Sending Four to Venus

I have four girls.  4. Cuatro. IV.

  If you would have told me this would have been my lot 10 years ago I would have laughed...  Or cried.  The verdict is still out as they are not yet teenagers.  You see, I was certain God would give me a brood of boys.  He certainly wouldn't want this fairly insensitive, not really girly, slightly cynical, woman to raise girls.

When I say I am not girly I am not implying I don't like domestic things.  I love to cook, do crafts, and be creative with my hands.  I'm just not one of those girls who has to end every sentence two octaves higher than I started.  I don't like romantic comedies, high heels, or fancy things and I only cry when I'm really upset, not when I see a dead rabbit on the road.  But I am really sentimental about my kids and their ever changing little bodies and personalities.  I'm very protective of my cubs as well.  

My first born daughter quickly schooled me in her Venus origins. She was only a couple weeks old when I said in a frustrated voice, "What does she want?!" after she cried for hours in the middle of the night.  She looked at me in shock, her lower lip quivered, and she started crying.  She was a newborn.  How could she be so emotional already?  Over the years I have found her crying on multiple occasions and when I have inquired as to why all she can say is, "I don't know, I'm just crying."  I admit, I'm a woman of little patience.  I have a "get over it," mentality.  This has proven to be an ineffective method- I can be a bit of a jerk sometimes.  

But you see I married this man who seems to know exactly what these girly girls need.  He is a listening ear for them or just hugs it out the times they don't know why they are crying.  I thank God for him.  And I have learned to make an effort as well. This does not come naturally for me. It's an effort I'm willing to make because I love my girls and know I need to be able to communicate to them in their love language. For instance, they love for me to paint their nails.  I hate it.  I don't even like to paint my own nails.  I hate when my nails get long enough to paint and only allow it so that I can better peel oranges and pick the junk out of my kids ears. If it was socially acceptable I would just leave one nail long and call it the peeler/picker.  On second thought, I live in the middle of nowhere so maybe I'll do that.  Heck, I have five kids so people already think I'm weird. 

 Anywho, I set time aside to paint their nails and I do it cheerfully and sometimes even end my sentences two octaves higher as I carefully lather sparkly blue paint on each nail.  And in some weird way I enjoy it.  Maybe it's the fumes from the polish but maybe it's the look in my girls' eyes that says it all.  They know and appreciate the effort and I know God knew what He was doing all along.  

...Oh, but please don't hesitate to visit me and send cards when I am institutionalized during puberty. 

Night Time Revelations

"Waaaaa!!! Dadaaaaa!" I hear in the dark from the other room. Andy brings our little Olive into the room for the fifth night. She coughs in that high pitched, pathetic toddler cough and quickly falls asleep sandwiched safety between her Mommy and Daddy. But now I am wide awake. It's 5:30 a.m. and the sound of her precious baby snores mixed with the relatively close time to which the Packer household is awake anyway, I can't go back to sleep. So I sit there contemplating all of life's mysteries and taking in all the revelations those early morning/middle-of-the-night thoughts often bring. 

I start to contemplate why every older adult with grown children feels the need to tell me in the midst of my child's in-store melt down that I'm gonna miss this.  Sure, I think, I'll miss kissing squishy toddler cheeks and baby laughs, but this? Nope, definitely not gonna miss this. But then I start to think about life in 20 years. 

I think about the noise levels in the house replaced with the sound of traffic driving by and clocks I didn't know ticked. Bathroom counters that don't have toothpaste smeared all over them the day after I clean them. Jars of peanut butter and jelly that last months instead of weeks. Meals free from indigestion. Quiet car rides. Times of reflection and prayer in the pew before service and listening to whole sermons instead of teaching the older kids  how to follow along in the service, and teaching toddlers how to not be little screaming monkeys.  A calendar free from weekly doctor's appointments, scheduled activities, and school assignments due...

I start to think I must be crazy as an overwhelming feeling of sorrow takes over my sleep-deprived body. Because in that moment, I realize I really am gonna miss all of that. The same crazy sounds that come out of my house and make me thankful I don't have any neighbors in a 10 acre radius, are actually a comfort to me. The toothpaste on the counters and never-ending mess are the beautiful signs of growing life in my house. 

Someday, long gone will be the days of baby smiles, toddler belly-laughs, funny handshakes between sisters (including "booty-bumps"), and the wide-eyed wonderment of learning new things. There's only one "first time," you know.  The first time they carve a pumpkin or feel the disappointment of reading a book and then watching the movie. The heartbreak of watching them fail and the pride in the triumphs that come from those failures.

We are blessed, fellow parents. God did not lie when he called children a blessing. We are taking part in one of life's greatest gifts. And it's hard. It's hard because God uses these little munchkins to drive and mold the selfishness right out of us. He gives us glimpses of our own stubbornness and hardheartedness. But He also gives us joy. A joy incomparable to anything else in this life.

So yes, I'm gonna miss this. And I pray God would grant me the time on this earth to get to see it from a whole other point of view: grandchildren.

The Best Breakfast Ever

I was in that state between dreamland and reality.  The pillow was still covering my face from the light... and the world.  Just five more minutes.  Five more minutes before I start all over again.

I hear foot steps coming up the stairs.  It must be Ally.  She often climbs into bed with me in the mornings to snuggle.  I look forward to those mornings because I know someday I'm gonna miss her toddler giggles and remains of baby fat that fade with each passing day.  But today is not one of those days.  I peer out from the darkness to see a blurry, blond-haired boy standing at the end of my bed.  This is new.  This is the kid who is normally always last to get up.  He's definitely not here to snuggle- not his thing.  He's holding something in his hand.

"Mom, I made you breakfast in bed,"  He says almost without emotion.  He practically tosses a piece of bread at me, no plate.  "It's even gluten free." He says with a stoic voice.  I look at my tiny piece of bread with an attempted, but failed effort to spread cold butter across the surface.  Most people wouldn't think much of this.  But somehow this is quite possibly the best breakfast I've ever seen.
"I would have made you eggs but we don't have any,"  Be still my heart.

He cares.  He's thoughtful.  He's loving.  The heart is catching up.