inbounder had to throw it over her head to try to get it inbounds. That is the pass I picked off, but that is not my highlight. If not for Kristin's hard work, and her determination in not letting their best player catch the ball, that steal wouldn't have even been an option.
Contrary to popular opinion in my home town, my dad did not care about my personal statistics. It didn't bother him if another teammate outscored me. He wanted me to be successful, sure, but success to him wasn't how many three pointers I could hit, or how many fast break layups I could get. He taught me that the success was in the hard work, and the only score that mattered was the one on the scoreboard at the end of the game. My dad was never disappointed with any one of us for missing shots. He was only ever disappointed by a lack of effort.
Basketball has taught me a lot of life lessons, as silly as that may sound, and this last one grasped me as I was reliving the glory days yesterday, on a living room floor cluttered with the highlights of my life. The highlights are more than just the triumphs and more than just the final outcome. They involve more than just one player, and more than just one play. The highlights, and some of the most memorable moments are in the plays leading up to the success, and in the support you get from your team, leading to the victory.
I will likely remember every potty training accident my children ever have. We don't quickly forget cleaning up poop with our own two hands. But without those moments, the moments we've tried and failed, the moments we've fallen flat on our faces and found ourselves in a pile of poo, what would that final victorious, mess-free, moment on the potty mean.
Jelani graduates this weekend to become a Physical Therapy Assistant. What would that even mean to our family if we hadn't gone through years of struggles and hard work, lay offs, and financial pressures? Not to mention the fact that we wouldn't even be here without the help of some very important teammates of ours; our family.
Sure, the highlights are great. Everyone loves a slam dunk and a three pointer or two, but don't forget the plays and the players which have led you to that glorious moment. That is where the truly unforgettable highlights can be found.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Daddy Doesn't Jump
I can say, with all honesty, that my children are amazing, not perfect, but amazing. They are helpful, kind, thoughtful, and loving; and, with the exception of our occasional Jonah and the Whale type days, I hardly ever have to raise my voice at them.
However, I have recently learned that despite my compliments to my children, I have still been selling them short. They are even more brilliant than I realized. You see, at the young ages of 4 and 2 (almost 3) they have learned how to work the system, and Mommy has a system.
It's no secret, I like things done a certain way. I try to include the kids in work around the house, but it normally only creates more work for me while I have to undo all the "chores" they have done. About a year ago, I felt it was important that they begin learning how to make their own beds. I started with Elijah, the oldest, teaching him how to pull up his blankets, and put his pillows and animals all on the bed. He had seen me do it hundreds of times, and he seemed eager to learn. Great! Easy Peasy. He was eager for maybe the first week, but then he grew anxious to get to his toys and play with his sister. Plus there was an added bonus. He knew that on bath mornings, Mommy would make the beds while they splashed in the tub, just to save time, and he couldn't help but notice how quickly it got done when Mommy did it.
Then there was the matter of getting pajamas on. We began allowing the children to get themselves ready for bed, at least for the most part. At first they were both very excited about doing it themselves. Oh the buttons and zippers are endless fun! Then it occurred to them what exactly this little night time ritual meant. It meant bedtime. For the most part I would get them ready for bed, or do the prompting anyway, while Jelani had school work to finish up or studying to do. Occasionally though, there would be a night when Jelani would take over, and I couldn't help but notice how quickly things got done.
Similarly, the mornings that Jelani has tended to them, the beds have been made without hesitation.
It didn't make sense.
Dinners without Daddy usually meant me prompting every bite.
"Take a bite."
"Sit still."
"Don't play with your fork."
"Don't yell at the table!"
There are many times I just get sick of sitting at the table, and I begin shoveling the food into their mouths for them, just so we can all just leave the dining room for goodness sake!
But with Daddy, dinners always go much more smoothly. Less squirming and chatter; more chewing.
Last night, I told the kids to get ready for bed. They whined about it, but slowly headed off to their room to change. After half a dozen yells from them to me about one thing or another, I went in there to find Elijah with an unbuttoned pajama top, and Chastity with her arms in her one-piece, footie pajamas, but with the legs of the pjs flying behind her as she ran down the hall screaming, "I need help!" I had had enough! I looked right at them, and in my toughest mommy voice, yelled "Why is it that when I ask you to do something, you suddenly can't remember how to do it? Something Daddy has you do by yourselves in 5 minutes, won't get done without my help in less than 10!"
In a matter of seconds, I realized that they can make their own beds, and in a timely fashion. They can dress themselves; also in a timely fashion. They can feed themselves; again...in a timely fashion.
They just looked confused (or caught), and I had answered my own question.
When Mommy says "Jump," they whine that they don't know how to, until Mommy finally just jumps for them so that it gets done.
When Daddy says "Jump," they say "How high?" Daddy doesn't jump.
The trick is being more stubborn than the kids, and Mommy thinks she likes Daddy's system better.
However, I have recently learned that despite my compliments to my children, I have still been selling them short. They are even more brilliant than I realized. You see, at the young ages of 4 and 2 (almost 3) they have learned how to work the system, and Mommy has a system.
It's no secret, I like things done a certain way. I try to include the kids in work around the house, but it normally only creates more work for me while I have to undo all the "chores" they have done. About a year ago, I felt it was important that they begin learning how to make their own beds. I started with Elijah, the oldest, teaching him how to pull up his blankets, and put his pillows and animals all on the bed. He had seen me do it hundreds of times, and he seemed eager to learn. Great! Easy Peasy. He was eager for maybe the first week, but then he grew anxious to get to his toys and play with his sister. Plus there was an added bonus. He knew that on bath mornings, Mommy would make the beds while they splashed in the tub, just to save time, and he couldn't help but notice how quickly it got done when Mommy did it.
Then there was the matter of getting pajamas on. We began allowing the children to get themselves ready for bed, at least for the most part. At first they were both very excited about doing it themselves. Oh the buttons and zippers are endless fun! Then it occurred to them what exactly this little night time ritual meant. It meant bedtime. For the most part I would get them ready for bed, or do the prompting anyway, while Jelani had school work to finish up or studying to do. Occasionally though, there would be a night when Jelani would take over, and I couldn't help but notice how quickly things got done.
Similarly, the mornings that Jelani has tended to them, the beds have been made without hesitation.
It didn't make sense.
Dinners without Daddy usually meant me prompting every bite.
"Take a bite."
"Sit still."
"Don't play with your fork."
"Don't yell at the table!"
There are many times I just get sick of sitting at the table, and I begin shoveling the food into their mouths for them, just so we can all just leave the dining room for goodness sake!
But with Daddy, dinners always go much more smoothly. Less squirming and chatter; more chewing.
Last night, I told the kids to get ready for bed. They whined about it, but slowly headed off to their room to change. After half a dozen yells from them to me about one thing or another, I went in there to find Elijah with an unbuttoned pajama top, and Chastity with her arms in her one-piece, footie pajamas, but with the legs of the pjs flying behind her as she ran down the hall screaming, "I need help!" I had had enough! I looked right at them, and in my toughest mommy voice, yelled "Why is it that when I ask you to do something, you suddenly can't remember how to do it? Something Daddy has you do by yourselves in 5 minutes, won't get done without my help in less than 10!"
In a matter of seconds, I realized that they can make their own beds, and in a timely fashion. They can dress themselves; also in a timely fashion. They can feed themselves; again...in a timely fashion.
They just looked confused (or caught), and I had answered my own question.
When Mommy says "Jump," they whine that they don't know how to, until Mommy finally just jumps for them so that it gets done.
When Daddy says "Jump," they say "How high?" Daddy doesn't jump.
The trick is being more stubborn than the kids, and Mommy thinks she likes Daddy's system better.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Easter Break Through
So far this Easter has been unlike any other, and it doesn't make any sense except that Jesus has purposely made it that way.
First of all, we all know the story of Jesus dying on the cross for our sins. Even if you're not a Christian, chances are, you've heard it. It's an amazing story, but one which I've always distanced myself from.
Why?
I am the queen of the scaredy cats. I hate horror movies, anything graphic or gory, and basically anything that makes me uncomfortable. The story of that selfless act of Jesus is all of the above.
Many have seen The Passion of the Christ movie that came out around Easter in 2004. Many lives were forever changed because of that movie and it's graphic depiction of how Jesus laid down His life for us. I sat watching it and tried to force myself to cry. Grown men all around me were sobbing, people of all ages were having these incredible revelations and couldn't control their emotions, and I felt it was only appropriate that I squeeze out a few tears for this God that I love and serve. I had distanced myself from the story as if my dad were trying to read it to me on a road trip while I quietly slid on my headphones, which had become a reoccurring Easter tradition for us while I was playing travel basketball as a teen. I did not want to hear it. And in the years since Mel Gibson's hit, I have actually refused to watch The Passion again on every occasion offered.
How uncomfortable a thought it is think that some stranger, seemingly, would go through so much pain for the likes of me? Would I do that for my children? I love them more than anything in this world. I would die for them, but I would exhaust every and all other options before I would willingly submit myself to that kind of pain, torture, and suffering to save them. I would organize an elaborate escape, complete with disguises and deception, and we would make a run for it to some deserted island somewhere. I would likely kill anyone who tried to harm us along the way. It would make a wonderful, and thrilling "based on a true story" book, which would later be turned into a movie staring the beautiful daughter of Meryl Streep, Mamie Gummer, but I digress. What does all of that make me? Human. Jesus did not run, He did not kill anyone who tried to harm him. He didn't even squirm or fight them as they nailed his wrists to the cross. Biblical historians believe that even Gibson's theatrical depiction of Christ's suffering still didn't come close to the true horror which was His death. It could have rivaled anything you've seen in any horror movie, and likely (I know in my case) would have induced vomit.
This Easter, God has opened my eyes and allowed me to fully understand and receive this blessing; this incredible gift that I have the choice to refuse, but that which I can never, ever repay. How do I know that? Well, if I just told you how emotional I've been just thinking about it, or how nauseous I became after listening to a radio broadcast about it, you might say, "Of course! You're pregnant!" And I would laugh and somewhat agree. However, I have been pregnant at Easter two other times. This is my third hormone raging Easter, and it is still like no other. Yesterday, in the car, I heard men talking about Christ's crucifixion on the radio. They talked about how it's believed the nails were actually hammered through the wrists and not the hands. The major arteries and nerves there would have caused shattering pain that I didn't think I was even capable of imagining. But while I was listening to this description I became nauseous...very nauseous. I imagined, for an instant, that kind of pain. My weak flesh would have passed out and died with the first wrist! I thought I was going to have to ask Jelani to pull the car over, I was feeling so sick. He asked what was wrong, and when I told him, he promptly changed the radio station.
He meant well, and that was a very husbandly, sensitive thing to do for his pregnant wife, but something in me, nauseous as I was, did not want to run from the discomfort. I replied with as much strength as I could muster, and a somewhat embarrassed chuckle, "It is a very small discomfort to bear, Jelani."
He laughed and we imagined that Jesus was watching me, saying, "Really? A little nauseous? REALLY?"
Through the emotions and the nausea and the chaos of the holiday, Jesus is showing me what it's about, and guiding me in what to really care about. I did not go shopping to fill Easter baskets this year. I bought some candy, but other than that, the kids are getting one homemade gift each. I made catastrophic mistakes and messes in the kitchen today in preparation for Easter dinner tomorrow that stressed me out, nearly to tears. The bread wouldn't rise, and then wouldn't bake. It tasted like hot, raw dough. The chocolate frosting would not get thick enough, and kept dripping down my cake. The counters were covered in dirty dishes, flour, powdered sugar, and splatterings of chocolate frosting from a mixing accident. To top it all off, I gave myself mild food poisoning with one lick of cake batter, and wasn't feeling up to the challenge of the mess. My incredible husband didn't bat an eye. He told me to sit down while he cleaned it up.
How blessed am I? Jesus cleanses me from sin. He went through pain that I can't even fully comprehend so that I may enter into Heaven.
Then, after He'd done it all; given the gift that can never be topped, He had it in mind to give me a husband who spends two hours in the kitchen cleaning up after me...cleansing me from my own disasters.
I will stop coasting and step out of my comfort zone any time to see how I have been blessed. The view is much clearer on this side. :)
I am very blessed indeed.
Happy Easter, everyone!
First of all, we all know the story of Jesus dying on the cross for our sins. Even if you're not a Christian, chances are, you've heard it. It's an amazing story, but one which I've always distanced myself from.
Why?
I am the queen of the scaredy cats. I hate horror movies, anything graphic or gory, and basically anything that makes me uncomfortable. The story of that selfless act of Jesus is all of the above.
Many have seen The Passion of the Christ movie that came out around Easter in 2004. Many lives were forever changed because of that movie and it's graphic depiction of how Jesus laid down His life for us. I sat watching it and tried to force myself to cry. Grown men all around me were sobbing, people of all ages were having these incredible revelations and couldn't control their emotions, and I felt it was only appropriate that I squeeze out a few tears for this God that I love and serve. I had distanced myself from the story as if my dad were trying to read it to me on a road trip while I quietly slid on my headphones, which had become a reoccurring Easter tradition for us while I was playing travel basketball as a teen. I did not want to hear it. And in the years since Mel Gibson's hit, I have actually refused to watch The Passion again on every occasion offered.
How uncomfortable a thought it is think that some stranger, seemingly, would go through so much pain for the likes of me? Would I do that for my children? I love them more than anything in this world. I would die for them, but I would exhaust every and all other options before I would willingly submit myself to that kind of pain, torture, and suffering to save them. I would organize an elaborate escape, complete with disguises and deception, and we would make a run for it to some deserted island somewhere. I would likely kill anyone who tried to harm us along the way. It would make a wonderful, and thrilling "based on a true story" book, which would later be turned into a movie staring the beautiful daughter of Meryl Streep, Mamie Gummer, but I digress. What does all of that make me? Human. Jesus did not run, He did not kill anyone who tried to harm him. He didn't even squirm or fight them as they nailed his wrists to the cross. Biblical historians believe that even Gibson's theatrical depiction of Christ's suffering still didn't come close to the true horror which was His death. It could have rivaled anything you've seen in any horror movie, and likely (I know in my case) would have induced vomit.
This Easter, God has opened my eyes and allowed me to fully understand and receive this blessing; this incredible gift that I have the choice to refuse, but that which I can never, ever repay. How do I know that? Well, if I just told you how emotional I've been just thinking about it, or how nauseous I became after listening to a radio broadcast about it, you might say, "Of course! You're pregnant!" And I would laugh and somewhat agree. However, I have been pregnant at Easter two other times. This is my third hormone raging Easter, and it is still like no other. Yesterday, in the car, I heard men talking about Christ's crucifixion on the radio. They talked about how it's believed the nails were actually hammered through the wrists and not the hands. The major arteries and nerves there would have caused shattering pain that I didn't think I was even capable of imagining. But while I was listening to this description I became nauseous...very nauseous. I imagined, for an instant, that kind of pain. My weak flesh would have passed out and died with the first wrist! I thought I was going to have to ask Jelani to pull the car over, I was feeling so sick. He asked what was wrong, and when I told him, he promptly changed the radio station.
He meant well, and that was a very husbandly, sensitive thing to do for his pregnant wife, but something in me, nauseous as I was, did not want to run from the discomfort. I replied with as much strength as I could muster, and a somewhat embarrassed chuckle, "It is a very small discomfort to bear, Jelani."
He laughed and we imagined that Jesus was watching me, saying, "Really? A little nauseous? REALLY?"
Through the emotions and the nausea and the chaos of the holiday, Jesus is showing me what it's about, and guiding me in what to really care about. I did not go shopping to fill Easter baskets this year. I bought some candy, but other than that, the kids are getting one homemade gift each. I made catastrophic mistakes and messes in the kitchen today in preparation for Easter dinner tomorrow that stressed me out, nearly to tears. The bread wouldn't rise, and then wouldn't bake. It tasted like hot, raw dough. The chocolate frosting would not get thick enough, and kept dripping down my cake. The counters were covered in dirty dishes, flour, powdered sugar, and splatterings of chocolate frosting from a mixing accident. To top it all off, I gave myself mild food poisoning with one lick of cake batter, and wasn't feeling up to the challenge of the mess. My incredible husband didn't bat an eye. He told me to sit down while he cleaned it up.
How blessed am I? Jesus cleanses me from sin. He went through pain that I can't even fully comprehend so that I may enter into Heaven.
Then, after He'd done it all; given the gift that can never be topped, He had it in mind to give me a husband who spends two hours in the kitchen cleaning up after me...cleansing me from my own disasters.
I will stop coasting and step out of my comfort zone any time to see how I have been blessed. The view is much clearer on this side. :)
I am very blessed indeed.
Happy Easter, everyone!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Fashion Train Wrecked Pregnancy
It is my personal opinion that the designers of all maternity clothes have never worn their own clothes, never been pregnant at all, or possibly don't have the right parts to ever get pregnant. Thus, my month long writer's block has been lifted by my crabby, mommy complaints.
I'm not even sure where to begin here, but let's start with the sizes, shall we? Everything you've ever read will tell you that you should stick to the same sizes you wear normally, but apply them to maternity clothes. Sure, that might work for some gals, for thelucky, blessed, not-quite-human, gals who don't get bigger anywhere but the mid-section. Good for them. The special gals, like myself, get bigger everywhere from head to toe. My socks don't even fit me normally right now, and I'm only 21 weeks along. So no, the same size rule does not apply to me. I'm normally a 10/12 or M/L. During pregnancy I become a 14/16 and a L/XL. Next.
To piggy back on that just a bit, do clothing companies realize that when an XL shirt is needed it is not needed for the neckline or the sleeves? Just because I need an XL does not mean I need the neckline to go halfway down my back and front, and the sleeves to go halfway down my sides, causing me to showcase more of my extra large self. Next.
I am on my third pregnancy and I have yet to find a pair of maternity jeans that don't slide down. I don't want to be that mom who goes everywhere in sweats. It makes me feel sloppy and lazy, but sweatpants are the only pants that I don't have to pull up every two minutes. Maternity pants don't just slide down either. Noooo. Maternity pants will take your underwear with them. So, congratulations. You're not the sloppy mom in sweatpants. You are the disgusting mom who has to reach down her pants to pull everything back up. I've tried them all; the pants you wear below the belly, and the pants with the belly band sewn into them to cover the belly. The latter are the absolute worst. They'll slide down, taking your underwear too of course, and then you can't pull them up without going under your shirt too. Now you've graduated to the mom who has to go under her shirt and down her pants to keep her clothes on. Isn't that a beautiful thing? What is so hard about putting the waistband of sweatpants on maternity pants? Maybe it looks weird, and maybe the protruding drawstring is an eye sore, but at least you're not digging down your pants for your underwear. Next.
Who in the world thinks that horizontal stripes are perfect for pregnant women???? I had this issue last summer when I went shopping after I had lost weight. I think very few people can pull off horizontal stripes, pregnant or not, but they were apparently the trend then, and I guess they still are. Last week my mom took me shopping for new maternity clothes. Nearly ever rack had horizontal stripes on it, because that's exactly what I'm looking for. I was hoping to have stripes stretched out over my growing belly like an ill advised tattoo.
We don't all have the money of celebrities to have our maternity clothes tailored to fit our bodies, so I guess I will suffer through. In the meantime, just turn away if you see me reach for my pants, but by all means, let me know if my neckline has fallen down to my belly. Thanks.
I'm not even sure where to begin here, but let's start with the sizes, shall we? Everything you've ever read will tell you that you should stick to the same sizes you wear normally, but apply them to maternity clothes. Sure, that might work for some gals, for the
To piggy back on that just a bit, do clothing companies realize that when an XL shirt is needed it is not needed for the neckline or the sleeves? Just because I need an XL does not mean I need the neckline to go halfway down my back and front, and the sleeves to go halfway down my sides, causing me to showcase more of my extra large self. Next.
I am on my third pregnancy and I have yet to find a pair of maternity jeans that don't slide down. I don't want to be that mom who goes everywhere in sweats. It makes me feel sloppy and lazy, but sweatpants are the only pants that I don't have to pull up every two minutes. Maternity pants don't just slide down either. Noooo. Maternity pants will take your underwear with them. So, congratulations. You're not the sloppy mom in sweatpants. You are the disgusting mom who has to reach down her pants to pull everything back up. I've tried them all; the pants you wear below the belly, and the pants with the belly band sewn into them to cover the belly. The latter are the absolute worst. They'll slide down, taking your underwear too of course, and then you can't pull them up without going under your shirt too. Now you've graduated to the mom who has to go under her shirt and down her pants to keep her clothes on. Isn't that a beautiful thing? What is so hard about putting the waistband of sweatpants on maternity pants? Maybe it looks weird, and maybe the protruding drawstring is an eye sore, but at least you're not digging down your pants for your underwear. Next.
Who in the world thinks that horizontal stripes are perfect for pregnant women???? I had this issue last summer when I went shopping after I had lost weight. I think very few people can pull off horizontal stripes, pregnant or not, but they were apparently the trend then, and I guess they still are. Last week my mom took me shopping for new maternity clothes. Nearly ever rack had horizontal stripes on it, because that's exactly what I'm looking for. I was hoping to have stripes stretched out over my growing belly like an ill advised tattoo.
We don't all have the money of celebrities to have our maternity clothes tailored to fit our bodies, so I guess I will suffer through. In the meantime, just turn away if you see me reach for my pants, but by all means, let me know if my neckline has fallen down to my belly. Thanks.
Friday, March 2, 2012
A Blessing Worth the Burden
Most women have some sort of unpleasant story to tell about pregnancy and/or labor. At the same time, I believe most women would tell you just how worth it, it is. Every woman has a different pregnancy, but most have one thing or another to complain about.
I am no different. Because my complaint is so visible, I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut about it...as if it needs an explanation for inquisitive, shocked looks, or so I perceive them.
Allow me to preface this with just how grateful I am to be able to have children, and to be blessed in such a way as to feel motherhood from deep within me. Often times, I think women who go through pregnancy struggles and dare to complain about them are labeled as ungrateful and unappreciative, and that is just not true. However, my burden seems so insignificant...laughable really, that the mere mention of it makes me feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. However, I would be lying if I told you that I am a joyful pregnant woman.
I do not enjoy pregnancy. In fact, it makes me feel miserably unhappy with myself. I am grateful for it, the outcome is an amazing blessing, but I am not one of those glowing, joyful beyond all reason, loving every minute of it, pregnant women. I am excited the moment I see the plus sign, and then, once I've put on the first 10 pounds in 10 weeks, I have my "oh crap" moment. Then, I'm joyful and excited again when I'm holding my baby. That is the way each of my pregnancies has gone so far, and with each one I hope, believe, pray it will be different. But it's not.
I know what you're thinking, and stop it with the, "You're supposed to gain weight! You're PREGNANT!" No. No one is supposed to gain weight this rapidly. I gained 70 lbs with Elijah, and it took a year to lose it. I worked out more during my pregnancy with Chastity, hoping things would be different, and I still gained 70 lbs. It took me 2.5 years to lose that, and now I'm gaining again at the same rate, if not more. I'm pretty much on a schedule where the very week I hit my goal weight, I get knocked up again (possibly Jelani's conspiracy to keep me unattractive to anyone else). I go from the high of being skinny again, to the high of being pregnant again, to the low of getting fat again. It's a vicious cycle.
I am only 16 weeks pregnant, and have already put on over 20 lbs. AND I've been exercising even more with this one than the first two, and still playing basketball once a week. I am expanding at such a rate, that I can actually feel the pain and discomfort of my skin stretching out. I'm not even halfway through and playing with the children is exhausting and I feel like I'm missing nine months of their lives, I can feel it in my joints, and I'm swelling up like a balloon. Basically, the only difference between me and the Michelin man is that I am slightly less white.
It's humiliating to put on weight this quickly, especially when you can see the shock in someone's eyes who hasn't seen you in several weeks or more. I don't feel like myself, and I don't like going out in public. So the easiest thing for me to do is make light of it, make fun of myself, and laugh, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just laugh with me, rather than try to argue with me.
Because, I don't write about this for pity. I don't want to see a bunch of supportive comments about how beautiful I am, or that you can't even tell I've gained weight (lock that nonsense down), because while you're heart may be in the right place, and I love you, that's just patronizing.
No, I write this, because maybe, just maybe, there's someone out there who has suffered the same humiliation, who feels like a completely different person during pregnancy, who hates the way they feel, but loves the child they carry with all their heart, and maybe they just need to know they're not alone in this seemingly insignificant struggle to be happy during what should be a very joyous time.
And maybe, if you think to, you could just say a little prayer for me, that God would allow me to embrace my Michelin man image with joy for the next five months.
Thanks for listening. :)
I am no different. Because my complaint is so visible, I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut about it...as if it needs an explanation for inquisitive, shocked looks, or so I perceive them.
Allow me to preface this with just how grateful I am to be able to have children, and to be blessed in such a way as to feel motherhood from deep within me. Often times, I think women who go through pregnancy struggles and dare to complain about them are labeled as ungrateful and unappreciative, and that is just not true. However, my burden seems so insignificant...laughable really, that the mere mention of it makes me feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. However, I would be lying if I told you that I am a joyful pregnant woman.
I do not enjoy pregnancy. In fact, it makes me feel miserably unhappy with myself. I am grateful for it, the outcome is an amazing blessing, but I am not one of those glowing, joyful beyond all reason, loving every minute of it, pregnant women. I am excited the moment I see the plus sign, and then, once I've put on the first 10 pounds in 10 weeks, I have my "oh crap" moment. Then, I'm joyful and excited again when I'm holding my baby. That is the way each of my pregnancies has gone so far, and with each one I hope, believe, pray it will be different. But it's not.
I know what you're thinking, and stop it with the, "You're supposed to gain weight! You're PREGNANT!" No. No one is supposed to gain weight this rapidly. I gained 70 lbs with Elijah, and it took a year to lose it. I worked out more during my pregnancy with Chastity, hoping things would be different, and I still gained 70 lbs. It took me 2.5 years to lose that, and now I'm gaining again at the same rate, if not more. I'm pretty much on a schedule where the very week I hit my goal weight, I get knocked up again (possibly Jelani's conspiracy to keep me unattractive to anyone else). I go from the high of being skinny again, to the high of being pregnant again, to the low of getting fat again. It's a vicious cycle.
I am only 16 weeks pregnant, and have already put on over 20 lbs. AND I've been exercising even more with this one than the first two, and still playing basketball once a week. I am expanding at such a rate, that I can actually feel the pain and discomfort of my skin stretching out. I'm not even halfway through and playing with the children is exhausting and I feel like I'm missing nine months of their lives, I can feel it in my joints, and I'm swelling up like a balloon. Basically, the only difference between me and the Michelin man is that I am slightly less white.
It's humiliating to put on weight this quickly, especially when you can see the shock in someone's eyes who hasn't seen you in several weeks or more. I don't feel like myself, and I don't like going out in public. So the easiest thing for me to do is make light of it, make fun of myself, and laugh, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just laugh with me, rather than try to argue with me.
Because, I don't write about this for pity. I don't want to see a bunch of supportive comments about how beautiful I am, or that you can't even tell I've gained weight (lock that nonsense down), because while you're heart may be in the right place, and I love you, that's just patronizing.
No, I write this, because maybe, just maybe, there's someone out there who has suffered the same humiliation, who feels like a completely different person during pregnancy, who hates the way they feel, but loves the child they carry with all their heart, and maybe they just need to know they're not alone in this seemingly insignificant struggle to be happy during what should be a very joyous time.
And maybe, if you think to, you could just say a little prayer for me, that God would allow me to embrace my Michelin man image with joy for the next five months.
Thanks for listening. :)
Thursday, February 23, 2012
My Sister, My Friend
When I was a child, about 7 years old, I'm guessing, I had a swing set in the back yard that I shared with my younger sister, Kristin. My dad had put it in the ground with his own two hands, and sanded, painted, and attached the swings himself. It was a special place for us. There were two swings so that Kristin and I could both swing independently, but when it was first put in, she was too young to swing very well by herself. She hadn't gotten the pumping down. There were times when I didn't hesitate to help her with a push, while looking longingly at the swing next to her where I should be having my own fun. It was just expected of me, the big sister, to sacrifice anything to help her. Sometimes I embraced that role, but then there were times I resented it, and, mind you, times when she wasn't all that grateful. We were sisters after all. We had the ability to "hate" each other but still love each other in the same instant.
One afternoon, we were outside playing on the swings. We were particularly grumpy with each other that day for reasons I no longer remember. She wanted to be pushed. Oh, I gave her a push alright. And while she wasn't quite old enough to pump very well herself, she knew good and darn well how to hold on. But for some mysterious reason, my much rougher than average push sent her flying off the swing, screaming. Of course she was fine, and I knew this because when she got up she ran screaming into the house. I was called in, not long after, and sat down on the piano bench.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" my mom asked.
I've always found it odd that whenever questions like this were posed it was always, "your sister," as though using her name would make it easy for me to forget that she's still, in fact, my sister.
"No," I answered, looking at the floor.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" This time each word was dragged out a little bit longer.
"No," I replied again.
"Erin, I'm going to ask you one more time," and there it is...my not so subtle cue, telling me they already know the answer to the question, but they just want to hear it from me, though I've never been convinced that the punishment would have been any different regardless.
"No." I was only 7 for goodness sakes. Such cues were lost on me, and may I remind you, she let go?! In my mind, she committed swing set suicide, and my violent push should not be blamed. Like the basketball player who flops to the floor when their jerseys brush, demanding a foul, she was pleased with herself, and I was left standing, wondering why the whistle blew.
My dad then grabbed me by the arm and walked me over to the giant picture window that just happened to be facing the swing set. Oops. Light bulb moment. He didn't have to say it, but he did, "Erin, we saw the whole thing!"
And then, no reasoning or logic as to how she actually fell, was any good at all.
"She's smaller than you!"
"You're the BIG sister!"
"You're old enough to know better!"
I can't remember what my punishment was, but I do remember that before the day was over, Kristin and I were playing Crayon People (another day, another blog) together as though nothing had happened. My sister, my friend. I will never have a relationship with anyone like I have with her.
So now, I try not to become discouraged when I have days when Elijah and Chastity are just tattling on each other all day.
"She hit me!"
"He pushed me!"
"That's mine!"
They have normal moments like these, but more often than not, I am hearing them giggle and laugh together, and take turns without being prompted.
Yesterday I heard Chastity begin to cry. I looked up from my crocheting to see her hold her hand up. Her fingers had gotten pinched during their rough play with some cars. I remained quiet while Elijah calmly said, "Shhhhh, what hurts Chastity?"
She whimpered which finger it was, and he promptly kissed it. "There, is it all better?" She still came to me for some magic mommy kisses, but I was just so tickled. I let Elijah know how wonderful that was. He was already over it, and they were back at the cars again, laughing at each other, and the moment was over.
They normally play very well together, but this has also brought up a small concern. I had taken them to McDonald's play place to play with a bunch of other kids a few weeks ago, and I noticed that they didn't really interact with anyone else. They followed each other around the whole hour we were there. It was a madhouse there, but I never had to worry about losing them. Elijah looked for Chastity at every turn, and she followed him like a giddy shadow, just excited to be in his presence. But now, after really thinking about it, I figure they will gradually learn how to interact with others. They will, one day, develop their own separate friendships, but right now, they are nurturing the most important friendship of all, and they will never have that with anyone else.
Today, I had some crackers out on the counter. Elijah ran into the kitchen. "May I have a cracker, please?"
"Sure," I told him.
He grabbed one, and then another, saying, "And one for my sister, my friend," and he ran to share it with her.
Melt. My. Heart.
One afternoon, we were outside playing on the swings. We were particularly grumpy with each other that day for reasons I no longer remember. She wanted to be pushed. Oh, I gave her a push alright. And while she wasn't quite old enough to pump very well herself, she knew good and darn well how to hold on. But for some mysterious reason, my much rougher than average push sent her flying off the swing, screaming. Of course she was fine, and I knew this because when she got up she ran screaming into the house. I was called in, not long after, and sat down on the piano bench.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" my mom asked.
I've always found it odd that whenever questions like this were posed it was always, "your sister," as though using her name would make it easy for me to forget that she's still, in fact, my sister.
"Did you push Kristin off the swing?"
"Who's Kristin?"
"No," I answered, looking at the floor.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" This time each word was dragged out a little bit longer.
"No," I replied again.
"Erin, I'm going to ask you one more time," and there it is...my not so subtle cue, telling me they already know the answer to the question, but they just want to hear it from me, though I've never been convinced that the punishment would have been any different regardless.
"No." I was only 7 for goodness sakes. Such cues were lost on me, and may I remind you, she let go?! In my mind, she committed swing set suicide, and my violent push should not be blamed. Like the basketball player who flops to the floor when their jerseys brush, demanding a foul, she was pleased with herself, and I was left standing, wondering why the whistle blew.
My dad then grabbed me by the arm and walked me over to the giant picture window that just happened to be facing the swing set. Oops. Light bulb moment. He didn't have to say it, but he did, "Erin, we saw the whole thing!"
And then, no reasoning or logic as to how she actually fell, was any good at all.
"She's smaller than you!"
"You're the BIG sister!"
"You're old enough to know better!"
I can't remember what my punishment was, but I do remember that before the day was over, Kristin and I were playing Crayon People (another day, another blog) together as though nothing had happened. My sister, my friend. I will never have a relationship with anyone like I have with her.
So now, I try not to become discouraged when I have days when Elijah and Chastity are just tattling on each other all day.
"She hit me!"
"He pushed me!"
"That's mine!"
They have normal moments like these, but more often than not, I am hearing them giggle and laugh together, and take turns without being prompted.
Yesterday I heard Chastity begin to cry. I looked up from my crocheting to see her hold her hand up. Her fingers had gotten pinched during their rough play with some cars. I remained quiet while Elijah calmly said, "Shhhhh, what hurts Chastity?"
She whimpered which finger it was, and he promptly kissed it. "There, is it all better?" She still came to me for some magic mommy kisses, but I was just so tickled. I let Elijah know how wonderful that was. He was already over it, and they were back at the cars again, laughing at each other, and the moment was over.
They normally play very well together, but this has also brought up a small concern. I had taken them to McDonald's play place to play with a bunch of other kids a few weeks ago, and I noticed that they didn't really interact with anyone else. They followed each other around the whole hour we were there. It was a madhouse there, but I never had to worry about losing them. Elijah looked for Chastity at every turn, and she followed him like a giddy shadow, just excited to be in his presence. But now, after really thinking about it, I figure they will gradually learn how to interact with others. They will, one day, develop their own separate friendships, but right now, they are nurturing the most important friendship of all, and they will never have that with anyone else.
Today, I had some crackers out on the counter. Elijah ran into the kitchen. "May I have a cracker, please?"
"Sure," I told him.
He grabbed one, and then another, saying, "And one for my sister, my friend," and he ran to share it with her.
Melt. My. Heart.
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