Upon Your 2nd Birthday... {A Letter to My Son}

You came hard and fast and all at once.

My labor started and stopped and started and stopped for two weeks. I was sleep deprived, swollen, and I clearly remember telling your tia, “Stick a fork in me. I. Am. Done.” And then one day I woke up with contractions that were strong enough to leave me unable to speak, though they came only every half hour to an hour. So I kept waiting. And cleaning. And waiting. {And napping.}

I got tired of waiting and decided to go for a walk. The contractions came 4 minutes apart and hard. I couldn’t walk or talk through them, and I just kept praying the neighbors wouldn’t decide that this was the moment to come outside and begin small talk with me (I do not believe those were my most glamorous moments). I got back from my walk ready to leave for the hospital... and nothing. The contractions stopped. So I walked again. And again the contractions came 4 minutes apart. And again when I got home, they stopped.

Frustrated and ready to have you in my arms, I left for the hospital anyways.

It’s a good thing we did.

The moment we arrived at the hospital, the contractions became regular. Before I got checked in, they were hard and long and only gave me 15 seconds to catch my breath before the next one started (and no time to even consider an epidural, thankyouverymuch.) Before they even had me set up in a room, I was yelling, “He’s coming! I gotta push!”

I never had a calm moment to collect myself. I had you while on my side just because I never had the chance to straighten out. And my legs? Goodness knows where they were, definitely not being held up. The doctors never did believe you could come so fast either, till they saw your head making its way for the world.

You came hard and fast. Head-strong and determined. Stubborn even.

And a little bit onery, for your very first act as a baby was “baptizing” your dad… right in his loving and ecstatic face. A boy! Yes, definitely a boy.

And we gave you the name that means beloved of the Most High God. To remind you, God gave you a heart-shaped mark upon your leg--His Love is with you wherever you go, however you go, Son. We gave you the namesake of Jedediah Smith: explorer, trailblazer, warrior.

And sometimes I wonder what we were thinking when we picked out such a strong name.

Because as much as I admire your curiosity and your determination, I want to tuck you in close. I want to hold you and keep you. Small and precious. I want to soak up your kisses and neck squeezes and freeze time. I admire the little boy that wants to climb, explore, find new paths in his red rubber boots, but couldn’t you just stay right here? I look off to the unknown future proud of all the possibility I see, and yet my heart aches just a bit.

Oh, that trying yet triumphant business we call motherhood. {sigh} As inadequate as the words seem, I am so blessed, thankful, proud to be your mom. And, oh, you are just my heart, Son. I love you.

I think of the words of every woman who comments in the grocery store about my young kids and her grown kids: Time goes by so fast.

Yes. So fast.

Already Two. No longer a baby. But always my baby.

So here’s me freezing time and encapsulating it for just a moment.

Here’s you. At Two.

• You like trains and cars and anything you can make go “vroom.”
• You like throwing things, occasionally at your sister.
• When you want my attention, you pat my cheeks with your face right up to mine and sputter in machine gun fashion, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom…”
• You love to read. Especially Doggies and Mr. Brown Can Moo. You love making the sounds. 
• You know the sounds dogs, trains, cows and cats make… and if left to your opinion: everything else roars {loudly}.
• You shorten almost all words to one syllable and then double that syllable: dog dog, yo-yo (yogurt), shop-shop (shopping)…
• Your eyes, strong brows and cowlick make my momma-heart swoon.
• You have this grunty, rough voice and love to make your voice go real deep, but when you are excited you totally squeal like a girl. (I know. I am sorry for putting this down. But it’s true. And it’s really cute. The perfect balance to your boy-man voice)
• Your eyes sparkle mischief.
• When you give hugs, you make the bear-hug "rrrrrr" sound effect. Heart. Melts. Everytime.
• You would probably eat cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner… and snack and dessert if I’d let you. Everytime I get cereal for you, you let your uncontained happiness spill out in a knee-bobbing, happy dance.
• You are the very best mess-maker I have ever met. The speed at which you can take your yogurt from snack to wall-paint never ceases to amaze me (and catch me off guard. You’d think after wiping the dining room down for the 3^rd time I’d have learned... A good 10 to 20 times later, no, I still haven't learned and neither have you.)
• These are the days where your sister is your best friend. (And you are hers too.) Sometimes you melt my heart with the way you follow her around, imitate her, crawl up next to her and give her hugs and kisses when she's sad.

Happy Birthday, Jed.

By Grace,

Your Mom

For Plastic Swimming Pools, Crazy-haired Roosters, and Some Really Good Views {A Thankful Thursday Post}

# 240 The view from my book.

#241 For when everybody gets to be included

#242 Carwash snuggles

#243 Good drivers (and those rare times when the shopping cart steering wheels are enough to keep two kids occupied through an entire store)

#244 Big imaginations and big messy playtimes

#245 No hands

#246 For the times when you drive up to the zoo and discover it's closed and you choose to make the most of the day anyways... and then a crazy-haired zoo pet comes to visit.

#247 For getting to celebrate Father's Day with these two handsome men and for more time with my gramps

#248 For plastic swimming pools and those times when you get to swim in your underwear (or, as in the case of my free-bird toddler, nothing)

#249 For the way an impromptu escape from routine and messes can melt away depression and stress... especially when it involves a beautiful sunset, ice cream, and two really cute munchkins

#250 For big tromping Jed-marches

What's one thing you are thankful for this week?


By Grace,
Amanda Conquers

What Bravery Sometimes Looks Like

Since Father’s Day is this weekend, I was inspired to write down a memory of my Dad and an ode to road trips.

I was going into sixth grade—you know, that awkward time in a girl’s life where she is somewhere between teenager and child and on any given day cannot decide which way she would prefer to behave. My dad was taking the family on our almost annual road trip, in this case to Missouri to see my grandparents.

Before I can tell you about this road trip, there are three things you need to know about my dad:

One: He always takes the scenic route. By this, I mean, we once drove “The Loneliest Road in America” just so we could say we’d driven “The Loneliest Road in America.” By this I also mean he will take the more beautiful stretch of highway (read: winding roads) instead of the faster, straighter stretch of highway. My mom’s stomach has never appreciated this.

Two: My dad thinks brown is the best color—for cars, for furniture, for clothes. If he’s reading this right now he’s probably saying something along the lines of: “Well, it is! Brown never looks dirty. It holds up great. It matches everything.”

Three: My dad has very little tolerance for kids arguing in the backseat. We always knew he had reached his limit (or that the Forty-Niners were losing) when he made one loud clap with his hands, as though a carpenter had just dropped a wood block onto a concrete floor. He then rubbed his hands together as though that same carpenter took coarse sandpaper to his wood block and began vigorously sanding away. Most of the time, my dad also muttered under his breath during his hand-clap-and-rub signal.

On this one particular day, we were just leaving the Grand Tetons. We had hiked, we had been horse-back riding, we had stayed 3 kids in one bed with so much static electricity in it, it looked like a small lightning storm when you peeled back the comforter from the blanket. And now we siblings were tired of each other.

One half hour into our drive and we sounded like this:

“Mom, tell Andy to stop looking at me.”

“Mom, I’m not doing anything.”

“Andy! Mom, Andy keeps looking at me! He’s doing it to bug me.”

“I am not. Mom, tell Amanda to stop being so sensitive.”

“Mom!”

And then came the tell-tale sign: the carpenter entered our van, dropped his wood block and began to sand. Dad was done with our banter.

Mom intervened immediately. “Andy, you look out that window. Amanda, you look out that window. I don’t want to hear another word from anyone for ten minutes.”

For a few moments there was peace in that brown caravan as we passed from Grand Teton National Park into Yellowstone National Park. The road was winding and the trees were magnificent.

We rounded another bend. With my face against my designated window, I noticed a bear in the clearing.

I also noticed this bear was bounding.

Front feet. Back feet. Full on running at our Dodge. Teeth bared.

My eyes got wide.

Am I really seeing this?

And then words formed: “Bear! Bear! There’s a bear charging our car!”

My dad braked. My sister screamed. My brother asked, “Where?” I am pretty sure my mom stretched her arms across the front seat like a human seat belt.

The bear ran towards us until it got about a foot from our car. That brown creature was full of such fiery, testosterone-charged rage. It’s like it didn’t see us, it just saw red—some carnal instinct to take out a threat and not stop till it was gone. And then it did see us. It suddenly stopped, turned around, and trotted back through the trees, indifferent to the van full of panic-stricken homo sapiens.

My dad, who I am pretty sure would make an excellent Jeopardy contestant, explained to a wide-eyed car, “It’s mating season. We must have entered that bear’s territory. And, I guess, our brown van looked a bit like a bear.”

On that vacation we managed to see Old Faithful, dig for quartz crystals in Montana, take pictures of Mount Rushmore, experience small-town Missouri on the Fourth of July complete with 90% humidity, Grandma’s homemade ice-cream, and my uncle’s lesson on how to properly extract the bottom off of lightning bugs to make glow-in-the-dark rings. On the return trip we ate lunch in the world’s largest McDonald’s, swam in hotel swimming pools, and saw lightning touch the ground in Colorado. We fought over Gameboys and walkmans. We played travel bingo.

We had the forced undivided attention of one another for near 3 weeks solid.

Much of that time was in the six by twelve foot space of one brown-like-a-bear Dodge caravan.

As a parent now, I look at my parents with a sense of awe. My dad planned family road trips. He knew the bickering he would have to endure. He knew he was going to hear “Are we there yet?” at least ninety-seven times. He knew there would be no less than thirty inconvenient bathroom stops. He knew his patience would be pushed past the limit, and, that at some point on that trip, he would be thoroughly annoyed with each one of us, possibly all of us at the same time.

He planned road trips anyways.

My dad gave us the world. He let us see it, know it, experience it, adventure through it. He gave us memories and stories to tell.

He gave us relationships with each other forged in the fire of small spaces and big personalities on the back roads of America.

My dad is one of the brave ones.

Thank you Daddy. And Happy Father’s Day.

My Dad, Mom and brother Andy circa 1987. Eighties Dad-Fashion at it's finest. :)

My Dad with my kids. Highlight of my 4 and 1 year olds' lives: riding Papa's mower.

Did your family take road trips? What is a favorite memory from one of them?

By Grace,

Amanda

Conquers

I'm a Quality-Time Girl And Other Epiphanies

A few weeks ago, I was sharing the difficulty of coping with my husband’s schedule with a friend. Sometime during the course of the conversation, my friend casually said something along the lines of, “Oh, you’re a quality-time girl.”

I figured she was referring to The Five Love Languages which, by the way, I have never read.

Her comment took a few days to sink in. I had always assumed I was a words of affirmation kind of girl or the kind of girl that likes thoughtful gifts.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized my perceptive friend might be right.

………………….

Yesterday we spent time as a family. We loaded up the car, we drove to unfamiliar country, we explored, and we drove home. Kids sat perched on shoulders, silly songs were sang, jokes were told, and kids napped the whole way home while mom and dad held hands and talked about the future. After a good rest, the kids were sent to their grandparents while Mike and I sipped wine, ate good food, out-talked and out-laughed the clearly-just-dating couple sitting in earshot (and yes, we also dropped eaves together). We shared dessert and closed out the restaurant looking each other in the eyes and holding hands across the table.

Quality time.

It felt like my lungs were filled with air. My soul felt nourished. And suddenly the future didn’t have to be decided so long as those two kids and that one man were in it.

Yes, I am definitely a quality-time girl.

………………………..

I wanted to share an epiphany I had (outside of the one where I figured out my love language).

This family is weathering change. A storm of sorts. Where mom is fighting off anxiety and depression and trying to find a new normal. Where dad is in a completely new career… the kind where you put your life on the line, the kind where you see things you can never unsee, the kind where your normal day is showing up to someone’s worst day.

When a ship is weathering a violent storm, cargo is thrown overboard to lighten the load, to make the storm more manageable.

And don’t we do the same? When we are busy, or facing change, or in the throes of some trial, don’t we tend to say “no” more? Get terrible at keeping in touch with friends? Eat more frozen pizza? Excuse things like yelling and messes and the behaviors we normally keep in check?

So here’s my thought: When you are facing a storm in your life, evaluate what is most important so you don’t accidentally toss it off the ship. You need to know what needs to be held on to. 

And here’s where the love language thing comes in: Knowing the love language of everyone in your family is, well, at the cost of sounding cliché, really important. No matter what storms you face, you will weather them so much better as a family if you hold onto love.

Some suggestions:

• If someone in your family needs those words of affirmation, don’t allow the head-in-your-hands frustration to rob you of your kind words for him.
• If you are facing a financial storm and someone in your family is a gift-receiver, just because you need to cut back spending doesn’t mean you should cut back those thoughtful gifts.  
• If your husband is now working long and strange hours and someone in your family happens to be a quality time person, make the effort to carve out quality time somehow, someway.
• If you find yourself emotionally and physically exhausted and someone in your family receives love through hands-on touch or by acts of service, don’t stop being affectionate; don’t stop doing.

In it all, there will need to be creativity. Like how to fit quality time into a unique and limited schedule or how to give gifts with a very a small budget.

And in it all, there will need to be grace. Grace for you. Grace for your loved ones. Grace that allows you to work it out one day at a time.  And I think it’s also important to add, grace that gently teaches a spouse to speak a language he does not naturally speak (like for example, my husband doesn’t quite understand how to speak quality time. So I am learning that if I plan it, he will give me his undivided attention. Asking him to plan it, at least on a regular basis, is like asking him to speak Chinese—something he definitely does not know how to do.)

{Here’s a link to Focus on the Family's bit on The Five Love Languages. It includes a summary of the truths in the book and a quiz if you would like to figure out your own love language}

This family is now taking advantage of my husband’s long weekends that he gets every other week, and making at least one of the days family adventure day. I am kind of excited. I love me some adventures. I know quality time is one cargo item on this family's ship that we need to keep us nourished as we adjust to change… and will keep this woman grounded when she braves the long work week where she barely sees her man.

So, what’s your love language?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Love That Conquers Fear and The Return of Thankful Thursdays

Last week I found a lump on my son’s stomach. It was firm, about the size of a dime. My brain automatically went to doctor-mode as though I could accurately self-diagnose with my limited knowledge. Hernia? Benign Growth? And then the terrible, most-feared c-word that I dared not even whisper, but could not push from my mind: Cancer?

I made an appointment with his pediatrician. And as I drove up to the doctor’s office, just me and my Jed-man, I began to pray. And then I began to cry. What if…? What if…? What if…? And Oh God! Please!

A momma’s number one fear: that something horrible and completely beyond our control will happen to the life we hold most precious… the life of our child.

For some reason as I pleaded and drove, my mind flashed to the little birthmark my son bears. The little boy whose name means “Beloved of Y-HW-H” wears a little mark in the shape of heart on his leg—the legs that will take him wherever he will go.

And God spoke to me:

Jed is the apple of my eye. He is my beloved. I am with him. And that child who is most precious to you, is most precious to ME—God of the whole universe. I see him, I formed him. And daughter, I love you too. I am God. And you can trust that I will take care of whom I love. I have an eternal perspective and you cannot fathom My ways. You are marked by love, and you have it wherever you go.

What is this fear? And why is trust so hard? And why is trust so hard and fear so suffocating when it comes to our kids?

When fear grips and the trials of life clamor, why is it that I cling to whom and what I call mine? Why don’t I keep it all in God’s hands when I most need His hand to move in it all? 

Perfect love casts out all fear.

Love trumps fear. Love defeats fear. Love is the very tool that plucks fear out.

So before I even stepped foot into the doctor's office and heard that the lump is something completely normal and easily taken care of (an epigastric hernia, if you are curious)… this momma had peace. I had peace not because I was sure it would be okay, I had peace because I was sure of God’s love for me and for Jed. And as much as I’d like to know it all and how it all works out, I think love is a pretty good thing to be sure of.

You are beloved. You are the apple of His eye. You were bought with a price. You have been adopted into God’s family. You are chosen and desperately wanted. Your adoption papers have been draw up and sealed in the very blood of Christ Jesus. You are marked by the very love of God, the blood over the doorpost of your heart, and you take that love wherever you go. No matter how much you love your children, He loves them more. No matter how much you love your cars, houses, jobs, life... He loves you more.  

Psst... If you would like to read more about love and fear, I wrote a post that still speaks to me a few months back: On Fear and Freedom.

--------------------------------------------

As of late, I am struggling. I am pretty sure if you have been following me for any length of time, this is no secret. Life has been swallowing me whole and I've felt myself coming a bit unraveled. I may be slowing down the writing (okay, I probably have already slowed down the writing here). I may or may not be working on a book. And I just really need to do some healing, some focused effort on family and going from survival mode to fully living in our circumstances. I make no promises of how often I will post, just that for the summer, most of my writing will be off-screen.

That said, I love connecting here. (This blog and the connections I've made are such a gift. You are a gift!) I think part of that "fully living in our circumstances" thing is finding the gifts God gives and receiving them. I need to get back to the basics of gratitude and the great gift hunt that fills my heart with joy. So, I am starting back my "Thankful Thursdays."

So here it is: some of the gifts I have found...

#230 For being together in one place, good food, and another birthday with granma.

#231 For time at the park, just me and this guy.

#232 For the little girl that made good on her promise to ride her bike the whole way to the lake and back.

#233 For kids that stop to search for bugs.

#234 A good reminder on a rough day. Hope deferred makes the heart sick... Hold on to hope.

#235 My view from the laundry pile.

#236 For Psalm 91 "He who dwells in the secret place will abide under the shadow of the Almighty..." and for finding a good "secret place."

#237 For little boys who are fascinated with how things work and are full of so much potential. (Yes, that's blueberry yogurt. Also missing from the picture are about 25 more globs... on light fixtures, ceiling, walls, chairs and doors... yeah. Choosing to see the gift in the moment.)

#238 Bedtime Stories and both kids on my lap.

#239 New glasses! And no blue tape!

What was your messiest moment from the week? (Mine clearly involved yogurt and an almost-2 year old)


By Grace,
Amanda Conquers

Oh That Fabulous Fringe Bottom

It seems everyone around me is having or has just had a baby. And, I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a touch of baby fever. Soft skin, newborn smell, a little baby that lays so snuggly right under your chin--that fully loves you and trusts you and doesn't talk back to you.... Sigh. Yeah, okay. I will move forward with this post now. 

My sister and I were standing in the fabric store (a very dangerous place for these two sisters to be) contemplating which lace would make for the best ruffle butt on a onesie. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it. Fringe! Before I could even think through the idea, it was out of my mouth.

"Dude! Kelly! Forget ruffles. Fringe. Fringe!" In my enthusiasm, I may have even grabbed the spool and shook it in her face.

My sister paused for a second while thinking through whether my idea was a good one or a crazy one.

"Dude." (My sister also speaks fluent Californian.) "With little tiny baby moccasins?! That would be amazing!"

Those four little words sealed it: "little tiny baby moccasins." We may have even squealed in the middle of the fabric store. We were doing this. We had never seen fringe on onesie before, but we were prepared to bravely go where no crafter had gone before all in the name of little tiny baby cuteness. Because really, anytime you attach the adjectives "little," "tiny," and "baby" to a noun... that noun automatically becomes cute. Little tiny baby fingers. Little tiny baby socks. Little tiny baby bottle. Little tiny baby fringe bottom. 

(and there's that baby fever again... I think I need one of my friends to let me hold their baby until he spits up on me... ;)

I didn't take any pictures of actually sewing the fringe on, so you are not going to get a tutorial, but it was literally a matter of pinning a layer of fringe across the bottom of a onesie and then sewing it on. I chose to do two layers of fringe. I think it took 15 minutes... including the time it took to make a bobbin, thread it, fight with my machine, and then sew the ruffle. 

I have a feeling this faux leather fringe is not the most practical embellishment. It seems there is a chance that the fringe could get ruined after a few too many wears, but it's fringe. And it's cute. And it would make a great picture in a pair of these:

Photo Credit

Oh. My. The cuteness! Little tiny baby moccasins with a little tiny baby fringe bottom!

Do you have baby fever now too? 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Pssst... Did you notice?! My first crafty post in a long time! I doubt I will be back to my once-a-week routine like I used to do anytime soon, but it feels so good to have some creativity flowing and to just write a light-hearted post. There will be more of these in the future! xo


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In Honor of My Granny

She always wore perfume, an Elizabeth Taylor if I remember correctly. If you happened to catch her on the right day of the week, her red hair would be in a silky scarf that hid her rollers. I still remember the time she took me to Washington D. C. my eighth grade year and how she out-walked every parent and student without a single complaint or a drop of sweat on her forehead.

She held all the dignity of England and the fiery tenacity of the Scots in her small frame.  She knew how to host a party and which fork was which. You couldn’t tell which of her clothes were from Macy’s and which she had sewn herself. She drank tea and light beer and was a really good friend to many.

I was nineteen going on twenty-five. I had just ended an engagement. I felt broken and free all at the same time. As I sat sipping my water in the living room, she sat down next to me.

“’Mander,” her Australian accent still clung to her vowel-ending words, “I want you to know, I think you did the right thing.” Her hand landed on my knee, reassuring me.

“Thanks, Granny.” It came out a little awkward. I don’t think I had ever really talked about boys with her.

“You know, I broke off an engagement before your Gramps.”

Her words kind of hung in the air. I looked at her with shock. I could see the determination on her face to share this story. “I was young, and I thought I was in love. He was handsome too. But he was a Catholic, and I was a Protestant. I would have had to marry him in the Catholic church. I would have had to convert. I thought I loved him, but I just couldn't give up that part of myself. I wouldn't stop being who I was and who I wanted to be for anyone.”

I listened, hanging on to her every word, trying imagine what she must have looked like and how she must have felt. Young, beautiful, and fiery.

“I really thought I would end up an old maid. I was already old for not being married in those days. I volunteered at the Navy hall and served American soldiers. I met your Gramps that way, while he was in the service. My mother began corresponding with his mother. And when I decided to visit my relatives in England and America, my mother arranged for me to stay with your Gramps's mother. Your Gramps happened to come home on leave while I was staying with his mother, and we decided to marry.”

I marveled at her courage. Leaving home. Leaving comfort. Stepping out into the unknown.

She paused. “I have never looked back. I held onto my values. I waited for the right thing. I have had a long and happy marriage, 3 kids, and 6 lovely grandkids. I wouldn’t trade it for the whole world.”

She didn’t share the marriage struggles or the sleepless nights with her babies or the trying teenage years. And she didn’t have to. I knew the hard times were there. She had never been one for gushy sentimentals either, perhaps a sign of the generation she belonged to, but she didn’t have to say anything more. I knew it. I felt it. I was her prize. Her legacy. The thing she fought for. The thing she wanted dearly. I was worth it. And she loved me.

She was calling me to fight.

Me and my granny in Washington D. C. way back in 1997.

My Granny's Treasures one year after she left us (plus my aunt and uncle on my mom's side). Note to self: I think this is my most recent picture of my dad's side of the family with everyone in it, we should probably change that ;)

So, as I sit missing my dear granny, praying for my gramps who is in the hospital, and thinking of Mother’s Day, can I just say this?

Whether you are a mother or not, there is something woven into the fabric of every women’s heart: to give, to fight, to love, to pursue, to encourage. Perhaps it’s occasionally ignored or the trials of life crush it, but it’s there, and it needs to be called out.

So, here’s to the determined, the fighters, the wisdom imparters, the courageous. Here’s to the givers and the servers. Here’s to the tenacious. Here’s to all who are willing to live life with conviction and pass that conviction on. Here’s to all who have ever gone out of their way for another. Here’s to the vulnerable.  

Here’s to my moms, my grandmothers, my pastors’ wives, my dear mentor friends…

Happy Determined-Warrior, Sacrifice-Maker, Real-Beauty-Imparter Day!

Happy Mother’s Day!

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

PS- Could I ask you to pray for my Gramps? His heart is failing him, and, more importantly, he is not a believer. Thank you, friends.