Category Archive: Parenting
Livia, sweetly reading a book on the artist Matisse to our dog Shiloh:
Sometimes I like art. [page turn]
Sometimes I like little villages. [page turn]
Sometimes I like naked men. [page turn]
Mommy:
Um, what? [pause] Show me that page. [checks out the sexless nude figures] Ahhhh. Now, read it to me again… [busily types, mutters under breath] so I can share it with the world wide web…
Today we finally got around to joining our library’s summer reading program. One of the activities a child can do for credit is read to a pet. So tonight Livia picked up some books on famous artists, sat down with Shiloh nearby, and began to read aloud in words a simpleton like the dog could understand. After she saw me recording our previous conversation, she asked me to write down the book in it’s entirety. Here is the book on Matisse, according to Livia, thoroughly enjoyed by Shiloh.
**************
I like this antique picture.
Oooh, this one’s pretty. I like this village, too.
I like this picture of naked men, too. Playing music. (Un-propriate!)
Sometimes I like to look at this picture of fish.
Sometimes I like to look at these men again, which is swirling around and is an old painting, too.
I like this old antique house.
Sometimes I like to have feasts with all sorts of kind of food, even fish, and the fish are dead. And also it’s an old painting.
I also like this bowl of fruit painting. It’s nice.
And I like this picture of a lady playing a piano and boys playing checkers.
And I like this picture of a lady sleeping in a pretty dress.
The end.
I love that, after we told you that you may not ask to hang out with our neighbor friend (a male approximately 22 years old), that you later sobbed to me, “It’s just that I’m so attracted to him!”
I love that you bring me flowers multiple times a day and that you delight in giving them to me.
I love that you asked if my throat hurt tonight—because if it did, you would only ask for one song. But since it felt okay, you requested two.
I love that, when I guessed the next plot point on tonight’s tv show, you turned to me with amazement and asked in awe, “How did you know that?” I felt like a genius in those few seconds.
I love that you call your daddy a genius and that you didn’t listen to me that one time I tried to tell you otherwise. Without fully meaning to, I was being a jerk. But you forgot what I said and you still call him a genius. And I’m starting to believe you’re right. He is a genius, our genius, and we love him to death.
I love that you wanted to see what I bought at the mall today. And that you oohed and ahhed and commented on the absolute cuteness of each article of clothing, even though one was a pretty basic white shirt. I think you noticed the subtle details that made it so cute in the first place.
I love that you slept in longer than me and your dad this morning and that, when I came to wake you up, you stretched out, long and lean, then curled up tight again and went back to sleep again. For a moment I could imagine teenage Livia doing that very thing. But then you stuck your fingers in your mouth, and that darned bad habit was briefly welcomed because it broke my vision of the future, a vision that had you getting big way too fast.
Oh Livia Raine, our lives would be so boring, so mundane, so colorless without you. We thank God for creating you because you have filled our hearts with more love than we thought possible. You, dear sweet kiddo, are amazing. And you are loved.
Tomorrow is Livia’s golden birthday—seven on May 7th! We baked, frosted and decorated funfetti cupcakes to deliver to her kindergarten classroom today. Based on the hovering, exclaiming crowd of children surrounding Liv this morning, I’d say the cupcakes will be a success. Oh my goodness, the cuteness I encounter every morning in the kindergarten wing kills me. Those kids are adorable.
Yesterday, amidst a small group discussion about finding contentment in Christ—no matter where you are in life—the topic of blog competition/comparison was brought up. It’s so easy to look at people’s websites and imagine each one tells the entirety of that blogger’s life. You begin to wonder why your life doesn’t seem as wonderful as theirs. Just so you’re never tempted to think that of me, I’ve got evidence of the mess of cupcake-making with my child.
Here’s the end result: a charming cupcake.
Let’s dig a little deeper and imagine what went into making that cupcake. It’s the end of the day and the birthday girl is dead-set on baking with mommy. Mommy wants a drink and a recliner. Alas, the duo whips up a boxed mix, cools the little cakes, then tints a batch of frosting. The tint, notorious for staining *everything* it touches, does that just. Opened by six-year-old fingers, it stains the countertop, her fingers and face, and her clothes. Mommy tries to be cool, takes a few deep breaths and hands her daughter the sprinkles. A few quick swipes of frosting and it’s sprinkle time. Incidentally, sprinkles are the pinnacle of awesomeness to a six-year-old and she proceeds to POUR the little beads all over the counter. Whoops, she says, didn’t know it was open! Replay the last few sentences 24 times and you have a good picture of the final moments of our night.
There might have been more sprinkles on the counter and floor than on the cupcakes.
Jeremy still feels them under his toes this morning.
Finally, the scene of the crime. My kitchen looks just like this right now, 14 hours later. Minus the cupcakes, which are being admired in an elementary school near you.
Jeremy and I decided to become foster parents in January. We just completed our coursework last night and I’m sitting down to try and make sense of both where we are today and how we got here.
As it turns out, I had preconceived notions of foster kids and foster families and, well, the entire foster care system that I couldn’t even put into words before we began our training. I never really understood why people would choose to become foster parents. It sounded kind of messy. It also sounded like something I had read in an old Christian fiction book in 6th grade. Wasn’t there a Libby character who was a foster kid and always messed up while her bio sister looked and acted perfectly? And then Libby’s dad would show her grace, I suppose he was the Christlike figure. So there you go, the extent of my knowledge and education. Gross.
My ideas began to be changed and molded by a deep friendship with another adoptive mama, who also is a foster mom. She was (and still is!) a normal and loving mother. Her kids are normal and loving kids. Foster or adopted, they are just her kids. Normal kids. Normal meaning hilarious, fun, precious, crazy sinners like the rest of us. My old notions began falling away and I began to build new thoughts. I, a mom by adoption, wanted more children. There are lots of local children in the foster care system, many waiting to be adopted, but I would *never* be able to adopt them unless I became a foster parent.
Our tale really kicked into gear when Jeremy—who had to, by his own admission, be dragged into parenthood to begin with—said we should become foster parents. Really, this fact still hits me as remarkable and miraculous and I am grateful that God was working in his heart. What a blessing to be on the same page here. So we called Christian Heritage, a local agency that shares our Christian worldview, and we began our ten weeks of classes in February. It’s been a long time since Jeremy and I took night classes for college—this was definitely comparable in terms of time commitment. We signed up for the training with friends from church, my foster mom friend encouraged me all along the way, and my parents supported us by caring for Livia so we could attend the classes.
We filled out a lot of paperwork. We got background checks. And physicals from doctors. And completed a lot of homework. And met with Christian Heritage folks in our home. And our hearts have been changed in the process.
Foster care is far more than a way to build our family. It’s an amazing way for us to invest in the future of our city and state. One of my preconceived notions is right, though: it is messy. By its very definition, it’s messy, sin is messy. We’re talking about families that are being torn apart by abusive and neglectful behaviors committed by parents and guardians. And here, right in the middle of the situation is a child who has no control over their crumbling world and is desperately in need of some loving care. Can you see how someone might get starry-eyed at this point? I want to save the children, love the children! Well, foster care training does a darn good job of wiping those stars from your eyes. More often than not, we would end our evenings feeling like we were in way over our heads. And we still feel that way to some degree. We are humbled by the task. We know we can’t do it alone. We trust that God will give us what we need, when we need it—and that includes support from family, friends, church, schools, Christian Heritage, etc.
We are not going into this system alone. Not by a long shot.
So, now that classes are done, are we ready to have kids placed in our home? Not quite yet. There are loose ends to tie up, a waiting game to play, and then we’ll be added to a list of foster families awaiting placements. Even then, it’s my understanding that fostering requires a large amount of flexibility and a willingness to go with the flow of the court system of the state of Nebraska. If we are looking for absolute control and strong deadlines and a life of “sure things” then foster care is simply not the way to go. Jeremy and I would be kidding ourselves if we thought we were in control anyway. God has carried us through the sufferings and joys of our lives—and He is the one we serve in all this.
Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” [James 4:13-15]
May God be praised by the misty offerings of our lives.
In the middle of the night I “heard” Livia’s voice calling for me, so I jumped out of bed, ran into her room and began asking her questions and patting her face before I realized she was sound asleep. Dead asleep, even with her mama’s hands groping her noggin in the pitch black at 3:00am. Niiiice.
The weird thing is that sometimes I think I’m hearing her when she’s not even in the house! She’ll be asleep in my parents’ extra room and I’ll sit up straight in bed after hearing her call for Mommy.
The most unfortunate consequence of getting up for a real call or imaginary one is that I can’t fall back asleep easily. I usually spend 20-30 minutes trying to relax again, my mind spinning with unsleepy thoughts. Curse you, adulthood, with your multitude of responsibilities!
My last thought regarding sleep and children and responsible parental behaviors is this: Friday mornings are only accomplished successfully because Saturday is just one day away. Friday comes around and it’s almost physically painful to rouse myself and Livia from bed. Get dressed. Get shoes on. Eat breakfast. Brush teeth. Brush hair. Get out the door and get into school on time.
But oh, sweet sweet Saturday. How I adore thee. I didn’t fully appreciate your beauty until school started—I was blind to your precious ways. But now? I can see clearly your benefits. Pajamas until 3:00pm. Lucky Charms for breakfast. Lounging on the couch until lunchtime.
TGIF.
Liv brings enthusiasm, or a party if you will, to pretty much everything she does. She lives with gusto and uses her arms to express her joy and excitement—and if there’s a glass of milk nearby, you can plan on cleaning it up off the floor. Those expressive arms are not only good for punctuating thoughts, they’re also remarkably good at spilling drinks.
Living with my six-year-old makes my life so much more interesting. I came home from running errands this morning to discover a toothbrush suction-cupped to the dining room wall. It *almost* made it back into the bathroom, but not quite. And I’m still laughing about her song of choice while she was getting ready for school: Iron Man. As in, the song by Black Sabbath. Granted, the only words she knew where “iron man,” but still, hilarious.
Last night while I was giving most of my attention to the red carpet at the Oscars, Liv entertained herself making movies on my computer. I kept thinking she was talking to me, but as it turned out, she was talking to Lewis. Lewis was the one foot tall servant whose chief task, as I understood it, was to push Livia around in her wheelchair (aka my desk chair). Oh, and her name was no longer Livia: it was Cupcake and she was royalty. So I made Cupcake a grilled cheese and carrots with dip, and Lewis obligingly pushed her to a location where she could eat. That Lewis, such a kind soul. What would I do without his help for my poor broken-legged Cupcake?
This is my world. I am richly blessed.
Livia’s class teddy bear, Theodore or Teddy as he is often called, came home with her this weekend. She was ecstatic about this development and proceeded to cuddle him at every opportunity.
The one requirement at the end of Teddy’s visit was a small story on what he did over the weekend. The writer in me needed restraint to not embellish Livia’s words in the classroom journal. After recording her story, I gave her a set of colored pencils so she could draw a picture. The following image is what Livia came up with.
Do you see what she wrote next to the picture? Do you see her first sentence? Yaaaayyy, Liv!! I asked her later how she wrote the sentence and she said she “turtle talked” it. Sometime you’ll have to ask Livia for a demonstration of turtle talking—it’s a fascinating method of sounding out words and I have no idea why it’s called turtle talking. Anyhow, when you adopt a kid you just don’t know much about their development. When is she going to walk? Talk? Read? Write? Etc, etc. And, as mothers often do, you worry a bit about your child. So it is with great pride and great joy that I mark my child’s first sentence. What a beautiful thing.
Livia: Mom, can I stay with you?
Me, thinking of an upcoming trip: What do you mean?
Livia: When I’m a grownup, can I always stay with you?
Me, heart melting: You can stay with me as long as you want to.
There will come a day when Livia is ready to move away from my side, when she finds her first apartment or moves across the country to a dorm room. But for today, for this moment where she needs her mommy and wants to stay close, I am grateful. I pray I have the grace to let her go when it’s time for her to not need me so much.
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After school Liv told me about a video she watched with a ballerina and a toy soldier. This led to questions about real soldiers and, as I often do, I told her way more than she needed to know. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Afghanistan, President Obama, Congress and, oh yes, God bless the USA. I told her there are some countries where people aren’t allowed to worship God and meet together for church, and there are other places where women aren’t allowed to vote or be in charge of the government. There are some countries where children have to work instead of go to school, and there are some places where the government doesn’t take good care of its own people.
She thought seriously about all this, then asked, with great concern in her voice, “Are there places where kids can’t have play dates?”
I love the six year old mind. Because really, what could be worse than not being allowed to have play dates?
I stood in the aisle at Target for goodness knows how long as I contemplated buying the plush white throw pillow. I had completed all important shopping and my brain wasn’t functioning very quickly anymore as I entered something of a Shopper’s Daze. The store lights, smells and dizzying colors had gotten to me and I debated and debated and debated the purchase of one throw pillow.
In the end, I bought it.
And I’ve found I have officially turned into my mother. “Don’t drool on this one!” I warned Livia right away. “Because I can just see you drinking something chocolate-y and then laying down on this pillow.” She cuddled into the fuzzy stripes and nuzzled her face in it. I took one look at her, and promptly gave her an old couch pillow. Just like my mom used to do. But somehow, despite my mom’s best efforts, I repeatedly napped—and drooled—on the good pillows.
Why we mamas purchase anything new is beyond me. And something white to boot? I’m blaming it on that shopping daze—and those alluring fuzzy white stripes.
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
- James 1:7
I praise God for this child, for the fun of being together on a Friday afternoon and doing special things together like drinking Sonic slushies and going to the lake.
I praise God for this world He’s created—that Livia loves to explore—and for the creatures like ducks and caterpillars that bring her such delight.
I praise God for her chubby kid cheeks that will someday morph into a more slender shape. I praise God that He has given such a beautiful child to me to love and care for.
This unchanging nature of our God brings me such relief and profound gratitude. He doesn’t change. His goodness can’t be altered. Praise God.