Christmas Cheer

Ho Ho Ho! Merry Christmas!



It's been ages since I've written on this thing, I've nearly lost my memory of it. I need to get back on it for me - to chronicle all of the joys that fill my days that are passing too quickly and that I know I'll someday forget.

Mak? Perfectly boy, simultaneously trouble and joy at the same time. I wouldn't have him any other way. He has a way of saying things right now that makes my heart smile:
mex mixer (cement mixer)
trinkle trinkle widdle star
brockery (broccoli)
"I almost love you, mom"
Josie-phine
His "Oh, yeah"
"Sumping needs to come out of my body..." (my cue for commanding him to get on the potty RIGHT NOW!)
Having a way of prefacing a myriad of statements with, "when I was a baby..."
and his way of sticking out his fist and saying "Bat-man".

At three and a half, I can hardly remember him as my little baby - he's getting tall, gets himself dressed, does his chores, immediately stops to help me if I ask him. He used to be my little boy who wouldn't clean up to save his life... Now he's turning into a responsible boy. Just like his daddy. Where once he was mostly MINE, he now rushes to get his "tools" to help Brian with his projects. Quickly reassuring me that "it's ok, mom; I'll just have a look"... at my van which has a dead battery. He's precious, and quickly become a vision of the man he'll be. The greatest joy? His love for music, for being drawn to worship music and wanting to sing it at the top of his lungs. My prayer? "Lord, help me to be faithful with this one. He has a calling in your church. Help me to guide his love for music well."

Sophia? Brilliant. Reading. Adding. Asking important questions. Learning self control. Being responsible, and sometimes bossy. Eating all of her lunch at school, and correctly writing all of her letters. She's amazing. She soaks in all I say, every answer she meters against what I've said before and then stores it away in the confines of her six-year-old mind to recall later. Everything matters, everything counts. She's a rule follower, and also a dreamer. So talented. So artistic and creative. There isn't a competitive bone in her body, but bless her, she tried basketball this year. All because I encouraged her to do it. My prayer? "Lord, help me to encourage this one to dream big for you; help me to be faithful with what I do and say, because she's watching." She's such a kid: jumping rope this summer, learning to ride her bike, memorizing her sight words. She's also responsible: there hasn't been one morning, NOT ONE, in the last two months that I've had to wake her for school. Every day, her alarm goes off, she gets up, gets herself dressed, brushes her teeth, makes her bed, and comes down for breakfast. This in itself is such a blessing.

Josie? Darling. Endearing. Enchanting. Engaging. Rolling over, playing, cooing, blowing bubbles, giggling. She's everything she should be at five months. I can't get enough of her and simultaneously don't have enough time for her. I wish I could suck her up like a sponge and become saturated with her. She's more joy than I think a third baby should be, and maybe (dare I say it?), she is a double blessing because of our loss last summer? I have never mommied a sweeter, more easy-going baby. She sleeps. She nurses. She puts herself to bed at night and routinely naps well. She's flexible, adaptable, and ever-happy. Be still my heart, she fills me with unspeakable joy. If life could only slow down so that I could just sit and stare at her. Isn't that what we'd all do if we could? Go back to our ____-year-old self and tell them to "chill out; savor the day; stop sweating the small stuff and life a little fuller". Six years ago I had my first baby, and if I had one wish in life, it would be to go back and have the chance to say this to first-time-mommy self.

And me? 33 years old, almost 34. Feeling simultaneously older and younger. Liking who I am more and more (thank you, age-related perspective), being more sure of myself than I ever was before, and also feeling sad about aging because I am seeing how fast it is all going. I'm thankful this year.

...For my husband, for above all, he is the greatest gift of my lifetime. Brian makes me laugh, challenges me, frustrates me, and teaches me. He balances me, smooths me, and supports me. He is a once-in-a-lifetime. My prayer? "Help me love him in a way, Lord, that he feels it. Help me to show him how loved he is on this side of heaven. Help me to show him that I notice all he does for my family."

...For my kids, because I thought I would never be able to have them. And here they are. For the laughter they bring in my life. For the reason to yell, "Go to sleep!" And, for the reason of knowing the feeling of tiny arms wrapped around my neck and tiny hearts that love me big.

And for Jesus. He's the reason for the season, but also so much more. He's the reason for my every day. The reason I can love at all. The reason I can hope for tomorrow. Everything I have is proof of a God who loves me. And I feel so lavished in His love.

Merry Christmas!

Note to self:

If I hear Mak singing to Macy, "Very very precious dog. Be very very gentle with this precious precious dog", he is PROBABLY not being very nice and gentle with that precious dog.

How to tell a boy from a girl.......

No, no, no - it has nothing to do with their "parts". You dirty-minded fool.

Today, while I was putting on my makeup, I heard several repeated thuds. Turns out it was Mak jumping off one of my chairs in my family room. What he said when I asked him what he was doing, however, is key. Here is his actual rendition, and then an approximation of what would have been said had I caught Sophia in the act.

Mak's version:
Me: (Me, walking down the hall. I can't see him.) "Mak????!!!! What are you doing?"
Mak: "I'm just jumping off the chair."
I now see he has piled pillows under a chair and was using them as a cushion for his landing.
Me: "Mak, stop jumping off the chair."
Mak: "Ok."

Sophia's version:
Me: "Sophia, what are you doing? What was that thud?"
Sophia: "I just made up a game. It's called jilta whirl."
Me: "What's jilta whirl?"
Sophia: "You have to take the pillows from the couch, make a pattern, make sure all the sides are touching."
Me: "...and?"
Sophia: "Then you have to roll up your sleeves and take off your socks."
Me: "...AND?"
Sophia: "You climb up on this chair and you have to pick a spot on the cushions."
Me: "Sophia, were you jumping off the chair?"
Sophia" "It's part of the game."
Me: "Were you jumping off the chair?"
Sophia: "Yes. Onto part of the pattern that you picked. And if you land on the pattern you get five points."
Me: "Stop jumping off the chair."
Sophia: "Ah, man! That's not fair! I'm not done with the game!"
Me: "I don't care. You could get hurt. No more jumping."
Sophia" "But what will I do with all my points? And the pattern of the cushions?"
Me: "Figure it out."
Five minutes later:
Sophia: "MOM! I made a new game for my Bitty babies. If they eat all their vegetables, they get to move to a new spot on the pattern of the cushions! And if they land on all the spots, they earn a sticker!"
Me: "Are you jumping off the chair?"
Sophia: "NO! And I told Bitty baby if she does, she's in a time out."

Exactly.

I'm sure if I asked this baby girl in my belly why she was kicking my bladder last night at 3am, she would say:
"I made this new rule for my jumping. I was trying to jump on one leg for as many times as I could in a row, but I decided if I could switch legs mid-jump it wouldn't count for a start-over. Now I'm getting 10 points every time I switch legs. And if I can do a somersault, too, mid-jump, I get 5 more points!"

If SHE were a BOY, it would've sound like this:
"I was kicking my legs."

Girls will offer you every explanation to justify their actions, while boys just tell it to you like it is.

Brian: "Did you spend $127 at Target yesterday?"
Me: "Yes. But I went there for wipes and Benadryl and walked by the clearance rack and there were these t-shirts that were $24.99 and they were on clearance for $7."
Brian: "So what happened with the other 102 dollars?"
Me: "Well, I remembered that Sophia has a birthday party next week, so I went back to get a toy for it, and I passed the shoes and remembered that Sophia's rain boots were too small, and they had them on sale, so I bought her a pair. And a pair of Easter shoes."
Brian: "That's IT? Wipes, benadryl, one $7 t-shirt, a pair of Easter shoes, and a pair of rain boots?"
Me: "No. I bought her two pairs of Easter shoes because I wasn't sure what size she was."
Brian: "And that was it?"
Me: "No... I just figured I'd look for her easter dress, too, and so I got her one and also a white sweater to wear over it because it's sleeveless. And it will probably still be cold then. And if I wait too long, they'll all be picked over and then I'll have to drive everywhere looking for one."
Brian: "And... that's... it?"
Me: "No... I bought her two My Little Pony sets for her party."
Brian: "Does she need TWO sets?"
Me: "Well, no, but they were on sale, and I just figured I'd buy an extra one because I know she's bound to have another birthday party soon. And then I won't have to run back to Target, I'll already have it."
Brian: "Well, that was a good move. I'm sure "saving you a trip to Target" will save us money."

Moments

This week has been full of cute and sweet moments.

Mak:
(Sorry for the TMI, but Mak is obsessed with his penis and the word penis.)
Tuesday (to a fellow 2-year-old):
"Do you have a penis? I have a penis." At which point, the little boy began to show him his. I am very glad we caught this before it escalated into anything more.
Tuesday night (right after Brian walked in the door at 5pm):
"**** has a penis, I have a penis, you have a penis. I need to see a penis." We are schooling heavily on "private" parts and keeping them covered.
Wednesday morning, before school:
"Sophia, I have two cars, a button, and a penis."
Wednesday afternoon:
Me: "Mak, did you poop? I smell poop."
Mak: "Nope. Maybe it's just pizza."
Me: "Nope. Pretty much smells yucky. Pretty much smells like poop."
Mak: "Nope. Pretty much smells like pizza."
After the diaper change, he made me show him his poop to prove that it really wasn't pizza. Forthelove.
Wednesday night:
Me: "Mak, what's in my belly?"
Mak: "A BABY!"
Me: "What kind of baby?"
Mak: "A red and green one!"
Let's hope not.

Today: Soph, in time out. Crying. Mak walks up to her, crouches down, rubs her back, and tells her, "It will be alright. Calm down. It's ok. I'm right here. It's ok. I'm here now." Moment pretty much rocked, even though I usually make them leave each other alone during time out. My heart melted.

The date

Ever get so consumed by your roles that forget the rest?

Under all of the practicality, the eye cream, and hair smoothers, the dental floss and concealer, I'm still a girl that wants to be dated. I still want someone to look at me with a little wonder in his eyes, wondering if he'll kiss me. I still want someone to reach for my hand, to tell me I look great, to say I smell good. I still want someone to remind the waiter of the water I'm waiting for without me asking him to do it.

It's so few and far between that these dates happen, yet when they do, they change me. Make me into a better housekeeper, better helper, better mom, a more patient person, more kind. I have more tolerance for my husband's faults after he's taken me on a good date. I feel giddy the next time the next time he reaches for my hand.

In this rapid trip toward aging and middle age, these dates reverse the clock for me. They make me feel 17, again. They make me feel young and vibrant and happy. If only the men in our lives knew how easy it would be to recreate this; if only they believed it was so simple.

A little noticing, a little hand holding, a little eye contact and laughter at something we say would surely do wonders. Let's hope a guy reads this and takes notes. We all know the dividends it would pay....

Slow it down, savor it.

It's so funny how life experiences, that remain mostly the same over time, change as you age. With my first pregnancy, I wanted it to go fast, fast, fast. I wanted her to come early, wanted her to eat foods early, wanted her to crawl early, talk early. I wanted to get to the next milestone before we hit the first.

I'm older, wiser (I'd like to think). I love the Bible's reference to Caleb's "ripe" old age. I hope I'm ripening. I know I have a long way to go. There is nothing worse than a peach that is consumed before its flesh has softened and sweetened with time. And, while it takes patience to wait for something to ripen, I think that's what I'm gaining now. Patience for others, patience for myself.

I can wait. I want to. I want to relish the moments when I feel this baby's swooshing flips in my belly. I want to enjoy the times I dream of who he or she will be. I want to imagine what color their eyes will be, or if they will have hair when they're born, or dream of what their new baby grunts will sound like. I want to ready my heart, to get it to a place where I will enjoy every moment, savor it, even the sleeplessness.

I can say for me that in immaturity, there seems to be a sense of entitlement: of searching for a husband, wanting to be married; of wanting to own a house, or a car, or take trips; of wanting a baby, to start a family. None of these things are bad, it's in the wanting that they can be corrupted.

Life has changed me. Although I still want, I also know that the bigger blessings lie in the savoring. The striving, pushing to gain what you don't have, changes the blessing into an entitlement, a gain. Something you've earned, worked for. So then, it can't be a true blessing. It has become a paycheck. How we diminish what is beautiful in our life by making it our reward for our hard work. I have learned that, if we let ourselves see it, everything is a gift. Even the hard work without gain. Even the suffering.

This baby is a gift. It came nearly unexpectedly after a loss. The loss is bittersweet in that, should I have never experienced it, I wouldn't have this baby now. I wouldn't be slowing getting to know this tiny being growing in my belly and loving it. How do you choose one blessing over another?

I'm so thankful for the suffering of the loss. I learned that the plans that have been laid for my life are good, are purposeful, but also enable me to counter loss with blessings. If there was no loss, how would we know to call "good" "good"? How would I recognize the happy times if there were no sad times to compare them against?

This baby is good. This baby is a gift. This baby was wished for, prayed for, hoped for, but was never an entitlement. This baby is direct evidence of a wonderful, lavish God who redeems loss. I thank Him, because opening this gift has been even more wonderful than before: I know now how perfectly it all is a miracle. I know that no work on my part achieved it. And I won't scarf down this meal; I plan to savor it. Every bite.

Hieroglyphics

Mak tells Sophia to stop playing with her crackers.

Sophia gently helps Mak pray before they eat.

Brian gets up twenty minutes early every morning to read his Bible and do his men's study.

There are various books littered next to my bed on the Gospel, Idols, the book of John...

Hung on the wall in my hallway are wires adorned with art, layered upon itself, brought home by my preschool student, Sophia.

If you walk through the house without careful step, you might break your heel on a matchbox car, carelessly left behind by my two-year-old.

Hand-made Christmas ornaments made my children, or by Brian, or by myself, hung on our tree.

My laptop, perched on my dining room table. Accessible always.

There used to be baby bottles drying on the counter, or rogue burp cloths lost among the cushions of the couch, or diapers floating around my house, or sippy cups.

They're all hieroglyphics in my life. Where there used to be artifacts of a single life, not lived for God, but for myself alone, there is now very different evidence. I want to know Him. I want to change to be more like Him. I am a mom. I am growing in this role, my life is expanding in this role; my kids test me, challenge me. Today, as my kids were napping, I was thinking - if someone broke into my house, what would they see? What would they be able to say about me, after walking out of my house?

And, I think - this is what will shape our children more than we know. The things that act as hieroglyphics and tell marked stories about our lives, our now, who we are, what matter to us, what we cherish, what we spend our time doing. They will pour over these cave-man drawings in their heads as adults, because our today WILL be reduced to these kinds of rudimentary depictions as they recall their childhoods. Their memories. Some pictures I will be so proud of. Others, I will not. Because, the things my kids will add will be the emotions to the pictures. To my time spent on the computer, they will add disappointment that I didn't play with them more. To my time spent on the phone, they will add frustration that I was tied up and busy with someone else. Or maybe what I was talking about? Sadly, can I say that to my time spent on the phone they will add hearing me talk about others, or complain? Oh, the horror of that. The undoing of that. But, to my time spent in the Word, or in prayer, they will add everlasting fruit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control. And these fruits will also shape tomorrow's hieroglyphics into different pictures.

My hieroglyphics as a 21-year-old were sad, confused moments of me chasing fool's gold. Thank goodness hieroglyphics portray a dynamic, not static, environment - that I changed, that God found me, that He softened my heart to see His truth, that He infused it with love, and mercy, and forgiveness.

Our world is one big hieroglyphic drawing, and our children will shade it in with color. What colors will mine be someday? What colors will yours be?

An early Christmas present

So, I haven't posted in a while, and I've had some good reasons. The holidays stress out my type-A personality and I tend to over-obsess about all I need to do. I may or may not visualize this perfect woman, fireplace-side, handing her hubby a cup of 'nog while the children nicely do a puzzle together. Can I tell you that is not my life? By the time of night a fire would be appropriately burning in my fireplace, I'm usually lost for patience, occasionally yelling "I've had it" or "whoever is doing something wrong is going to get a consequence" at the top of my lungs (and sometimes these statements may or may not be directed at my loving husband). And, this is the perfect segue-way into my early Christmas present.

No, it's not "Jesus is the reason for the season" (although, 'tis true) or, "it's better to give than receive" (because I do love a good present, thanks Nicole). Here it is.... Are you ready for it?

The very best gift you have is the person you've been given for eternity (on this earth).

Ahh... So disappointing, right? WRONG!

The very things that drive me crazy about my husband, the very things that make me (occasionally) roll my eyes are the very things that (if I'm honest) challenge me. His joking helps me take life a little less seriously, which is good not only for my perspective but also for the stomach ulcer I occasionally foster. My husband's task-oriented nature helps me knock out what needs to be done and can be done today, and provides me with the time I need at the end of the day to relax. His budget-minded self sets parameters for my Christmas shopping so that I don't go overboard and am forced to re-mortgage our house, losing life and limb. And, his "the tree looks perfect just the way it is" opinion is always the reassurance I need so that I'm not so perfectionist-minded.

This all stems from the email I got from him today, entitled "Dinner Options" (can I just say "he's good to me"?):

Mare,



The dinner options for tonight are as follows:



Stuffed shells with salad and bread sticks
Beef stroganoff with biscuits and brazed carrots (if you want this take the beef stroganoff out of the frig freezer asap)
chicken stir fry with egg rolls


Love you and try to relax a little. I know you don’t feel good and get stressed but that is exactly why you need to relax. Christmas is a celebration so try to relax and share the LOVE.



Have a good time with Tara and see you tonight. I will hang the lights and garland around the door tonight.



Brian

He's my gift this year. He makes me a better, more likable person. He helps me enjoy the things that need to be enjoyed. He helps me laugh at life and takes over when I need a break. But, most of all, he loves me. Completely and totally, even at my worst moments. And, I know this because the minute I apologize for my worst moments, he gives me the most passionate kisses.

Jesus, reason for the season, thank you for your gift to our world. Thank you that you loved us enough to come when we were still not even wanting you. Thank you for saving us and giving us life abundant. But, also - thank you for giving me my husband. Thank you that you have used him over the last decade to smooth out my rough spots, calm me down, help me to see the joy in life, and show me the things that matter in life. And, thank you for giving him the grace to know how to do all of this effortlessly with kindness and generosity. Thank you for giving me a man I know you're proud of, and for giving me the eyes to be proud of him, too.

Merry Christmas. I've already opened my gift this year.

These legs..

I have these two legs. They run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They run down the street, pounding on the pavement, moving me through my neighborhood. They carry me in and out of places, often also bearing the weight of my children and bags of groceries. They tire, getting sore and stiff, and yet they go onward every day with their task of movement.

Today I've been marveling at the wonder of these legs. I have been thinking about how thankful I am of them - that I can zip through my house with ease and speed, all because my legs are willing. I think of the little attention they get, the very little amount of affection poured on them, the amount of what I require of them every day, all the time, tired or not, sore or not. I whip them over the bed in the morning, counting on them to support and sustain my weight without asking them if they're up for the challenge. I have begun thinking: do I march through life like a strong pair of legs? Do I move onward, whether or not my soul, my heart, my mind are sore and heavy? Do I run, not walk, through the tasks given to me, capable, strong, and willing?

I think I fail at this. I think I complain too much. I think I need to be encouraged, coddled, soothed too much. I complain if I'm not given enough accolades, that I need more encouragement. Yet, my attitude should be more like a pair of strong legs:

A week ago, after three weeks of not running, I went out for a run. I knew I'd be sore, I knew it would be a struggle, me being the owner of these legs. I knew my legs would be tired the next day, maybe I would even limp, yet I had faith in them. I knew they could do it. And, if they got too tired to keep going, being the owner, I would see their over-exertion and give them a break. But I also wanted to test them, to show them how capable they were to run this race.

I think it's this way with God. I am the legs, he is the owner. How often does he take me out for a run, and I balk, resist, present my reasons for a lighter load? Do I ever run willingly, knowing it will be tough, but also know that he is able to sustain me? That he will lay me down by cool waters if I need a rest? Knowing that he who is giving me this test, also knows the outcome: that the test is perfect for my ability, today, and that it will stretch me, but that it is perfectly matched with my ability? That he has prepared me for this race, even before I thought of running it?

I want to be a cheerful pair of legs, taking God's tasks two steps at a time. I want to whip myself out of bed, tired, but utterly willing for the day's challenges.

Bring it on, race. Bring it on, children to be carried, steps to be climbed, balls to be kicked. I will be a willing, cheerful participant and I will carry you. I will be a set of legs for you, God. Grow me to be strong, toned, and lean with the endurance needed for this race.

Dear Baby

Dear Baby,

Although the world never got to meet you, today you are up in Heaven with God. You are in a place where angels are celebrating your homecoming and I'm certain God is holding you, sniffing your baby head, and marveling at your small baby fingers. I am sure of his pride in your beauty, in your sleepy baby smiles, and I know that it's farther reaching than the pride I would have experienced had I held you first in the hospital. Although I didn't get a chance to wipe off your little finger smudges off of our back door window, you have left indelible marks on my heart. You are my child! I will always love you! Heaven blew every trumpet and played every horn at your arrival last night, and I'm sure there couldn't have been a more grand entrance. I only wish I could've been one of the first to see your face.

There are few things I would like you to know:

I was very excited for you to join us - we were already planning where you would sleep and Sophia was VERY excited to help give you a bottle!

I miss you and am so sad that you are not here! But we will all see you someday - Macy, our boxer, will probably get there first and I must warn you, she will give you LOADS of KISSES! (But they're the best! And she is a VERY good doggy! Scratch her on her belly, and you will have a friend for life.)

I am thankful for you. You allowed me to see God a little more clearly, and know his great love and compassion in a way I have never before experienced. Because of that, your life was a ministry and you made a difference!

I cannot wait to meet you. Do you have blue eyes like your brother and sister or hazel eyes like your daddy? Are you tall like Mema or short like me? Are you good at building things like your Ampa or do you like to read like your Grammy? Of all the unanswered questions, I am sure that you love God like your Grampy, with your whole, unbridled and open heart.

You will be remembered. You will be thought of. I am thankful that you are with the Author and Perfecter of life, so that you can have the fullest life possible. Worship him face-to-face with all of heart, soul, mind and strength.

I cannot wait to meet you and I love you.
Mommy

Prayer request

I'm writing twice in one day! This is a new record!

Anyway, I received an upsetting (and encouraging) email from a family member today. She(Kathy) was writing to ask for recommendations on how to write a blog detailing her daughter's progress.

I went to high school with this young girl, Jenny, and was a couple of years older than her. In fact, her sister was in my class! Now, she has become extended family, a daughter of my mother-in-law's cousin. She has a 19-month-old son, Tyler.

She just found out this last week that she has breast cancer. She is scheduled to see a surgeon specializing in breast cancer removal/treatment, but the treatment path is yet unknown.

In Kathy's email to me, I was so blessed to read the firm faith this woman has in a faithful, loving God. They are trusting God for his support, his provision. They are trusting in him. I can't imagine the battle with the unknowns. It seems to me that this would be where the enemy would wage his war; but, as I read her message, I was struck by this statement (and I quote): "But God is Great. He has been holding our hands every step of the way." Wow.

I am writing to ask for your prayers. Even if you breathe up one more prayer, it will be one more that God will hear on her behalf.

Some of you have faced cancer. Some of you have witnessed it in a family member. I feel as if you may be able to pray in ways of understanding that others would not.

Thanks in advance for being amazing people who are willing to pray!

My blog title

A quick history, and a story that makes me chuckle:

Every girl wants to have a song written for her. And, here's a tip: if you aren't a really good writer and your poetry resembles a haphazard assemblage of words that rhyme, then it's best to stick with making up nonsense songs. These, if done with the right amount of flair, can be heart-warming, treasured, and completely endearing.

The title of my blog means something. One my favorite things for my dad to call me is "Maresy Dotes". My whole life, my dad would randomly say/sing to me,

Maresy Dotes
and Dosey Dotes
and Little Lambsey Divey...

The humor in all of this was that my whole life, until I was 23-ish, I thought this was some special song my dad made up just for me, and I loved it. Most people I'm really close to call me "Mare" for short, and so I just assumed my dad, in a creative outburst, produced this high-talent precious song. **Swoon**

Well, one day as I was playing with my now sister-in-law's children, I sang this song to my niece. My sister-in-law turned and asked me to repeat myself. I sang it again, with flair. Laughing, she sang it back to me, slowly, deliberately, enunciating each word:

Mares eat oats
and Does eat oats
and Little lambs eat ivy

Okay, I had two thoughts:
First, what the heck - I thought my dad made up that song? and -
Second, what the heck - she is singing it all wrong. It is not about mares and lambs eating ivy. What the heck?

Then, it occurred to me - my dad has been singing it to me all wrong, all along. And, it isn't a song just for me, written for me, sung for me. It's a song about animals. And what they eat. Random animals. Animals who don't normally associate with each other. Mares and does and lambs. What the heck?

And, as if it couldn't get any better: this past Christmas, while playing cards at my parents' house, I asked them if they read my blog. My dad's reply was, "YES! I read your blog! And, I love your title, Maresy Dotes!"

Um, okay, dad? Sing that song for me... Please.

Um, dad?

Did you know that it's really mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy????

Apparently, he did not.

So, I don't feel entirely bad that it took me until I was 23 to figure out that that song has nothing to do with me because it took my dad 62 years to figure this out. He thinks he made it up for me! Wow. I feel better, but still prefer my dad's version, which, in my opinion, will always be the right version!

Kudos to you all!

Love,
Maresy Dotes

reflective

When I was in college, so many of my psych classes talked about how, in your 30s, you realize the mortality of life. Man, this is true. Every death is hitting me hard. On some days, I feel like I'm burdened under the weight of it. I sit silent, thinking of exact, precise moments of memory I have of them. My uncle. Brian's grandmother. My grandfather. Friends that are gone. You feel invincible until you are sucker-punched in the gut with a loss, and then you grapple with what remains. You grapple with "what if's". You grapple with how your very own life would change if you'd encounter death in your very own household. You pray prayers petitioning "never". Oy.

Today, I am just sad. I am just missing people. I watch my very own kids, and I'm so thankful for them. They provide a diversion, a distraction. Shoes need to be tied, double knotted, actually; faces need to be wiped; babies needed to be pushed in swings and reminded to go down feet first FEET FIRST!!! down the slide; the floor under the kitchen table needs to be wiped up, and then wiped up again (and again). Life marches on, but those lives were here at one point. At some point, Brian's grandmother was young and full of life and was a mommy to little kids. At some point, her laughter filled a room and there were no thoughts of it ever being gone.

Brian's mom once told me that grandma said to her, whispering, privately, "You know, I have never felt old. Even now, even in my 70s, I still feel like a young girl. Like, when did this all happen? When did life happen? How is it that my kids are grown and I'm old?"

I think about this frequently, and try to invocate inspiration to relish my time here. But, usually it just leaves me sad - that someday, I will be gone, too. That these early days with my kids will pass, and there will be no more shoes to tie, teeth to brush, swings to push, or floors to wipe.

I am in my 30s, and boy, am I grappling with mortality in a major way. My psych classes were spot on.

To Tell or Not To Tell the Truth: That is the question

You know, the other day, my daughter "corrected" me as I was making a return at Target. I told the cashier that my daughter had cut the tags off the shirt before she had a chance to try it on. This wasn't entirely true, but the truth happened in the fever of our morning routine and getting ready for school. In truth, I had cut off the tags in the midst of changing my toddler's disgusting night-long diaper, and I didn't recall exactly the cutting-tags-off-a-shirt part of it (wow - interesting, here: Soph could probably come up to me, ask me to sign something in the harried craze of me getting Mak dressed, and I would probably do it with out thinking... scary.). Sophia corrected me in front of the cashier, refusing to be blamed for the premature removal of the tags, because that would be not true. That would be a lie. In the glaze of the morning, I had forgotten the small details. But, in my push for her telling the truth, and in my enforcing of its importance, she reminded me to tell it, myself. She gracefully pointed out that she is NOT allowed to play with scissors; she is NOT allowed to cut tags off clothes without asking me first; she did NOT break the rules, because she came to me, asked me to do it. As much as I turned around, shushed her, she was persistent. She chased the truth, was unafraid of being heard. She didn't mumble, but she was also not disrespectful. She simply wanted to see that I understood the truth, reality. She didn't think of my embarrassment, she only thought of the fact that I have taught her, diligently, to *always* tell the truth.

I now know that this world has a metric system of rating lies - white lies being benign, maybe functionally necessary to preserve your (??) innocence or character, used sparingly or (??) not, all the while being distortions of the truth; half-truths cover details that could hurt - we justify these with the thought that ommission isn't a lie, isn't being dishonest, it's being KIND because we're thinking of someone else's feelings; true lies being complete fabrications are just the fantastical imaginations that someone believes are reality - and like a web, we do get tangled, because they lose their crisp details the more we tell them. But this rating system - is it necessary? Isn't a lie inherent in its nature just as being pregnant is? Isn't a lie, even in its "white" form still a lie? Isn't any version of the truth other than the real version a lie? Why do we rate them? Is it so that our consciences can bear the weight of our indiscretions and we won't crumble underneath them?

My reminder today is to live my life as a memoir to telling the truth. That, if I want my children to be honest and possess integrity, it is not my words that will penetrate their choices: it is my choices that will influence theirs. Sometimes the truth hurts, but so does life. Perhaps a healthy way of learning how to deal with disappointment is first with dealing with the truth at all costs. Either way, we'll all have our chance at this at some point in our life. Because, even though a lie seeks to hide the truth, there are just some situations we cannot avoid or hide from. They hurt, they sting, they are unavoidable, they are our reality. They are our truth.

Very Lumpy Boy

Today, Mak walks up to me and says, "hold me". I cannot resist. Compulsively, I will almost always pick him up when he says this. Many a' time I've found myself on the phone, making dinner, holding Mak. And, it is always at this time that I wonder, "what in the world am I doing holding this kid? He's big. He's heavy. I'm busy. My hands are already full." Anywhoo, and I digress..

So, today, his request came while I was sitting on the potty. Yes - he was sitting in my lap, while I was doing the business. I'm sure he was thinking, "Oh look-y! Mom is bored! She's just sitting there! Unoccupied! Bored! I will go and give her something to do. It is my job to give her something to do. It is my duty to give her something to do." Anywhoo, and I digress...

I swoop up my boy, who nestles against me. I rub his back and hit an obstacle. A large lump in the small of his back. A three inch by three inch pile of whoknowswhat.

I realize that the lump is made up of smaller lumps. I move the stuff around and ask him what all that stuff is. His response is, "I no no".

I reach through the neck-opening of his onesie, down his back, and piled up and wedged against the top of his diaper is this:

Two shapes from his shape sorter: an orange star and a green circle;
A magnetic letter L from our LeapFrog alphabet toy on the fridge;
A green Matchbox van, metal and heavy;
A felt Pink Panther magnet.

He did not put these into his onesie. I doubt the boy who struggles with shape puzzles would be able to human-gumbie these toys in through the neckhole and down his back.

No.... this was a doing of a big sister. Soph has done this before, but bless his little heart, we've missed it until we were changing him for bedtime. Thankfully, this pile of stuff was only in there about 30 minutes. And, bless his little heart, not a bit of complaining came out of him. No crying. He's a trooper.

But, we'll save the next toy pileup for the toy box.

Note to self: lecture Sophia about appropriate toy placement when I ask her to "clean up the toys".

A few of my favorite things...

Looking back at the year in review, 2009 has been fun. Here are a few of my favorite things that Sophia has said:

History: today, Wednesday, was wacky, "funky" Wednesday at school, in which she got to wear her clothes mis-matched, backwards, inside out, etc. She was VERY excited about this last night before bed.

Last night, during prayers:

"God, thank you that tomorrow is wacky, crazy, fu**y Wednesday. Help it be extra fu**y. In

Jesus' name, Amen."

History: Sophia was quite preoccupied with Ariel, the Little Mermaid, for the majority of the last year.

Last year, after the holidays have passed, and Sophia was enjoying watching the Little Mermaid movie repeatedly:
"Mom, when I grow up, I'd like to have a top and a tail."

History: I took up knitting in June, when I took a beginner's class.

About a week after that class, in my backyard on the swingset:
A little girl was bragging to Sophia about her mom's new important job, in which she got to wear important clothes to. Sophia's reply was, "Well, MY mom cooks, and cleans, and takes care of us, and our house, and NOW she even knows how to KNIT." So, there.

History: recording and leaving a new Christmas message on our answering machine, which was a Christmas carol.

Sophia sings Mele Kalikimaka into the answering machine microphone, and then tells me,
"Mom, I really wish I could have a voice like yours. I wish I could sound like you."

History: this fall, after school started, Sophia began playing with a few boys in her class at school. She asked one of them to marry her, and he said no. The teacher tells me about how she overheard this conversational exchange.

In the car, on the way home from school that day:
Sophia tells me, "Mom, who will be my niece someday?"
I say, "Soph, when Mak gets married someday, and he has kids, his daughter will be our niece."
Soph replies with, "Well, Mak will love nobody. He won't want to kiss anyone. He won't want to to marry anyone else. Nobody. Only me. He will want to marry me, and hug me, and kiss me, and then he will marry me." ...Okey doke, Soph.

Love that girl of mine.

There she is...

She's 23, self-consumed. Holidays. Two hours to get ready. Loads of makeup, and fancy jewelry. Boyfriend picks her up, they go Christmas-party hopping. She spends the evening flirting with him, making sure he notices her. Hopes for an engagement ring. Drops hints. Flirts more. Drinks a bit. Flirts more. Gets more agressive with the hints.

...

She's 25, exhilarated. A college-student finishing up her finals for her first full semester back in school. Realizing the joy of Christmas break and nowhere to be tomorrow, she showers, dresses, gets ready for the Christmas party. Her husband asks her what she's wearing and she replies a black turtleneck and jeans. He passes her in the bathroom and backs up, does a double take. Smiles. Checks her out. She is secretly pleased. Tonight will be a great night.

...

She's 26, tired. Finished up finals for college, and her clinical work, and her GRE test for Grad school, and applied for a spring practicum. On top of it all, she has pneumonia, is on two antibiotics. She's officially become an adult, so she's pulled through, managed. Christmas parties are not an option, but she sends her husband off on his merry way alone, telling him to have a good time. She'll stay home and watch a movie. But, to boot: food smells make her throw up, she has a residual headache, and can't sleep. She doesn't know it yet, but she's pregnant.

...

She's 28, wishing. For another baby, for a healthy Christmas, for diamond earrings. She's thankful to be wearing her old jeans again but wouldn't mind them not fitting if it meant she was pregnant. So, she eats a cookie, packs up her daughter, whips up a dessert, and heads to a Christmas party. Her hubby smiles at her, helps her pack the car. It's back home by 8:30pm so she doesn't miss her daughter's bedtime. But, secretly, she wouldn't mind going to bed then, either.

...

She's 29, sick. Stomach bug, throwing up, two different times during the holidays. Despite this, nothing fits. She feels huge. And, 16 weeks pregnant doesn't seem like enough baby to explain the tight pants. This is ridiculous. She throws on a tunic, long enough to cover the fact that her pants can't button, and heads to a Christmas party. Some things look good, but most things smell bad, so no holiday eating. Then it's home by 9pm for her bedtime.

...

She's 31, thankful, busy, tired. All new pants this year because baby #2 has eradicated the waistline (and hipswaistthighs). Husband is downstairs with the kids, she is getting ready. Throwing on a bit of bronzer and eyeliner, she finishes up with good earrings. Hubby sticks his head in the doorway and smiles. Checks her out. Gives her thelook. She is secretly pleased. Packs up h'ors d'oeuvre. Packs up kids. Packs up car. Packs up gear. Husband holds her hand in van. Head to party. Great time. Forget bedtimes. Forget tired. Stays at party, with kids, and enjoys holidays.

There she is.

Kharmic Distribution

First, let me say that I do NOT believe in kharma, but I do think SOMEONE SOMEWHERE has a sense of humor.

Helpful: read in the voice of Sophia Petrillo from the Golden Girls:

Picture it, Toledo, 1998, a young girl, ravishing, no body fat (ok, I'm ebellishing on all accounts, here), falls in love (again, embellishing) with beautiful boy. Doesn't work out. Fast forward.

Now, picture it, Perrysburg, OH, 2009, Giant Eagle parking lot, Friday night at 6:oopm. Middle-aged girl with sappy chick flick pauses in parking lot crosswalk. Nearly gets hit. In the midst of avoiding a collision with a Dodge Ram, girl sees man and woman in a Jeep Cherokee, watching her event unfold. Middle-aged girl recognizes man in driver seat. Doesn't know how or why. Remembers. Becomes embarrased. Realizes what she's wearing. Becomes mortified.

Old, ripped Adidas sneakers.

Fuzzy blue slippers with butterflies made out of applique beads on the outside, stuffed inside her sneakers like socks, but bulging out of the sides under her jeans.

Jeans that are stretched out and too big and bunched into the tongues of her shoes.

A dressy ruffle Caribbean blue shirt, too dressy for the jeans.

An old hoodie, ripped on the arm, army green, too casual for the shirt, whose ruffles are pouring out of the zipper, which is zipped up unnaturally high to avoid the cold.

Hair: one side matted down because of a nap, the older side taking flight; the back is a whoosh of abyssinian guinea pig and then abruptly flattened against her head because a portion of the nap must've been spent laying oddly on back.

Realizes she's standing in the middle of the parking lot crosswalk with other cars waiting for her to finish her cross. Realizes that the man behind the wheel is staring at her.

This ought to teach that girl a lesson to never never never leave the house looking like this ever ever ever again.

consuming

She's quiet, sleeping. Her mouth gapes open and her arms are draped over her head. The whooshing sound of her breath is rhythmic and regular. I can hear it. For a full minute, all I do is listen to her. You would think I was listening to a violin concerto, the way I'm mesmorized by her.

I stand above her. I resist compulsions to touch her, to kiss her. It would mean this moment would end, and I'm not ready.

She sighs and rolls over to her side. My breath catches, and for a second or two, I do not make a sound, move a finger, fearing even the unnoticeable rise of my chest filling with air will lure her to consciousness.

Her hand reaches for her sucky blanky, to find its security, even in her sleep, and its texture is instantly wrapped up inside her fingers. It's become reflex, her need for her sucky blanky. With the few reflexes our babies are born with, it is our world that creates new ones, and extinguishes the old. Her hands are still tiny, her body is little. The outline of her shape rises like a moutain chain under her princess blanket, and I am struck by how much I love her. She's four, and yet I want to envelop her into my arms, a swoosh of consuption, and hold her close like when she was a baby.

I kneel down and look at her. Her dark eyelashes. The tiny visible pulse in her neck. Right now I realize the weight of losing her, and I stare at her. She is a miracle. She is MY miracle. Even now, as I watch sitting silently next to her, she is growing, changing. Right now, she is bigger than she was a minute ago. She is moving in a black tunnel, in a cavernous force like the Bernoulli effect: as time is marching onward, she is moving away from me, faster and faster, seeking independence and abilities her own, separate from me. And, the humor in all of it is that I am encouraging it. I am fostering it.

With every victory, I cheer her, I clap. Can she see that there are times when this is false? When my heart is breaking because her victory means she needs me a little less?

*********************

He is predictable. It is 3:52pm and, though I am sitting and reading a book on the couch, I have detached from the novel. I am on autopilot, listening. For him.

A noise.

No, it's just a dog barking in the distance. Wait... there he is. His voice is scratchy at first, growing clearer by the second.

MOMMY! DONE!

It is functional, what he says. His calling for me has less to do with love than it does function. He wants out of his crib, a wooden cage that prevents him from exploring, or digging, or empyting cabinets. He wants out.

I open the door a crack, peeking in, trying to provoke a smile out of him. His smiles are like prozac. They bring a rush of endorphins that make me feel like I want to burst. He cries and says, "Nooooo." My heart sinks a bit, but I try again. I know him. I know there is a reason.

"Where's your blanky, Mak? What happened to it?" In the darkness, I see he hasn't moved from his spot standing in his crib, and as I turn on his light and open his shade, I see he's pointing.

There it is. It's on the floor. I stoop to pick it up, and he is rushed with smiles and coos. This blanket of his, it's special. It's a rung on a ladder that leads to the tunnel. The one that directs toward independence.

I pick him up and rub his back. He is tiny. He lays his head on my shoulder, heavy and unmoving, and he is still. He is limp, and I feel the rise and fall of his breathing against my body. I feel his shoulder blades, small on his back, and rub my lips over his fuzzy head. He smells so good, but it doesn't smell like clean. It's his very own scent, better than any other, and I wonder if someday he'll have a wife who'll love this smell, too? I'm not ready to share him, yet.

I sit down at the computer to check my email, and while I'm typing, he is playing, he is a boy. Straddling me on my lap, he is leaning in, touching my nose with his nose. He is giggling. It is a game. His eyes are so happy. I stop, see him, look at his smile, and he becomes shy. Throwing himself against my chest, he is waiting for me, hiding, beckoning me. "Will she do it?" I know it, so I squeeze my fingers around his sides and he wriggles with delight and laughter.

My boy.

*********************

Do they know?

Do they know that when we kiss them, when we hold them, when we sniff their little heads or trace our fingers around their fingers that it is not for them?

It is selfish; it is for us. It is for me. It is because my love for them is like a consuming fire, and unless I unleash some of it, release it to them, it will consume me. It is because there was a moment when she was all mine, when he was a part of me. They were in my body, and I didn't have to share them with anyone. Now, they are growing and changing, and as I sniff, or trace, or kiss, or hug, or tickle, it is for me: because it is a wonder that they are becoming all that they are outside of me, apart from me, and I am filled with awe.

They are marvelous little creatures. I am so selfish, I want to freeze time. I want them to stay little, for their hands to fit inside of mine for forever, for their voices to call me indefinitely with the trust that I can fix anything.

This is impossible, but today, this is what my heart is thinking.

Teaching compassion

You know, when you dive into the motherhood thing, you worry about eating and sleeping schedules, dry skin, or diaper rash. You just don't immediately contemplate the depth of the mysteries you'll need to teach your children. You don't list out the virtues that you'll need to instill in your children to make them well-rounded, good people. You really don't think a lot about all of this when you're pregnant, let alone when you're dealing with sleep-deprivation at 3am, or their refusing to eat their vegetables when they're 16-months-old, or when they're throwing temper tantrums at your feet when they're two while you're cooking dinner. You manage each hurdle, obstacle, trial as they come, thinking most of the time on your feet, instantly second-guessing yourself at some turns. And, you pray that they let you have a 10-minute phone conversation, or behave well while you go to the grocery store. You manage, minute by minute, task by task, and try to be consistent, even though you're too tired to remember how to spell some words. But, how does it happen that we teach our kids kindness? Or, honesty? Or hope? Or compassion?

It seems that in the balance of what we do, the amount of US that we pour into our kids, the times that we sacrifice for them, that they learn it. It seems that in our conversations with our friends (reminder to BE A GOOD FRIEND!), in our kindnesses to our husbands, in our concern for their hurts or the needs of another, we impart it to them. When we stop what we're doing to kiss a scraped knee, or when we carefully tape a ripped picture back together, or when we pause to undo a knot or broken toy or stuck gamepiece, or when we give them choices, we teach them compassion. We teach them understanding. We teach them sacrifice. We teach them kindness. We teach them concern. We teach them to be peacemakers. We teach them to be gentle. We teach them to love. They love like we do. They repeat what we say. And, someday, they will mother (or father) like we do. We teach them these virtues in the "between the lines" parts of the day. They become a concert of our best and worst features, character traits, and qualities.

My reminder for today, this day:

That, although my daughter will forgive my mistakes, she may learn them and repeat them. As much as I need grace to accomplish mothering her with success, I also need to remember there is no other job as important. My character is both on display and on trial in who she is and who she becomes.

Yesterday, Sophia gave me a picture with stickers on it. She was so proud. She pointed out "the six stickers JUST for me". I had been angry with Bri and yelling. I had found quiet and solace upstairs on the computer (of course). She was upset that I was yelling, and so she brought me the picture and said, "Mom, this reminds me of you. And your heart. And, inside, that is love. Does that make you feel happy?" ...to the point of bursting, Soph.

Compassion... check.