November 29, 2010

Let joy be unconfined

"  On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined."
-Lord Byron

Today I brought Grant to his dance class. An hour early.
For the THIRD week in a row.
I'm not even pregnant.
His teachers are great. But when we showed up at the wrong class again today, one of the ladies asked me with a steely politeness, "Will you be dropping him off now, or at the correct time?" That's when I had to sheepishly ask (again) what time his class was at? Amazingly, I've managed to write the wrong time, on every calendar, dateplanner and notepaper in the house. Somehow, every week I show up at the wrong time...I think the week before was just a fluke, and that I wasn't paying attention to my highly organized schedule.
After driving around town, stopping by the post office, and listening to bored kids in the back seat for an hour, I tried to take Grant to his class.  At the correct time. He was all fun and games until we got to the door. Then he did the cling and squeeze. I detached the little leach. We talked. I walked into the class with him. I paid his costume fee, along with the hefty late fee for not doing so earlier.  It was no use. He had his head buried into my thigh the entire time.
We walked out.

After driving around the block, the tears started flowing from the little ballerino in the back seat. "I WEALLY want to go to my dance cwass!" 

We talked about being brave, about how I would ALWAYS come back for him, and how much he loves dancing. We circled back to the studio. We got to the door.  Happy sounds of giggly girls, music and tap shoes stomping away carried from the room. We open the door. I give him a little push. A small victory starts tingling in my stress-filled shoulder blades. Halfway through, he bolts back to me and starts crying.

We drove home. 2 hours down the drain. Cranky kids all around. My wallet feeling pretty taken advantage of for the costume fee. And me SO angry at my little 3-year-old who can't make up his mind about dance and has suddenly decided he is shy.


On the way home he fell asleep. As I was carrying him to his room, with his little arms wrapped around my neck, and his head wobbling on my shoulders; I soaked it in. I thought about how stupid I was. On so many levels. Feeling dumb about never getting to his class like a normal mother. About missing the costume fee deadline. And, for even caring if he goes to another class. Ever. We can try again next year.

I've spent these past six months, grieving cuddles with our youngest daughter, and learning to love her better than comes naturally, and differently than I knew. God is helping make that easier every day. But, here I am with this little boy in the sunset of babyhood--trying to kick him out the door!
 His cuddles are pretty sweet, too, you know. 



For now, I'm content with my daily recitals at home.   

November 25, 2010

Happiness is...

A full tank of gas.
Milk in the fridge.

Knowing you're not alone.

Happiness is being thankful.

"A Thankful Heart is a Happy Heart!
I'm glad for what I have, that's an easy way to start..."

Junior Asparagus~

November 24, 2010

November 17, 2010

The more you know, the less you know...

Nothing gets me writing faster than work.

Writing as a bail-out has been a plan I kept in my back pocket since I was seven. Right after I started keeping a diary.

"'s been five hours and your room is STILL untouched."  
That's when you do the 23 minute shove and stuff under beds, into closets and right inside dresser drawers.

I have avoided writing, because I don't understand what God is doing with me. There are so many things going on in my heart. My life. My brain is a mess. You can probably guess; I'm no good at multi-tasking. It's bull-crap what they say about women and multi-tasking.

However, while I was sweeping just now. (The kids are in bed, and we are having company in the morning. Why else would I be cleaning!?) I was having some deep thoughts:

Somewhere along the lines of that saying, "The more you know, the less you know," or "The more you learn, the less you understand."

The day I was born, I had the official soul of an 85-year-old woman. I've always felt old. My older brother used to call me Dr. Yikky-Yak. If you ask my parents, they might tell you that I was a good kid. But, they get an interestingly pained look on their faces, that says, "I'm SO glad she grew out of that stage." That...ten-year-stage of know-it-all-ness.Well, kind of grew out of it. Mostly I moved out and got married.

Apparently I argue a lot, too. That's why God gave me a husband who can whoop me mentally/intellectually. (And, YES. It hurt to write that.)  I am a brat. Jason will forever regret saying he liked how, "feisty," I am. I'm still a know-it-all. Totally. 

I vividly remember my grandpa Jack looking at me while he and my dad were talking. Or trying to talk. I'm sure I was interrupting, arguing, or teasing. He looked down at me (with those awesome blue eyes that MY Jack has now) smiling gently, smirking slightly and then said to my dad, "I feel a little bit sorry for him." And, then just kept on going with his original conversation. He wouldn't divulge any more than that. Probably the rudest thing he ever said to me! 

(He and my dad are the kind of men that most girls only get to dream about having for their pater familias. They are great. SUPER great.)

I had NO idea what they were talking about. But, being the relentlessly nosy person that I am, I finally got my dad to tell me, "Honey, he just meant your husband."
"Husband!? I'm not getting married!"

Nope. Not getting married....

Got it all planned out.

As I approach my mid-midlife-crisis (Is that what you call 30?), I feel like I'm on... the verge

"Verge of what?"

Heck, I don't know.

Just on the verge. 

I've spent a lot of time being old; while I was young. And, now that I'm finally starting to see the first genuine signs of aging. I think I'd like to stay young a little longer. Like, forever.

As trite as that sounds-- I don't mean young looking.  But, I mean it in a heart way. To be hopeful. To have energy to serve. To give second chances. To have child-like faith.To stop defining my life by the things I don't do, or like, or have. To trust. To love. To NOT act like I know so much. Because I don't. I really don't.

I'm learning to celebrate my weaknesses. A tiny, weeny, itty-bitty bit.

In closing dear ones...I leave you with the brilliance of someone else:

"God Himself  is man's birthplace. God is the self that makes the soul able to say, I too, am."

"THERE IS A CHILDHOOD into which we have to grow, just as there is a childhood which we must leave behind. One is a childishness from which but few of those who are counted wisest among men have freed themselves. The other is a child-likeness, which is the highest gain of humanity. "

~George MacDonald