We're in this together.

Twenty-four years ago, we said "I do." Sometimes, it's hard to remember the people we were back then, the dreams we dreamed, the plans we made. We said "in sickness and in health." Boy howdy, did my new husband get more than he bargained for there--nine months of pregnancy nausea followed quickly by chemotherapy and radiation. He married a petite, long-haired girl and by the time we celebrated our third anniversary, I'd been fat and bald (and throwing up) most of our married life . He was a very good sport.

In all seriousness, he was better than a good sport. He was everything I could have ever hoped for and more than I ever imagined. He was with me at every single doctor's appointment. Every single blood draw. Every step of the way. We walked that path alone. Together. None of our friends were married yet, never mind married with a baby and cancer. Many of our friends from high school and college walked out of our life as we walked this unpaved path. Together, we found a strength in Someone bigger than we were. Together we dreamed hope. 

And we were never the same. It was never him and me again.

It was us. Together. With God.

Then the babies came. It takes a very strong man to say "yes" to every opportunity to be co-creators with God. A very strong, very faithful, very hard-working man. One after another, every two years until there were seven of them, all lined up like a staircase, each one looking very much like the next one. Seven precious souls to love and cherish and teach and drive to soccer. It was still us--but us plus them. Busy. Busy. Busy. Mike building a career. Me, holding down the fort at home. Still together, but sometimes, much more often than we liked,  just in spirit.

Two more really hard pregnancies, the second one a refresher course in life-threatening goal setting. There he was again, right beside me every time it got so scary I thought the fear would crush me. Lovely miracles, two golden haired sweethearts. They are his heart's delight. Even now, nearly three years after the second was born, I can't quite believe how generously and abundantly our good God answers our fervent prayers.

{Speaking of prayers, I have prayed for Mike every day since we were sophomores in high school. That's a crazy lot of prayers. Thirty years of daily prayers. 10,950 days worth of prayers. }

But back to those babies. Nine babies in all--nine babies to feed and clothe and educate. He has worked so hard all these years, often far away in a TV truck parked outside one stadium or another. He has spent many a night in hotel bed, trying to sleep just a couple of hours before catching the early flight home. And I've been here, trying to do all the things that need doing, trying to craft home, even when home is a lonely place without him. Together we've done the best we can. So often, he calls and he says he I wishes I were there. I believe him. I wish I were there, too. He's really good at what he does in those trucks and those studios and I wish I could come alongside him more often and watch him in action.

Early this year, we made a gut-wrenching decision. He sacrificed a huge opportunity and a long-hoped-for title and we prayed the tradeoff would be to settle down a bit at last. The whole idea was to bring him home. That hasn't quite worked out yet (though I'm assured it will very soon). He has been gone a lot since that decision, finishing up his freelance work and then working indescribably long hours  to launch a new show. The show is shot in Miami, but produced in DC. He has done his level best to be both places at once. Neither place is home.  

Today is our 24th wedding anniversary. Today, that show launches. He has a big day ahead of him. He will be working from dawn until showtime. Then, late in the afternoon, he will watch the show become what he envisioned-- in a cold studio in another city. And just like every other time, he will want to share the moment.

This time will be different.

A lot of people who love us (most of them those aforementioned babies) have come together to cover all my bases at home. God willing, when that show goes to air, and Mike is watching months of work come to fruition, he will be surprised to see me standing right beside him. 

Because, today, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

{Thanks for listening to this story. I have never surprised my husband with anything; I have a very hard time not telling him my every thought. So, the writing of this piece was therapy. I had to spill it somewhere and telling Karoline didn't seem a prudent option. So, I will set it to auto-post at a time I am quite certain he won't see it. That means that you are in on the secret, because really I'm a terrible secret keeper and I had to tell someone and you are much less likely to spill the beans than my little girls.}

Maybe if I write it, it will leave me alone

There was an earthquake here yesterday. The day was bright and beautiful and clear as a bell. I'd just come inside from dropping Paddy off at the pool to lifeguard and I hustled Sarah into the bathroom before taking her to the doctor. There, the house shook and a low rumble filled the air for what seemed like a very long time. I yelled to my kids to stop roughhousing in the house (though I couldn't imagine what they were doing to make the whole house shake). When they said they weren't doing anything, I told them to turn off the washer. Most crazy off-balance spin cycle ever. They told me the trees outside were shaking. We all figured out that it was an earthquake just as it ended. 

Three trophies fell from an upstairs shelf. They broke. No big deal. They were Division 2 trophies.

I talked to my sister--the queeen of hyperbole--and learned there was a tidal wave in her backyard pool. I checked in with my mom and my dad. I left a message on Mike's voice mail. He called back a few minutes later and we briefly connected before his phone went dead. That happens all the time.

I scooped up Sarah and we went to the previously scheduled doctor's appointment. Business as usual. I thought about how it was kind of cool to have felt an earthquake, particularly since there were no reported serous injuries or deaths. 

Most of my children left to go a long-anticipated sleepover at their cousins' house. Mike's sister commented that it was taking her husband forever to get out of the city. Mike decided to stay and wait out the crowd. So, the handful of people left at home ordered Chinese carryout. They watched a movie and I sewed.

Mike returned home around 9:00. I asked him if he'd been in his office when the earthquake happened. He said that he was two stories underground in the studio. He described the same thing we felt here. Only he was underground. A stone's throw from the White House. He didn't think roughhousing kids. He didn't think off-balance washing machine. He thought "if that was a bomb I should..."  "If that was a plane I should..."

When  you work in Washington, D.C., you don't think first of earthquakes, you think of a clear September day ten years ago and you think of bad guys who would be tickled to watch the federal government scramble in fear and chaos. When he told me about his earthquake moments, it stopped me in my tracks. It still brings tears to my eyes.

That studio is in the basement of ABC Washington. It didn't take long to find out it was an earthquake. Mike went outside and saw the panic in the streets. It's easy to poke fun of the silly people in Washington, DC who are overreacting to a minor earthquake. And it's the fun thing to do to get on Facebook and giggle over incompetent folks who work in our nation's capitol. But it's another thing entirely to think about my dear man, working to support his family yesterday and wondering if the world had been rocked the way it was ten years ago. No matter what I think about our government and the people who do or don't get things done in DC, I have to applaud the courage of the men and women who got back in their cars this morning and drove over those bridges. Because really, it's hard to shake that "what if" feeling.

Yarn Along

The knitting pace is picking up.It's so nice to have hit a knitting rhythm again! I have taken six children to the dentist in the last 24 hours and Sarah visited the pediatrician--lots of waiting room knitting. Tomorrow, we have 5 orthodontist appointments and then Friday will bring some labwork. I think this sweater might get as finished as possible without a trip to see Ginny this week.

It's been nice to knit in waiting rooms and talk with recptionists about knitting. One of the ladies behind the desk at the dentist told me all about how her mother taught her to knit when she was little. She said she hadn't knit in years. Then, she went on to remember how it's a wonderful stress-buster. Pretty sure there's a visit to a yarn store in her near future:-).

I'm reading Young and in Love: Challenging the Unnecessary Delay of Marriage. I did receive a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for a review and I'm breaking radio silence this week because that review is overdue (and because I missed talking with y'all  about knitting.). The topic of early marriage is one that fascinates me. By today's standards, I married young. Since one of my children is already older than I was when I married (he's actually older than I was when he was born), it's a topic whose time has come around again. I haven't finished the book, but there is one critical point that absolutely rings true with me: young people today have a tendency to extend the immaturity of their teen years well into their twenties and delaying marriage is part and parcel of that selfish behavior. Often, delaying marriage is not about delaying gratification and waiting until one is mature and capable of establishing a household; it is instead, about choosing to behave as if they were the center of a universe that exists solely for their pleasure. 

Ted Cunningham, the author, validates young love. He doesn't dismiss the idea that there are young people who know that they have found the spouse God intends and he encourages them to get married and begin the life of love God wants for them. He gives a young couple tools for evaluating the relationship and for forging a solid bond. It's a worthwhile read and it is certainly food for thought and for discussion. If God is trying to knit a couple together, society shouldn't tangle it all up. Every relationship is unique. When I consider my own relatively young marriage, I'm always astonished. How did we know? How did we do that? Where did we get that sure confidence and exuberant joy? It was the grace of God. Only the grace of God. And 25 years after making that decision, it's still the grace of God that fuels the union. No matter how many books are written or how many scholars and pastors weigh in, no matter how many demographic studies are done, the most important thing I want my children to consider God's will for this most important decision. 

Go visit Ginny for more reading and knitting inspiration.

Working Outside the Box (or cubicle)

His "Office" Tonight

 

Production truck on site at the LA Galaxy versus Real Madrid soccer match

My "Office" Tonight

 

 
 

~home~

Small Steps Together: Cocooning and Flying Free

I have long loved early childhood. From the time I was very little, I have invested much thought and prayer into the mother of young children I feel called to be. Much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone except my husband, I even majored in early childhood in college. (Just an aside: I had enough nursing and anatomy/physiology credits to also be certified to teach health and PE. God had a plan. I grew up to educate children who, when asked to name their school, inform the general public that they attend the Foss Academy for the Athletically Inclined. But I digress.)

 

I have held tightly to the promise that it's never too late to have a happy childhood. And since mine was not childish or carefree, I've set out very deliberately to create for my children what I think I might have missed and to enjoy it alongside them. Deep in my heart, my fondest wish was to be the very good mother of young children. You might say that I've dedicated my adult  life to that task.

Not too long ago, I can't remember where, I read about a woman around my age who said that she was too busy with her grown kids and teenagers to mourn the fact that her babies were growing up and there would soon be no wee ones in her house. I'm not. I'm not too busy. There are still small children in my house and they slow me, still me. I still stay with them at night as they drift off to sleep. I still sit with them at the table as they eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, ever so slowly. I bathe them and brush their hair and braid it up before bed. I sit and rock and hold and read. I still thank God for them with every breath, much like I did the day they were born. I have plenty of time in the course of my day to be still and know that these are precious moments that will not be a part of my days in the not too distant future. 

In a way, I envy those women who blithely move along to the next stage of life and smile brightly and say, "There! That's finished. Wasn't it grand? Now what's next?" I'm not one of them. Perhaps I'm just not good at transitions. I sobbed at my high school graduation. I remember how reluctantly I traded my wedding gown for my "going away" clothes. I cried so hard when Michael left for college that I had to pull over because I couldn't see to drive. I held more tightly to each newborn than the one before. And this last one? I don't think I put her down at all for the first twelve weeks. My intimate relationships are deep and rooted and meaningful. When I live something, I feel it. 

I know it's time.

I know because my environment cries out that it is so. My house is full to overflowing with people. Several of them are more than twice the size they were when we moved in here. Some have left and come back and brought with them more of their own stuff. We are bursting at the seams. It is time to acknowledge that we are in a new season of life and to allow my house to reflect that.

And so. I cocoon. Somehow I know that this is intense, deeply personal business and at the end I will be the same and yet, forever different. I spin a silken thread tightly around my home. My cell phone goes dead. I don't recharge it. I don't touch my laptop. I don't carry the house phone with me. I don't leave for several days. It is time to conquer all those recesses of my home that I neglected while I held babies. It is time to let go.

We need space. We no longer need a co-sleeper. Or the sheets to go with it. We don't need a swing. I begin in the basement.

We don't need three neatly labeled boxes of beautiful thick, pink, cotton clothes -- 0-3 months, 6-9 months, 9-18 months. I carefully save the christening gown, the sweet baptism booties, the first dress Karoline wore to match Katie and Mary Beth. The rest I fold into giveaway bags.  Michael takes the baby "things" to the Salvation Army on Friday.The clothes remain until Saturday morning. The Children's Center truck is due to arrive at 8 AM. After I've finished with the clothes, I cannot  stay here in this basement on Friday. I've done what I know will be the most difficult task. I also know I'm nearly suffocating.  I need to go upstairs and get some air. 

I begin in Mike's office. This isn't really my mess or my stuff or even the stuff of children who haven't been carefully supervised. It is just the overflow of two busy adults who pile and stuff a bit too much. He doesn't use this room. It's a lovely room in the middle of the house with a bright window. I put a new sewing machine on the desk. I rearrange shelves, discarding things he no longer needs. I spend an hour or so carefully dusting his youth trophies and 25 years of sports paraphernalia. I think about this post and I know that we can (and should) share this space. I move some baskets in. My yarn, my knitting and sewing books, a few carefully folded lengths of fabric, holding place for a stash to come.

I stitch a few things in that room. And I am happy there. I am no longer knitting in my womb. But I am still creating. And it makes me happy. My arms are ever more often empty, but my hands are increasingly free for other pursuits. Still, a small voice whispers, knitting and sewing are nothing like the co-creation you've done for the last 22 years. I hush the voice. I have no idea where this is going. He is the Creator. He has written a beautiful pattern for my life. All He asks is that I knit according to His plan. Trust the pattern.

On Saturday morning, that truck comes. I can't even watch as they load my dear boxes. My stomach clenches and my eyes fill with tears. Things. They are only things. The girls who wore those things are safe in my arms. Another mother will be blessed to hold a sweet pink cotton bundle close and nuzzle her cheeks. I descend to the basement.

Here. Here is where I must force myself to cocoon. Here is where ten years of "put this carefully in the craft room" will come back to haunt me. They have tossed at will every single time. It never recovered from the great flooring shuffle. I do pretty well with the rest of the house, but I dislike coming down to the basement and Mike rarely comes down here. So, here is where the disorder has collected. The "craft room" is a jumble of stored clothes, curriculum, craft supplies, and 25 years of family photos. It is a mess.

I am humbled by the mess. Quite literally driven to my knees. But I have spun myself into this small space and here I will stay until I can emerge beautifully.

I have banished all outside interruptions, but I have brought with me the Audible version of this book. Good thing, too, because I will benefit greatly from the message within and, frankly, I will need to hear the narrator say "You are a good mom" as often as she does. 

I see the abandoned half-finished projects, the still shrinkwrapped books, the long lingering fabric and lace. Did I miss it? Did I miss the opportunity to do the meaningful things? To be the good mom I want to be? I am nearly crushed by the weight of the money I've spent on these things and the remanants of my poor stewardship.What was I doing when this mess was being made? To be sure some of the time was sadly wasted. It is easy to berate myself for time slipped through my fingers. Cocoons are really rather nasty things.

Determined, I clear out the clutter. I tell myself that life is not black and white. It's not all bad or all good.  I fold fabric and recognize that what I have here is the beginning of some new projects. I gather acorn caps and felt and label them and tuck them away for the fall. I make a very large stack of books to sell secondhand. I sort and sweep and remember. I see picture after picture of smiling children. I see, in those color images, time well spent. Time well filled.  Their mama always looks tired. I recognize in  those pictures that my children were happy--are happy. And I also recognize that it's been a little while now since I felt that tired. It is true that much of my time in the last twenty years, I have been filling well. I have been holding and rocking and nursing and coloring and listening and reading and giving and giving...I have been cherishing childhood. And it is a true that in a household this size, it is darn near impossible for every corner of the house to remain clean and every lesson to be carried out according to plan ,while caring well for babies and toddlers.  Messes happen.

The season just passed? The very long season? It was good and full and messy and cluttered. It was bursting-at-the-seams joyful in a way nothing ever will be again. It was also very hard work. Very, very hard work.There were utter failures and big mistakes. And there was a whole lot of good. 

This new season? I don't know yet. It's not nearly as cluttered. I have stayed in this cocoon until every corner of my home, every nook and every cranny, has been cleared of the clutter of the last season. Every poor choice, every undisciplined mess has been repurposed. Every single one. I can see my way clear to do the meaningful things. And the blessing is that there are still plenty of children in this house to do them with me.

As I sweep the room for the last time before considering this a job well done, I see a picture that has slid under a bookshelf. It is Mike and me at our wedding rehearsal. I stare long and hard at that girl. But I stare longer at him. He is still every bit as happy as he was that night. Happier, really. Really happier. These days in this cocoon, I have been brutally honest with myself. I've held myself accountable for every transgression. I have humbled myself before God and I have confessed my sins.  I look at his image and then back at mine and I realize something very important. Whatever my failings, I have consistently been a good wife. I wonder at the ease with which this recognition comes to me. I am certain that much of it is born of his frequent words of affirmation. I know it is so because he has told me it is so. But why is it so?

Grace. 

Ours is a gracious God. It is only by His grace that I am the wife I am. And it is by His grace that I have this sense of peace about the most important relationship in my life. These children willl grow in the safe home he and I have created together. And then they will fly. Mike and I? We will be us. Always us.

I carefully put away the very last picture, turn out the light, and climb the stairs.

I've cleared out the clutter, made peace with the past. I've learned a very valuable lesson that I'm long going to be pondering in my heart. It's time to fly free.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Small Steps focuses on humility this month. Would you share your thoughts with us, let us find you and walk with you? I'd be so grateful and so honored to have you as a companion. Please leave a link to your blog post below and then send your readers back here to see what others have said.You're welcome to post the Small Steps Together banner button also.