Selfies

(Okay, so not Post-Script P.S. but Pre-Script P.S.: I hate selfies.  They are selfish.  I only take them when I'm feeling gross and horrible, but then all of the sudden my phone's glossy camera says I look amazing....or at least passable.  And then I realize it's a lie, delete it, and go to sleep.)

If selfies exist for any purpose it is this one:

(Taken with a disposable Kodak, y'all. Legit.)

This is the only picture we have of the two of us on our honeymoon.

The purpose is to remind me just how mercifully I have been blessed with a man who cherishes me and respects me with every single one of his breaths.  I was primed, y'all.  Primed for something not-so-happy at best, and abusive or destructive at worst.  But I wasn't dealt not-so-happy at best.  I was given the best man on the face of the earth.  I seriously believe with every fiber of my being that there is not one single man who could meet my needs and love me and forgive me the way my B.daddy does.  I realize that sounds fantastical, but real love has a way of doing that.  You get caught up in it.  It probably doesn't take your breath away, because you realize it over the kitchen sink or in the bathroom or in the middle of the night when no one is around to notice.  But when you do realize it you know:  this is my man; from him I have nothing to fear, for him I will do anything.

I say all of these things because they are the evidence and proof of the last thirteen years.  But right now I am 37 weeks pregnant with our fifth child.  I sleep next to no-minutes-ever.  My two year old begs my constant affection and attention despite my disappearing lap-space.  My three big ones need me in such specific ways, and all have told me they want to grow up and have kids--just not deal with marriage and "having a baby" which makes me think I'm failing on some catastrophic, epic level.  My man's plate is so full....so very full.  Despite the fact that I have played a significant role in giving life to four (almost five) of the human beings in this family, I feel like a big, fat, lump of a burden.

And what do you do when you feel like a burden?
You lash out at your dearest one.  You tell him it's all his fault.  It's the weight he's put on you.  It's all of his unspoken disappointments you've known all along.  The things he would NEVER say.  There's no way you'd feel so horrible if he'd just let up for a second, right?
You take all that hurtful-fearful-hatred and you punch him in the face with it.

You punch him in the face with it and you want to apologize all at the same time.  If he responds out of anger, you completely freak out.  Far worse than your first attack, you try to blitz him into his normal senses screaming, "No! I'm freaking out! Not you!"  And then, if he responds out of compassion and patience you completely lose it.   Tears.  Of epic proportion.

We've had a lot of that in the last few weeks.  Tears.  Discomfort.  No sleep.  Work stress.  Homestead stress.  School drama.  A two-year-old being a two-year-old.

All of our Joneses are primed and ready to completely tear one another apart.  We're tired and cranky and who-knows-what over this new human being entering our orb.  But then I see this picture:

We could have been ruined from the start, easily.  But we saw from the get-go: communicate, communicate, communicate.  Talk until you are embarrassed to talk and then talk some more.  That's how we spent our honeymoon....talking. *Sure as hell wasn't going to embarrass myself by crashing a bike into a pool in front of my brand, new husband and then never ride one again for thirteen years.*  We talked and ate and slept together.  And through those fleeting days we laid the ground work of our whole marriage. 

Tell me how it feels.

Is it good?  Is it bad?

What do you want?

What do you need from me?

These were the most basic questions that started us on the most epic journey of healing and rediscovery.  It has taken me a very long time to believe that this man will still love me despite the puss that oozes out of my wounded heart as I try to leave the pain and shame behind and embrace the freedom and joy that has surrounded me ever since I met him.

So as the puss continues to ooze out and our kids persist in their development and this sweet Olive prepares to meet us......I will remember to talk to my man.  

How do I feel?

Is it good or bad?

What do I want?

What do I need from him?

And when I feel a bit stronger....

What does he need from me?

Going Public: The Challenge of Lunch

Food is my love language.

The second we decided to put the kids in public school I started planning their lunches.

Seriously.

For me letting go of homeschooling begged the question, how well will they eat?  And I will tell you in all frankness, the hardest part of adjusting to public school was lunch time.  At home, lunch was our oasis.  We had finished the hard school work for the day. 7am to 12pm of meat. Scripture, literature, grammar, history, math, writing. To signal lunch I'd put on a beautiful audio book or tune them in to a video about science or art history and make something warm for them to eat.  They had at least an hour to relax and absorb information alongside nourishment.  For all the reasons reasonable and respectable, public school lunch is not relaxed.  Relaxed is the antonym for school lunch.

At each public school hundreds of children have to be corralled and fed as efficiently as possible, so they can 1--be not hungry and 2--get back to learning.  For my kids, that means 15 minutes to find a seat and eat.  They were not ready for that!  But they adjusted very quickly.  The stomach is the master of all things.

To give them the most time possible to eat, I attempt to pack their lunches everyday.  They buy when I don't have a stocked fridge, or we're just too tired, or they beg adorably enough for the pancakes being served for lunch.  But 90% of the time we pack.

90% of the time I'm racking my brain for ideas of food they'll willingly eat quickly and maybe a token to remind them they're loved.  This is how last year went:

I get our weekly groceries on Saturday or Sunday, early in the morning.  When I'm on top of things I'll chop and bag their fruits and veggies as soon as I've put everything away--five days' worth of snack and lunch. (Browning produce: dash of lemon juice in the bag.) Then Monday through Friday I simply throw the components into the bags and lunch packing ain't no thang.

Though this is the "best" way to do it, it is not always the most feasible.  My elementary kids get a snack in the morning and then lunch.  That's a lot of produce, y'all!  It takes precious hours I may not have to give on Saturday, but when I have to chop, bag, and pack the morning of, they often end up with less ideal options.

The main course is usually ham and cheese or PB&J. That gets old over 180 school days for both the creator and the consumer.  The creative solutions my kids will actually eat:

pasta salad w/ their favorite veggies,

 corndog muffins (cornbread recipe w/ chopped up franks mixed in),

 or leftover breakfast--their favorite.  Blueberry or poppyseed muffins are also great w/ a couple hard-boiled eggs.

Absolutely, by far, over and above, the greatest privilege we have in packing lunches: sending love notes.  This is how I show up for them in the middle of the day.  It's not everyday, every week, or every month.  It is as needed.  It may be a note of encouragement or it may be a joke to tell their lunch buddies.  Occasionally I'll write out my prayers for them on that day.  If a verse sticks out from our morning reading, I'll copy that onto their notes.  I pack whatever love message I think they'll be hungry for on that day.

Last year I often sent Li'l Bit reminders of her bravery and character strengths since she was facing the giants of fifth grade.  I encouraged her to lean into the Spirit when facing adversity.  For Gizmo I reminded him of his academic strengths, praised his kindness and generosity, or gave him a joke.  Ladybug is our easiest yet most sensitive, so I gave her a lot of simple, "I love you because you are you and you are more than enough" notes.  Lots of smiley faces and hearts for her. 

A White Girl's 9/11

9/11 was horrific. I knew not a single soul in New York. I lived in Arkansas, a sophomore in college.  I wasn't even a crier, and I wept for days. The despair.  The loss.

When the crying stopped I ended here:  What now? What the crap do we do now?

Strangest thing about the announcement I sent to 333 kids' families today: 9/11. On 9/11 we're going to do a PTO walk-and-talk. No "remembrance." No ceremony. Just gather, greet, smile, walk, and talk.
We're building community at our school. Or trying to. New England is chronically transitional. As much as I love the deep roots and loyalty of our town, there are precious families slipping through our fingers. Niños. Mothers. Papas. Aunts. Patriarchs and matriarchs unnoticed.
We white ones are comfortable. We can live here or there or anywhere and find acceptance somewhere. But our nextdoor neighbors who are beautifully all the shades of beige or brown or foreign-speaking, their every step is measured by the consequence of exposure to new faces. These new souls may not act so much like a soul but more like a wrecking ball because they are afraid. There is a protocol to follow when you are afraid. These protocols make us feel safe.
So tomorrow, we are tending to a silly, little PTO event. 
I don't know y'all. 
When I hear PTO I think white, middle class, and safe.  But tomorrow, 9/11, is not about that. Tomorrow is about community.  Tomorrow is about love heals, not time.  Time just numbs.
The face of our school community is not white. It is beige and brown and hazel-eyed and hungry and dappled and stunning.  It is a gorgeous, dappled face that exists in a peach crayon world.
I never liked the peach crayon. It was only good to mimic my skin tone, and at that it did a horrible job.
I want the dappling.
I want the diversity.
I want the hunger.
I want the sustenance of love and acceptance.
I want the pepper of five different languages in my ear.
I want the triumph of finally finding the one thing I can feed my kid's Islamic friend. I want my fellow mom who rises from the ashes of adversity daily to get her degree and work to put her babies through school all by herself. I want my daughter's friend who speaks fluent Italian. That is the life I want. These are the souls I want to love.
So tomorrow, on 9/11, we're going to do this simple, silly PTO event because I PRAY those souls and others like them know they are welcome to show up.

We want the dappling.