Cake

Nap time yesterday. We were tucking in, taking sips of water, saying prayers, and generally getting settled down. Ryan was stalling a little bit. He started gesturing with his hands and explaining to me that "when we get done with our rest, we can eat this cake." I go along with it. "Oh, honey that cake looks great. Did you make it for us?" "Yes, I did. It's got chocolate, peanuts, macaroni, onions, strawberries, and juice!" I pause as I picture such a cake. "Wow honey. That sounds great!" I have no idea how he came up with this combination, but I just go with it.

Jesus continued...

Ok, I couldn't help myself. I am a picker. I have always been a picker. It's hereditary. I get it from...one of my parents who shall remain nameless so as not to embarrass. At least I have stopped biting my nails. My cuticles, on the other hand, another story. But this post is not about me. Well, not directly. Just get that I am a picker.
You might remember we've been having lots of discussions with Ryan about how Jesus heals us and how He lives in our hearts. We have talked about how Jesus is healing Ryan's "bubbles." Ryan tells us every day about how "Jesus makes my fee better." So, enter me. The picker. You have to understand, Ryan has these blisters everywhere. They are not soft like water blisters. They are hard and getting harder as they heal. I was curious. I wanted to know if they were gonna burst grody virus juice everywhere or if they were gonna just return from whence they came, so to speak. So, I grabbed Ryan's finger in one hand, and a piece of paper towel in another hand (ready for the grody virus juice) and I picked the blister off. No juice. Thank goodness. Just a red spot. Ok, I can handle this. Ryan, on the other hand is totally squirming around "Mommy, let go." I let go. Ryan inspects his finger. Solemn faced, he looks at me. "Mommy, Jesus is not gonna be happy about this." Oops.

Where Jesus Lives

Ryan recently contracted the virus that causes Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease. It is a common childhood illness that causes multiple canker sores to develop in the mouth, on the gums, tongue, soft pallet, and down the throat. It also causes blisters on the hands and feet, and in Ryan's case, up his legs, arms, and all over his buns. He had a fever of 103 for two and a half days. He barely ate anything for five days. It is by far the worst acute illness he has had in his three years of life. We are currently on day seven of isolation. Needless to say, much time has been spent in prayer on his behalf lately.
A couple of nights ago as I was putting him to bed, we were praying about "his bubbles" as he calls them. Having just returned from Women's Retreat the previous weekend and having enjoyed some powerful worship time, I decided to sing worship songs over him. "I will sing praise, I will sing praise, no weapon formed against me shall remain. I will rejoice, I will declare, God is my victory and He is here...." Ryan is curious about this. "God is here?" "Yes honey, He is. Honey, do you know where Jesus lives?" I ask. Ryan thinks for a second. "Hmm?" I go on. "He lives in our hearts. He lives in your heart, and He lives in my heart." I pat our chests. Ryan pats his chest. "Jesus lives in my heart," he repeats. I am loving this and thinking that I have imparted a profound wisdom to my little boy here. God is good and this is such a sweet God moment.
The following morning we are snuggling in the rocking chair like we do every morning. We are quiet, and cozy and wrapped in a blanket. Ryan looks up at me. "Mom, Jesus makes my bubbles feel better." "I am so glad, honey." Suddenly, Ryan turns and begins pulling at the blanket. He unwraps us and grabs a hold of my tank top. He pulls open my top and sticks his head down my shirt. "Jeeeesssuuuusss! Jeeesuuuuuuus! Are you in there? Jeesuuuuss!" Not exactly what I was trying to teach him last night, but o well.

Being a mom means...

Giving up all the strawberries in your Red Robin strawberry lemonade.
Never going to the bathroom alone again.
Having to blow on someone else's food while you're dying to eat yours.
Researching and appreciating the finer points of stain removers.
Getting over your squeamishness of other people's bodily functions.
Learning the true meaning of the word repetition.
Being the recipient of the best good morning snuggles on the planet.
Never sleeping again.
Morphing craft time from knitting and beading to finger paint and sidewalk chalk.
Needing the phone number for poison control for the first time in your life.
Trying to explain why balloons don't stay up forever.
Never being able to have your plate of food belong to only you again.
Loving someone more than you ever thought possible.

I swear I don't make this stuff up

We have already done the say prayers, take a sip of water, snuggle for a minute and kiss goodnight routine. We have left, and we are just sitting down on the couch for some of our own time when Ryan begins calling for me. I go in to see what's up, and he wants me to lay down with him. Not uncommon. So I walk over and kneel by his bed so we can snuggle some more. But I am tired. My back is hurting. So I pile up a couple of blankets and a pillow that are on the floor next to his bed and lay down. It only takes a second for him to lean his little body over the side and say, "I miss you down there, Mommy." He rolls off the bed, onto my chest, and then onto the floor next to me. I fluff up the blankets and pull his pillow down for him to lay on. It is dark. We are quiet. Just about the time I start thinking he is actually going to fall asleep right here on the floor, he pipes up, "Maybe I'm thinking.....tomorrow we can play princess. You can be the princess and I can be the prince." He is the cutest thing I have ever seen. "That's a great idea honey." We snuggle some more and after a little while, I scoop him up and put him back in his bed. Then I kiss my little prince goodnight, again.

Special

My parents divorced when I was very young. Being the oldest, I sort of became the "other adult" in the family, as do many first born children of divorced parents. As such, I grew up very fast. All through my childhood, teen years and into my early twenties people constantly told me how mature I was. I was mature beyond my years. I was smart. I was advanced. I was special. I think secretly I reveled in my uniqueness. I had an advantage over my peers that made me stand out and excel in school and later in the workplace. I can't tell you how many job reviews I have had where my boss has praised me for my maturity, intelligence, poise, and wisdom.
Then I hit my thirties and that all changed. It is almost like my physical age caught up with my intellectual age. Like the two time lines, once vastly different, are tracking exactly parallel to each other now. In fact, in all honesty, I think my physical age is actually beginning to surpass my intellectual age. Crap. How did this happen? I am no longer viewed as mature beyond my years. I don't stand out from my peers. I am not praised anymore for my maturity, intelligence, poise, and wisdom. I have spent the last few years struggling to reconcile this new me with my memories of the old me. In truth, I still don't have all the answers. Here is what I do know. I know that being a mom is the most important thing I have ever done, and that "mommy brain" is a price I am willing to pay. I know that I am still special to the Lord even if I don't feel special to the world. And I know that no matter what phase of life I am in, I will always be special to two boys who are very special to me. And that is enough for me. And I am totally okay with it.

Addendum:
Ok, I can't stand it. If you read the above post and feel sorry for me, please don't. I did not write it so a bunch of people would respond with notes about how great I am. I am not fishing for compliments or an ego boost here. My ego is just fine. I am not complaining. I am not depressed. Trust me. If I was, I never would have written this post.
Here's why I wrote it. One, I wrote it because it was on my mind, and has been for a while. Two, I wrote it because I truly (finally) do feel okay about it. Three, and most importantly, I have heard this same kind of story from others and thought (and this is the point which proves how fine my ego really is) that my experience and thoughts about this might be of help to someone feeling the same way.
The point of the story is to be happy with who you are not because of what other people think of you or say about you, but because of who you are to the One who created you. Because of who you are to your children, your husband, your wife. These are the most important relationships, and for me, it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. So please don't feel compelled to tell me how cool I am. Unless you just genuinely can't help yourself. And if that's the case, I'll just smile and say "thanks."

Explosion in the spare room

I unpacked the spare room closet a couple of days ago. An explosion happened. I don't know how it happened. All I did was unpack three boxes labeled "crafts, beading, and sewing." Oh wait. Beading. That's what happened. I haven't done any beading since we moved. Since long before that actually. It was considered "non essential" and so it was one of the first things packed up. So there I was, surrounded by plastic tubs full of beads, beading tools, wire, string, bead books, and basically all things bead. To say I got distracted would be an understatement. Re-directed would be a better word. That's okay. I'm totally okay with it. Nan won't be here for a month so I have some time to clean it all up and get it ready for her and Noah. A month is plenty long enough. I think.