The Longest Walk

I have a growing list of activities that it seems increasingly likely I may possibly accomplish.

• Composing a concerto in my head.
• Memorizing, in chronological order, every president of the United States.
• Learning to rap "Ice, Ice Baby" backwards. 
• Counting the number of times I have said the phrase "listening ears" since my children were born.
• Identifying the current number of gray hairs I have.
• Visualizing a map of Africa and successfully remembering the name of each country and where it is located.

These are just a few of many.

When (and why?) would I possibly accomplish these seemingly useless activities, you wonder, when I am parenting two toddlers at the same time?

The answer is easy: During the time it takes for my youngest child to walk up the stairs.

Let me paint you a little picture of how this goes each time.

(1) We approach the gate. Young one insists on opening the gate but is not developmentally capable of opening said gate. Conflict ensues. Mama opens the gate.

(2) Child takes one step up.

(3) Child takes one step down, opens gate, closes gate, insists on opening gate again. Cannot accomplish this aim. Conflict ensues. Mama opens the gate. Conversation about how we will only go UP from now on.

(4) Child takes one step up and spots a speck of dirt. Child picks up speck of dirt, hands it to mama and looks for more. This can last up to 3 minutes until stair is fully cleaned and mama is reminded of how dirty the step actually is.

(5) Child takes one more step up.

(6) Child gets distracted and asks mama to name every single person in every picture on the opposing wall.

(7) Mama complies because she is desperate for youngest child to be inspired to talk.

(8) Child takes one more step up.

(9) Child teeters on the brink of falling backwards down the stairs but screams in rage if mama attempts to keep him from plummeting to his death.

(10) Child recovers. Mama promises not to touch him.

(11) Child takes one more step up.

(12) Child takes another step up. (Mama tries to pretend she is not exceedingly delighted in this so that child might take another step up because HE WANTS TO.)

(13) Child proceeds to clean this step with same vigor as earlier step. Mama's pockets are now full of crumbs, dirt and leaves because, no, it is NEVER possible for her to vacuum the stairs. Ever.

(14) Child takes another step up and stops to take a break.

(15) Mama breathes in and out. Walking anywhere slowly is not her strong suit.

(16) Mama encourages resting child to make a big push to finish going up the stairs and begins to sing song she has composed to help little bottoms get moving when they are dawdling.

(17) Child responds gleefully to song and dances up the stairs, almost falling backwards again but scaring himself enough that he lets mama help this time.

(18) Mama keeps adding activities to her long list of what she might accomplish within the confines of her brain during stair-climbing episodes.

(19) Child reaches the top of the stairs and immediately turns around to go down the stairs.

(20) Mama attempts to explain that we are going to stay upstairs for at least 3 minutes so she can feel like there was an adequate reason for going up the stairs in the first place. Child isn't buying it. Conflict ensues. Reconciliation occurs. We stay upstairs and accomplish ONE THING and then come back down.

Five minutes later, start over.

Now let me make something clear.

I am happy my child can finally maneuver the stairs. This is another step on the long track that leads towards physical independence. Soon he will only fall up or down the stairs as often as I do. I look forward to that.

But for now? When every trip up the stairs goes so painstakingly slow that I am confident at some point we will forget whether we were going up or down?

I've got that list that keeps my mind busy.

'Cause mama can only stare at an adorable little backside for so long without losing her mind.

Fall Down Tree

Every Sunday morning our family unceremoniously and rather chaotically piles into our minivan to head to church. Snacks packed (because when you have kids with allergies and sensitivities, sunday school goldfish could derail your whole week), lunches packed (because, let's be honest, with three growing boys, it's a long time from breakfast through church and Sunday School and that fifteen minute ride home is much more peaceful with mouths chomping) and a sense of having accomplished the impossible, getting all five of us out the door by 8 am, permeates the atmosphere.

No matter how we enter that car, I know now that something is about to change for our family. We are about to encounter "Fall Down Tree."

Just after we started coming to this church, we came across it. A huge tree, roots upended, laying right by the side of the road in someone's front yard. Somehow, this tree has become the focal point of our ride. It is cause for speculation, pontification and flat-out aesthetic awe.

How did it fall? Why don't the people who live there clean it up? How old might it be? Can we knock on their door and ask to play with it?

All these questions and more are answered in serious and silly fashion. (Maybe Joshie bonked it with his bike! Maybe Nate pushed it over with his strong arms! Maybe God blew on it and, poof, it fell over!)

But however it has happened, the conversation always ends with a chant. My youngest laughing and pumping his arms in the air as the middle and oldest chant "Fall down tree! Fall down tree! Fall down tree!" Dissolving in giggles at the end, we often enter church with lighter hearts and goofier outlooks.

Friends, this is a powerful thing.

You see, Sunday mornings have traditionally been calamitous. Screaming, crying, multiple changes of clothes, arguments. Usually this has culminated in two very exhausted parents who spend the greater part of the church service trying to remember why we even attempted to come to church in the first place. Too exhausted and defeated to even attempt to open our souls to what God may have for us that morning. Just grateful on some level that childcare is provided, we  would fight to stay awake during the sermon and then trudge back home again.

But now we have "Fall Down Tree." This strange and unexpected beacon of distraction and hope. No matter what mood everyone is in when we enter that car, as we turn that bend and "Fall Down Tree" comes into view, there is a shift in that minivan.

And entering church in its aftermath is a whole different world. Laughter has helped us shake off any early morning tomfoolery. Chanting has helped us loosen up our rigid need (ok, MY rigid need) to be early for church and the ensuing stress when someone has caused us to be late. Again. The camaraderie of three boys rejoicing together, united in spirit for even 5 minutes, gives everyone the chance to take a deep breath. To enter church with thanksgiving. To walk in with a posture that invites rest and redemption and joy.

Some day I am certain that that family will clean up the tree. We will turn the bend and as the chanting begins to rev up, the car will fall silent. There will be disappointment and mourning and the end to what is, at least for now, a tradition. Possibly we will pull some deep lesson out of its disappearance.

For now, though, I am relying on "Fall Down Tree." Because right now it is a tangible, beautiful reminder that any day can be reset. Any hard moment can suddenly turn into one of laughter and joy and lasting family memories. That giggles and silliness can be powerful preparation for inviting God to do His work of healing in our souls.

I know that one day, a long time from now when this tree is a distant memory, we will look back and tell the boys about it, about this tree that brought hope and life back into Sundays for our family.

Maybe God did blow it over for us, after all.

Unhinged

About 10 years ago, I awoke from a dream wherein I had been scratching my face. As I was emerging from slumber, my fingers felt something real...something crawly.

A bee.

Yes, I woke up, indoors, in a bed, a place that is supposed to be a place of calm, of rest, of comfort, with an actual bee crawling on my face...in my very own 5th realm of hell.

Now, I'm actually an outdoorsy person. I love to sip coffee outside in the mornings. I love to take hikes and go for runs and play at the beach and dig my hands into deliciously fertile soil and plant things. I don't really mind spiders or worms or caterpillars or flies or frogs.

But flying, stinging insects?

I question God daily about why they need to exist.

I can't even watch videos about beekeeping. I can barely eat honey because it makes me think of them. I can't click on stories about killer bees or I will NEVER SLEEP AGAIN. My fear of being stung is almost as great as my fear of being eaten by sharks. If a bee flies near me, I lose my mind.

I know on some level that this is irrational. I have no power over it.

This morning, there was a whole five minutes of calm. Not quiet, mind you, but no one was screaming or throwing or hitting. They were just eating. Sweetly. We might have even been a brief picture of domestic tranquility. It happens, be it ever so rarely.

And then this:

Nate: "Mama, big bug!"
Me: (Distractedly, as I'm packing bags to head to camp.) "Do you see a fly?"
Nate: "Nope."
Me: "Oh, what do you see?"
Nate: "Big bug. Mama, big bug!" (Pointing at the window excitedly)
Me: (Looks over where he is pointing and sees the LARGEST FLYING, STINGING THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. And it is INSIDE MY HOUSE."

I quickly run my options.

(1) I could run screaming from the house leaving all three of my children alone to deal with said insect. This could be asking too much of them.
(2) I could suck it up and go smush the thing against the window, but my instincts have always told me that if you go after something that large and dangerous, you will somehow miss and then it will attack you and then my three children will have a mother who has passed out on the floor from sheer terror.
(3) I could die.

None of those options were really frontrunners of rationality, so I had to regroup.

I frantically pulled all three boys out of the kitchen and stuck them in a corner of the living room. Miraculously, they stayed standing exactly where I put them because I am pretty sure they thought I was having some kind of colossal meltdown. (I was, actually, this was not an illusion. I was close to hyperventilating and my heart was banging around in my chest.)

I ran into the garage to find the wasp and hornet spray and came up empty.

Dialed the husband.

Reed: "Hello?"
Me: "PLEASE TELL ME WE HAVE HORNET SPRAY IN THE GARAGE!!!!!"
Reed: "What? Hello?"
Me: (Dog is barking frenziedly in background, Jayce has now managed to pull off his diaper and is peeing on the floor, killer insect is buzzing menacingly against the window and Nate is yelling "Big BUG!!! Big BUG!!! Mama CRY!)
Reed: "Umm...do you need the bug spray?"
Me: "YES! Did you unpack it?"
Reed: "No. But I know it's in a box in the garage."
Me: (Silent panic)
Reed: "I think there's only one box left out there."
Me: "Ok. Jayce, stop peeing! Nate, don't touch the bug!!!"
Click.

I race back to the garage, find the box, locate the spray and run back in. As I am about to spray a highly toxic substance in our home, I grab the two littles and drag them upstairs to Nate's room with Josh in charge.

And I take care of it - I use every ounce of bravado and adulting and caffeine in my body and I spray that bugger. I am literally dying inside as I do it. But that punk went down. I still don't know what it was. It looked like a cross between a hornet and honeybee that was high on crack. Maybe it was endangered. I DO NOT CARE. I would do it again. Unless Reed was around, then I would choose Option 1 above.

I washed the floors and the window. Things were miraculously (suspiciously?) quiet upstairs. I tried to resume normal breathing rhythms and slow my heart rate so that I would still not be in danger of passing out. So that I would look like I was in control when I went back up to my kids.

And I marched upstairs and opened that door. And found my 3 children sitting innocently and quietly on the floor reading books. (Friends, this has NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE. Maybe I need to become unhinged a little more often.)

Nate: "Mama, bug gone?"
Me: "Yes, buddy, the bug is gone."
Nate: "Mama ok now?"
Me: "Yes, Natey. Mama ok."

But I'm not. I never will be. There will always be bees and wasps and unidentifiably large, hostile, flying, stinging things. I am still haunted on a weekly basis by the one that slept on my face. I will remember the killer one in my kitchen FOREVER.

And I'm pretty sure my kids will, too.