Once Upon a Time

 I don't think I was meant for the 21st century. Ever since I was a child, I have always been attracted to things of the past. Stuff with a little history. Places with character. I can spend hours in antique stores, just looking and imagining and dreaming. I love museums and musty basements, built-ins and breakfast nooks, vintage postcards, forgotten letters, and dusty National Geographic magazines.

My fascination with the past has also permeated my world-view. I have a great reverence and a certain amount of awe for that which came before me, and for those that laid the foundation on which I now stand. I am constantly aware that my existence is only a link in an extraordinarily long chain. And I very often find myself wishing that "the way things used to be" were "the way things still are."

I appreciate a slower pace of life. I prefer speaking with people one on one and face to face. I am humbled by the thoughtfulness and time invested in a hand written letter. I love it when my kids make creative use out of last night's pizza box, or choose to spend the morning writing stories rather than watching television. I enjoy family walks on a Saturday morning and I cherish the community that a small, traditional, multi-generational church family provides. I feel like many of these simple things have been devalued in the name of "progress," yet these are the things that fill my soul.

Don't get me wrong, I love my straight iron as much the next girl, and I am extremely thankful for dishwashers, the Civil Rights movement, my hard-won ability to vote, and the polio vaccine. Technology isn't all bad, either. I have a cell phone, a digital camera and a laptop. And as a stay-at-home mom in a new city, email, blogging, facebook, and Pinterest have been my portal to the outside world. In many ways "progress" has made our lives a little more interesting, and a whole lot more convenient. I can admit it.

But how much is too much?

And does convenience fill the soul?

And is being connected becoming more important than the connection?

These questions challenge me daily. Because I don't want Facebook friendships to replace face to face friendships. I don't want to spend the day pin surfing when I could be doing. I don't want to confuse busy-ness for real, honest-to-goodness, deep down in your being fulfillment. You have to be more savvy these days because culture tends to advertise the two as one and the same.

 The way things used to be. I kind of remember those days. Or at least I remember reading about those days. I remember hearing about those days. And  I want to remember. I want to remember to be quiet sometimes, so I am able to hear what is authentic within me. I want to remember how to wait, so I don't forget my very vulnerable and inferior place in this universe. And I want to remember to simplify, so what is truly important isn't swallowed up by what isn't. I want to remember, and in remembering and honoring the past, somehow enrich the present. 

***The irony that I am writing this in cyberspace and posting it on facebook for all of my virtual friends, and that I am doing so while my husband sits next to me and plays video games is not lost on me. Oh, and did I mention that I wrote part of this post while I anesthetized my four year old with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse so I could concentrate? Really and truly, this is an ideal, and one I do strive for, though sometimes I do not succeed. Such as in the writing of this blog post.

First and Last

 

Tomorrow Sam turns a year old. His first birthday. My last first.

I love first birthdays.

I love them because of the miracle that occurs somewhere in the midst of twelve months that turns a completely inert and utterly dependent newborn into a drooling, waving, toddling, self-feeding, grin inducing child.

I love first birthdays because of the miracle that has allowed me, the girl who can barely keep her indoor herb garden from withering, to provide a child with the roots and soil needed to thrive.

Truth be told, I love first birthdays because I love, I mean LOVE to watch my little ones, covered head to toe in frosting, smashing handfuls of cake into their little pie holes. Talk about pure joy...for them and for me.

Tomorrow Sam turns a year old. It is the bittersweet end of an era in our family. But we all know it is really another new beginning. And that's kind of fun, too.

Happy Birthday to my little man. You are an immeasurable blessing to us all. 

Amelia Burgess, Age 6 3/4

In the early morning hours on December 15, 2004, the nurse on night duty handed this little being to me, this little being we had just named Amelia, her crazy pouf of bright red hair secured with a lavender ribbon. Daddy was still sleeping. So, for a quiet moment, it was just the two of us, Amelia and me, and all of my hopes and dreams for the life before her that I could not yet begin to fathom.

Amelia Elizabeth and her crazy pouf of bright red hair are now almost seven years old. She is in first grade. It has been a milestone year, to say the very least. Her life, which began in that little room, with her tiny lavender bow, has begun to unfold.

It is colorful. 

It is dramatic. 

It is a joy.

She spent a toothless summer learning how to swim the length of the pool without assistance. 

She is on a no-joking-around soccer team. The kind where they make her run laps when she makes a mistake during practice. Mom thinks it's too much for a first grader. Amelia loves it...

So much so, that when it comes to a ballet vs. soccer showdown, she chooses soccer without any hesitation. Even though the kid is a dancing fool. Of course, I say that in love. 

You see, this kid is a striver. She has a will like steel and a mind that rarely stops. When I put her to bed at night, I have a ritual where I "turn" her brain "off." Amelia does not like to slow down, even for sleep. 

She learned this past weekend to ride a bike without training wheels. She fell down and got right back up again. Multiple times.And has the bruises and scars to prove it...

And she reads. She reads and reads and reads and reads. She reads billboards on the side of the road and the bulletin at church and board books to her baby brother. 

 Amelia, reading to her entourage

Amelia also adores it when I read to her. She doesn't let her daddy do it very often. That is our special time. This summer, we read the Ramona Quimby series. Next, it was Nancy Drew. Since school began, we have read abridged versions of Little Women, Pollyanna, and Heidi together. This is the only time that Amelia will snuggle with me. I hope she never gives it up.

And my favorite thing of all, the thing that makes me the most proud is her emerging creativity. Her kindergarten teacher encouraged them to use "kid writing," spelling words the best way they can in order to increase writing confidence and fluidity. Though my mother fears that she will never learn to spell correctly, I am in awe of how she is able to express herself. Here are some samples (translation as needed):

 "Mom is not being very nice because mom won't let me have an ice cream cone. That is how I feel."

 She makes worksheets for Sadie. I think Sadie may have had some help with the math.

 "Once upon a time there lived two princesses"

 A map of her life. "Hatin Place" is actually "Hampton Place," the street we live on :) 

 One of her favorite television shows is "Shake it Up, Chicago." Chicago is a tough word to spell.

An abstract self-portrait. I love that she always draws herself with orange hair. 

In those early morning moments, when it was just Amelia and me, I could never have dreamed how this little being would fill and enrich my life.

Amelia Elizabeth Burgess

My determined, creative, energetic, precious, orange-haired little big girl.

I am so blessed to be your mom.

This Girl...

She is my middle child. My snuggler. My sidekick.

She collects trash for her special projects. Every disposed toilet paper roll or cardboard box becomes a cell phone or doll house.

And oh, how this girl loves tape.

When she is proud of herself, she effervesces. Beams. Glows.

When I pick her up at preschool, she runs to me, arms open wide, yelling, "Mommy!"

She has a tender heart and sweet nature. She needs an immeasurable amount of hugs before she can fall asleep at night.

She is a free spirit. She loves to dance and when she does, she can really shake her little groove thang.

Every idea proposed by her big sister is solid gold.

She has enormous brown eyes that make it difficult for her mommy and daddy to be angry, even when she draws on the hardwood floor or removes all clothing from the waist down and pees in the backyard. In front of the neighbor mowing his yard. But I digress...

She will try just about anything at least once. Including broccoli.

She is a developing a little conscience. Three weeks after she promised me that she did not cut off a chunk of her hair (even though it looked that way), without prompting, she fessed up and in tears, admitted her guilt.

She prefaces almost every statement or question with, "Can I say one thing?"

When I give her kisses at bedtime, she holds my face in her little hands and looks straight into my eyes.

This girl...
has my whole heart.

Green Grass

I am adjusting to being a stay-at-home mom.

That said, my house between the hours of four and five 0'clock are the closest thing I have ever experienced to the utter pandemonium often associated with being a full-time mom to three young children. Especially lately with Sam's new found mobility and accompanying curiosity. It's pretty much unbridled chaos around here. All three kids are home. Dave is not. They are tired. They are hungry. I am ready to have a conversation with someone over the age of six. Try as I might to find my happy place sauteing vegetables, I am inevitably interrupted (as I was this evening) by a child in need of a timeout for sticking her finger down her brother's throat, or by having to run outside to stop my little entrepreneurs from trying to sell their toys to our next door neighbors, or by fishing a full size grape out of the mouth of my ten month old...and then comforting him after he slams his face down on the kitchen floor, bloodying his lip as a means of protest. At this hour, the witching hour, I must remind myself that I chose this life.

I chose this life because right now because I've been on the other side. I've had the chance to dress up and put on make-up and go to work and bring home a paycheck and have an identity outside of my home and come back to my kids at the end of the day. And the grass is not always greener, though some days it seems that way.

Even on the hardest days, the green grass of my stay-at-home motherhood experience has been the new bond I've formed with my children. I drop them off in the morning. I pick them up every afternoon. I know what shows they watch and what they eat for breakfast and who they played with on the playground. I know how to calm a tantrum and what sets them off. I know their favorite books at the library and what kind of slush they will order at Sonic for Happy Hour. I am there to enforce chores and I know which consequences carry the most weight when they start to whine. I knew most of these things when I worked, too. But now these are the most important details of my day. The only things I have to remember. They are my job. I will not say that this life is the kind of domestic heaven that I always dreamed of as a girl. I have WAY too much laundry for that to be true. But I know my kids. And I know them in a way I've never known them before. That is priceless.

Times three.

Lessons

Here a just a few things that I have learned over the course of the past year:
*Lessons that were re-learned this year and will be probably need to be re-learned in different ways every year for the rest of my life are delineated with an asterisk

-I am entitled to nothing*.
-Substance pretty much trumps aesthetics in every situation*
-One can buy electrocution-style mouse traps
-I can survive with only one bathroom
-I must never leave my wallet in the car. Ever.*
-Blood is not necessarily thicker than water
-Baby boys eat WAY more than baby girls
-Sixteen straight hours in a car with three kids is pretty much as bad as it sounds
-I am more than what I do (or don't do) for a living
-Nature should be both feared and respected...as should tornado warnings.
-One of the best things in life is to have a friend who can relate
-I love my creepy basement
-Ten successive snow days are only manageable with a case of diet coke in the fridge
-Chick-fil-A is the best fast food restaurant EVER.
-Grass is very seldom greener on the other side*
-My kids are awesome. All three of 'em
-The book is ALWAYS better than the movie*
-Excessive licorice consumption will give you cavities
-What doesn't kill you will sometimes make you stronger, and then sometimes it just really, really hurts*
-Avocados are freakin' expensive
-My husband is one of the biggest blessings I've ever received*
-God is good. All the time. Regardless of what is happening around me, God is always good.***

Who knew?

Back to School

In many ways, this summer has seemed interminable. As a parent, I am running out of creativity, grasping at straws for ways to entertain my kids. On Tuesday, in a hazy moment of desperation, I bought a package of Oreos and let them scoop the centers out to make a giant frosting ball. Not my finest parenting moment.

And summer began abruptly this year. It began without good-byes or end-of-the-year parties or any trace of sentimentality. The beginning of summer was, in fact, largely overlooked. Overshadowed. Overwhelmed.

Three weeks in, we began, almost reluctantly (and guiltily) to do some of the more normal summer things: trips to the pool, afternoon drives for ice cream, a vacation to Branson with friends. Even though life was anything but. Normal, that is.

Because there is nothing normal about your kids "playing" tornado. Or asking people wherever they go if they can see their basement. Or their crawl space. Just in case. And normal is not a field of FEMA trailers outside of town. Or little ole' Joplin, Missouri making headlines on CNN. Or letting your kids consume the frosting from an entire package of Oreo cookies.

But there is also nothing normal about weekly church dinners for the volunteers (over 400 at last count) who we have housed on our campus all summer. Or the way strangers help strangers without thinking twice. Or the way people in this city have learned to live with a sense of purpose for serving others. Because those in need live in their backyard. And there is nothing normal about free backpacks and school supplies for all 7,000 students. Or hundreds of people working around the clock to make sure our children, all of our children, have a place to go to school next Wednesday. Not normal can be a good thing. It can be a great thing.

On Wednesday, I will have a first grader. And a new start. A new routine. And a new normal. Back to school means more this year than a few new outfits and a new teacher. Back to school in Joplin will be a return to something that was lost on May 22nd. I am sure that I am not alone when I say that I crave the day-to-day normalcy of school drop-off and pick-up, the monotony of making lunches, of signing and returning paperwork, and of driving my kids to their dance lessons or soccer practice. Though life as it was ended on May 22nd, all of these "normal" things are really symbols that life, though changed forever, does goes on.