mother's days

When I was a little girl I would look in the mirror with my hands on my stomach and pretend I was pregnant.  I played with my dolls and couldn't wait to have a real baby to hold and dress up.   I had no idea of the all-encompassing love, constant amazement and utter exhaustion those little babies would bring.   Today I am celebrating the two boys who made me a mother!

Jake was born a day early, popping into the world at 10:10 am.  He had blue eyes and blond fuzz on his head.  My first thought was that he looked just like Steve and also like the Sunshine family doll baby I played with throughout my childhood.   It fit because Jake is sunshine.  Happy and smiling, he would lay in his crib chirping in the mornings until we came to get him. We'd bring him back to our bed and stare at him in amazement.  How had we made such a darling child and how we could love him so intensely?  He had a little singsong voice that continually engaged us in questions and comments. translating for his quiet brother and observing the world around him.

Today Jake is 14, an artist with a warm, friendly spirit.  When the boys were little, Josh would say "When I grow up I want to be popleear like Jake."  Jake is easy to talk to.  He is creative, making movies, drawing pictures so full of details, you can stare at them for hours.  He is organized, he makes plans.  He is thoughtful, leaving notes and phone messages.  He is a runner with agility and speed.  He loves holidays and traditions.  He likes to get lost in a good book.  He is a morning person who wakes up with hope and joy. And I get to be his mom!

20 months after my first "Mother's day",  Josh was born a week overdue.  He arrived at 10:50 pm, mad and overcooked.  He was all red with dark curly hair and a deep scowl.  My first thought with him was  "ok, little man, I guess I am your mom."  He frowned back at me.  If Jake was sunshine, Josh was thunder that day.  A little prize fighter.

Little did we know how much he'd need that fighter spirit.  Three weeks later we were back in the hospital with a now malnourished, bald, sick baby for surgery to fix pyloric stenosis.  For the next six months I slept with Josh, nose to nose, his little hands holding my t-shirt, so I could make sure he was breathing through the night.  Eighteen months after that we were back for brain surgery to remove a tennis ball sized tumor on his motor strip.  Then back to the hospital every few months for follow up MRI's. Through all of this Josh was sweet, stoic and tough about IV's and testing.  We watched our little brave boy in amazement, hoping our ferocious love would pull him through.

Today Josh is 12, an athlete with a gentle, self-sufficient spirit.  He has a never-ending capacity to play, with his brother or friends, bouncing a ball, creating buildings on mine craft, or catch with his dog.  Josh is a lover of nature.  When he was younger he spent hours pouring over animal books, the undisputed expert in our family on mammals, reptiles and weather.  He will point out to me "look how beautiful the sky is today" or bring me a flower he picked.  Josh is a cuddler, wedging between us on the couch or snuggling up beside me to watch House Hunters or the Today Show.  He is our night owl always needing a few more minutes to stay up watching Basketball. And I get to be his mom!

My momma cup is full and overflowing.  I'd love to peek in on little Erin with her dolls and tell her "It's going to be more than you could ever imagine.  Way beyond your wildest dreams!!"

thunder

After a night of crazy, violent electric storms and crashing thunder, our alarms went off at 3:00 am.  Jake was heading to Puerto Rico on his class/mission trip.  We pulled his sweat shirt out of the dryer.  Packed a travel breakfast in a plastic bag.  Rechecked the packing list.  Loaded the car.  Hugged again. And headed to the school in steady rain.  At 4:00 am  Jake boarded a bus of excited, pumped-up 8th graders and still-waking-up sponsors.   And I made myself get back in my car, willed myself not to cry, reminded myself that he is a big boy, and big boys go on trips with their friends and are fine.

Half way home, Steve called.  "Are you alright?"  
"Yes, just a little weepy."
"Oh yeah.  But also, I just heard a huge bang and wanted to make sure it wasn't you."
Suddenly I heard an explosion.  And saw a quick bright light.
"There is is again." Steve said.  "Wow.  That is near our house."

I came around the corner and saw a tree that had been shattered by lightening and fallen across power lines.  Maybe hit an electrical box too.  For a moment it was very quiet.  And dark.  All electricity was off in our neighborhood.  By the time I pulled into our driveway, sirens were screaming and headed our way.

Steve brought a flashlight out and I made my way back to bed.  I laid there trying to figure out how our morning routine would be altered without power.  Listening to the sirens and ceaseless rain.  (How miserable to be out there working in this.)  And missing Jake.  Then I fell asleep.

Two hours later I woke up to the whirring of our ceiling fan and a glow of light from the kitchen.  Power was back.  Talented people working in the dark and rain had sawed up the tree, put the lines back up and fixed the box.  Our morning was back on track.

 I read somewhere that sleeping is an act of spiritual trust.  Psalms 3:5 says I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me.  This morning, with our power back on, I thought about how God is up all night. Listening, caring, seeing, moving, calming.  And like our utility team, working to restore everlasting power and light.  

Have courage for the great sorrows in life, and patience for the small ones. And when you have laboriously accomplished your daily tasks, go to sleep in peace. God is awake. -Victor Hugo

pajamas

This weekend is our annual alumni pilgrimage to Maryland.  Last night we dressed up and drove into D.C. to meet old friends at a new restaurant.  Heels and lipstick, city lights and fancy food.  It was a wonderful break from hospice visits and packed lunches eaten in my car.  Best of all was catching up with forever friends.  We bragged on our kids, talked about our jobs, our vacation plans.  We laughed and teased and hugged.  It was one of those evenings you feel lucky to have.
 I needed it.

This morning we straggled from the guest room to the kitchen in our pajamas.   Bare faces.  Dark allergy circles under the eyes, hair sticking up, sweatshirts and socks to fight the cool of the house.  We perched on bar stools and passed coffee mugs around.  The kids were still sleeping.  The house was quiet.   And the conversation was real.   We know each other's families and challenges.  Faith, frustrations, plans and hopes. The kind of conversations you have when the make-up is off and the friendships are deep.  It was one of those mornings that goes beyond lucky.  And I needed it more.

When I was a kid sleep-overs were a regular occurrence.  If my parents had to be gone, they would grab our sleeping bags and tooth brushes and drop us off at our friend's house.  We would fight sleep and wake up early to get back to play.  I remember summer weeks with my cousins, talking late into every night.  As a teenager I would plan Saturday nights with my girl friends, making caramel corn and watching movies before falling asleep on their couches.

As an grown up, I never plan sleep-overs with my friends.  I like my own bed.  I'm too busy.  And way too tired to stay up late or get up early to talk.  But sometimes they just happen.   And with them comes the intimacy of pajama conversations.

We've had them on blue couches in California, heightened by jet lag and interrupted with trips to the back yard for fresh grapefruit. We've had them in Georgia while yummy vegan pancakes were cooking on the stove.  We've had them in hotel rooms perched on all corners of the bed.  At the lake.  At the beach.  Each time, unplanned.  Unexpected.  But so rich, rewarding, and friendship building.

Earlier this week my friend Jennifer called to talk.  Between hungry children (hers) and nursing home visits (mine) we squeezed a few minutes of conversation in.  "We need to really talk."  Jennifer said.  "This waving to each other across the church once a week is not cutting it."

What we need is a pajama morning.