She Must Know...

She's only 2, but I swear she knows what she's doing when she opens the front door in the morning and the dogs go flying out. She must know that it'll also send me flying out the door, half-dressed, with my jeans and my pajama shirt on, and no bra. She must know that her and I will go on a high speed car chase, at least for 2 blocks, to catch those dogs, and that she and I will look disapprovingly at them as they crawl into the car.

And she must know that when she crawls out of her bed for the tenth time at night that, just like the nine times before, she will get a spanking. She will cry and say "okay" when we tell her to stay in her bed. But she must know it's a promise she won't keep.

She must know that pouring an entire bottle of Hope's hair oil, that liquid gold that I have to go to a different county to get, is wrong. That I will sigh in frustration and try to scrape it off the wood floor with my hands and then funnel as much of it back into the bottle as I can. Okay, maybe she doesn't know just yet how hard that oil is to come by and how very frugal I am. But, she must know about the sigh. She must be able to predict the sigh and the consequences to follow.

When a child is two, it's hard to know what it is they know. Though...I have my suspicions. But there are some things that I'm sure she's sure of. Some things that she says confidently and there is no denying that she believes them to be true.

"Mommy loves me and Daddy loves me and Hopie loves me and Bella loves me," she says. She's sure of it. "Jesus Loves Me," she sings in it's entirety several times a day, with no provocation. She's sure of it. "I love you, Mama," she says out of the blue. She's sure of that, too.

Love is the one thing I know she knows. And it's the one thing I know, too. Sometimes when I'm running down the street half dressed, or sighing that big sigh I think, for a moment, that "crazy" and "frustrated" is what is most true about me. Sometimes, on days when there has been a lot of crazy and lot of frustration, I'm tempted to believe that it has swallowed up the best parts of me.

But I know it's not true. Because sometimes, when everyone is settled in for the night, and I lay in bed waiting for blessed sleep to come, the last thing I'm aware of is how full my heart is of love. How deeply I am loved and how deeply I have been made to love. And how it's the one thing I know. I'm sure of it.

Come on. Link up with me at Just Write. It's fun!

It's All Good Hair...

She's beautiful just the way she is. Each hair an uncanny reminder of who God made her to be. African, tightly wound, a coil of boundless energy, full of spunk, with a mind of her own, and wild. I'm glad I remembered that before we decided to change it.

Satan speaks his lies in the subtlest of ways. And he is relentless...and his lies so predictable. "You don't have what it takes to care for her," he whispers. He's been whispering this since the day she imprinted herself on my heart. Most of the time, I don't pay any attention. Most of time, I remember all of the ways that God has made her mine and marvel at the miracle of adoption.

But sometimes....sometimes, his whisper sneaks it's way inside. It wraps itself around my heart and I feel that familiar sadness. I feel all of the distance and the differences that separate her from me. The flesh and blood and DNA that prove that the miracle of her had nothing to do with me. And sometimes, in that state, I come up with ways to minimize the differences, and convince myself that it's best for all of us.

So, we almost relaxed Hope's hair last month. I came really close. I'm not saying we won't do it someday. I don't have firm feelings on whether it's right or wrong. I don't really think it's a moral issue. But, if we do it someday, it won't be so that I can avoid learning ALL I need to know to properly care for her naturally beautiful hair texture. And it certainly won't be so that I don't have to think about our differences.

I'm glad I was reminded that it doesn't honor Hope when I pretend we aren't different. Because we are. And most of the time, I remember that that is something to celebrate! I don't need us to be the same. I don't want us to be the same.

And besides, what does flesh and blood and DNA know about love, anyway?

Meme

Disease is a thief. And this one steals your mind. Steals your memories.

She was my grandmother with the eye for fashion, lips always perfectly tinted to match her outfit, and rows of high heeled shoes that fit my feet when I was just a girl because they were so tiny. She was the one who smelled like flowers and had every color of nail polish imaginable. She is the reason my mom puts lotion on her feet every night, wears a silky robe in the mornings and likes her coffee black with just a bit of sugar.

She is still beautiful and beautifully dressed. Her feet are still tiny and soft after years of nightime lotioning. Nail polish still abounds. She still smells like flowers. But now, she is confused. She isn't sure who that lady is painting her nails. She isn't sure why she's dressing up today and who all these people are coming in and out of her house. She isn't sure where home is. And the man who cares for her every minute of every day? Sometimes he seems familiar and she knows they love each other, and sometimes she's scared of him, scared he's gonna take her away, or leave her. And why does he seem so sad?

We sit around and whisper about how sad it is. Tears come easy and we can't help wondering what her last memory of each of us was. Or will be.

This Thanksgiving, I should have spent more time just loving her, instead of wishing it was different. More time praying for her peace. More time loving on my grandfather who shoulders the lion's share of the load and whose heart breaks at the loss of her memories. All those years they shared...gone. I should have spent more time listening to my mom and my aunts and letting them say what we all feel. That we are already missing her and she isn't even gone yet.

But today I choose to be thankful. I am thankful for Meme. That she was the valedictorian of her high school graduating class. That she ran off and married my Dada without permission. That she stood by him while he was away at war. That she raised three beautiful daughters and taught them a thing or two about mothering, hard work, sass, and shopping. That she knew how to put together a killer meal. That she welcomed each grandchild and great grandchild with great joy. And that she loved Jesus.

She may not remember any of those things today. But those of us who love her do. And we're grateful.

Linking up with Just Write today.

The Coffee Shop

A coffee shop is not a place for kids. I just took them in cause we had some time to kill before an event we were early for. Being early isn’t cool. I’ve been that person putting on the event when the early birds show up. Then you have to juggle frantically getting everything ready and also maintaining some kind of polite chit chat with the early birds. Not cool. But I’m getting off track.

I took them in just so we wouldn’t have to sit in the car. But, as soon as I said they could have a drink to share I knew I was in trouble. The stand-off that ensued was not all that unusual but today it was infuriating. Why can’t they be empathetic with each other. “What would you like to have, sister?” “Well, that’s not what I would prefer but I don’t always have to have things my way. Let’s have what you want this time.” Is that too much to ask from a 7 year old and 4 year old? Yes? Oh alright.

Then, the little one has her hands on everything. Perrier. Straws. Cookies. “Just stop!” I whisper yelled. I’m pretty good at whisper yelling. It is not my best feature.

Finally, we sit, and I realize that there is not one child, besides mine, in the entire shop. Instead it is filled with students. College students in study groups and adults who can’t be much older than the students, meeting together to have meaningful conversations, I’m sure. Occasionally they glance over at me and I try to play it cool. “Here I am with my kids. Totally not frazzled. Totally in control. Just having coffee. How sophisticated of me.” They aren’t buying it.

And neither am I. “We’ve got to get out of here," I say after the third potty break in 15 minutes. “Let’s get back in the car.” Cause our minivan is a haven for our crazy. And I'm not that sophisticated anyway.

Linking up with Just Write again. Loving the free writing exercises.

Hope

She reminded us once that God's plans are always bigger and brighter than we could ever imagine. And that hope is the gift He gives when we look up from our brokenness. So that's what we named her. Hope.

She's the big sister. Always the teacher. The one who is more like a super hero to them. They bask in the light of her attention and she guides their way into fairy tales and bits of trouble. She is a born leader, and though it's clear she would prefer a dictatorship, even she has learned the art of being a leader people want to follow.

Her natural talent is astounding, her drive...eerie for a 7 year old ("almost 8!", she says). She attacks a hobby and masters it. Soccer, piano, gymnastics. She finds it hard to settle for less than the best and I admire her work ethic. But it also makes failure a hard pill to swallow. And I know we'll spend a good bit of her life assuring her, in ways that are subtle and in words that aren't, that her value lies in who God made her to be, who she already is. And praying...praying hard that she believes us, believes Him.

Cause who he made her to be is incredible. A little girl who knows what she wants and goes for it, but who also has eyes to see those who are ignored or overlooked and a heart to do something about it. She has her daddy's sense of humor and my love of the dramatic. And some crazy wicked dance moves to boot.

She was my first little girl, the one who taught me what it meant to be a mom, the one who continues to teach me what little girls need. Only she's not so little anymore. And apparently 8 is the new 10, and even my lack of clocks in the house won't make time go any slower. So instead I walk alongside her after school as she fills me in on her life apart from me, happy to be the hand she still holds on the way home.

Halloween 84,000 years ago. 2 yrs old

Lookin a little more like this now.