It was his third day of life, I think, when the midwife came over and he weighed in too low.  We were going to go furniture shopping for the new house that day.  It was my third baby, my third boy, my third one to wear the same outfits and be buckled into the same car-seat.  I knew what I was doing.  And she told me that that was exactly what was going to make this hard.  I remember the patterns and the rhythms, but they were new to my son.  I needed to listen to him, respond to him, look at him, sit with him, hold him, slow days down for him.  This third baby of mine was on his first time at life. 

I remember rolling my eyes a bit, only inwardly I hope.  But I sat in my bed and took in my baby.  I unzipped his sleeper and unbuttoned my shirt and tried to slow down to just be with this brand new life.  I read, napped, and snacked with him on my chest.  It didn’t come naturally but ‘fake it till you make it’ has always been my parenting strategy anyway.  And he cuddled and slept and fed and bounced back by the next week’s check-up. 

But I checked the box.  I congratulated myself on doing what he needed.  And I moved on. 

Fast forward a few years and my now four-year-old son became a big brother twice over in a week and a half.  Suddenly there was a baby and a toddler and the boy, still in the midst of figuring himself out in the context of his two big brothers, wakes up very much a middle child.  Not big enough to be one of the bigs.  Not little enough to be one of the littles.  Not loud enough that I noticed.  I didn’t take enough breaths to notice.  I didn’t listen to enough cries.  I didn’t have enough hands.  Or eyes.  Or laps.  Or arms.  Or sleep. 

Jesus, I hope it’s not too late.  I hope I haven’t failed him.  I hope he finds his voice, the one I have silenced too many times.  I hope he sees its power and influence in his little world.  I hope His Father redeems all that’s been done and all that’s been left undone.  Lord, could you slow days down for me so that I can slow days down for this boy that I love?

breath

My eyes open and I worry that I'm already behind.  She screamed so long and hard it feels like I just fell asleep.  The glowing numbers of the clock come into focus and I breathe out a thank you God that I'm a morning person.  I uncurl, stretch, and make my way to the bathroom.  As I get dressed I'm reciting the things that need to happen before 8:35.  I got this.  Probably. 

Too early, One comes up for a cuddle, anxious as always on a Monday morning.  With an eye out the window for the neighbour kids who need us for five more mornings, I fill cereal bowls and smile as I remember our family win of a skating outing yesterday.  These months have been hard.  Hella hard at times.  Inviting little ones and their accompanying brokenness into our home, into our family, into our hearts.  It is heavy.  It pervades and permeates and doesn't ask permission to hang its darkness over our days.  But, is it just me, or is He deepening my perception of His beauty in this mess?  I smile at the kooky picture of the seven of us, Five's helmet-ed head peaking out from behind me, as we skate on the river. 

My smile falls as I hear the tell-tale sound of One bouncing a ball against the wall in his room.  Sure enough, he woke Two.  I stop him before they all wake like dominos.  Neighbours arrive and the morning is off and I wonder what I will behold today. 

In pockets of peace I remember to breathe.  This Almighty-breath gives life, slows the fickle worried heart so it can truly see.  This circus that makes me crazy?  I love it.  I love them.  I struggle with how much more He might ask of me.  Inside my family or outside.  It's scary to dwell on and I wonder why.  Many days I feel I have nothing selfish left in me, but oh Lord I am so wrong.  I have given, twice.  Poured out in big-enough ways, I tell myself.  Months and months in I am finally seeing how He is working, weaving, winning at the important things in me, in my littles, in those who find themselves inside our spheres.  Dare I say, He is glorying in letting me behold glimpses of the fullness of His radiance.  Where I swear it wasn't before.  Where I wouldn't have thought it could ever be.  Beholding His beauty, pressing on to acknowledge His Emmanuel presence - not only inspite of the painful brokenness, but also right smack dab in those tear-stained, unlikely-to-be-glorious, caught-between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place, down-on-my-knees-wondering-where-this-is-going messes.   He is not afraid of messy and His breath gives me life.

Two Daughters

The cry that gets me up of the couch turns out to just be a whimper in her sleep.  I've gotten off the couch an hour into the coveted quiet of evening and tiptoed into the girls' room for nothing.  But it must be one of the very best nothings I have ever been privileged to take in.  One sleeps on her back, arms above her head and lips still parted from where the soother was released in slumber.  I smile at her peaceful perfection in the center of the white crib before turning around.  My gaze searches for the other, pushed up into the corner of her matching crib, bum in the air, blankets gathered and clutched beneath her, curls splayed in the halo of sleep.  I have two daughters.  The words still seems surreal.  I have been entrusted with these two precious, beautiful, valuable, delightful, inherently lovable souls.  May His grace fill me with wisdom and patience and strength.  May His grace overflow to them, for I know I will not ever be enough.

Papa, your grace changes diapers and paces with discontent babies.  It comforts a whimpering toddler and patiently remains present to a tantruming one.  It does laundry incessantly and prepares food ongoingly.  It makes bottles and restocks diaper bags.  It hugs and kisses.  It reads and explores and crafts.  It answers questions and finds missing shoes.  It makes soccer snack and refills water bottles.  It tucks in and tucks in again.  It isn't flowery or obscure or lofty.  It is alive and active, living and loving and mighty.  It is present and it is enough.  Enough for me, and enough for these five littles.

God Who Hears (Gen 21:17)

Day in and day out, I question whether I did enough, said the right things, guided without crushing their spirits.  I don't want to be a good enough parent, I want to rock this.  I want them to know love and be able to give it, know empathy and be able to show it, know respect and be able to bestow it.  I want them to find the things they are good at, the things that bring them joy and ignite their passion.  I want them to care for themselves, each other, and the world.  I want them to know and be known by their Creator.  I want them to ride the waves of joy and grief, blessing and loss, and feel securely anchored in God's love and mine.  All of which sounds awesome until I find myself in the midst of tantrums and meltdowns and the mess of day-to-day.  And then He interrupts.  What is the matter?  Don't be afraid: I have heard the boy crying as he lies there.  You are the God who hears, and I am so thankful that you are attuned to the cries of my heart.  But, You are also the God who hears my boys, and I am unburdened as I place them and all their needs in Your bigger, wiser, stronger hands.

It's too much and I'm too tired.  The fixing of one mess only leads to the recognizing of another, which I start to remedy only to find a third.  By the time I get to the end of the domino effect, my knees are sore, my head is pounding, and four children have called me forty-seven times and why can't I ever just finish one thing before I start another - if I could remember that one thing in the first place.  It's too much and I'm too tired and the peanut m&ms I'm popping on the way through the kitchen don't even help anymore.  Papa, I can't do this anymore because on top of it all are the things that actually matter.  Like respect and compassion, kindness and love, honesty and integrity.  Or heck, even just table manners.  I can't shape their behaviour and pour into their hearts and pick up their stuff and make their snacks and sing their songs and delight in their ideas and photograph their moments and appreciate their presence and do their laundry and meet their needs.  Papa, it's too much and I'm too tired and can't she just sleep through the night and can't they just pick up their own damn toys and wet towels and listen the first time?  Papa, where is Your glory or Your grace or Your goodness or any of You in all of this?

They are going to ask me today how I am doing.  Sometimes it is easier than what you see.  Sometimes it is harder.  Sometimes it is calmer, sometimes wilder.  Sometimes I am calmer, sometimes angrier.  There are times when I am just doing.  Not much emotion attached, be it positive or negative.  Quite possibly a self-preservation technique as much as just exhaustion.  But there are so many times when I am both melting and swelling on the inside.  So many moments that I wish the camera could capture in their adorableness, heart-warmingness, growingness, hilariousness, memorableness, noisiness, ridiculousness, honest to goodness.  I just want to slow down and breathe in the tops of their heads and the bottoms of their feet.  I love them so and I desperately want them to know.

He's Six!

Every so often, one too many dinosaurs on the floor or cars between the couch cushions breaks this mama-camel's back and the frenzy begins.  I'm off on a mission to return every stray creation to the Lego table, organize the helter-skelter book shelf, and declutter the bulletin board of its many now-one-eyed masterpieces.  As I work my way room to room, I eventually find myself staring at the cave that is Niko's bed.

First I haul out the blankets - of which there are four, plus a bathrobe that is used as a blanket.  Then the five pillows, eight stuffed animals, two Hot Wheels, four pieces of Lego, a paper airplane, two books, and a basketball.  Not to mention the four brightly coloured shoelaces that are woven through the slats of the bunk above his and hang down like stalactites and the rat's nest of scotch tape supposedly keeping them in place.  

It makes me claustrophobic just to think about sleeping in this chaos as I put away the toys, books, shoelaces, two pillows, and half the stuffies.  I spread the remaining stuffies out, hoping I can get away with this purging.  Because if there is one thing I know about Niko, it is that he is equal parts method and madness.   

The same kid who carelessly forgets where he put his favourite toy for days on end, can remember that the small dog won the jumping competition when we went to the Brandon Winter Fair almost two years ago, while the big dog knocked the obstacle down trying to jump over it even after three tries.  

The same kid who struggles to grasp the bigger picture of how his behaviour affects the people around him, has built a detailed map in his mind that allows him to navigate routes to Gramma and Grampa's, the ice cream store, McIvor park, the arena, downtown, and countless other places.  

The same kid who has been wearing shorts all winter, who sleeps between fleece sheets all summer because he 'needs to be cozy', who throws tantrums before every Christmas family gathering that I want him to wear a polo shirt for, is also the one who is most likely to give hugs, drape his arm across my back, lay his head on my shoulder, or sit his 50+ pounds on my lap.  

Negotiating the juxtaposition of Niko's extremes can make some days a bit of a minefield, and I find myself on my knees in prayer at least as often as I find myself on them to clean up a mess of toys or a mess of hearts.  

In it all, I find my mind wandering once again to the enigma that is my Saviour.  Full of juxtaposition of His own, His holiness butts up against His humility.  His majesty interfaces mysteriously with His mindfulness of me.  He is brimming with glory, yet it is His grace that overflows.  I almost have time to finish my thought when I hear the accusing words.

"WHERE ARE MY STUFFIES??"  

I shake my head in amazement as my son lists, ridiculously, every stuffed animal I dared to remove from his bed.  Apparently there was, as I should have known, method to his madness.  

You know (Psalm 139:1)

You have searched me and you know me, O Lord.
You know my exhaustion and my exasperation.
You know my tired eyes and tired sighs.
You know my doubts and dread, my full and weary head.
You know my facade and you know where it is flawed.
You know that I bellow, holler, and yell.
You know that I don't want to build another fort
and you know that my fuse is oh-so-short.
You know my wit's end and the time I spend in this hell-ish trend.
You know what is only mine to know.
But you know.

And oh, how you love me so.

Lord, when I am so helpless and weak, sing Your song of delight over my soul so that I too could know.  That I could know the depths of Your unconditional love in the depths of my desperate soul.  That the glorious riches of Your greater grace could be the melody of Your song that is with me when I awake.

Shaggy Headed Reader (Acts 7:2 & 7:33)

Sometimes, no mosttimes, this house and our days feel so ordinary.  One morning looks much like the next and it is fine but hard to feel much excitement.  

But today my heart bursts with thanks and pride and joy and awe as I watch this boy that is first His before he is mine.  He gathers all three littles around his shaggy head, asking which of the cartoon character chairs they prefer.  He confirms that they can all see the pictures before beginning to read his rendition of the story.  When one of them points out that he is using the wrong word, he gently explains that he doesn't actually know how to read and he's doing his best and that's okay too.  I swear he's older than five today.

Thank you, Papa, thank you for the gift that is Niko.  Thank you that every so often this very ordinary place becomes holy ground and I can sense your glory so much closer than I would have thought in my self-absorbed distraction only moments before.  You are the God with a years-long habit of appearing in glory and making holy that which, by all accounts, is the most ordinary of ordinaries.

Emerson*4

The sound of Lego being moved around on the table in the ever-ongoing hunt for just the right piece is my lullaby.  Feelings of maybe-I-shoud-start-thinking-about-supper almost bring me back to consciousness, but a long day and just the right amount of sunshine make me burrow deeper into my corner of the couch and what just might be my moment to drift off.  The rare and treasured times when all three kids are playing flawlessly together make my heart swell, even as my eyelids are too heavy to open and take it all in.

Still on duty, even as I doze, I slowly come to with the soft words of the littlest one bubbling to the surface.  Groggy, I don't react instantaneously and Emerson steps in.  "Lachie, Mommy is asleep.  You have to pee otet?"  [Otet = toilet in his little brother's 2-year-old speak]  Emerson's voice takes on the exaggerated gentle cadence of an older one knowing that he is helping a little one and I breathe deeply, halfway between sleep and rapt attention on the scene I am picturing through still-closed eyelids.

"Come with me, Lachie," he urges and takes his brother's hand, leading him from his Lego rocketship creation towards the bathroom.  "Come pee otet."

The footsteps have gotten quieter now that they have reached the carpet in the hallway, but I hear that stool move across the bathroom floor.  Narrating as he goes, Emerson informs his brother of each step of the process, inadvertently warming my drowsy and delighted soul.  Using Lachlan's language, he helps him take his pants and "unders" [underwear] off and boosts him up to the toilet.  Ever so kindly he tells him good job when he pees and encourages him to get off the otet by himself.

By now Lachlan is giggling that his brother is doing this all with him and is happy to oblige as they work together to get the unders and pants back on - pausing in between as Emerson asks once the underwear is up: "Does your penis hurt?  No?  Okay, then it's on right."  That one is almost too much for me to continue the charade of sleep, as I make mental notes of the checklist Emerson presumably uses for himself as well.

A moment later they are back to join Niko at the Lego table beside me and the creative building continues.  Only now I am too giddy to go back to sleep.

Here are some pictures of this newly 4-year-old boy whose goofiness, gentleness, independence, and empathy we cherish in equal measure: https://www.flickr.com/photos/41705228@N08/albums/72157657488999075

My Morning (Psalm 30:5 & Psalm 34:5)

The rhythm of the rain outside my window is my alarm clock this morning.  In my stupor it sounds like clapping and I am oddly relieved.  The gray skies are clapping their sarcastic applause.  Perfect, I agree.  A miserable soggy day is in order for me, a failure.

It's the morning after the night that ended with silence, my mess uglier than I want to put into words.  Uglier than I want to put into words in front of him.  And he knows it.  He prods gently with such care but I shut him out.  It's too much and I'm too tired, I tell myself.  I'm fine, really, I tell him.  But how many times in ten years have I avoided his eyes?

And that night came on the heels of another, where I collapsed in a heap knowing I had just barely made it through another day.  A day of hearing my floundering in the sounds of every whining, complaining heap of child on the floor.  Of watching my defeat in hitting hands and kicking feet.  Of seeing my not-enough in the sounds of shutting down, shutting out, and shutting doors.   It's all I can do not to shut my eyes and shut my heart.

It's the morning after and the morning after the morning after.  And sometimes it doesn't look any better than the night before.  Or the night before.  Or the one before.

He says joy comes in the morning.  He whispers it this time.  Whispers it to my morning that is begging for a reason to rebel.  My morning that balks at Him, daring Him to defy Himself.

Except that it isn't.

At least not entirely.

Underneath its disheveled hair and disheartened spirits, my morning longs to taste and see that He is good and true and loving and here.  My morning, my afternoon, my evening, and my night.  All of me wants to know all of Him.

All of me wants to know this God who hears me when I cry.  Who is near when I am broken-hearted.  Who redeems me when I am desolate.  Who made my heart such that He can strengthen it.  Who makes me radiant when I am ashamed.

This God who is teaching me day by day and hour by hour that I am weak, fallible, and inadequate on purpose.  By His very design I am made to be whole only in Him.  By His very design I am made to experience fullness in my dependence on Him.

If my weakness is not only my weakness but also His strength, is it even my weakness at all?  How great is my God!