She wore an.....

itsy, bitsy...teeny, weeny....yellow polka-dot ZUCCHINI!!??!!

A conversation between Mae, Whitt, and I at the beach...

Whitt: "I really like your tazakanini!!"

Mae, in her most patronizing "you are only a four year old and I am a five year old" voice: "Whitt!! It is not a tazakanini! It is a zakanini!"

Mae pondering for a few moments, but trying to hide the uncertainty. Then, you see the light bulb ding in her head.

Mae: "No, it is a zucchini. Mommy, we really love your zucchini!"

Unabashadely

I have dealt with guilt from the very first moments of becoming a mother, and over the past few years I have realized that guilt is the direct nemesis of joy, the joy that has been lovingly sent to us. Therefore, I choose to delight in praise and thanksgiving all the more when I feel the undercurrent of guilt slowly seeping in, and my beautiful two-year old birthday boy with the red curls has allowed me to do so with gusto.

I could feel completely guilty that I have really babied my last baby, I mean really babied!

BUT,

I prayed for this child, this baby, my last, and God has made me feel so loved with the gift of our red curls. He knew I needed a human barnacle turned koala bear who wraps and enfolds himself around me lingering just a little bit longer than the others ever did; He knew I needed a baby who has a bit of Mae's quiet confidence and independence as well as a bit of Whitt's energy and boyish excitment giving me glimpses back to my two other beautiful babies; He knew I needed a little one who fiercly grabs my hand and will assert himself with his booming deep voice when he needs a "mommy" fix; He knew I needed red curls that probably won't see their first haircut for another couple of years; He knew I needed a child who is not won over easily (this kid can give the stink-eye like no other) which makes his love for me that much sweeter with a heart-warming intensity to it; He knew exactly what I needed and more than I could have dreamed of, and I in turn have honored Him by unabashadly delighting in this child, soaking in every moment of babyhood-every giggle, cry, and sweet swishing sound of a diaper on the move; the intoxicating smell and delicate touch of soft baby skin; the moments of wonder and excitement experiencing the "firsts" of life-savoring all of it to the full, not allowing the guilt to rob any part of this joy sent to us.

God in His infinite wisdom has created birth order, the amazing intricacies of the one and only relational God....

And, in my mind and heart, it is no coincidence that the disciple John was both the youngest and called the disciple whom Jesus loved. The one who sat closest to and leaned his head against Jesus during the Last Supper....

You see, even Jesus "babied" the youngest of his very loved and treasured followers....

So, friends, overwhelmingly, brazenly, fully, and shamelessly baby your baby!

Happy 2nd Birthday, Red! The only problem with you my dear one is you make me want more and I wish there were two of you!

PS-Nothing says happy birthday like Daddy squirting whip cream in your mouth while at the beach!

From Trash to Treasures

In the past, showing you my junk drawers (there are two. ok, maybe three) would be the equivalent to me having to strip naked and streak past you.

The normal routine with my drawers is stuff/ life gets packed and packed in them until the messiness guilt I feel when I open them and the twitching that occurs in my type A++ husband when he sees them causes me to dump everything out, sort, clean, and organize, usually every three, four, or maybe six months.

But, as I opened one of them today, my most used of the three, I realized that for me personally when these drawers are full and at their messiest, the other areas of my life are alot less messy, my joys seem to be resting more in the permanent, the longer lasting marks, the moments, my true loves. It is a small sign that I have let go of my selfish need for performance, which really at the root is just my need for approval, to enjoy the blessings that have been put before me, offerings that far exceed any silly standard I have set for myself.

As I rifled through the drawer, I found a lava rock from Maui where I was able to look out over the vastness and beauty of a volcano, ribbons and nail polish which allow some of my favorite conversations with my girl as I linger just a little bit longer while fixing her hair and painting her nails, a set of shark cards that have provided hours of fun, laughter, and fascination for my boys and I, ear phones reminding me of outdoor runs where I return mentally and physically restored-the health I have been given, a receipt from dinner with friends, paint pens used for a project with some special boys who most of the time end up teaching me, a card where I had desperately journaled out a prayer with an issue in my life that I now have seen answered.....this jumbled up mess of a drawer that looks like junk to everyone else somehow serves as a beautiful reflection to me of what I really need.....and, how much we even with all our junk are that much more beautiful to the One who made us, He really sees us......and, how often what seems to be our junk is used to transform us into His treasured offering.

And, ok, maybe today I just really didn't want to tackle my junk drawer : )

Daddy is soooooooo Holy!!

Conversation between Whitt and I today in the Target parking lot: We were singing, "Wheels on the Bus." We had made it through all the normal verses, and I said, Me: "Who do you want to sing about next, buddy?" W: "Daddy" Me-starting to sing: "The daddies on the bus,....What do they do, buddy?" W: "Read" Me-singing: "The daddies on the bus read their books, read their books.." W: "NO, Mommy! They read their bibles!" Me-singing: "Ok, the daddies on the bus read their bibles, read their bibles, read their bibles. The daddies on the bus read their bibles, all through the town..." Then I asked, "What do the mommies on the bus do?" Whitt's response, "NOTHING!!!" No worries, just the night before Whitt had looked at Michael with his most stern glare and stated in his most irratated voice, "I am 10,000 times angry with you, Daddy!" complete with a righteous foot stomp.

MCS-CMS

Most mornings as Michael is getting ready for work, the kids ask if they can buckle his belt. For some reason, they absolutely love doing it, he always obliges, and the squeal of excitement always reaches alternate decibel levels. I like to think they are buckling his "belt of truth." Nothing can keep you honest quite like three little stairsteps.

Well, one morning about a month ago, Mae looked at Michael's buckle (which has his initials engraved on it) and in joyous shrieks announced, "Daddy, Daddy, we have the same initials!!!" And, indeed they do, just in a slightly different order. The funny thing is she was the first one to ever notice it (which shouldn't surprise me because she has one of the most perceptive souls I have ever run across), and as soon as she said it, it made perfect sense.

Michael and Mae have always had a unique bond, their father-daughter relationship was lovingly taken to a deep level early on when I was placed on bedrest for six weeks only four days before Mae's first birthday. Michael was suddenly thrust into the position of main caretaker of our sweet baby girl at an age when physical touch is so much of the parent-child relationship, and that cemented the foundation that was already being laid, she is truly and blessedly a daddy's girl.

Here's the thing. I don't believe in coincidence; I absolutely believe that everything is part of one big plan, every tiny thread lovingly woven together, every minute detail. And, I just happen to love that He engraved their names on His hands using the same initials. He knew about it all along, and in typical fashion, it just took us a little longer to catch up.

Happy Fathers' Day, love! You sure know how to make both your "girls" feel special.

And, there are two beautiful boys who are pretty crazy about you as well!

PS-I like to think the little unique flip/ slightly different order in their initials is my presence, a little part of me running through both of them, just mixing things up a bit.

My Bed Runneth Over...

Michael is away for the weekend, and the hour that I seem to miss him the most on his weekends away is the early saturday morning hour-when we are not having to scurry out of the bed to start our day, but can lounge just that little bit longer (and I say little bit because our little trifecta only tolerates the lounging for brief moments).

But, this morning at 6:15 am, I heard the soft creek of our bedroom door call to me as tiny little dancer foosteps delicately climbed over the foot our bed. Our firstborn, the one who from day one has been on her own time-table, our beautiful sweet early-bird, this baby girl who when she was being formed in me sat at the highest possible point, a tiny ball being knit together as close to my heart as possible, this brown-eyed wonder who is wise beyond her years and has patiently waited on me, somehow understanding and accepting my mistakes, teaching me just as much as I could ever teach her, the one who made me a mommy, who shook me to my core. As she softly crawls up the bed and almost silently slips under the covers, our two bodies stretch next two one another and as she grabs my hand and I delicately interlace our fingers, I look over at that perfect button nose and wispy angel hair and just drink her in, all of her.

In the next few moments, I hear the loud creeking of the boys' old bedroom door, the baby trying his absolute hardest to figure out this whole doorknob concept in his usual, but charming bull-in-a-china shop way. I then hear his older brother come to the rescue, and in his usual way, turn the knob, jet down the hall, and bound over our bed in three seconds flat with the noise of not-yet-completely-sturdy, heavy-footed running coming down the hall after him. I look over to see red curls stretching arms as high as they can possibly go with that look of "get me, get me, get me, get me, GET ME" and I reach down for my youngest, my youngest with his beautiful red curls, my youngest that I have so delighted in, holding on to every last precious moment of babyhood, this one who completed the missing piece of our family, this one who not only grabbed hold of me aggresively as a baby, but who also grabbed hold of my heart hard as well. As I lift him into our bed and I lie back instictively grabbing my girl's hand again, red curls, in his koala-bear manner, throws one leg over my chest and lies down, wrapping himself around me, our chests and hearts beating next to one another, those soft red curls brushing my chin.

And, finally, our middlest (as he calls himself) finds his special spot in this interwoven web of love. My beautiful blue-eyed boy, my passionate boy with the eyes that are a lifeline all the way to his soul, my effervescent joy, this boy who is so much like his daddy, this boy who has showed me a whole other side of the man I love for so often he gives me momentary glimpses of Michael as a child, this boy with the wide open heart who loves bravely, calms and stills his body just long enough to curl beside me and place his head on my womb, the very place where all of these beautiful, God-breathed creations began, these perfect unions of Michael and I, each unique from the other and each divinely-inspired, and for the brief moment before the wrestling, bouncing, tumbling, "keep your hands to yourself" of our day begins, I soak all of them in to the full, wishing this moment would last forever, but knowing its brevity is what makes it that much sweeter, and my heart is so full that my chest physically hurts.

Sleep Monster vs. Sweet Dreams

Well, the battle of "dropping" the nap wages on in the world of our little man. Just about every morning, Whitt will ask, "Do I have to take a nap today?" The reply is usually, "Not if you don't want to, but you will have to play quietly by yourself for a little while." (A mommy needs a little forty-minute quiet play time to herself as well, right!?) And, Whitt always insists he doesn't need a nap!

So, after two nights of staying up later than normal enjoying the laxity of summer, we found our man crashed on the floor, this time not even on the carpet, just right on the hard wood. I had spotted him lying there on top of his blankie and asked if he wanted to go to our bed or his bed to nap and of course, he did NOT! Then, a few minutes later, he was OUT, for a good hour I might add. Later that night, a friend who has known him since day one was pondering what exactly must goes through his head right before he gives into the sleep monster.

I feel certain it is something like this:

"I am not tired, I am not going to sleep, I am not going to miss any of the action. I am not tired, I am not going to sleep, I am not going to miss any of the action. I am not tired, I am not going to sleep, I am not going to miss any of the action."

But, my hope for all my beautiful ones is that in those last few seconds the battle switches over to the blissful stillness of sweet dreams and they hear the soft whispers to their beautifully open hearts:

"I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am SO loved."