My first thoughts of Thanksgiving....

As we celebrated another Thanksgiving season, it occurred to me the number of people who were writing about all that they were thankful for. I read posts on facebook, watched the television, and even heard people in the village telling of how they were thankful for this and that. While I realize that the Thanksgiving season provokes such thoughts in all of us, I also found that I could not put one finger on just one thing to be thankful for. because you see, I am thankful every single day, for every single thing that God has placed in my life. Maybe it is because I have nursed a husband and my mother to their deaths. Maybe it is because I have nine children. Maybe it is because seven of the are special needs. maybe it is because I have lost eight children. Maybe it is because my eldest son killed himself. Or maybe, just maybe, it is because God has allowed me to live and love in such a way, that all of those things put together have made me so grateful for this life that I cannot be anything else but thankful. I do not know the reason for sure.
 But I can tell you that everyday when I rise, I am thankful. I am thankful. At this moment I am thankful for the small, "Pitter patter" of feet that are running around my house. My two grandteins and their Momma have had to move back home. It is hard, it is unfortunate. Yet they are here. They call me "Gammie" and they call Tim "Poppy" They yell, they fight, they scream, they really don't sleep, and worst of all they make my tidy "OCD" home look like something on a really bad cheerios commercial. But they are here and they are mine. A year and a half ago, when my daughter,7 months pregnant, gave birth to them via an emergency c-section, we were not sure they would make it. It was horrible. It was scary. But mostly it was like living in a moment that wouldn't go away as they struggled for life those first few days. But they did live. They are here. They are in my home. I am changing "poopy" diapers. I am wearing "food" soled socks. I am being spit at and hit at. But I am also getting wild hugs and wet kisses, and playing "git choo" (get you), and tucking in , and singing the most amazing lullabies any Grammie can imagine.
I am thankful everyday that my children live. That they have survived their parents' horrific lives and that they breath, smile, run, and play and can even function. I am thankful everyday that I get to pray over them at night and wake them up every morning. I am thankful when they screw up and I am thankful when they cross a finishline. Many children do not have these chances in our world. many paople are too selfish, or simply cannot fathom adopting a child with special needs. We never even considered the consequences, it was our "Calling" it is what we do. I am the mother who stands in the way of anyone, anyone ever trying to step on my child's toes or my child's self esteem. It is not your job to change my child, it is mine. I am the Momma who is constantly wearing used clothes so that my children can keep up with the "Jones'", I do not regret it, I am thankful for people who give to goodwill so that I don't look like gartbage. I am thankful everyday that when I drop my children off at school, they are at a safe place with people who love them as their own. We have been blessed with a staff at our school that will call me at the drop of a hat if my children seem "off" or "something is up". 
I come home each day to a warm home, with decent things in it, and food in the cupboard. I clean it with love because I know many people who do not have a nice home, much less own one. I am thankful everyday for my job, for bosses who allow me to come and go as I please to take care of the needs of my large family. My job is my solace some days and without it I would certainly lose my sanity. For people who love me enough to allow me to parent in a way I need to, I am thankful.
I am thankful everyday of my life for a husband who comes home everyday to me. Who is handsome, kind, and would give you the shirt off his back and has many times. I am thankful that he has a good job, and people who care about him also. I am thankful that out marriage has only deepened these past two years of turmoil, that we have clung to each other, and protected our children from this awful "death". I am thankful that when Tim comes home everyday, my heart skips a beat, and it is I who gets to hug and kiss him and no one else.
But mostly, mostly, everyday, I am thankful for the chance that God has given me to live this life. I am thankful I was  able to survive my rotten childhood, and put together some moral fiber and live a life most people only dream about. I do not have money. I do not have "brand new". I do not live stress free. But I do live this life in such a way that I always am thankful, that there are always "silver linings" , and I can always, always, bow to a God who took a frightened little girl who loved to play dollhouse....and molded her into a woman who still loves to play dollhouse only now those dolls and those moments, hug me back!

Sewing a Life of Thankfulness

Thanksgiving. I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be truly thankful. Many people have posted their thankful thoughts each day on facebook. I 've read articles in the magazines and newspapers about thankful people. I have watched television news reports on all sort of miraculous thanksgiving miracles. But I could never write one thing down about it. For me, there is no way I could ever pick one issue, person, or place that I am thankful for. Oh, but i am thankful, I'm thankful every day.
When I get out of bed each morning I am thankful everyday that I get to wake up my children with a hug and kiss and get them out of bed. Seven of my nine children are special needs children. Their biological parents couldn't care for them properly so God has blessed us with them. I'm thankful; that God blessed me out of everyone in the world with the opportunity to raise them. I am thankful that Joshua is going to college, has moved out on his own, and has a decent job. I miss him terribly, but he calls me and tells me about his life and still comes home occasionally just to lay on our couch and cuddle with his siblings. I am thankful for Arden Dragos, our little guy from Russia, the one who was never supposed to walk or talk. Although we we fight because "he is eighteen and I can't tell him what to do", he still in the end realizes that we adore him and will always be there for him. I am thankful everyday for James. The son who provided many dare devil trips to the hospital. Quite frankly, I am amazed he is alive and not maimed. I am so thankful for the way he has grown into a man and became who he is and not some "jock wanna be". He has chosen his own path and not those of his peers. I am thankful every for Timara. She has become all I ever dreamed and more. She lights up a room with her knowledge and personality. She will succeed in this world and change it because, she will never ever let anyone get the best of her. She has over come epilepsy and deals with her illness in an intelligent manner. Everyday I am thankful for my Katie-Grace. I am thankful that she is growing and thriving despite having a renal kidney deformity. I am thankful for cuddling, for her "dancing debuts" , and for her fussy ways. But mostly I am thankful that God let her live through meningitis so that Tim and I could raise this last cherub together. And finally, through many tears and much guilt, I am thankful for my son Jeffrey who committed suicide almost two years ago. I am thankful for the opportunity to know him, to hold him, to watch him reach huge milestones, and to be the one he came home to his final week of life. Everyday, I fight back tears and wish things were different for him, different for us, but if it can't be different, if he cannot be here, then I will be thankful that he was and that he loved us the best he could.
I am thankful for their spouses, two Godly men brought into our family for the soul purpose of fathering my beautiful grandchildren (at least that's what I tell them). They are two of the best men I know. They love their wives (my daughters Tierney and Lacey) and they take loving care of their children. They are men of honor and integrity and I am blessed everyday to have them.
Then there are my three grown daughters. I am so thankful for them everyday and what they bring into my life (besides grandchildren). Tierney calls me nearly everyday with some funny tale form her life. her tenacity and drive as a wife and a mother light up my day and validate who I am as a wife and mother myself. She makes me feel good about bring me. Lacey, the full time teacher and homemaker and momma, calls as often as she can. her life is filled to the brim about the children of New Orleans, their life, wants, and experiences. She brings nuances of changing the world, and living for the future. I am so proud of her calls and how she just loves me because I adore her and her little family. Kayla. My fondest hope and dream. My firstborn. How can I not be thankful foe her everyday. Struggling to raise to babies on her own. Coming home to us and allowing us to help parent her silly children. Her hugs and late night chats remind me of the great times my Momma and I used to have drinking hot tea.
And grandchildren, How can I even begin to be thankful without writing a whole paragraph on two of these little lovelies who have moved into my house for a while to keep me company. I have no free time. I have spilled milk everywhere.My "OCD" home wreaks of poopy diapers and old food stuck under the couch. The living and dining rooms both look like a bad cheerio commercial that will only get worse, but for them I am thankful. I am thankful that we are called "Mamma and Poppy". I am thankful that I get to rock an eighteen month old again at three in the morning. I am thankful that the "pitter patter" of little feet are running through our house again. But mostly I am thankful that my single daughter had the security to know if she came home with her children, that we would open our door and let her live here with our arms and hearts open. And the two grandchildren whom I visit as often as I can. I speak to them on the phone and hold them close to my heart through pictures, stories, and visits. They all have changed my life for the better and for them I am thankful everyday.
 How can I not be thankful for my husband? A man put solely on this earth to be my husband and the father of our children and "poppy" to these grand babies. When he walks into a room after twenty-two years, my heart still skips a beat. he stimulates me intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. he challenges what I think and who I am. He comes home everyday to me and our family and works his tail off to give these people who live here everything he has.Plus he serves his community in many, many ways, supporting them financially and ethically. he is where my children get their Godly honor from. he is the man of my dreams and the friend of my days, and I am so blessed by him sometimes I can barely speak.
 I am blessed with two beautiful sisters who are so different from each other that I can't believe we are related. They are funny til we pee our pants. Sad til we call 911. And most of all, loved to the moon and back. They are my lifeline to reality. They are sometimes the reason I stay sane and breath.
How do i not mention everyday how thankful I am for my friends? For my Katie Aronin. her compassion and willingness to hear me out good or bad. her willingness to drop everything and come to my side whenever I need her. her ability to see right into the depths of my heart and pull me into her own heart and stop my fears. I love her with my life. My Teresa Harrington, my friend, my conscience, my ability to "get over it". I could not live without her being a phone call away. She is all that I ever wanted to be if I only had the courage. I love her for always sending me back from wherever my life leads me to run to. Everyday, I am thankful for these women.
My Home. how could I ever not be thankful everyday for our home. many people do not have a home. many people only have a house. But our home is filled with so much love, laughter, and living, it is a home. A home that I cherish everyday. Sure it's freezing sometimes. Sure it's smelly sometimes. But the bottom line is, I always want to come here, I always want to be home.
And community and friends and bosses and work. How can I not be thankful everyday for our school and the awesome staff and coaches. They love our children and parent them everyday. They take the next step everyday with my children Or what about the local police chief who stands out in the cold and mans the traffic so our children won't get run over on their way to school. Or what about the guy in charge of our school bussing and transportation. Everyday, I watch him man all of the issues related to bussing and walkers and droppers...really the guy deserves some kind of a medal, or at least Prozac. And then there's Junie Decker and dale Thompson. Always there to mother or grandmother every person they meet. Or the dance teacher Kim? A diamond in the rough, bringing culture to my children in so many ways! And what about the people I work with everyday, The ones who put up with me being late, or calling in. They allow me to parent and grandparent in my own way, in my own style. My children have never known they have a working mother because I have great bosses. They are my friends, they are my family.
And finally, how do I even think about thankfulness without thinking about God? God. A God who gave me these dreams. who took my heart's desire as a scared little girl and gave me a family to love. A God who saw me hiding under a dresser while my father pulled a gun on my mother and tried to shoot her. A God who pulled me out of an abusive marriage. A God who every time I shop at Goodwill gives me beautiful, cheap clothing so I won't feel bad because I have to shop there. A God who I can run to when I lose a spouse, or mother. A God who scooped me up in his arms a s I lost seven babies. A God who watched my son kill himself and was by my side when I fell to my knees that day after finding his lifeless bloody body in his car. A God who has given me the will to get up each day with a thankful heart. A God who let's me see beyond the idiots of this world, the judgers, and allows me the peace to pray for those who try to destroy all that I have and all that I am. And finally a God, who despite my faults, loves me for me and lets me climb in his lap and just rest my silly burdens before Him.
So you see, I cannot just pick one thing a day to be thankful for everyday. My life is so full of stories, events, dumbness, and sometimes outright irritations that I have to be thankful everyday or my head would explode. I cannot fathom. ever , ever choosing one because in the end our heart of hearts are always. always thankful, if we just have the courage to see the blessings right in our own little lives.

Knowing What Fabric is Precious.....Don't cry over spilt milk

Sometimes when I get too much fabric, I have to go through it and determine what to keep, and what to get rid of. I have to determine what's important and what is not.

I guess having nine children has made me just a little bit more relaxed when it comes to spilt milk, broken vases, and ruined clothes. When I was a new mother, I dusted everyday, vacuumed everyday, and did every piece of laundry everyday. But as our family grew, I began to realize that I needed to decide what was worth yelling about,what was worth my time and effort, and what was a teachable moment for my children. As we added children to our little nest it became apparent to me that if I wanted anything precious, it would have to be hidden. If I wanted less mess, the glasses should be half full. And if I wanted nice clothes, I should never dress my kids. I guess what I'm trying to say is that when it is all said and done, and your children are all grown, is it worth your energy and breath to nag them to death about things that are just things and don't matter anyway?

I think of all of the memories of spilt milk, broken vases, and ruined clothes...
Everyday, every single meal, Lacey would spill her milk. She'd sit straight up in her chair, eat her meal perfectly, never getting anything on herself or the table, but inevitably, she would bump that milk cup over. We could put it far away, we could move it side to side, we could even put just a few drops in it, but I tell you that kid spilt that milk. It almost became a game between my husband and I to watch and see just when it was going to happen...maybe that is why she always spilt it, just too many eyes watching the poor little tyke. There we would all be, watching her holding our breaths, and sometimes, just sometimes, she'd almost make it and go to leave the table and "BAM", down the milk would go. This would inevitably lead to peels of laughter and milk shooting out people's noses! Whoops, a memory made again, not a memory of a Momma yelling at her child, but a memory of a family laughing together. I never yelled at her. I never chastised her. Because to me when a child makes a simple mistake like spilling milk, getting upset with them will only promote their need to be perfect, and perfection is a hard rule to live up to, believe me I know.

I am a person who attaches a memory to every object in my home. I do not care if it costs much, I only keep things in my home that have a personal meaning to myself or my family. So when something does get broke, it usually means something dear to me. Once when I was dusting, a task I abhor, I reached up to dust off a musical statue that my mother had left for me after she passed away. I just put my hand upon it, when The head plopped off and hit the floor. "What in the world..." I began to say. I looked over to see two little eyes staring at me.
"Momma, wook what you did! You breaked you favrit tatue! You gonna get in twouble, huh Momma?" Timara's little face all crumpled up and serious. "Youu shouldn't a breaked dat cause dat was you favrit, right Momma?" She stared at me so intentently that I was starting to believe I actually "breaked dat tatue" myself.
"Timara, I am pretty sure that I didn't break that staue. I barely even touched it and the head just fell off. I wonder if you knw who brake it. Do you?" I looked into her little brown eyes to see if there was a bit of guilt laying in them.
She put her hands on her hips, clenched her fists (a sure sign she was about to lie) , and stated, "Now momma, I sawled you breaked dat. I came into the room and you just knocked it wight off dat shelf..."
 I put my hands on my own hips and sternly replied, "Now Timara, Momma did not break this. This staue was given to me by my Momma who lives in heaven. The person who broke this has hurt Momma by not telling me the truth..."
"Oh, Momma, I breaked dat tatue when I was dustin up there by myself. I was ascared you would be mad at me...." and she through herself in my arms. "I so sorry!" I held my little girl and right then and there I made a choice. I chose to love her more than I loved that statue. I chose to give her a lecture about lying and telling when you did something wrong. But I never, ever, made her feel less important than that object that lay on the floor. Later in the quiet of my room, their were some tears shed, but no one knew, especially not Timara that that statue was a gift that my mother cherished. No one needed to know that a prized possession could mean that much. All my kids ever knew was that we didn't tell lies in our house, especially when something got broke.

Because we do have so many children, clothes and laundry and "Shout It Out" are a constant in our home. I remember many days when I did ten loads of laundry a day. I was very thankful back then for the hot New Mexican breeze and a sturdy clothes line.
One day, Tim and I and the kids were visiting friends who lived high up on a mountain. It was just an old dirt road that twisted and turned and wound around a few scattered homes high in the mountains. But to my kids, it was an awesome, huge driveway. It had a huge hill, to play on and run down. Enter- James. James is my daredevil. he will do whatever he can to get a thrill. Bodily harm means nothing to this child, neither did thinking things through.
As Tim and I sat and chatted with the parents outside, we heard a blood curdling scream, "MOM! MOM! James wiped out on a bike down the driveway. He's hurt real bad Mom...you and Dad need to come..." Josh yelled breathlessly running back out the door. We immediately got up and raced to follow him, only to realize that down the driveway was more than a half mile down the road. Turning around, I got the car and caught up with Tim and the kids and threw them in. Finally, we came to James. His head was bleeding, he was a torn up mess, he was crying, and he looked like "Wile E. Coyote" after being thrown off that ledge.
Tim jumped out of the car and began to assess the damage."We gotta take him to the hospital. Think he's got a concussion." Tim turned to Jeff and said, "Good work son, putting this shirt on his head to stop the bleeding...pretty sure the shirts toast though."
I looked over at Jeff and I could see the pride, but I also noticed his face look a little sad as he held his brothers head wit the shirt. I watched him as we locked eyes. He knew, that I knew, that that was his all time favorite shirt. It was expensive and he gave up getting two shirts just for that one. I tried not to cry both for James and Jeff, "I'm really proud of you son, really proud." Jeff wiped away his tears, sucked up his loss, and nodded.
Another memory. Another time that love won over an object. Sometimes as parents, we don't always have the luxury of thinking things through. We don't always have the forethought to just relax and study the situation before we open our mouths. Sometimes, we do yell, we do make mistakes. But the times that we do it right, are the times that mean the most to those people who call us "Momma" and we must always, always be mindful of that. That milk will get spilt, those objects will get broken, and those clothes will get ruined...but the memories will last a lifetime and perhaps, just perhaps, we will take them with us when our babies are all grown up and gone.

   

The Unpatchable Hole....

I think the hardest thing I've ever had to sew on a garment was a hole that was not in a seam. A hole in the middle of ,say a blanket, can be patched. It can be darned, but either way, you can see that there was a hole. The blanket will never be good as new. It is still useful, you can still live with it, and find warmth in it.But, never the less, it has been damaged, and sometimes that damage cannot be fixed without careful time and a serious amount of effort.
This is so true of motherhood when you lose a child. Tim and I and our beautiful family came to a crawling halt just nineteen months ago when our oldest son Jeffrey chose to take his own life. To say that we were and are still shattered is an understatement. Our lives have totally changed. The way we love has changed. Even the way we view God and life has changed. It changed our friendships. It changed our extended family. It even changed our family dynamics. Our lives are ripped apart. The is no seam. There is no sense. There is just a hole buried deep within our hearts that will never fully heal. It is horrid. It is painful. But mostly, it just is.
Everyday, no matter how hard I try, the wound is still there. I have written about him. I have sought help.I have eaten my way through many days. But I still cannot get over this huge hole in my heart. I cannot get over the loss of my son.
My son was always hard to handle. He was moody. He was angry. He was sometimes downright unbearable. But he was also beautiful. He was humorous . He was fun. He was kind. He was giving. He was the silver lining in his own little cloud. And I miss him. I miss him every day. I miss his friends. I miss his athletic events. I miss his smell. I miss his smile. But mostly I miss his voice. I miss him laughing with Katce. I miss him telling me he loves me. I miss hearing him cry. Yes cry, getting out the pain that he so often kept bottled up.
I cannot bring him back. I cannot heal this hole. People say time will heal this wound. But I do not believe it. I do not believe this wound will ever heal. Sure, it will get bandaged. I will nurse it , and put many different salves on it, but basically there will always be a hole in my heart that not even God can fill. You see the loss of a child is every mother's worst nightmare.
I have come to the conclusion that when you lose a child, especially by his own hand, that a piece of you dies with him. Suddenly, he is gone. His body is put beneath the cold, lonely earth , and you are left with an empty grave and an empty heart. But when you bury your child, you do not bury your hopes, your dreams, your memories. You only bury his lifeless body. And so, as life moves on for everyone else, you are left with these burdens, these struggles, these successes, and even these needs. I cannot just stand by while his friends go to college, get married, and start families and not be physically affected. And while I am more than thrilled that they are moving on, there is still a piece of me that aches for his diploma, his career, his marriage, his wife, his children, and his life.
You see, I spent many long days and nights dreaming dreams for this son, for this child who was always so much work. I put a lot of mothering and friendship hours developing a relationship deemed by professionals as impossible bonding. I cried many tears over choices I had to make to help a child whom no one wanted to commit to and adopt. But I did it, and I'd do it all again if I could. His body is gone, but his life is not. It is still here with me, with my husband, with our children. It is here with Melissa, Makenzi, Cody, Jesse, Sarah, with John, with Olivia,...Jeff will always be here. And when they live, he lives. When they hurt, he hurts, at least for me.
I know that I have changed. I know that I am callous to important drama, to current events, and even to some people's needs. How could I not be changed. I am a Momma Kitty who had lost her kitten.I searched for him and what I found was my son's blood splattered all over his clothes. The clothes that  I had washed, the clothes I had dried, the clothes I had folded, and the clothes I had carefully mended so the patch over his tiny hurts wouldn't show. I have a memory of a little lost boy in a man's body begging me to never leave him, begging me for help. I have a memory of him crawling up on my lap that last day, laying his head on my lap , and placing my hand on his fuzzy head and stroking his head with more love than I thought I could ever feel for him again. Then I have a memory of stroking that same precious head as it laid on a pillow in a casket, and pretending that I wasn't dieing inside when they pulled me away from him for the last time. I am changed. How could I not be. I have a hole. A hole that was once filled with challenge, with hopes, with dreams, for a life so precious that I couldn't live without it and now I must.
I guess I write this today because I feel different. I do not fit anymore. I am no longer the mother of all the adopted "Burd" children. I am the mother of the boy who committed suicide. I am not normal. I am crazy. Crazy with grief everyday your child does something that my child never will. Crazy because I cannot support gun control or care who you vote for or even care if the ozone layer burns up. I now care about today. I care about the little faces who call me Momma and Grammie. I care whether they are happy and safe and loved and feel needed. I care where they are at and if they are healthy. I care so much that I am obsessed. I care because I have lost my kitten. I am patching my hole. I will not survive another hole this deep and so I must protect my other kittens from the bad world. It is my job. It is all I know.
So next time you see a Momma who has buried her child. Know that she always needs a hug, that she isn't crazy, that today she may be smiling, but tomorrow she may be putting flowers on her child's grave. But mostly, just mostly, have some compassion for her as she watches your child grow up and live, because you , my mothering friend, are blessed beyond measure ...and may you never, ever, have to patch a hole this big within your blanket of motherhood....

Finishing the Garments...Flying Like a Burd

I remember when I saw him coming towards me that day, I knew he was up to no good. He had his little swimming goggles on, winter gloves, an old camo shirt, and his mud stomping boots. But the best part of this "boy fashioned" outfit was the triangular shaped vinyl siding roped to each arm. His boyish grin was approaching me fast. I knew I had to be on my toes for this one. "Momma? Do you got a ladder?"
Now I chose not to laugh and looking my serious six year old son straight in the eye, I carefully replied. "James, you're gonna try to fly aren't you..." He shook his head in affirmation. Tim looked up from his paper now, quite amused that his young son had the same initiative that he too had as a child.
"I'm gonna get on the roof Momma, and jump. Mara tied this real tight and if I calculated my figures right, I can fly!" James explained with sheer joy oozing from his new found career. First of all, I was pretty sure that James didn't know what calculate even meant and second of all, it was a true miracle that he hadn't been killed in any of the other "career moves" that he'd calculated in the past.
I looked at him and started to speak, but Tim, trying to serious and contain his laughter advised James, "Now, James, I think if we cut that triangle right up the middle and when you get up there, you start running and flapping real hard, well, I think you'll fly!" I looked at my husband who was now peeling in laughter and his son was about to go and find something to cut his wings.
"Tim, are you crazy?" a phrase I uttered to him almost on a daily basis since I married him. "James, you are not, I repeat, not getting a ladder and jumping off to fly. You'll break every bone in your body and I am not in the mood to take you to the hospital. Daddy is being silly. Now, give Momma a kiss and go play..." James looked at his Daddy, who nodded and laughed as he headed for the door.
"Bye, Momma!" he yelled after my hug and kiss, "I'm gonna go and..." his voice trailed off as he headed to Grandma's next door.
I raced to the phone and called Virginia, "Look out your window. He's gonna ask for a ladder..."
Virginia started to chuckle, "Gonna try to fly today huh? Well, I'll feed him some ice cream and send him home!" I could hear her laughing as she hung up explaining to Gramps what his youngest grandson was up to today.
Kids. Kids learning to do the impossible. Kids learning to fly. I think that for me, that is the hardest part of motherhood; letting them go and letting them learn to fly. We parent our kids and we nurture them. We teach them how to eventually leave our nest and become wonderful, thriving adults. We want them to grow up and be an inaugural, life changing part of our community- "make the world a better place so to speak". But what I failed to realize is that with each life lesson, I am actually pushing my children out of the nest. Slowly, carefully nudging them towards the edge so that they will one day fly out on their own. At first, it wasn't too hard to send them off into adulthood and college. After all, our nest was pretty full and having a little more room to spread our wings felt good.
But now, as I am faced with three children graduating this year and leaving our nest left with just one Baby Burd, I realize I don't want to nudge anymore. I don't want to teach them life lessons. I don't want them to be prepared to live without me. I just want to love them. I want to love their lives. I want to watch every sporting event in slow motion. Laugh at every joke they say. Praise every moment they choose to grace me with their presence. Listen as they babble on and on about insignificant issues that will be forgotten tomorrow. I breath in every moment of everyday. I am exhausted. But I savor every moment because I know, once they fly away, they will be different. They will be grown. And my position in their lives will be changed forever. I will become more of a friend and less of a boss. I will be "Mom", and "Momma" will be a person in their childhood memories. But I know this year will pass. They will grow up. They will graduate, at least that's the plan. They will fly away. I know I must nudge because like it or not, it's coming.

 And so I teach. I weep. I pray. I watch. I nudge. But there is still, in the back of my mind, the knowledge that a moment is coming when I will be standing  with the scissors and ladder and looking up and quietly whispering, "I love you James, fly like a Burd, baby, fly like a Burd!"

Following the Pattern...Trusting the Maker

I think as a parent, the scariest moments in my life have been when my children were ill and I couldn't nurse them back to health on my own. Having to seek medical treatment for an unknown ailment and not being in total control of your child or the situation is a helpless feeling that few of us, thank God, have ever had to experience....
Katie-Grace was  weeks when she began to fuss for no apparent reason. We were enjoying a leisurely afternoon at the track field watching our children compete, when for no reason at all, she began to whimper and cry. Since all of the new sounds and sights were unfamiliar, Tierney and I took her to the van to watch from there and see if she would settle down. But after a few minutes, she quickly grew worse, and her whimpers turned into screams. I stared at my little girl and looked deep into her pleading eyes, "Tierney, somethings wrong with this baby. Honey, somethings really wrong. We need to go home and take her temperature." Tierney nodded on agreement and we raced home.
"Her temp is over 101degrees Momma- I've taken it twice," my daughter looked at me worried. Katce was still crying. "I think you're right Momma, we gotta take her now. Let's just go and I'll call Daddy." Tierney called her dad and within minutes, we were packed up and in the car with my scared little baby girl in the back crying.
"You're sure she had a temp, she registers fine now," the attending physicians assured me. She kept checking katce over and looking at every part of her. Tierney and I both nodded. "Then by law, I have to do a spinal tap. It's standard procedure. But you're sure?" she explained. I looked at my small, precious baby, our gift from God. Tears ran down my cheeks as I nodded again. My baby just stared at me, her bug eyes seemed to be begging for help.
We could hear her screaming when Tim arrived. He looked harried and overwhelmed. I updated him and the doctor came out and said that she couldn't get into Katce's spine. "I want to admit her," she said matter of factly. "We'll keep her here for now, but we may have to transfer her- at this point, I just don't know..."
It had been two days, two days and no improvement. I was staying with her around the clock and a different child came from home to help me. Tim came every chance he could. It was late the second night, Katce was screaming again. She just wouldn't stop. I began to cry as I rubbed her frail, little body. I could tell she was in pain. I could tell she needed help and we were just not finding the answer to her ailment. We were talking with the doctor and it looked like we were going to be sent to a larger hospital for children. they were so concerned because her fever would not break. It was always at least 101 degrees, but had went as high as 103 degrees. I was in a panic. I was exhausted both physically and mentally. I started to croon to her. It was late, at least 3am, and she was still crying...I just wept softly, singing and holding her. Poor Katce. Were we going to lose her now? Was this gift only given to us for such a short time, only to be ushered from our lives forever?
I could see she was dying. The nurses were quiet and solemn. I could hear them whisper with heavy faces. I knew their comments were not good. I continued to pray and sing Bible songs to her. "Lord, I love this child. I love her more than my life. But she is suffering. She is suffering so much. I cannot help her. Please Lord, if she is going to continue to suffer and die a painful death, will you please take her from me. I want her to be happy and healthy. I want her to stop suffering so..." and I laid my head next to her and sobbed uncontrollably. All of the sudden, Katce stopped crying. The nurse came over, and checked her.... the fever had broken.
Katce stared at me and grasped my finger. She was resting. She was at peace. for the first time in three days, my sick baby girl was not screaming. Her eyes quickly drooped and she fell into a deep, deep sleep. Thank you God, thank you so much! And I knew, I knew as we transferred her to a bigger hospital- she would be okay. I knew when they told us she had meningitis and a bad kidney- she would live. I knew when we spent twenty one days in the ICU- she would come home with us one day. I knew when she wouldn't eat and we had to feed her through a tube- she was going to make it. And I knew on our way home, that I had a God who needed me to give this child back to Him one more time- that I had forever, forever had an answer to my prayer.
I guess the moral to the story is that sometimes as a parent, I do not have control. I cannot fix it all. But faith can move mountains, miracles do happen. Every single day I watch my children live a miracle life . I am thankful. I am blessed. But mostly I am grateful that I have and they have a God who loves them so much, that he will step up and take care of them when my feeble, earthly ways cannot.
Today, Katie-Grace is med free. She runs and laughs and lives. She paints the dog with yogurt, puts mozzarella string cheese in the dryer, and occasionally is known to draw on her sleeping sister's face with permanent marker. All by the grace of God.

Security Blankets...All Wrapped Up in Love...

Last night as I cuddled my little granddaughter, J'Lynnie, I realized that the first thing I do before I hoist her on my lap, is grab a "blankie". I bring her to my chest, wrap that blankie around her, and begin to softly croon lullabies while quietly rocking and rubbing her little body. She loves this, all children do. They like the hush sounds, the gentle touches; the assured security. Security. A word that, unfortunately, isn't always being considered in this day and age to be a factor in  properly caring for youngsters. And to me, that is a sad testimony to our culture and society.
I guess I didn't really grow up with a true sense of security. I was never really sure what was going to happen at home from one day to the next. Life was  chaotic. Drinking, failing marriages, and no money, were all a lot for a small child to know about. So when I entered adulthood and starting having children of my own, my whole goal in their little lives was to make sure that they had a safe and secure upbringing. To me security means a home where they can come and find refuge when life gets too tough. A place that smells like fresh baked cookies and crumbs on the floor. A place that when the lights go out at night, there are no monsters, just beautiful dimly lit rooms filled with memories made in love. Security to a child means never knowing that the bills may not be paid or that the "wolf" is at the door. It means enough food in the fridge to fill a gnawing tummy and a tall glass of fresh water in a clean glass. It means daily washed  clothes that smell of perfume. It means looking out in the stands and knowing your parents are there watching your every play of the game. It means they'll be there waiting with a smile after you've  won or  lost and never chastising you for the latter. It means a hot bath with bubbles and water all over the floor and not getting yelled at because they forgot they weren't in swimming  pool. Security means eating nightly dinners together at the table and laughing when someone farts or food shoots out their nose. It simply means putting your children first. Making sure that they have a childhood full of goofy pranks and silly dreams. It means when life knocks them down, their parent is there to pick them up, put them in their arms, and wrap a blankie around them so tight, that the world and it's ugliness goes away, at least for a little while.
Every child  or grandchild in my home has a special blankie sewn or picked out by me. Before I gave birth to my daughters, I handstiched each little girl her own special  blankie. Before we adopted our children, each one had a handmade blankie waiting on their bed for them. I did it so that  they would always know that their Momma loved and prepared a special home for them even before they came to live fwith us forever. Each child has been wrapped in their blankie, sung their own personal lullaby, and tucked in safe at night. Every night that same blankie was snuggled right up under their chin with a smooch placed firmly on their faces. My children have drug those blankies everywhere, to the grocery store, to the playground, to their forts, even to their married homes. They know that with those blankies comes a sense of home, love, safety, and more important security.
I know it sounds silly, maybe even childish, but I sleep with a blankie myself. When the long day has ended and I feel even the least little bit ill, I go to the wall hanging, pull off my blankie, and climb into bed, cuddling under it for a sense of safety. And somehow, it works. I fall right to sleep and wake up feeling refreshed and alert. What is special about my blankie is that my daughter quilted it for me. Each stitch was her attempt at making me feel loved and secure. Is it beautiful? Sure it is, but it could be the ugliest blanket in the world and I would still display it proudly because it was made in love. Even my husband Tim has a blankie given to him from Kayla,  and he too has been secretly known (when he is ill of course), to pull it off it's hanger and crawl up underneath it. Blankies are not just for kids, even we adults need them when our world becomes more than we can bear.
I guess what I'm getting at here, is that children are cute. We can dress them up. We can play with them. But if we, as parents and grandparents, don't take the time to pick out a blankie with them, and give them some nurturing and cuddling, then we are going to end up with a society filled with children who have no sense of security. A society where human life in disposable. A life where we get tired of our children and stop making them our first priority. A world full of money sucking vacuums, that exist purely to fill the hole created by a false sense of security. Is that what we as parents want? Of course not, but if we look around, that's what we have.
So today, go home to your children. Listen to their insignificant babble. Hoist them up on your lap, gently kiss their face, and tell them they matter more than your own goals. And then wrap a blankie around them and just sit quietly holding the most precious gift of all....life.