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Because Sometimes I Throw My Blankie Over the Side of the Crib, Too

May 17, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Some days Keegan does not want to nap. On those days, after listening to him play in his crib then whine then cry for Mama, I hear a heart-breaking wail: “Dah!” And I know he’s thrown his blankie over the side of the crib and regrets it.

I know I should leave him and leave blankie so he learns to stop throwing blankie over the side of the crib and that he can’t get out of nap time with such antics.

But I’m not different from Keegan. Some days I do not want to do what God has placed in my life to do and I avoid it or I whine or I cry, and then I throw my blankie over the side of the crib. And I regret it.

God should leave me and leave my blankie right where I threw it and let me deal with the consequences so I learn that I can’t get out of things with such antics. Sometimes he does.

But sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he gets my blankie and cuddles me and lets me know he loves me, and then he returns me to the situation because I still have responsibilities.

So I go in and retrieve blankie (named Dah by Keegan for some unknown reason) and cuddle Keegan, and then I put him back in his crib with blankie because he still has to take a nap.

Also, I know how important blankie is to Keegan’s well-being. After all, that blankie was made from the blankie I carried everywhere at his age.

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And Sometimes It’s This

February 16, 2012 By 1 Comment

Sometimes this is motherhood: finding the spiritual in the ordinary, the sublime in the mundane. It’s the dance your son does to Coltrane and the smile just like his daddy’s when he teases you. It’s the prose that lingers in his laughter, the prayer that rises from his babbling.

And sometimes it’s this: he refuses to eat anything but bananas and bread, to let you dress him without a temper tantrum, to let you write (or work or dry your hair), and the load whirling in the laundry right now contains a pair of jeans splattered with pureed raspberry and yogurt and another pair of jeans covered with your son’s vomit, and the pink creeps in the grout because during those last few minutes of his nap after finishing your work project you can either take a shower or clean it, and the measuring spoons and cups litter the kitchen (and the hallway and living room), and the toys create an obstacle course that makes Home Alone look like Mary Poppins–and snap–took care of everything. It’s the broken plate in the sink and the broken chess piece from Africa on the piano, and you’re struggling to live in complete thoughts, forget poetically.

Then it comes to the end of the night, and you rock and rock and rock until he falls asleep, these nights fewer and fewer when he sleeps still in your arms, and you want to hold him all night long and listen to his breathing and feel his warmth against you, and none of those things matter, or at least they matter less, because despite how hard this day was and how tired you are and how can you be out of chocolate?, there is love.

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To the Very End of the Age

February 12, 2012 By Leave a Comment

photo taken by Christina Kieffer

Will you be responsible for seeing Keegan is brought up in the Christian faith and life? the priest asked. Will you by your prayers and witness help Keegan to grow into the full stature of Christ?

Then we–the parents, the godparents, the family and friends who gathered in this small chapel for the purpose of baptizing this child, of witnessing the sacrament of God, the grace he bestows on the little children who come to him–echoed the baptismal covenant, reaffirming our beliefs, our creed, our very identity. I believe in God, the Father almighty, we said.

Individual voices rang out, first this friend’s voice, then that’s, first this grandparent’s, then another’s, even as the sounds joined together as one voice, as one symphony of love. And tears puddled on my lower lids, for this family came together because of their love for us and for Keegan, to see that this child is raised in Christ’s love and mercy. Their voices wrapped around me like my mother’s homemade afghan.

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them, and I know that the ministry to all nations includes this little one entrusted to our care. And I know that this is the beginning of a journey, of discipling our Keegan, our “little fire,” for this is parenthood, to spiritually form–we will, with God’s help–and I pray that one day he will confirm this truth, that he will trust Christ and follow him.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the priest said.

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In Which Keegan Keeps Me up All Night by Not Waking

January 23, 2012 By 3 Comments

The past couple of days, Keegan’s been refusing to nurse, and I didn’t know how this would break my heart. Sure, he could be teething, and perhaps he’ll resume, but he could also be done.

I had no warning.

I thought I’d have more time to watch how he watches me, how he plays with my hair (pulls, yanks, strips it from my head) while nursing, how I cuddle him close to me, how he sometimes falls asleep. And this is motherhood: little goodbyes as they grow up and start walking then start walking away from you. How does a heart handle this?

So last night, I woke up when I heard him at 4:00, hopeful that he needed me, though at the same time hoping he’d sleep through the night, but he didn’t need me; it was the latter, and within a minute, after soft whimpers, he had fallen back asleep on his own without his mama. And I spent the rest of the night in tears wondering when this happened, and I thought he would wean, I thought it would be slow, first the mid-day feedings would disappear then the morning, then that last feeding before he goes to bed. But last night he didn’t even want that last feeding.

This is how it’s supposed to be, I know, yes, I know that, but my heart hurts because in this way, my little boy doesn’t need me anymore, and he’s not really my baby anymore. He walks, and he knows what he wants and what he doesn’t want.

So I mourn this passing, but I remind myself that this is not it, this is not all there is to motherhood. (Funny that a woman who thought she’d have to get through the baby stage has to remind herself that there’s so much more than the baby stage.) We have more cuddling and playing and learning and dancing in our future, and this is how life moves, this loss and gain together, and it’s beautiful, watching my son develop, even when it means saying goodbye.

 

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I Might Be an Idiot

November 18, 2011 By 1 Comment

During the two hour-long (optimistically speaking) naps Keegan (sometimes) takes, I try to fit in:

  • prep for teaching I’ll be doing beginning in January
  • editing work I recently acquired (yay for paying gig!)
  • the housework I refuse to do when Keegan’s awake like cleaning toilets because the last thing I need is for Keegan to start playing on or in the toilet (he discovered a couple of weeks ago the joy of unrolling the toilet paper)
  • dinner prep if it requires more than the half hour Keegan can handle in the high chair downing Puffs while waiting for Daddy to return home from work to save him from such inhumane imprisonment
  • blogging (stop laughing)
  • my fiction writing (often accompanied by the soundtrack of crickets), and, occasionally, when I’m feeling ambitious
  • a shower

"Overworked" by Stress-Relief via flickr (this is not a joke: that seriously is the title of both the photo and the photographer)

I’m either an idiot, or I have no concept of time.

Some of you think that I can divert some of these activities, such as writing or teaching prep to either (1) evening after Keegan goes to bed or (2) morning before Keegan wakes up (or while Chris can take him if he does awaken). To these suggestions I say (1) doing any brain stimulating activity such as writing or teaching prep so late in the day contributes to my insomnia, and (2) not gonna happen–to even suggest such a thing is to not know me. Plus, when would I sleep or knit if I did that? Come on, people.

Completely unrelated side note: when I transferred from Drupal to WordPress (a decision I laud to this day), WordPress translated all my tags into categories. In choosing the category for today’s post, I discovered in my long list a category entitled “Golden Girls.” Really? Why on earth did I write about the Golden Girls?

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Becoming This Living

October 14, 2011 By 2 Comments

you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you’re young, whatever life you wear

It will become you;and if you are glad
whatever’s living will yourself become.

- from “You shall above all things be glad and young… ” by e.e. cummings

So I seek to become this living, embracing the ordinary until it becomes me, hanging just so around my figure like a favorite dress. Sometimes I fail. I cry and wonder what has become of me, for even in those few moments when boy naps and mother sits at computer, the ideas in my head refuse to be formed into words on page.

David dreamed of this temple, this wonderful, beautiful temple he would build for his God in a land where a king was nothing without a palace, was not truly sovereign until he rested in his house, and this was true of their gods, too, the true rulers, the might behind the victories. Shouldn’t he do this for his God, then? Honor his God, display his might and beauty for all to see?

But no, that was not the living God had for him, and I look at the beautiful ordinary living God has for me, full of laughter and love (and drool), and look to embrace this living God has for me, to spread my passion for the big into this small, meaningful space, for the steady burn of the coals brings more lasting change than the flames of a bonfire.

When the words run out, I have not become less of me, I tell myself, but I have become more of this living.

David did not build that Temple, but he prepared for it and he raised his son to build it, and perhaps I will not become that meaningful writer, or perhaps I will, but I will prepare for the meaningful living, collecting words and ideas and life, and I will raise my son to build a meaningful life, filled with faith, hope, and love.

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And the Beat Goes On

September 26, 2011 By Leave a Comment

I’ve woken up early to write via my pledge exactly once. That’s not entirely true. I woke up early (or couldn’t go back to sleep after being woken up several times) and decided to use that time to write.

You see, Keegan sensed my rising comfort level, my strengthening grip on our lives. He heard my words, “Okay, I can do this.” Children have this sixth sense, I guess. He saw that I could have dinner ready when Chris came home from work so we could eat together as a family–Chris, Keegan, and me. He tallied the freezer to find it amply stocked with baby food. He counted the books I had actually finished (more than one, at least). He noticed that even occasionally, I looked well rested.

So he stopped the music. We rushed to the chairs to find one missing.

My wonderful, brilliant, and apparently prescient son on the night I vowed to awaken early the following morning, got up every two and a half hours and has done so ever since.

Oh-ho, you say. It’s time to teach him how to self-sooth, to put himself back to sleep. We tried that for a week and a half to the affect that he cried for an hour and a half and woke up an hour later. The boy is apparently hungry.

One of these days, Inspector Gadget.

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Phantom Itches

September 15, 2011 By 3 Comments

I lie supine as Keegan crawls over me. The other day, I posted on Facebook that his theme song is “Climb Every Mountain” (except he’d sing it in a rock/jazz fusion style, kind of like Trombone Shorty or Jamie Cullum). I’ve given up attempting yoga or Pilates because have you ever tried to do crow pose with a six month old hanging on you? And this is fun, and I laugh, and he laughs, and I think these days are so short.

Except some days I watch the clock, three and a half more hours until your daddy’s home, and the days are long, and what happened to my writing? Am I still a writer?

They say women use 20,000 to 25,000 words in a day, and those words used to be put on page, words in a short story, in a novel. Now I use my words to sing “Baa, Baa Black Sheep” because Keegan loves this song and he practices saying “baa.” We sing our ABCs and our body parts song, and I laugh, and he laughs, and he sways his body to the music. But are there any words left for my story about Claire? Will she wait for me if I tarry long?

Here I am, an introvert spending all my day with another person, an adorable little person who loves to climb and plays Tupperware instruments and tells me “baa,” and I wonder is it wrong to want a day with no people except the characters in my head?

Love for this little guy overwhelms me, and I love being a mother, this new person–these new persons–I’ve discovered, Keegan and me, and I tell Keegan stories–stories of his parents, imaginary stories of a boy who jumps to the sun and of lightening that gets stuck in the ocean–but where has the old writer gone? What happens to the characters in my head if no one tells their stories?

And I know–timing, everyone says, life stages, and someday, but I’m no good waiting for someday. The characters aren’t good with waiting either. My fingers itch to type the words.

I think of another time my fingers itched. I called it a phantom itch. I’d given up music to go to seminary except music worked its way back in as I composed songs for classes and a musical for my thesis and I continued to teach, and now I sit at piano with Keegan on my lap and he plays and we call it abstract music.

So I make a decision today. I will wake up an hour earlier to tell their stories. (This is serious. I am not a morning person, but I will endeavor to become one, or at least pretend to be one.)

Wish me luck.

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We Have No Bananas Today

June 27, 2011 By 7 Comments

This post has nothing to do with bananas. I gave it such a title to disguise the true subject matter.

A poopy diaper story.

You knew it had to come at some point in time. This particular poopy diaper story has the intrigue of an airplane setting (think Air Force One) and a trifecta of disasters.

My darling son poops on my lap in the airplane on the runway just before take-off. Which means, of course, that we have to wait about a half hour until safely in the sky, until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign and gives us the signal that we are free to move about the cabin.

(Actually, we cheat and move about earlier, but the flight attendant, with plugged nose, gives us the all clear.)

I lay my son on his travel mat on the sliver of counter space next to the sink in the matchbox bathroom and proceed to clean up the poopy diaper. So far, so good.

Back story: My son pooped twice already in the airport. This, combined with some diaper changes on the way to the airport as we ran last minute errands (a last panzoratti, a last water ice, a last hoagie, etc) from the beach house to Philly, leaves us with few diapers in the bag. Also, the poop contains sand. This last point has no bearing on the story except that it makes me laugh.

As I remove the offending diaper and prepare to wrap my son in a new one, he shoots a stream ceiling-ward. I react by immediately attempting to stop the fountain with the closed clean diaper. This does nothing to stop it, of course, but diverts the pee everywhere else.

So now there is pee on the ceiling, covering his mat, soaking his clothes, decorating his face, and dripping onto the floor (and onto my flip-flop-clad feet). Also, I’m concerned that the diaper I just used might be the Last Diaper. And I only have one wipe left.

I go to work cleaning up the mess with paper towels. I throw some on the floor to soak it up (although, I confess, I do not pick them up). Now I have some decisions to make: do I first clean the mat, knowing that my wet son will re-corrupt it, or vice versa? Here’s what I do: I wipe the mat of the puddles (yes, puddles of pee), strip him of his soaked clothing (without letting it hit his face, although his face is already dripping with the pee that arched in the fountain), and sit him up to clean both the mat and him at the same time so that they don’t retaint each other.

At which point, my son spits up.

I stand unmoved, staring at him, without the least clue of what to do next. Tears threaten. Thankfully, the writer in me kicks in. I step outside myself and pretend this is a scene I’m writing. The scene makes me laugh. It’s a funny scene. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh some more. Keegan laughs with me. We laugh like we’re having a tea party on the ceiling. (I’m sure the flight attendant had her concerns.)

Then I consider how I would write myself out of this situation. Somehow, I manage to clean everything up–enough, at least–using the last wipe for Keegan’s face (and paper towels for the rest), reclothe my son in the extra onesie I keep with me always (although I don’t bother to snap the bottom), and get him back to his father before I return to the restroom to clean myself up.

Did I mention that the woman sitting at the bulkhead offered to let me change Keegan in the extra space there? I’m sure she crossed herself as I passed by her smelling of urine. Also, the man seated next to my husband had been offered the opportunity to move to another seat. I’m guessing he regretted that decision after the smells wafting in our row. And the screaming that ensued for two and a half of the three hours in the air.

But we made it home.

Where my son pooped on the way to the farmer’s market this morning, thereby giving me the opportunity to learn how to change his dirty diaper in his carrier while his travel mat sat at home awaiting a good scrubbing.

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Spiritual Mothers

May 5, 2011 By 1 Comment

Someone told him, “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.”

He replied to him, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” Pointing to his disciples, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.”

Matthew 12: 48-50

Mother’s Day is a tricky celebration for the Church. On the one hand, we want to rightfully honor those who have sacrificed to raise us. On the other hand, we need to be sensitive to those who have lost mothers, lost children, dealt with infertility, or been raised by abusive or absent mothers.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the above passage, what it means to be not only a physical mother, but a spiritual mother as well. Jesus’s reply expands our thinking about family without denigrating his physical mother. After all, Mary had the job of raising a Savior (and one who made it a habit to hang around his Father’s house without telling anyone). In fact, themes from Mary’s Magnificat are found in Jesus’s teaching (and in James’ letter). Mary was more than a physical mother, feeding him, teaching him to bathe and speak and have good manners. She did the will of God and proved herself a spiritual mother as well.

I think of the women in my life who have been my spiritual mothers, beginning with my physical mother, who spent her days teaching me about God and demonstrates with her life what it means to follow him (and who continues to minister to me at all hours of the day and night when I call needing her). I’ve also had school teachers and Sunday school teachers and youth leaders and mentors throughout college and work. I have mentors in my church, even if it’s not an official role–women who demonstrate to me what it means to follow Christ in everyday life, women who take the time to walk beside me, encourage me, minister to me. These are women who do the will of their Father.

There are mothers from the Church’s history who continue to teach us. I remember one summer lounging by the lake we visited every year reading a biography of Susannah Wesley, the women who raised John and Charles. I did my thesis on Ruth, who ended up in David’s and in Jesus’s ancestry. When I questioned my purpose in life following graduation from seminary with my masters in theology (and landing the prestigious job of front desk medical receptionist), I found challenge and comfort in the writings of Jeanne Guyon. We have examples in the missionaries Amy Carmichael, Florence Young, and Elisabeth Elliot or the writers Fanny Crosby and Anne Bradstreet or theologians like Lady Jane Grey. Don’t forget Lydia and Priscilla from Paul’s time, or Timothy’s mother, Eunice, and grandmother, Lois. Or the women who ministered to Christ.

As we approach Mother’s Day, I’d like to honor all these women in my life, the women of my Church family. They’ve set examples for men and women alike of a Christlike life. I hope to be counted among them.

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