7: Team colors...

We stumbled into Kohl's, between Target and a date at Starbucks, with merchandise credit worth $21.85.  I had no agenda -- other than to spend every red cent -- however Reid may have disagreed.

With each step further into the boys department, I marveled at our good fortune.

Free money.
(Well, kind of.)

Yellow and red clearance stickers dotted stacks of fitness tops and pants.
(And more stacks.)

We started in the big boys section, with the orange long-sleeve shirts.  Orange has unofficially become our team color -- it seems like this section of my laundry sort paint pallet grows wider and wider -- so the elder little asks to have the one with a soccer ball, baseball, football, and basketball arranged in a neat square on the front.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Next, he went for the stack of lime green long-sleeve shirts.  It fits his favorite genre of clothing -- athleticwear -- and they still have it in L(7).  He's an L(7) now.  Big stuff.  This one shows a big soccer ball, front and center.  Playing soccer, namely practicing his moves as a goalie positioned in the center of our eating area/family room arched doorway, is how he's spent his winter months.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Then, we cross the ivory linoleum aisle into the little boys section.  At his advice.  "Mommy, you know what would be really cool?"  I stop.

Full stop.

"What?  What would be really cool?"

"Well, I was just thinking, it would be really cool if we could find the same clothes in Grant's size."

I found myself instantly back in the yellow hallway bathroom, just months earlier, listening to a crying little brushing teeth before bedtime.  Things like, "Can we just take him back to the hospital, Mommy?" and "It was so much easier before he came to our team" were said for the millionth time. This time, I had something to say back: "Do you ever think it might be your problem...?  I mean, sometimes I think you try really hard not to like your brother, and sometimes it seems like you might give him a hard time just for something to do."  He stopped.

Full stop.

Big, brown eyes betrayed the coping mechanism he labored daily to maintain.  He collapsed into my arms.

"You know, there is room for both of you on our team.  The four of us go together because God put us together.  He knew we needed each other to have fun, to live, and to grow.  So can we do that together?  All of us?  I promise...we will do great things if we work together.  It all starts with the decision to try.  Will you try?"

"Look!  Mommy!  Here is the orange shirt we found in my size.  They DO have it in Grant's size!  Let's get this, too!"  I say, "Perfect," and on the shelf below the shirt, the matching track pants are available in 2T.  We add them to our stack.

"Hey!  They have the green long-sleeve shirt, too.  Look!  2T!  That's Grant's size!"  I say, "Perfect," again because we have matching pants at home.

"This is so cool.  I know Grant will think it's neat to have clothes like my big boy clothes."

"I agree.  I think he will.  I think you may even like having clothes that match. You know, it was a generous suggestion to spend part of our money on some new clothes for him."

We find our way back onto the linoleum path towards the cash registers up front.  He arranges our items just-so on the checkout counter.  The saleslady makes eyes at Reid and she cooes, "Do you have a little brother?  You're going to match, Handsome..."

"We will.  They're team clothes!"

Here they are representing today...

Write on,
b

Celebration 1: Tiny Prayers...

Every night at bedtime, we are creatures of habit: bath, jammies, vitamins, and brushing teeth with daddy; hair, stories, and prayers at eight with mommy.  It all runs like clockwork, right down to the conversations I share with our four-year-old son.  

"So, what do you want to talk to Jesus about tonight?"

"Kitty (the Knuffle Bunny equivalent in our family), you, Daddy, and Grant." 

"Alright, I think I'd like to thank Jesus for our family too, and also for food to eat and a house to keep us warm.  So I have my things and you have your things...would you like to start or finish?"

"No, Mommy, you can do it all.  I don't know how to pray."

(Which pains me because I've tried to model for him that praying is just a conversation, but that's a whole other blog post.)

So I pray.  We hug.  The lights flicker off.  He chases sleep like a teenager chases work. 

"Mommy, I had a bad dream."  (Predictably, one minute later.)

From my bedroom, I troubleshoot: "Tell Jesus about it.  He can take it all away."  

A resigned "Okay" makes its way though the walls to my heart.  

Next, a tiny voice starts a big conversation:  

Dear Jesus, 
I had a bad dream.

Please take it all away.

Amen.

Decidedly peaceful, his weight shifts, his covers crumple, his breathing slows.  

Tonight, my celebration is that he took the risk -- he talked to Jesus himself and for his purposes.  

And now, he found rest.

Sweet slumber -- 10.19.2013

Simply complex... SOLS

The conversation drifted into our sunny playdate like an errant cloud.  

"Mommy, my flower died," Reid held up the sponge-painted clay pot he created for my Mother's Day gift this year.  We were in the middle of building castles and mountain-covering roads in our backyard sandbox yesterday. 

"We can plant another one in there if you'd like. I bet we'd find a nice flower at Home Depot..." I encouraged.

"Does everything die?" his newly four-year-old voice crafted tiny, innocent words.

"Yes.  Everything dies...when it's time."  My calm exterior hid the storm of explanations churning inside my mind.

He added support for my claim, "Flowers die.  Bugs die.  Even PEOPLE die, Mommy."

Death.  

I avoid the topic like the plague in books and stories and even in real-life. I don't know how to explain it.  What, we're alive...and then we're not...it's like sleep -- no, scratch that...you'll be afraid to go to sleep tonight -- and then we'll wake up in heaven. 

Around Easter, the question du jour was, "How do we get to heaven, Mommy?  Will we take the car?"

Gosh, I hope not. That's my worst fear.  WORST.

He broke into my thoughts, "Well, how do we die?"

From the rolodex of possible scenarios, I picked the easiest.  "Someday, when you're old, your heart will just stop beating...because it's tired and you've lived a long, happy life."

"Will you die?"  The small words exploded like faulty fireworks sputtering along the driveway.

Lord, give me wisdom to answer this sensitive child.

"Yes.  I'll die someday when I'm old and you're old."

"Will you come back then?"

"No.  When we die, it is forever.  But, I'll be in heaven with Jesus and you will too someday.  Then, we'll be together again."

"Don't die, Moooooommmmmmmyyyyyy," his little voice pleaded.

"Are you scared that I will?"

My heart lay bare in the afternoon sun, writhing in the depths of the unknown...  My fears.  His fears.  They mixed in a way only abstract artists appreciate. 

"Yessssss.  If you do then I won't HAVE a mommy."

While two chocolatey eyes searched mine, I wrestled God to gift me with enough time on Earth to raise these two blessed cherubs.  Thoughts of my cousin's two small children -- losing their own mommy at ages seven months and four years -- competed mercilessly.

"I'll always be your mommy," I cooed as he slid into my lap and curled up like his two-year-old self, "and I'll always love you.  Soooo much." 

"OK."

With only a second's pause, he climbed back toward the sandbox and grabbed his favorite plastic digger from the gritty pile of toys.

"Let's build another road, Mommy."

And just like that, the sun reappeared and the project resumed.

But he has me thinking...



Write on,
b

29:31 -- New life...

I've been nagged every time I'm out running errands...or at a clothing store...or walking past the Easter aisle at the grocery store during the past two weeks.

One voice in my head antagonizes.  "Good moms buy their kids Easter clothes. Matching clothes for siblings.  Look at all these cute tops and bottoms.  They're cheap."  And, the final blow -- "Everyone else does it."

Which, may or may not be true.  However, I heard on the radio the other day that the average Easter expense per child tallies a whopping $150.

The other rationalizes.  "The clothes don't matter.  We have more than enough clothes hanging in our closets to wear something special for Easter Sunday.  That's an unnecessary expense.  And, besides, the holiday isn't about pastel-colored fabrics as stores would lead consumers to believe.  You know this."

So I buy nothing...nothing at all.  Even though I continue my search by knowing what each store offers and at what price.

By today, the nagging followed me around like insistent toddler seeking permission.  I cave.  I want to be a good mom who has cute pictures and builds sweet memories.  Easter clothes are like birthday cakes. The baby and I head toward a close outdoor mall -- the sun feels so nice and we can walk between stores.

The first shop highlights adorable gingham shirts.
The second shop offers nothing; it's picked over by well planned moms.
The third shop boasts cute but expensive seersucker pants that, luckily, don't come in my sizes.

The clock's ticking; we return to the shirts.  Pleased with my diligence and their last-minute sale prices, I pay.

$35 for two shirts and one pair of oh-so-tiny baby khakis; Reid already has his at home.

$35.

Not a lot in the grand scheme of things...our western-thinking scheme that is.

But, elsewhere -- wow.  $35 would be enough to provide families with daily necessities.

Safe water.  Running water.  Power.  Clothes.  Clothes that fit...and are clean.

The antagonizing voice quiets.  The smaller voice invites me to reflect on needs and wants, culture and providence, self-sufficiency and submission.

The stillness of our car ride home closes with a bump up onto the driveway. The garage door ascends and while I wait, I notice something...

New life.

Which, isn't that what this weekend is really about?

New life.
New perspectives.
New responsibilities.

The baby sleeps, so I process my thoughts by slicing about them.

And, maybe this whole inner conversation isn't really about Easter clothes; maybe it's much bigger -- like about the kind of steward I am -- which, I know, could use some new life.  I'm being nudged in the manner of my 2013 One Little Word.  Refine.

New life...

Write on,
b