Grab a Box of Kleenex

Head over to Rachel's blog for a video gone viral that is sure to make you bawl, baby, bawl.

Rachel went on to relate a story that involved my son, Tim:

A few weeks ago, we had our last home games for Junior Varsity. There were two boys on the team who hadn’t scored yet (they hadn’t gotten tons of playing time this season, which is only nice in that it means we had a lot of close games that we actually won!). So this, our last home game, Paul put them in the game. 

You could tell the boys on the team were focused on getting the ball to those boys. A few minutes in, one of the point guards passed the ball to William. He shot that ball and…SCORED! I think it may have been a three. The gym went nuts. I looked across the court to see Paul (William’s dad) standing up with his arms raised in the air. I was standing next to my mom and we both had tears welling up in our eyes. His victory was his dad’s victory was the entire home team’s victory. 

The other boy, Tim, came in after that. The boys fed him the ball and he probably took about six or seven shots. He didn’t end up scoring, but I don’t really feel like that diminished all the love that was just pouring out of the stands for that kid. I know that sounds hokey but I don’t care. Everyone was chanting “Tim! Tim! Tim!” and I was proud to be a part of a school that knew exactly who that kid was and how badly they wanted him to score. 

Sports can be so awesome, y’all.

And in the comments, I wrote this:

Tim’s  Mom weighing in . . . 

The scene at our basketball game was something to watch, and several funny things happened after the game. 

First, Rachel’s oldest son, Ethan, was named MVP at the end of our tournament. He came up to Tim after the game, held out the trophy and said, “Really, Tim, this should go to you.” 

 “Yeah?” Tim asked. 

 “Uh . . . no,” Ethan said, shaking his head. 

And they both laughed. 

 A few days later I was asking Tim about the varsity team which, to put a positive spin on it, is in a building year. 

 “Why haven’t they won more games,” I asked Tim. 

 “Most of our best players are freshmen or sophomores,” he told me “But we are so good. In a year or two, we’re going to rock. We are, like, great athletes.” 

I was surprised by the reflexive way Tim used first person plural – we, and not third person plural – they. 

“Does it ever bother you that you’re not as good at sports as some of the other boys,” I asked. 

“Nah, I’m amazingly gifted in lots of other ways,” he informed me without the slightest trace of irony. 

“No self-esteem issues, huh, Tim?” 

“Uh . . . no.”

Since birthing my first child, I've thought long and hard about the maelstrom of motivations and emotions that comes with the job. Performance anxiety is one of them. Beginning with T-ball and ending with, well, I have absolutely no idea when it all ends and come to think about it, some of the struggles we moms face began l-o-n-g before T-ball when the mother sitting next to us at the park innocently said, "Janey slept seven hours last night," and we wondered why our kid had slept for just two.

It's walking and potty training, phonics and backyard soccer, the fourth grade play and the middle school honor roll.

For me, this game of compare and contrast pre-dates motherhood. I distinctly remember my niece's  first skating recital. Did I actually say or merely think: Hannah, you're the cutest one out there!

Whole volumes could be dedicated to The Pinewood Derby alone and its uncanny ability to sift the hearts of men (and mothers). The year Kolbe came in dead last in every single heat was a turning point for me and, honestly, I look at all this very differently today than I did then.

And I know this much is true: We love the children we're given. 

Never has this been clearer to me than this year when we've faced challenges of an entirely different nature. You can ring your hands and wonder Why, Why, Why or you can face them and get on with it.

I have a child in my atrium who faced a significant brain injury at birth. Today we sat around talking about the Pope's resignation, and I realized that most of my students are eight and under and have never known a different Pope. We went around the room, and I asked all their ages.

"How old are you, Elijah," I asked.

"Thirty-one," he informed us.

And we all laughed. He's hilarious and sweet and will likely never be able to do some of things other children do every day. 

We love the children we're given.

Last summer Rachel contributed a chapter to Style, Sex and Substance: 10 Catholic Women Consider the Things that Really Matter. I have a half-written book review on it and plan to give away a copy one day real soon, but here I'll highlight one simple but profound truth that Rachel learned from her mother and highlighted in her piece: Someone else's win is not your loss.

Behind that sentiment -- a sentiment that is simple to type but very challenging to live out -- is the knowledge that God is a loving, sovereign God. The physically challenged boy in the video, the brain-injured child in my atrium, the kid who tries but doesn't make a shot, the top player -- they are wholly loved by God and precious in His sight.

When I thought about Tim's exchange with Ethan and my exchange with Tim, I realized that Tim very much considers the school his school and the basketball team his basketball team. Ethan's win is not his loss. 

We need to be able to cheer someone else's success, to laugh at our own foibles, to shrug off some of our limitations.

I am heartened to live in an environment that encourages the One for All and All for One mentality, an environment in which friends can rib each other and share a laugh together.

In Whose Image?

John is a cute kid.

Really. It's not just the insufferable mom in me. My younger sister tells me that his combination of golden hair, dark eyes, and dark skin could land him in a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. We haven't pursued this yet, but with the price of milk and bread, we just might.

Well, one morning I noticed his summer tan was starting to fade, and it was leaving his skin rather mottled. In that way I have of turning every little medical anomaly into a potential catastrophe, I immediately concluded that John has a rare skin condition, you know, the one that Michael Jackson had. For at least fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, I was just sure of it.

And I had this thought: What will I do if the cute kid is no longer cute?

Nearly everyone my age remembers The Breakfast Club, an 80's film featuring a popular group of actors known as "The Brat Pack." The Breakfast Club told the tale of a group of kids in all-day detention. Each character was a type -- the stoner, the princess, the brain, the freak, the jock. If memory serves, there were only two adults, typecasts as well -- the overbearing mother (God love her!) and the clueless coach. The touching message we were all supposed to walk away with was that we are all part princess and part jock, all a little bit freaky and all a little bit brainy.

Dab your eyes now.

Within a family, we have our own stock characters -- there's the Easy Kid and the Smart Kid, young Mr. Moody and little Miss Laid Back. But, as I've mentioned before, labels are dicey things. They change. Or maybe it's the kids who change? I label my kids and then -- surprise!, surprise! -- they no longer fit the label.

Some of these changes are for the better. I remember the day I took the Fussy Baby -- who was, by then, a two-year-old and had morphed into Mr. Mellow -- to the fabric store. He fell asleep on the way. I had forgotten the stroller, so I carried him into the store and laid him on an arm chair. He never stirred.

"Oh, are you a lucky mom," exclaimed a grandma who had witnessed the transfer.

I felt compelled to tell her that Tim was merely catching up for lost time. He barely slept for the first two years of his life.

High Needs Baby became the Mr. Mellow. So mellow was toddler Tim, he spent his second birthday jetting over the Atlantic Ocean en route to Frankfurt, Germany.  Dave, Tim, and I spent three weeks touring Europe -- a feat I would not have attempted for love or money with two-year-old Kolbe or John, no way, no how. We took Tim to a three hour Mass at Peter's Basilica  Three hours in church with any of his siblings? The Swiss guards would have had me sealed in the catacombs along with the martyrs and saints.

Now, Kolbe was Model Baby. Every night I would nurse him and rock him and put him wide awake in his bed. He would roll over and go to sleep. I was mystified, really incredulous. Night after night, I would think to myself, "Well, it won't work tonight."

By two Model Baby was a force to be reckoned with.

John, like Kolbe, was a good sleeper. By ten months, he, too, was a force to be reckoned with. He threw fits the likes of which I have rarely seen. I'm talking consult with the pediatrician type fits. Now five, John couldn't be sweeter. He has his moments -- please don't think we spend our afternoons polishing his halo -- but Fit Thrower is no more.

And now onto Ainsley, that oh-so-elusive girl, the princess, my little angel. She skipped the terrible twos, but, gosh, three has had some trying moments. A friend of mine likes to say different children wear different ages better. So true.

Most of us have expectations of our children, and certainly we all have dreams.

I remember a conversation I had with a friend years and years ago. One of our boys was just entering the world of organized sports, and, well, it wasn't going swimmingly. Dave was in a season of l-o-n-g hours at work, and sometimes I battled resentment. When I watched this boy struggle to bat the ball or a shoot a basket, a small part of me blamed Dave.  If he were home more, we wouldn't have this problem. If they practiced together, everything would be different.

My friend and I sat on a park bench watching our younger sons play, and she shared a bit of her husband's history with me. His dad, it seems, wanted an all-American athlete for a son; he ended up with a talented member of the marching band. The father envisioned a popular class president; his son grew up to be an introverted mathematician.

Unable to lay aside the imaginary son and embrace the actual one, this man went on to physically and emotionally abuse his son for years.

The story made me cry. I cried in sadness for the pain and rejection of a young boy, but also in gratitude for a husband who would never think one ounce less of a son who couldn't pitch a ball straight and fast or dribble a soccer ball down a field. I was grateful for a father who goes on endless Boy Scout camp outs, invests hours innumerable helping the boys carve Pinewood Derby cars, a father who one night spent ninety minutes discussing the Periodic Table with a boy who inhales science like oxygen.

How crucial it is that we lay down our imaginary kids and embrace the real ones God has given us.

We can encourage kids in their pursuits, help them dabble in new hobbies, haul them to violin or travel volleyball or ice skating.

We can require our children do something -- many things, in fact -- make a bed, do their algebra, practice the piano. But we can not force them to love something -- not basketball, not guitar, not God. In the end they are made in God's image, not in ours, and are imbued with passions and purposes wholly independent of us.

And therein lies both the beauty and the peril of parenting.

{this moment}

A Friday ritual. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Happy Weekend to you and yours!

Tim at Fourteen

Kind brother, good son, gift from God -- we're glad you're ours!

Nothing Like a Sleeping Baby

As I was reading in bed the other night, I heard a Thunk! as Ainsley fell out of her bed. Thankfully her bed is very low to the ground. I soothed her bumped head and tucked her in with me. She was snugly and sweet -- patting my cheek, putting her head on chest, being, if only for a fleeting few moments, the baby she seems to have so suddenly and so completely left behind.

She's two in all its glory. While we still get hugs and kisses, she's go, go, go these days -- wholly invested in little girl activities.  Let's play dolls or build with blocks or play tea party. Being content simply being held? Not so much.

A few months back I tossed out my rocking chair -- the rocker my dad bought for me when I had my first child, the rocker in which I have spent a good chunk of my life reading Curious George and Winnie the Pooh, Mike Mulligan and The Hungry Caterpillar, the rocker that, I was forced to admit, was falling apart and beyond repair.

Some time after pitching the rocker, I realized I had all but quit reading to Ainsley. Her bed is just not conducive to a forty-seven-year-old woman reading a book, even if it's in large print and only eight pages long. I missed the reading, but I really missed the slow and snugly part of Ainsley's day. My friend Amy offered her glider rocker. We are reading and cuddling once more.

Last week Ainsley conked out in her car seat on the way to Mass. Typically this is not a good thing. A poorly timed twenty-minute snooze can leave her half-rested and cranky. On this day it worked out just fine. I carried her into church where she peacefully slumbered for forty-five minutes.

Tim was serving Mass. Kolbe and John didn't engage in any semi-overt guerrilla warfare in the pew. In the quiet presence of God, uninterrupted by phone or To Do List, I enjoyed the luxury of holding my sweet baby. I twirled her soft, blond hair and rubbed her fair, still-chubby cheeks. This was a welcome and unusual treat.

A while back it was John who went catatonic in church. During an extra-long homily, he put his head on my lap and out he went. The boy who is full-throttle from dawn to dusk, just lay there, chest rising and falling. I tousled his caramel blond hair. I noticed his shoes on the wrong feet. I rubbed his arms still bronzed from a summer at the pool and in the yard. John has a year round tan his Irish mother could only get from a bottle and then there would be an orange cast to it.  He blazes through the day with equal parts of action and mischief (with a whole lot of charm and affection thrown in). For this all-too-brief time, I enjoyed the weight of his slumbering form and drank in the cuteness that is age four.

Motherhood is a physical job from start to finish. Long before I gain my first ounce of pregnancy weight, I am overcome with fatigue and nausea. One of my babies had hiccups for hours and hours every single evening for months. With both Ainsley and John I had weeks of Braxton-Hicks contractions. With each pregnancy I had the distinct thought, "I can't get any bigger. I just can't." Somehow I did.

Infancy brings the joy and challenge of nursing. Mothers rock and hold and feed and burp, rock and hold and feed and burp. How many of us have found ourselves in a grocery line or Mass without the baby and noticed that we were doing a soothing, jiggly motion simply because it had become second nature?

Toddlers have shoes that need tying,capes that need fastening, boo boos that need kissing, hands and faces and backsides that need washing.

When I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant with Ainsley, I sat in a doctor's office with John. He had spiked a fever of over 104.5. With ears, throat, and nose clear, the doctor suspected a urinary tract infection. Getting a urine sample from a dehydrated two-year-old who was not yet potty trained proved to be a challenge. I spent hours -- hours -- sitting in a hard plastic chair with a feverish John draped over what really didn't qualify as a lap. I had little left to give.

This is motherhood. It's a physical job, a demanding job. I have sometimes felt touched-out. There wasn't enough of me to go around, or so it seemed.

But then these needy little people grow up just a bit. And a tiny part of your heart crumples. We so want them to grow and thrive and develop. We cheer their every milestone. This, of course, means they need us less or at least need us differently.

And I find myself mourning just a little bit.

We are currently at the beach enjoying bacation, as John likes to call it. Ainsley has picked up on this.

"We on 'cation," she asks me every night. "John John on 'cation? Timmy on 'cation? Daddy on 'cation?"

Yes, sweetie. We are on 'cation.

Her favorite part of 'cation is the king-sized bed that means she gets to sleep with mom and dad all night, every night (rather than clandestinely sneaking in as she likes to do at home). After our queen-sized bed, this king-sized baby feels positively cavernous. Or it would except that Ainsley has taken to pressing her squirmy little self right up to me. "Mama!" she says in her bossy voice, if I try to move an inch. She wants my arms around her and my cheek next to hers.

"She thinks she's in utero again," I commented to Dave.

For this week this suits me just fine. After all we're on 'cation, and there really is nothing like a sleeping baby.

On My Heart Today

1 Corinthians 2:9 ...

But as it is written, eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for those who him.

The Best Part of Waking Up

John, running into my room to say good morning: Mama, you are lovely!

Brotherly Love

Tim is feeling lousy. He attempts to chill out with a book, but is met with a chorus of protests from the younger set.

From two-year-old Ainsley: Tim, I want a hug. Tim, I want a kiss. Tim, I want a hug! Tim, I want a kiss!

From four-year-old John: I want Tim to pway with me right this minute!

Happy and She Knows It

One of Ainsey's favorite expressions is Happy, Happy. This picture captures just that.

Now and Again

Way back in January when the humidity was low and wearing socks wasn't equivalent to waterboarding, I chose a word for the new year. The word was Now.

As I shared then, I have always, always, always struggled with Now. Summer brings with it more flexibility and more time, both of which make embracing Now a little easier.

The other night Dave took the boys to a nearby town for a night of star gazing with the local astronomy club. I readied Ainsey-boo for bed. We read and rocked and sang. I put her into her crib still wide awake.

Ainsey is great like that. She is a textbook baby. I put her in her crib sleepy but awake and out she goes for about twelve hours. Having birthed children who never got the textbook let alone read it, this is a dream! But on this particular night, I realized that I didn't have to put her in bed awake. She wasn't step one in the four step process of bedding the Dolin children down for the night.

So I picked her up. We snuggled and rocked, snuggled and rocked. I drank all the comfy sweetness that is my precious girl. I love, love, love having one still small enough to call baby.

I embraced Now.

Today has been one high octane day, and it's only just begun.  Earlier, I needed to zip to Walmart for a few items, and John begged to come along. When it comes to shopping, my motto is Just Do It. I know women who enjoy shopping; if I delve into the dusty recesses of my mind, I think I once was one of those women. These days shopping is like ripping off a band aid. Speed is of the essence.

But as I moved through the aisles this morning, I talked to John, my sweet, brown-eyed bundle of passion. I rubbed his blond head, and we shared a few laughs. As we were checking out, he asked for a piece of plastic he had dropped. I handed it to him, and he puckered up to give me a big fat kiss on the lips.

A young woman checking out ahead of me took it all in and said, "Awwww!"

It was a sweet moment, a moment of embracing Now.

Believe me, I have been that cranky mother in the grocery store.You know, the one who makes you cringe and thank God you're not like her.  Emblazoned in my memory is a day I took Tim and Kolbe to one of my last pre-natal appointments with John. I was HUGE, it was a sizzling July day, every body part seemed to be stuck to another body part, and the boys had bickered non-stop on the way to the office. To make matters worse, I had parked on the downhill side of the building. I trudged up the hill to my appointment, glaring at my cantankerous kids, feeling like I couldn't manage another step. I am sure that everything from my posture to my affect screamed irritation.

Suddenly I saw my doctor walking up the sidewalk. I wondered what she was thinking.

Why in the world is she having another baby?

This was not my finest hour.

But you know Jesus fell three times on the way to Calvary. Saint Peter denied the Lord three times. Saint Paul lived with a thorn in his side. Victory comes from persevering in the race before us, picking up our cross once more, or enlisting a friend to help us carry it. I should dwell on the dark moments long enough to repent, regroup, and most importantly move on.

Now is too important to fritter it away bemoaning the Then. 

I'm Glad They Call Me Mom

I watch Tim finishing up yard work. A minute later three-year-old John comes running into the house. "I need a chiso," he reports. A chisel? I wonder what nefarious schemes are brewing in that blond head of his.

"I'm cweaning the lawn mower with Tim," John tells me. Tim comes in to report how much fun John is having. "We should get all kids this age to work," Tim says. "They thinks it's great!."

The best part is spending time with your oldest brother.

Later Tim tells me what a first-rate job he has done on the yard. "Dad said it was great!" he says. He seems to hold himself just a little bit taller.

You know, we have our moments, Tim and I. Just a week ago a simple bibliography turned into an epic production, hours and hours in the making. But the next afternoon, Tim came in from school and launched into his note cards without word one from me.

"These are due next week," he said. "And I'm not going to pocastinate."

More welcome words have never been misspoken.

Meanwhile, John has passed through that purge and pillage stage of play and now engages in a wide range of more productive activities. As I drank my morning coffee, he came running in. "My bed is a volcano," he said. "I need eye protection."

Of course. Flying lava and all. Outfitted in Tim's ski goggles, off he ran to a world of pure imagination.

John's tantrums have decreased in frequency, duration, and volume. Maybe he just needed something captivating to do.

A year ago I started a post entitled "Fair and Balanced Reporting. " It began:

If I should persevere in this blogging endeavor until John is old enough to read, I fear he will peruse these posts and conclude that he was nothing more than a one man wrecking crew at this age.

For the record, sweet John, you are a precious gift from God. You are the result of persistent prayer - deep, heart-rending supplication to our gracious God for another soul to love.

You are cute, cuddly, funny, expressive.

Though he is still cute, cuddly, fun, and expressive, John is no longer the one man wrecking crew. Ainsley handles that task quite nicely, thank you very much.

Miss Ainsey's vocabulary is positively exploding. She runs to the door and yells, "'Side! 'Side!" She loves the park, her dad, and her brothers.

The more she grows, the more I mourn our nursing days. A blink of an eye, a blink of an eye.

Even Dolly is hitting developmental milestones. It seems she has weaned and is now taking both cow's milk and solids. Adages to the contrary, spilt milk usually makes me want to cry, but this scene cracked me up.

As for Kolbe -- Special K, as we once called him -- he remains steady Eddie. Everyone needs a nine-year-old in the house. He's mostly cheerful, mostly happy, forever planning his next book, his next movie, his next money making pyramid scheme.

I'm glad they call me Mom.

Except for Dolly, of course. According to the older boys, she calls me Grandma!?!

Be My Valentine

My first Valentine arrives. "Happy Valentine's Day," it reads. "Hugs and kisses for you. I love you. John"

I cry when I open it.

Does it matter that this is all his teacher's doing, that John is three years old and no way did he cut out the heart, draw the smiley faces, or even fold the construction paper?

Nah!

He did trace the "I love you. John," and he probably stuck the X and O stickers onto the page. That works for me! I am a true sucker when it comes to kids' crafts. I may get all maudlin about my birthday, but Mother's Day is a cinch. One hand print and a dash of illegible writing, and I can feel the oxytocin coursing through my motherly veins.

No doubt the entire blogosphere has heard of Amy Chua, the now infamous "Tiger Mother." I haven't read her book, but I did hear that among other draconian parenting practices, she would routinely return her daughters' homemade birthday cards if she didn't feel they were well executed.

Not this Mama.

Love that messy writing. Love those tiny hand prints. Love the fact that for years Tim would sign both name and age to everything. Timmy 5! Timmy 6! Timmy 7!

Then again, I like baby talk and think John's lisp --which may cost us a fortune in speech therapy--is nothing but pwecious.

The boys' first grade teacher scored big with her Mother's Day gift. She recorded each child reading a book and had the children give the cassettes to their mothers.  Capturing the voice of a six-year-old--so special.

 At the end of second grade, the boys' teacher bound every piece of writing they had done that year. Flipping through them brings back Tim's ardent desire to explore Mars and Kolbe's love of espionage. Archiving the dreams of a seven-year-old--irreplaceable.

After he hands me the Valentine, John sees that I am mixing up a nutritious lunch of boxed macaroni and cheese.

"Let me spill the cheese! Let me spill the cheese!" he yells.

John never uses the word pour or even dump; it's always spill.  Let me spill the milk. Let me spill the waffle mix. I find this both appropriate and hilarious.

Instead of correcting him, I am overwhelmed by everything that makes three so imperfectly sweet.

"You are so cute, John," I tell him.

"Yeah," he laughs, "I am."

And I am his Valentine.

To My Sweet Ainsey-Girl...

Two things you will never fully comprehend:

1. How totally unexpected you were.
2. How much I wanted you.

Love,

Mama