When Your Efforts Feel Like a Waste

Sometimes your efforts feel like a waste.

Maybe your plans for productivity after waking up early were thwarted by a child who woke up even earlier…

Maybe your sacrifice of leaving work two hours early for your spouse was met by two hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic…

Maybe the hours you spent in the kitchen, swatting away children who kept appearing at your ankles, were for nothing when you left one of the bags with your accomplishment on the kitchen floor…

And maybe the time and love you put into a giant cookie cake was met with the disappointing news of school closing for the day…

and all of your plans and good intentions instead felt like a giant waste.

But in that moment, you had a choice because there’s always a choice.

Maybe you griped and complained how you’re never cut a break and don’t get the help that you need…

Maybe you pounded your fists on the steering wheel, and your body tensed as your mind anticipated the chaos awaiting you at home…

Or maybe you took a deep breath and savored the smell of the garlic you chopped and the lemons you squeezed in a friend’s kitchen, enjoying more the company of friends than the improvised dish you were making…

And maybe you looked in two very disappointed eyes and knew that there was only one course of action to take…

so you had cookie cake for breakfast.

Because even though the change of plans seemed a little strange at first,

it wasn’t long before you realized that sometimes a change in plans

represents a chance for new memories that taste oh-so-sweet.

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland (Isaiah 43:19, New International Version, 2010).

When was a time that your improvisations made for a sweet memory? How do you cope when you feel like your efforts have been wasted? Share below for this ‘Focus On It Friday.’

The Christmas Card Revealed

I wrote the blog that got us 50 free Christmas cards.

I picked out the coordinating outfits for our picture.

I stood out in the cold the same as everyone else during the one day of November that the temperature was not above 60 degrees.

I will stamp and address every Christmas card envelope that is to be mailed.

Yet I did not make the final cut for the picture.

But neither did Matt, so I guess it’s okay.

Frosted Glass Snowflakes Christmas 5×7 folded card

Click here to browse hundreds of Christmas card designs.

View the entire collection of cards.

The Treasures

“But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19, New International Version, 2010)

I’ve spent a lot of time pondering these last few days since attending the Deeper Still conference–pondering how leaving the home for one day equals an extra two days of housework; pondering the meaning behind the shoebox that my daughter left on the kitchen table filled with one flip-flop, one croc, one cloth napkin, and one leg from a baby doll; and pondering why my son has so many questions about heaven that bring him to tears.

And I want to say that I’ve been pondering the challenge that the Lord gave me, but instead, I think I’m learning that I need to ponder patience. Perhaps patience is my challenge.

When Priscilla Shirer inspired me with her message on 2 Kings 13, urging us to give God what we have and allow Him the opportunity to work a miracle in that margin where we don’t have, I wanted to shout,”Yes, Lord! Work a miracle in me! I’m not going to act as King Jehoash–I’ll give you all my arrows, not holding back any!” Except I don’t know what I’m giving. I don’t know where God is calling.

I only know that I have left feeling restless, and I have had this feeling before.

I know God is working in me, causing my heart to feel emotions that I haven’t felt quite this way before, conviction in the way I live a little stronger than usual, and I have this sense that God is preparing me for something. And it’s exciting. And a little scary.

I don’t do well with not knowing, and I don’t do well with not having the words to explain my thoughts coherently (I can’t believe how long I’m taking to write this piece), yet I have to trust that, for now, God wants me to feel exactly this way.

So I will ponder, and I will treasure. As Beth Moore shared, sometimes God only gives us one piece of the puzzle, but we can trust that He’s holding all the rest in His hands. And as Mary did, we can treasure. We can protect and preserve in our mind all those moments when we have no idea what is going on, but all the same, know that they are important.

I will take my puzzle piece and store it away in a box on the shelf. And in God’s time, I’ll one day begin to see a picture.

Getting My Hands Dirty

I’ve spent a day thinking about my past–the joys, the regrets, the disappointments, and the everyday–and I’ve pondered which day I would relive if I could. As a result, I’ve re-experienced too many different emotions today, and I’m left sitting in a funk. Nonetheless, I continued on with this writing prompt.

My first instinct was to go back to my wedding day and experience a day of perfection one more time. I’ve never been happier than that day, holding the hand of Matt as my long white veil and train followed behind wherever we’d go. The smile didn’t leave my face from the moment I walked down the aisle, through our vows and countless pictures, to the night when we danced and celebrated and drove off together to never go home to different houses again. But in the end, I decided to hold on to that beautiful memory and pick another day. After all, the two leads in that perfect day are still co-starring in this story, and I’d rather focus on living more perfect days together than reliving one that had already passed.

So naturally, my mind wandered to a day I’d like to erase. I couldn’t actually remember the exact day, but I decided I should go back to when I said ‘yes’ to dating a certain boy. I don’t have many regrets, but I regret that entire overly-dramatic relationship for the time I wasted in it, and if I could do anything over in life, I would’ve said ‘no’ and taken back that time. However, even though thinking about that relationship left me depressed, I’m certain that I learned from my mistakes and now have an experience that will one day help me parent my daughters better.

My mind wandered over a few more events in my life, from gymnastics competitions to days when I blew it with my kids, but I ultimately decided on a day when I was three or four. On this particular day in nursery school, I was supposed to finger paint. Most children have no problem sliding their hands throughout the paint, making beautiful creations with their little fingers, but I would not participate. I didn’t want to get my hands dirty. The kind teachers got me popsicle sticks to rub around in the paint instead.

And while I know that God created me as a unique individual, I can’t help but wish that I were a little less afraid to get my hands dirty. How many times did I hold back from splashing in puddles or rolling around in the mud as a kid? And how many carefree moments did I miss out on as an adult?

Cleanliness and order an even inhibition have their places, but so does letting go. And if I could go back to when I was that timid little girl in nursery school, I would laugh and squeal as I squeezed those different colors of paint through my fingers and down my wrists.

I don’t want to change my life–every experience has made me the person that I am today–but I wish I lived some days more fully. Consequently, I’m getting my daughter finger paints for Christmas.

Linking up late to Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.

A Parable

There once was a mother who could be heard repeating the same phrases daily:

“Stop picking your nose! You’re going to get sick!”

“Wash your hands after you use the bathroom! It’ll keep you from getting sick!”

“Eat your vegetables so you grow up healthy and strong–you don’t want to get sick!”

One Thanksgiving week this mother who always washed her hands got sick.

The same day she caught a stomach bug her husband who never picked his nose got sick.

The night before Thanksgiving a certain uncle who only ate organic food got sick.

Thanksgiving night the sweet aunt who picked up the mother’s children while wearing a mask (no kidding) when the mother was sick got sick.

Guess which turkeys didn’t get sick?

Moral of the story: Mommies don’t know everything.

My Allergy

I was in a bad mood for two-and-a-half days straight, and I blame my mood completely on one ill-conceived plan by my well-meaning husband.

It was Saturday, and I had said that perhaps we could go to this furniture consignment store that Matt had driven past the other day. I wanted to see if they had any inexpensive furniture for my quest to reorganize the playroom. What I meant was that I wanted to go to this furniture consignment store in my quest for furniture to reorganize the playroom. Then I wanted to come home. What Matt heard was, “Blah blah blah blah furniture blah blah blah playroom blah blah blah.” He came up with the brilliant idea to breakfast at Ikea and then traverse the store for ideas.

“Big deal!” you say. Yes, it is a big deal. Perhaps I should enlighten you with a very important tidbit of information about myself: I despise shopping. I literally have physical reactions to shopping. I can remember in high school shopping for homecoming dresses in multiple stores and having to sit down next to a rack of dresses so that I wouldn’t pass out. Nearly every Christmas season, I get faint and dizzy and have to sit down (probably because the temperature of the stores is 107 degrees). I get pounding headaches. I get crabby. Very crabby. And I start to dislike people.

I didn’t date a lot, but if ever a boy suggested roaming around the mall as a date, that would have been our last. I am sure that sometime in the course of the evening I would have blurted out, “You’re stupid,” merely because I am allergic to shopping, and my allergy causes me to become very mean.

I don’t like looking for great deals or shopping at stores with clothes thrown all over the place. I like neat. I like clean. I don’t like to search. I like to walk into a store and immediately walk out with my purchase. If I go to hell, I will be placed in a mall and told to window shop for eternity. My allergy is a pain, and I hope a researcher develops a shot or something someday.

So when Matt suggested Ikea, my heart started beating at an irregular rhythm. I know I’m supposed to love Ikea–it’s its own amazing little country–but I hate Ikea. First of all, I rarely like any of their furniture, (I have discussed previously that I am not cool or trendy, so their stuff just doesn’t do it for me) so the thought of walking around a store that is the size of a little country just to search for ideas makes me want to poke a pencil through my eyeball.

I know I’m supposed to love Ikea–it’s kid friendly! It is extremely kid friendly–they even have their own little daycare; however, I’m not comfortable leaving my children with people I don’t know, so we end up dragging them around with us. Yes, Ikea has bottle warmers, extra diapers, baby food, family changing rooms, and a family parking lot, but none of that changes the fact that the layout of their store is a non-shopper’s nightmare! And therein lies the problem.

In their evil-genius marketing plan, Ikea has planned their store so that everyone must walk in the same direction through each little department until reaching the end and thus being given the chance to exit the maze. A person can’t simply jump to the bedroom area; that person must walk the maze through the preceding departments first.

Unless, of course, that person is part of the Davis family. Then that person would have somehow started at the end of the store in the children’s area and then decided to walk in the opposite direction of the arrows on the floor with three children, struggling like a family of trout swimming upstream, doing his best to avoid the onslaught of people walking the right way. For most of the trip I kept imploring Matt, “PLEASE…why can’t we walk in the same direction as everyone else?!” But evil Ikea didn’t plan simple turn-around points. There is no turn-around. One must walk the whole store if one wants to turnaround. And that wasn’t happening.

Keeping up with our children in this kid-friendly store was a nightmare. All of the kid rooms were super cute, and of course, our children wanted to jump on every bed, read every book, and travel through the little tunnels connecting one room to the next. Yes, there were holes in the walls, and we kept losing our children through them. And the random streamers hanging from the ceiling that had some sort of electro-magnetic field that children were highly susceptible of falling victim to–we lost our kids to those, as well.

While I was prepared for the challenges of kid rooms with beds and toys all available for kids to touch and try out, I wasn’t prepared for sofa after sofa after sofa leading to sofas that were somehow anchored to the wall. Performing an amazing leap reminiscent of my gymnastics days, I managed to catch hold of the leg of one of my children before she successfully mounted this red couch hanging from the ceiling. I also managed to smash my shin against the bottom rail of one of the floor couches in the process. I think I hit the most important nerve in my body, causing my shin, foot, and back of my thigh all to throb.

So even though Ikea had a special where we could deduct our lunch (yes, lunch; we were one minute late for breakfast and thus had to pay $4.99 a plate instead of $1.99) total from our purchase of $100 or more, we left empty-handed. We were just getting ‘ideas’ that day. Yeah, I came up with a few ideas on that trip, but I’ll save them for myself.

As I hobbled to the car, Matt announced that we were going to Pottery Barn Kids at the mall to get more ideas, and I swear I went into anaphylaxis shock. I would have paid more attention to the hives had my leg not hurt so darn badly. So on we went to another store where we would leave empty-handed but full of ideas and more symptoms of an allergic reaction. And for good measure, Matt took me to Target, too. Finally, we ended the day with a fifteen minute stop at a certain furniture consignment store.

We got home at five o’clock that evening, and my allergic reaction lasted until the middle of Monday.

My apologies to Ikea. You really do have an impressive and innovative store. If it weren’t for my condition, I’m sure I would love it.

Adding to the Baseball Greats: Josh Hamilton, the Rangers, and a Ginger Ale Toast

There’s something about a good baseball story that gets me every time. I don’t pretend to follow the sport closely or know much about the players–in this season of my life, I know more about Larry the Cucumber’s moral epiphanies and Curious George’s adventures than the teams heading to the World Series–but I can’t look away when a highlight reel is playing.

Maybe it’s memories of dates with my husband, sitting in the outfield on summer nights when the heat of the day has subsided, clapping to silly cheers, and biting into a stadium hot dog and soft pretzel–both with huge globs of yellow mustard–that help turn my heart toward the sport. Maybe it’s the influence of my father and remembering the stories that he shared, stories of Joe DiMaggio and baseball players who turned in their gloves for guns during World War II, stories of his own time as a player under a coach who took a group of last place boys and trained them into championship men, stories of his time as a pitcher and his one-hitter that still ended in a loss. Or maybe it’s the soft spot in my heart for the little guy and loving the stories of the unlikely hero who took a team who was losing by one to winning by three in one play.

To this day I can still picture Sid Bream rounding the bases, the Atlanta Brave not known for speed, running the fastest he had probably ever run, huffing around each base, and finally sliding into home ahead of the tag in a ninth inning, two-out situation as Skip Caray yelled, “Braves win! Braves win! Braves win!” It was 1992 when this play happened, yet any Atlanta Braves fan can recall this moment that sent the Braves to the World Series and chills down our spines.

Baseball has a rich history, and these stories and memories have made a lasting impression on this little suburban mom. Last week, baseball gave me another story to file away among the great ones.

The story of Josh Hamilton is inspirational in and of itself–a superstar rookie with all the promise of a baseball great throws away his career for his drug and alcohol addiction. Yet years later this man grabs his wasted life by the collar and starts again sober, finding faith in God and meaning in his life, and the baseball talent he had almost lost for good. Yet the story goes on….

This man goes on to receive the award for MVP from the Texas Rangers as they clinched the American League championship last week. But what makes this story great is not what happened on the field but off. As the game ended and the teammates gathered to celebrate, they put aside their champagne bottles and beer cans and whipped out ginger ale out of respect for their teammate, Hamilton. Previously, Hamilton had excused himself during times of celebration so as not to be tempted by the substance that he had allowed to almost destroy his life, but this time, his teammates took away that temptation for the moment, putting aside their wants for the need of Hamilton.

Under a fountain of ginger ale, this team celebrated together, not one player left out, as they rejoiced over their achievement. In this world where our sports idols and movie stars frequently disappoint by their inability to say ‘no’ to the pleasures of the moment, in a society where ‘gimme’ is a favorite word and people are adamant about exercising their rights even if they are wrong, it’s refreshing to see a team who was able to say, ‘wait.’ It’s refreshing to see a team put into action what being part of team really means, waiting ten minutes to whip out the traditional champagne so that their teammate could enjoy his own kind of bubbly.

The kind of compassion the Texas Rangers demonstrated adds one more reason why baseball has my heart. So I’ll lift my glass of ginger ale and toast the Rangers with best wishes for an incredible World Series, and I’ll look forward to the memories they will give us to tuck away with those other baseball greats.

Not This (Wo)Man’s Best Friend

The other day I started cleaning out my e-mail inbox and found an e-mail dated back to 2007. I was caught off guard, as this particular e-mail showed the correspondence between the woman and me who helped us find a home for Baxter. I hadn’t thought about Baxter in a while, and even three years later, I had trouble reading the e-mails.

Looking over this lady’s note, a flood of sadness and remorse filled me, and I instantly remembered crying on the phone to this women whom I didn’t know. When I first called her, I could hear the judgment in her voice–to her I was just another mom who didn’t realize that taking care of a dog was work. But after a few minutes of listening to my story through my tears, her voice softened a little.

I had tried everything! Baxter had always been peculiar; when we were crate training him, he would run out of his crate and zig-zag his way past us, avoiding any contact within the realm of the door leading to the outside. We’d have to pull him out from under our bed and carry him outside so that he could pee. When he was a puppy, we thought his peculiar behavior was cute.

But then started the psychotic episodes. Baxter would sit and suddenly start shaking. I never knew the reason; he would just shake like a leaf. I asked the vet about it, and she said he probably had anxiety. Some dogs were just the nervous type. He had a roof over his head, food to eat every day, and he didn’t need a job to pay for these necessities–I couldn’t quite figure out over what he was anxious….

When he was no longer a puppy, he still wouldn’t go outside. In fact, as I would try to carry this dog out the door, he would spread his legs apart trying to keep from fitting through the doorway. I would literally have to throw him out the backdoor. This routine was especially fun when I was pregnant, trying to carry a squirming dog on my belly and then heaving him out the door.

But he just wouldn’t let me win. Oh, no. He had to start jumping. To this day, even though I repainted the it, one can still see the worn path Baxter made from his claws going up and down the door. In his defense, our other dog, Scout, learned that his behavior got results, so she, too, started jumping.

One might ask why I didn’t just leave him outside. I tell you the truth, I had no choice but to bring him in when he started jumping! When I tried not to, when I tried to stand firm that Baxter must stay outside until he peed, he showed me how foolish I was. That stupid dog jumped until his little paw pads were rubbed raw. I remembering opening the door to the outside one afternoon, and I saw my neurotic dog shaking, breathing hard, and standing on a blood-stained patio. I swept him up in my arms and called the animal hospital since it was after hours. At the time, I wasn’t even sure what had happened–I just saw blood and a shaking dog. The nurse on the phone assured me he’d be okay–he was probably just having a panic attack.

I was about to have my second baby in 17-months; there was no room in this family for a dog with psychological issues. If anyone was going to use Prozac, it would be me.

At the advice of the vet, we took him to obedience school. He won most-improved dog. That accomplishment wasn’t hard to achieve since he spent the majority of his classes sitting and shaking. Everyone felt sorry for him, that is everyone except for me. At this point, I was near my limit. It was now summer, and I was nine-months pregnant trying my best to imitate the methods my instructor showed us for the training collar.

Yes, the infamous training collar. In theory, the owner only needed to pull up on the leash once, and the dog would instantly obey, not enjoying the discomfort of the collar. In theory. The other dogs may have responded to that uncomfortable feeling, but not Baxter. Oh, no. The number of times I had to keep pulling up on that leash to get him to respond–why I probably looked like I was churning butter more than training a dog. Did I mention I was nine-months pregnant?

The instructor assured us we were not hurting our dogs. And when Baxter had a nice red streak on his neck from where the collar had been repeatedly tightened over and over, the instructor was adamant that he wasn’t in pain. I think that instructor was as stupid as our dog.

The baby arrived, and my ‘most improved’ dog quickly returned to the Baxter that I knew so well, even though I continued practicing with him. He would still refuse to go outside the back door, although he loved to run away out the front door. He gave me the pleasure of visiting the pound with an infant and a toddler, experiencing the fear of not knowing if he were alive and the guilt of hoping he found a nice family of psychiatrists. He, unfortunately, found a nice family in our neighborhood, and they didn’t want a dog.

I would communicate telepathically with Baxter: “If you want to run away so badly, then go–but find a good family–if you can do that, I won’t take you back, I promise!”

But he wouldn’t listen. He would continue his runaway attempts and refusal to go out in the backyard to pee. He would then wait until the exact moment I went to nurse the baby or change her diaper to pee on the floor. I couldn’t win.

My Bible doesn’t have a back cover. Baxter ate it. Matt doesn’t have an MP3 player, anymore. Baxter ate it. Matt used to have a few belts. Baxter ate them. I used to have nice base boards. Baxter ate them.

I made one final effort to salvage our relationship. I called some in-house-dog-whisperer-guru recommended by our vet. He charged $500. I really didn’t think Baxter was worth that kind of money, and apparently neither did this guru. After I explained our issues with Baxter, he informed me that he might not be able to help him, but he would give my information to his son. Maybe we could work out a plan. Neither he nor his son called me back.

I had tried everything, hadn’t I? I told myself this sentence over and over as I dialed the number for the canine rescue. That phone call led to the trail of e-mail correspondence that I had just recently rediscovered. The women on the other line agreed that Baxter needed a special home, and she placed him with a wonderful foster family who had already fostered and adopted three other Boston Terriers–they couldn’t let them go. Until they met Baxter.

They found a home for Baxter, a nice married couple who worked out of the house and didn’t have children. A nice couple whom Baxter wouldn’t have to share with other pets. A nice couple who wouldn’t have to fear destruction or urine because they could put Baxter on a leash and take him for a walk, not having to worry about bundling up a toddler and a baby in the winter to make the long trek to the backyard. Baxter, I sincerely hope you and your new family are happy.

As I scanned these e-mails and dealt with my emotions of a (very) little sadness and remorse, I had to reassure myself again that I had done that right thing, that Baxter was happier. I had done the best I could, but our family was not the right family for him. But then I had another thought that caused me panic: My children have pooped in our shoes, peed in the trashcans, in addition to numerous other places. They have made their own runaway attempts out the front door. What if the problem is ME?!!!

Darn you, Baxter. I have already dealt with guilt from you; you’re not going to convince me I was the problem. No, Baxter. You will not haunt me. YOU are the crazy one, not me!

If I Were to Write BabyLand General

A little over a week ago, my mother, sister, our four children, and I made the trip to BabyLand General Hospital in Cleveland, Georgia, home of the Cabbage Patch Kids. We had quite the experience. Below is the letter I would send to the staff of BabyLand General if I were to write them…but I probably won’t.

To the Doctors and Nurses of BabyLand General:

My family and I recently visited your hospital, and I want to thank you for the educational experience. It had been a long time since I saw a baby birthed from a cabbage, and the experience never disappoints.

After my trip, however, I did have a few concerns. Given the fact that your hospital is filled with precious Cabbage Patch children, all eagerly waiting to be adopted and easily victims of being snatched away, I do think you should have a warning on the entrance to your building: Parents, If you are outnumbered in ratio from children to adults, especially children four years of age and under, Do NOT come in these doors! Your children won’t be able to resist the number of Cabbage Patch Kids at their grasp, and you won’t be able to stop them! I realize that warning is a little lengthy and rather specific, but I would’ve appreciated it.

Taking my daughter to BabyLand General was like giving her a drug, spinning her in circles, and then releasing her in a room full of presents on Christmas morning; she did not know where to run, yes run, and I didn’t realize I should’ve worn my athletic shorts. Some of your Cabbage Patch Kids (which of course are all beautiful even though they came from a vegetable) were the exact same size as my toddler, yet my three-year-old had convinced herself that she could carry two at a time.

I apologize if any of your dolls, I mean children, are missing any hair. Sometimes, their hair was the easiest way for my daughter to grab them.

I also apologize if any of your children were missing shoes or other accessories or just missing all together. To be honest, I didn’t appreciate having to supervise your children along with my own. I mean, if I wanted to clean all morning or put on and take off shoes, I could’ve stayed home. And I don’t know if you realize this fact or not, but Cabbage Patch Kids’ feet are not the same size as human children’s feet–your kids’ feet don’t stay in shoes because, well, they’re more like big, round nubs than anything. Please excuse me if I offended you in any way.

And I’m sorry if the four-year-old boy running around, throwing the balls you had for sale, and tackling his cousin was distracting to the staff or the babies. As I mentioned before, I hadn’t realized I was going to be sprinting after my daughter all day long. I tried to get him interested in the dolls, I mean children, but he said they were for girls. I’ve never planted those ideas in his head, I promise. I know children need positive male role models in their life, and I will work on turning my son into one of those role models. He was, however, very pleased with the basketball game, flying helicopter, and stuffed panda bear that you had for sale.

And while I’m apologizing, I also apologize for any ice cream that you may have found on the floor of your clean hospital. However, if I do say so myself, why in the world do you think it is a good idea to have an easily opened ice cream chest right next to where parents and grandparents pay for these newly adopted babies? When my daughter pulled her ice cream bar out of the freezer, I saw a good opportunity to teach her a lesson about stealing by making her pay for the ice cream from her piggy bank and promptly throwing the dessert away. Grammy, on the other hand, saw an opportunity to treat four children to ice cream.

I would’ve made her eat her treat outside, but you see, we were in the middle of the very important adoption procedures. She had to take her oath, which she said with full enthusiasm, by the way, and she had all of the paperwork to fill out. I hope you realize that that paperwork is a tad intimidating for three-year-olds, but I guess so is raising a child.

And one more thing before I close–is there any way to slow down Mother Cabbage’s deliveries? I saw three Cabbage Patch Kids born that day, and my children helped name two. And while all of these births were magical and beautiful and such, they got a little excessive and gave a little too much information. Every time you announced that Mother Cabbage was eight leaves dilated, I hurt. And I’m so happy that she had an ‘easy-otomy’ because I’ll tell you what–there was nothing easy about my episiotomy.

Maybe we were just there forever waiting for a certain three-year-old to decide which child she really loved. Maybe that three-year-old took a really long time because she made her decision based on the shoes that your children were wearing, but I digress. In any event, please give Mother Cabbage my warmest regards for a speedy recovery. I thought having three children in three years was tough; I can’t imagine have three children in three hours. On a side note, if the ‘Imagicillin’ that you are giving her starts to wear off, tell her Percocet should do the trick.

In closing, thank you for opening your hospital to us, even though we definitely disturbed your serene environment. I promise that if we come back many, many years down the road I will have at least one adult, if not two, per child. And while the experience was anything but fun for me, I know it was about making four little children very happy. And one Grammy, too.

Sincerely,

Jennifer V. Davis

Don’t Blink

I watch as the little boy who, days before, wouldn’t go in the deep end unless every buckle on his red Lightning McQueen life-jacket was secured and tight now swam freely. I watch as the little girl who, days before, was afraid to go in this same deep end, secured with life-jacket and Daddy’s arms, now pushed us away, swimming only with a purple noodle to support her. And I watch as a baby who only days before spent just as much time getting out of the pool as in it made her way through the water, unafraid to fall.

And I don’t want to blink because before my very eyes they are changing, growing. I’m afraid that if I look away for just a moment, I will miss a moment that is gone forever. If I look away for a moment, when I turn my eyes back to them they will be older, one step closer to independence.

I want to freeze-frame, burn these images into my memory, bottle them up and take them with me wherever I go. I want to keep my babies babies, safe in their parents’ arms. Yet while I try to keep them within our grasp…

…I know that someday they will be ready to soar. I will watch and hope and pray that they look before they leap, that they choose wisely, because ultimately, I know, the day will come when these choices will be their own. And as they walk away on their path to independence, no longer clinging to my grasp, I will grab the hand of Him that promises that if I train them in the way they should go, even when they are turning away from me, they will not turn away from what I’ve taught them.

So I watch wide-eyed as they jump, amazed at how high they can soar.