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Morning Dew

7/20/2016

“The world is in chaos,” the news says. “Worse than ever before.”

“We live in darkness, surrounded by violence, anger, fear…” they yell.

I hear them.

Loud and clear. People are hurting.

But it’s not new. It’s the same pain, the same violence, the same fear of all generations. We are fighting the same battles that people have always fought.

Most people know the story of Moses. It’s all there, in that history; violence, slavery, agony, the death of innocents. And that was before the plagues. Even when the Hebrews “won” their freedom from Pharoah, after the blood, the frogs, the Darkness, and the Angel of Death…after the pursuit of the soldiers and the miraculous crossing of the Sea, there was more.

Forty years in the desert.

Lost.

They had it worse than we do. They had nothing. But then God sent them bread from Heaven, Manna. It came as the morning dew. And it sustained them.

So what about us? Does God care? Where is our dew?

I found it.

Right outside my front door, I found dew on the leaves. Amazing, right? It's so incredibly peaceful and beautiful. The plant is called Mary’s Mantle. It’s leaves are shaped like a cape, a mantle, to enfold and protect. And it gathers dew drops. Just like Manna.

Mary is always there for us; protecting, comforting, guiding. Distributing graces like Manna to sustain us.

In the darkness of the cold desert nights, she is given God’s dew from Heaven.

For you.

Camping with Kids

5/20/2016

Summer is almost here, and the kids have begun their annual chorus: When are we going camping?!

Never, I say.

Never again.

But the children lean towards me, widen their eyes, and give it their best sales pitch. They imitate the loon’s cry, paint me memories of powerful, cascading rivers and majestic woods. They long for the mysterious wild, the crystal starlight, and the campfires with marshmallows.

Mostly the marshmallows.

How can I resist? I am drawn in to their imaginations, captivated by the idea that they actually still want to sing songs around the fireside and huddle with Mom in a tent in the woods. If I had no actual camping experience, I would say “Yes, Yes, Yes! Let’s go sleep in the woods and listen to the owls together!”

But I have been around the camping block. I have experiences that make me the no-fun, realistic mom who says “Set up a tent in the living room. We’ll roast marshmallows over a candle at the kitchen table. It’ll be great!”

Who needs ghost stories around the campfire when you have real-life horror stories?

Back when I was a young mom, an eager and inexperienced mom, I was foolish enough to take small kids camping. We bought a small pop-up tent, packed up the Disney sleeping bags, the portable crib, a suitcase and a cooler, and embarked on an adventure with extended family at a state park.

The birds were singing as we pitched our tent. Baby and toddler jumped together in the pack-n-play, fascinated by the tent in the wilderness. We had chosen a secluded spot, deep under the trees. I felt so happy to be alone in this spot of heaven with my family. That is, until my brother, the former Boy Scout, walked over and showed me that I had pitched my tent in a large patch of poison ivy.

Time to move.

By then it was afternoon, and the only spot available was next to a group of biker people, all seemingly tattooed and pierced, sporting jet black hair from a box and leather jackets. We set up camp hastily, listening to their dark, heavy music instead of the loons, and I briefly wondered why on earth I thought it was a good idea to sleep outside with babies.

By this time, the kids were hungry for supper, which required cooking. Doug started a fire while I took the kids to our third trip to the latrines. There were mosquitoes in the latrine, of course. They swarmed around, biting viciously as I changed baby’s diaper and helped the toddler, who was thrilled to add his bit to the large mountain of filth down the hole. One daughter couldn’t do it. She didn’t like latrines, she said, and she would wait until we returned home to use our own toilet. I didn’t want to return in the dark of night, so I told her she had a choice; she could pee in the outhouse or use her baby sister’s diaper. What a choice.

By this time, the fire was raging, and all the little cousins were roasting hot dogs. I was terrified. Like a desperate sheepdog on adrenaline overload, I hovered around the kids, pulling them back from the fire, yelling at them to stay back, no jumping, no skipping, no dancing, no singing. Babies were crying, food was dropping into the dirt, diapers needed changing again, and all the food tasted like Deep Woods Off. “Sit down on that bench and don’t get up! I don’t care if your cousin is chopping with an axe! You are staying right there!” Sweat dripped from my brow, and I longed to zip the kids all up in their sleeping bags. Camping was more stressful than anything I had previously attempted as a parent. What the heck was I thinking? This little campground was The Wild.

When darkness began to fall, the brightness of the circle bonfires lit up the campground. That was when tragedy struck.

My kids were so restricted they were practically on lockdown. Two were confined to the pack-n-play, tightly lidded with mosquito netting, and the rest of the cousins had been banished from the fire. I guarded like a wolf, snarling at any child who dared try to roast a marshmallow near my fire. Away across the campsite, we heard screams in the night. A child’s scream, a woman’s scream, echoing in the darkness. Within minutes, we knew that someone’s child had been burned. The campsites fell silent, children pulled closer, and bonfires died down. When the sirens wailed and the emergency crews arrived, most of the campers stood at the edge of the dirt road, silently praying and still. Even our neighbors, the tattooed biker crowd, stood at the end of their campsite, hats in hand, heads down.

The sirens apparently spooked some other campers. In their haste to evade police authority, someone apparently threw a large quantity of marijuana onto a bonfire. As the ambulance roared away, squad cars circled the campground in a blue haze of drug smoke, the stench pervading every campsite. I wondered, with mounting distress, if that blue smoke would dissipate before my little children got stoned.

Just at that moment, thunder rumbled on the horizon. Lightening cracked across the sky, and campers skittered away like ants to their holes. Thank God I could finally zip up the kiddos. We cuddled close in the storm, as the wind beat upon our tent and the rain began drumming down hard.

“I’m scared.” “I hafta go to the baffroom.” “I’m getting wet!”

I dismissed them all. “This is fun! We are all together, you are safe. This is an exciting adventure, now go to sleep!” In the middle of a prayer, in which I was thanking God that we were no longer underneath any large tree branches, I felt a cold stream beginning to seep enderneath my sleeping bag. The chorus began. “I’m wet!” “I’m wetter!” “I’m cold!”

I scooped up Baby and planted her into a nest of clothes in the open suitcase. The rest of us crowded onto one, full-sized air mattress, covering up with the remaining two dry sleeping bags. The baby slept. The other five of us shivered the night away, huddled on the plastic air mat. I covered kids up with every beach towel and sweatshirt. It wasn’t enough.

The storm tapered off just about the time the birds started chirping in the morning.

Even if we could have started a fire with all that wet wood, there was no point. I had forgotten the coffee.

We packed up silently, my caffeine-withdrawal headache mounting steadily in severity. We were damp, stinky, grubby, and hungry as we loaded the car. My brother, the Boy Scout, just laughed about our wet gear. “Didn’t you fold down the ends of your tarp?”

Tarp?

What tarp?

I had packed diapers and wipes and matches and food and jackets and beachtowels and marshmallows and band-aids and flashlights and sleeping bags and a coffee pot and a water bucket and a rustic cast-iron skillet and even hot dogs and brown beans, which all my kids hated…but we had no tarp. Apparently, the tarp was important.

My muddy kids stood in the dirt path of the campground that morning, jumping and singing songs and playing the Limbo with their cousins and a birch stick, laughing with joy. Let me repeat; they were playing with a stick, oblivious to any hardship. Instead of baths, they were going to swim in the lake before breakfast. They were having the time of their lives.

“Can we do this again next weekend, Mom!?” “Camping is great!”

I am tugged out of my memorable nightmare by the chirps of my current kids. This is the year 2016, those other kids are grown, and these younger kids are sick of marshmallows with candles at the kitchen table. They want their own adventure.

“So, can we go, Mom?” “Can we go camping?” “I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure!! Please?” “How about the Yukon? Can we camp in the Yukon?”

The Yukon?

No.

“Maybe a nice, safe State Park, Mom?” That one knows me well.

I am weakening…

Maybe it’s time to pack those Disney sleeping bags in the car after all, and try this camping thing again.

With just a small bonfire.

And a large plastic tarp. This time, I won’t forget the coffee.

Becoming Mom

5/8/2016

“You are the Mom,” he said. “Sing the lullaby,”

I looked blankly back at my Greek Language professor, not quite believing my ears. All the other students were staring.

“You sing,” he repeated. “We learn this song so you can sing to your baby. So sing!”

Could I say no?

Could I disappear under my too-small desk?

I didn’t mind singing with the class. I could fade in, unnoticed, with the bellowers around me. No one particularly cared that the pregnant one sang off-key.

I heaved myself from the chair.

“Sing for us!” the professor said again, completely ignoring my strife. “You got Greek baby, you sing Greek lullaby.”

My belly suddenly seemed to grow to enormous proportions, swirling with nausea underneath that small child. My cheeks burned.

But I stood, and I sang.

“Fisa ageri apolo to pedi kimise mou…” I carried the tune of Braham’s Lullaby awkwardly and fearfully, like one would carry a rooster in a paper bag.

Talk about self-conscious embarrassment.

I was a Mother, because I was eight months pregnant and ready to pop.

But I was not MOM yet.

No.

Not yet.

Six weeks later, in a hospital room in the middle of the night, my self-consciousness would molt away while I yelled at a nurse “I don’t care if my plan says I want a natural birth with no medication! I’VE CHANGED MY MIND!” My world crashed down a rubbly landslide around me, in a rush of pain and agony. When I suddenly landed on the bottom of the cliff, on solid, silent ground, I stared into the bluest eyes and the reddest face of the most beautiful and delicate creature I had ever beheld.

She was screaming.

I melted.

Nothing else mattered anymore.

I was Mom.

The metamorphosis brought me out of my personal cocoon, and turned me into something new.
The complete transformation caught me by surprise. I had thought I was all grown up already. I was twenty-eight years old, for crying out loud. I knew who I was, and what I liked.

I read Dickens, Dumas, Dante.

After my transformation into MOM, I bought a new book.

It was Go, Dog, Go.

I set aside my language studies, and perfected the most ridiculous baby talk. “You are such a Cutie Pie! Yes, you are! Are you a little honey bunch? Yes, you are!”

She smiled at me, that little cherub with the chubby cheeks. And I would somehow forget that she was the same chimp who had kept me awake for four hours the night before, colicky and crying.

Those first long weeks of being Mom, life hinged upon the 15 minute cycle of the wind-up baby swing and my willingness to sing. As the swing slowed to a stop, the child awakened and screamed, and like Pavlov’s dog, I frantically rewound the handle, singing another song to get 15 more minutes of sleep. Creak, creak, sway, sway…crank. crank. crank. “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…” I felt inept. Where were those studies when I needed them? Reports? Doctors’ notes? I had studied current academic thought on child psychology.

But no one had ever hinted to me how important it would be to sing. Except that Greek professor. He was on to something there. Perhaps Classical Greek widom.

It didn’t matter that I was unkempt with fatigue, my hair unbrushed, my entire chest wall cracked, chapped and bleeding from eternally nursing. My life had become a swamp of poopy diapers, spit-up-on burp cloths and hemorrhoids. To this child, I was beautiful. I was the goddess Athena, the opera diva Maria Callas, and Broadway star Idina Menzel wrapped into one big feeding machine. I could sing.

And my baby would look up into my eyes with her inquisitive little face, patting me on the chin. She’d pull a fistful of my hair, cling to me while she fell asleep and I could only remember that I loved her.

And I would sing with unashamed peace and joy.

I had become Mom.

April 15

4/14/2016

April 15.

Tax Day.

Groan...

For as much as I love paint and words and creating messy things,
I despise record keeping and ledgers and the monotony of orderliness.
Calculating tax returns ranks right up there with the time I got a root canal.

The root canal was particularly memorable because not only did it hurt like heck, but while the perky, young, blonde endodontist with red manicured nails heartily shoved medical machinery, including a running drill and what might have been a catalytic converter into my mouth, she asked 'getting to know you' questions.

"Do you have kids?" her smile gleamed, sparkling with a million dollars of dental work. I was flat on my back, white-knuckled, having infected tooth pulp sucked out with a vacuum hose. I didn't feel much like small talk.

"Auhughmshix..." I attempted to smile, and held up six fingers.

"Ohmygosh! Imagine, six kids! How can you keep track! Ohmygosh if anyone asks you how many kids you have, you can just say half a dozen!!!!!" Her peals of laughter echoed loud enough for me to still hear today.

Needless to say, I did not reveal to this woman that I was five months pregnant with number seven. Better to let her imagine I swallowed a globe on my way in for the root canal.

Compared to Tax Day, which I have to endure every year, that root canal was nothing. Just a fleeting irritation.

But April 15 comes every year, with its infernal receipts and columns and calculations. I am not fond of April 15.

Today my son came home from school, dumped his math homework on the table and said, "Mom, is tomorrow April 15th?"

"Yes."

"Awesome! Will you make a cake to celebrate?"

"Are you nuts, Kid? Who celebrates Tax Day?"

"Mom!" he said, looking shocked with disbelief. "April 15th is Leonardo Da Vinci's birthday! How could you not know that? It's important!"

Well, who knew?

April 15 is special! I think I will go bake a gluten-free, sugar-free cake, after all.

Then we will really have something to smile about.

Mona Lisa (public domain), Leonardo Da Vinci

Mary Mediatrix

3/6/2016

"With Mary for your guide, you will never go astray; while invoking her, you will never lose heart; so long as she is in your mind, you will not be deceived; while she holds your hand, you will not fall; under her protection, you have nothing to fear; if she walks before you, you will not grow weary; if she shows you favor, you will reach the goal."

- St. Bernard of Clairvaux_, Doctor of the Church, 1090-1153

Doctor Child

2/24/2016

Yesterday, after supper, I flopped down in exhaustion. Right on the armchair like Raggedy Ann. It had been one heck of a day. Not that it was unique or anything. I am 49 years old, and I have a lot of kids. Exhaustion is my middle name.

“Mom!” a teenager comments, “I didn’t know you could sit like that!”

I was too tired to care. Yes, even old moms flop on chairs and put their feet up. Within seconds, I had dozed off.

“Michelle?” I hear a small voice. “Michelle?”

I open my eyes just a crack, and see Small One standing near me. She is holding a clipboard, and wearing glasses and her sister’s long, white, button-down sweater. This can only mean one thing.

“Michelle? Are you ready for your doctor’s appointment?”

Oh dear.

It’s my fault. I could have been promoting her possible future career as a hair stylist or masseuse. If I had done that, maybe she would be standing by my chair, wanting to rub my feet. But no. This kid’s been told her whole life that if she wants to, she can be a doctor.

So she’s here to draw my blood.

With a pencil.

I smile wanly as she takes my arm and pushes up my sleeve.

“See, that didn’t hurt much!” she says, taping a bandage to the inside of my elbow. She begins to question me, writing notes furiously on her clipboard. She confers with her sister, who is playing the nurse. They whisper back and forth about my being tired and having sore feet. She examines the pencil, holding it up to the light and peering intently.

“O.K. The blood test results are in,” the little doctor says. “and I have great news:

You’re pregnant!”

Happy Heart Day!

2/14/2016

Small Hand

1/9/2016

Recently I needed to drive to the airport to pick someone up from a red-eye flight. I tried to plan ahead a bit, so I wouldn’t be too tired. Supper was on the table, bam! Right at 5 o’clock. Dishes done, backpacks and lunch boxes for tomorrow morning’s school rush all lined up. Just like clockwork.

At around 6 pm, the kids were all calmly reading, so I thought I’d take a small nap before the kids went to bed. I cozied up with a fuzzy blanket, fell asleep right away, while the neat, clean kids read books quietly, the whole time. The kids said their prayers and put themselves to bed. I awoke refreshed, and rested…

…Said No Mom, Ever!

Who am I trying to kid? Reality runs a different race around here.

Instead, I dealt out bowls for Cheerios, smooth and fast, like a blackjack pro. Spoons flashed, a blur of lightening on the table. Watch out for flying cups! Good thing they are plastic. Milk spilled where? And that is ENOUGH sugar, Mister-I-Don’t-Care-If-I-Have-To-Go-To-The-Dentist-Again. Did you really spill milk on her homework? Well, it’s not the graphing calculator, so we’re fine. Prayers, anyone?

At around 6 pm, dishes were piled high. Dishwasher broken again! The kids were nowhere to be seen. Backpacks and lunch boxes and homework papers were scattered all over the living room. This seemed the perfect time to sneak off and sleep for a few minutes. I should have hidden in the closet. I cozied up with the unfolded but clean laundry piled all over my bed, closed my eyes, and drooled like a leaky faucet.

Then I heard them. In my drowsy state of semi-consiousness, I heard the pitter patter of small feet. No one was yelling, so I kept on dreaming…I can sleep through this. More feet entered the room. Clickety click, the dog’s toenails crossed the hardwood floor. With a few squeaks on his tennis ball, he scampered away like an aged buffalo across the prairie, hoofs beating. Two Small Someones climbed onto the bed. One began to giggle. One began to jump. The giggler joined in the jumping, and bounced the other kid off the bed. A chorus of laughter ensued, and the voices faded away into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Child Number Three climbed into bed and covered me with her cherished blanket.

And she began to sing.

Her little hands tangled into my hair, rubbing my head like just like I have done for her whenever she is sick, or needing extra love. Gently, she smoothed out the snarls, and caressed my sagging jowls. “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me hoooooome…” Her voice lilted through my foggy brain and I drifted, asleep in the softness of the melody and the laundry. I didn’t fully awaken even as she began to sing Christmas carols. Joy to the World, Silent Night, We Three Kings… Every song she had heard lately, during Advent and Christmas, rang out softly and clearly in her little cherub’s voice.

She mothered me, just like she mothers her ragged pink stuffed dog. I felt loved. Cherished.

Just then, in my dream-state, I knew the two bed-jumpers had returned. They began to jump and laugh and chortle and steal my bath-towel pillow. Oh, how the Lullaby Girl howled! Fiercely and Instantly, she was upon them. She leapt from the bed, a fa-la-la-la-la trailing behind her like tinsel from a tree, and she chased those two big siblings right out of the room. Scolding them for all she was worth. A roaring tigress, defending her sleeping kitten.

My eyes opened completely, and I saw her face then, peering closely into mine. “It’s all right, Mom.” she whispered. “They’re gone now. They won’t be back. Close your eyes.” Again she lifted her voice in song “…The First Nowell, the Angels did say, was to certain poor shepherds in fields where they lay….”

Late that night, as I drove off to the airport, I remembered the touch of her little hands on my forehead. And her ferocious defense of her sleeping Mom.

This was what being a Mom is all about, and I wondered at the mystery of it all. Motherhood is a tumbled mix of Love and Ferocity, Lullabies and Scoldings, a full kitchen sink and a shepherd, lying in the fields among her sheep.

Silent night, Holy night.

Motherhood is oh, so very lovely.

Are You Ready for Christmas?

12/17/2015

Are you ready for Christmas?

There is so much to do! Start checking off the long list:

Presents… ’Tis the season to bustle about, rushing to buy presents. Make sure you don’t forget anyone! Is this the right size? Oh, forget it. If a mom buys clothing for a teenager, it just ends up on the closet floor anyway. This mom definitely doesn’t know what is cool. Is cool even a word anymore? I think they say “hot” now. Personally, I would rather spontaneously combust than call my daughter’s clothing “hot”. Good grief. The thought of my little girls someday being hot is enough to engulf me in burning flames of panic. That is hot. Better stick to books. Maybe if I buy them books, they’ll be more interested in the library. Libraries are safe and quiet. And socks. Books and socks. They’ll be so pleased with their Christmas presents…

Decorate… Must I? The house is so cluttered already, that I can’t bear to do it. Can’t we just arrange your Playmobil characters on the mantel in a Christmas-y, manger scene and be happy? You can add the giraffe and the orangutan, too, Dear. I know they all want to see Baby Jesus. I’ll even light some candles. But that didn’t go so well this year. The first night of advent, the lone candle flickered in the darkness, a glow of warmth like a halo while we sang Silent Night. Then the flame scorched a hole in a lampshade. I knew it was too cluttered in here! I am done with candles.

To the delight of the kids, we do now have a tree in the living room. It’s not enough to have a huge family, a dog on the couch, and a rabbit dwelling in the living room. We also have a Christmas tree. It is completely covered with hundreds of sparkling things. We had a lot of lights to string up. This fake tree is supposed to automatically light up, but it is old and mostly doesn’t work. After searching for stored strings of lights, finding the lights in the garage, untangling the lights, testing the lights, dropping the lights, cleaning up the glass from the broken lights…I had enough of lights. But one side of the tree was clearly still dark, and all we had left were nets of lights that are supposed to go outside on shrubs. We have no shrubs. Why do we own lights like this? I figured no one will ever notice if we throw them on the Dark Side of the Tree. The next day, my mom came over to visit, and see the tree. She ooohed and aaahed and praised me completely for my newly-emerged home decorating skills. Then she looked at me quizzically. “Why did you use shrub lights?” Why, indeed.
Let this be a lesson to you.
You can’t fool Mom.

Bake… I did it. I specially adapted my grandmother’s Christmas cookie recipe to be Gluten Free. After years of trial and error, and more trial and error, they were finally perfect! “These are great, Mom!” “Can we frost them now?” “I get the green sprinkles!” The kitchen was filled with warmth and sugar and lovely memories of my grandma. We can only do just one cookie sheet before bed, I warned. Just one. We are not eating all of these cookies before Christmas! This is just a sample! So we rolled and cut out and baked and finally, we all crowded around the table to frost and decorate the one pan of cookies. As little hands grabbed for stars and trees and gingerbread shaped cookies, one little hand knocked over a rather large glass of water. Yes. Right onto the cookie sheet. “Save the cookies!!!” the cry rang out. Now, some cookies might be strong enough to be dunked in coffee, and enjoyed. But not my gluten free genius cookies. They did not fare well with the mild drowning. We decorated the few cookies that survived, trying not to stare at the mush in the pan. At least we hadn’t baked them all.

Clean… Clean? I have nothing to say on this matter. The more I clean, the more I realize that the walls need fresh paint.
You know, I can barely juggle my own regular stuff. How can I add Christmas preparations as well?! It is so frustrating! It will never be clean, let alone perfect! Our Christmas dinner will be loud and crowded, probably burnt, and someone will spill their drink, and the plates will have to be pushed aside and the tablecloth lifted and scrunched, and we will all laugh and be soggy and happy together anyway. Reading books. In our new socks.

I guess that is our "perfect".

In all my preparation frustrations of last week, I grabbed my camera and went for a walk. I needed some peace and quiet. I needed an ‘all is calm, all is bright’ kind of moment. A new perspective. In the frosty cold of the morning, with the sun just beginning to rise, here is what I found:

It's just an old barn. That's all. Run down, caving in. Severely deficient, like my home decorating skills. But some hard working people, a long time ago, picked rocks from their fields. They gathered them together, and patiently stacked them. One rock at a time, a bit of mortar here and there... added rough wood and nails. It's not pretty. It's not perfect.
But this barn is all that was needed.
It's all I need right now.
I stood at the barn door, thinking about the holy night in Bethlehem long ago...
This is all I need to get ready for Christmas.
I will muck out my own barn by going to confession, and saying I'm sorry to those I have hurt. I will sweep away the stones of cynicism, and instead try to repair faith by putting the stones to more constructive use.
I will add some hay of gentleness.
That's it.
And I will wait.

I'll be ready for Christmas, after all.

The Truth

9/15/2015

Before my daughter was born with Down Syndrome, some people painted a grim and terrible picture of what my life would be like if such a thing happened.

“Your life will never be the same!”
“Your life will revolve around hospitals.”
“You won’t have time for your other kids.”
“You will always be sad and regretful of the things your child cannot do.”

Even after she was born, a geneticist at a specialty clinic upbraided me, using primitive scare tactics.
“I know you like babies, but you will never want to have another baby after this one,” she said in an authoritative voice, towering over me in my daughter’s cardiology office. “You will worry and agonize every moment of another pregnancy. You’re old and your risks are high that this will happen to you again.”

She said this to me as my small, almond-eyed daughter cooed softly in my arm, tightly gripping my finger and my heartstrings.

Despite that doctor’s admonishments and scolding, a couple of years later, my daughter grew into a glorious, curious toddler. And I did get pregnant again. On purpose.

I was 39 years old.

At that ultrasound appointment, the doctor examined my prenatal son’s body closely. He measured limbs, organs, examined bone structure, checking all the typical markers for Down Syndrome.

“You need to have a Triple Screen done,” he said. “I don’t see results in your file. You are considered a geriatric in the ob/gyn world, so you need to have that done. The fetal matter is high risk for abnormalities.”

Wait. He had just told me I was having a son. Why was he now calling my little man fetal matter and wanting tests for abnormalities?

“Look. I’m not afraid,” I said. “I already have a child with Down Syndrome, and she’s not the least bit scary. She’s wonderful and absolutely beloved.”

The doctor looked me in the eye for a moment. He closed his file, stood up, and left the room without another word.

After he was gone, the young ultrasound technician leaned in toward me, with a confiding smile.

“I’m not allowed to say this in the office", she said in a hushed voice. "But I’m so happy for you! My friend has a toddler with Down Syndrome, and he is full of love. He has made their family’s life so rich and happy! I know how much love your daughter brings.”

We chatted about babies and Down Syndrome for a few more minutes, quietly sharing the joy that we both knew well. Babies with Down Syndrome are, like every baby, full of Love.

As an expectant parent, you may feel afraid. You will be tested, and categorized, and railroaded. You will be counseled, scolded, and warned. You may feel inept or not up to the task, or just plain stressed out, because all circumstances are not ideal. But talk is talk. Threats of doom are just threats. You don’t have to go down that path of worry and fear. Especially if your child shows some characteristic that seems unique, or challenging, or just plain scary…

Don’t lose sight of the simple truth.

Your life will change forever, because you will be filled with Love.

When my daughter was about a month old, I was holding her in my arms, speaking to a friend. A man in a suit, a stranger, approached me. He was visiting from out of town, he said. "My own son has Down Syndrome, too. I miss him so much when I travel. May I hold her, please?” he asked. He cradled my baby close to his heart, then kissed her soft, peachy face. Tears dripped down his cheek and into his beard. “You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you,” he said, and walked away.

He was right.

You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you.

That is the truth.

First Day of School

9/9/2015

It’s the first day of school.

The house is quiet. Eerily quiet. They are all in school.

This is probably the first time in 21 years that I have a quiet morning. Really. I am standing in my house, surrounded by twenty one years of childhood debris. The walls are scuffed, the windows are fingerprinted. Laundry spills out of the laundry room like a lava floe, oozing into the living room. Cereal bowls and sandwich fixings line the countertop. It is a mess, and I am feeling weird.

“The school bus comes, and you’re supposed to do the happy dance!” one friend says.

“Want to come over for coffee?” says another.

But I can do neither. I have too much emotion building inside of me, and there is only one thing to do.

Cry.

None of the kids were sad to leave, of course. They were ecstatic, joyful, bouncing off the walls at 6 a.m. Ready for a new adventure. Loaded down with 40 pound backpacks, they marched off as eager as Bilbo Baggins leaving the Shire.

And I am sitting here alone, sobbing to Disney Music Soundtracks.

Not kidding.

“You’ll be in my heart, no matter what… You’ll be here in my heart Always.
From this day on, now and forever more…I’ll be there for you always….Just look over your shoulder, I’ll be there always.”

This isn’t what I had envisioned when I got pregnant, so long ago. I was on the five year plan: Five years at home with a child, then back to real life. I had it all planned out. Parenting was like a small sabbatical, a little recess on the job of life, I thought. A side dish. Ha!

I didn’t know that the agony and the ecstasy of Motherhood would sweep me off my feet and overwhelm me like a tidal wave of love, and leave me sitting here, twenty one years later, crying to Tarzan music like a lunatic.

I’d better pull myself together, because in a few short hours, they’ll be back, Trashing the Camp. If you know your Disney music, you’ll know what I mean!

And they’ll want cookies.

Baby Trees

8/27/2015

I found these Acorns lying on the ground today. There were so many of them! They had fallen from a great height, a Giantess of a tree, really. The tree has some broken limbs from last night's storm, but she is stronger than she looks. The cracks and broken parts will heal. Trees have a way of doing that. She will survive, probably another sixty years or more. Even if she doesn't know it, she is stronger than this recent storm.

But some of her acorns had fallen in the wind. Some were cracked and broken, some were too small. All they had needed was a little more time with their Mama Tree. Just a few more weeks, really. Just time, nothing more.

If they had been given a few more weeks, then Earth would do the rest.

Like for this other Little Guy in my yard... He was given enough time on the Tree. He fell into my flower garden a few years ago, brown and plump, and Life Happened.

He got dirty and muddy. He got cracked and broken up. It rained on him a lot. Sheesh. He had a rough time for a while, just like the rest of us. But then, in all the pain and trouble, after he thought he was dead and buried, really done for, this began to happen:

And then, this. This is his future!

Every rainstorm makes that Tree stronger. Amazing, isn't it? All that power, all that beauty, all that potential, hidden away inside a tiny little Acorn...

All they need is a few short months with a Mama Tree...

And God will do the rest. Mightiness unleashed!

Happy Mother's Day

5/10/2015

Happy Mother's Day!

I present to you the Ideal Mother: She is gentle, kind, generous...

Selfless.

At the opposite end of the Mother Spectrum, this is my reality:

Selfie.

With kids.

Good thing I have a sense of humor. It's one of the best things I have. Well, besides all those kids. A bunch of us are in there, somewhere. Piled up, in each others' faces, laughing and choking together. Heaven knows we don't have any peace and quiet.

"Click."

Say a prayer for all the mothers today, will ya? Motherhood is a wild ride!

Becoming a Mom

4/22/2015

Dear Newbie,

Today you became a mother.

I know you have waited a very long time to become a Mom. No matter how many months or years you have longed for this, no matter how many tears have been shed, no matter if this is a natural birth, a c-section, an adoption, or foster care, today, everything changes.

You have become a Mother.

I know that you are nervous. Even scared.

You should be.

Advice is usually given by those with no experience, but I’ve been around the parenting block a time or two…or seven. I shouldn’t say anything. I have made enough mistakes that I have learned to keep my mouth shut. But today, I just can’t be quiet. I have something to say to you, New Mom. It’s important.

You don’t have much time.

From the very first moment you look into the face of that little helpless child, you and I, and all mothers throughout the time continuum, are on the same path. We are mothers.

I am getting a little choked up here, because I know what is in store for you.

Becoming Mom is going to hurt you.
It’s going to turn your heart inside out and tenderize it.
Today, when you become Mom, you will never be the same.

You’ll look into her eyes, and instantly, every fiber of your being is going to go haywire. All synapses will fire at once, flooding your brain in chemical Mama Love, and you will feel the primeval maternal instinct that swells from the depths of your soul, erupting into a force that wants to nurture and caress that baby, while at the same time, you’d fight a rabid saber tooth tiger just to defend her.

I don’t know if you have ever felt this way before, but today you will.

In your world yesterday, you may have been an attorney, a pharmacist, a highly skilled professional, a construction worker, a student. It doesn’t matter.

Today, you will talk baby talk.
You will.
And she will open her eyes, and look up at you, and she will smile.
So you’ll do it some more.

Today, you will begin to clean up messes that you never knew could exist. You will be aghast. You will be drooled on, cried on, sneezed on, puked on, leaked on,
perhaps simultaneously. She will look up at you, crying, needing you so much. You’ll bathe her, and she will smile. Or she might scream because she is afraid of water.

But when it is over, she will smell just right, and she will curl up in a towel and breathe softly on your neck. She’ll hold on to you and her small hands will be warm and sweet as she clings to you.
She will feel safe with you.

You’re her mom.

As she grows, she will begin to crawl, and she will start to discover the world.
And she will break your stuff.

All of it.

And you won’t even mind, because those tiny little hands
reaching up to find a place to grab onto in this world
Are also reaching for your hand. Wanting your help and your guidance
And your love.
Your love is going to mean more to this little person than to anyone else in the world.

You’re the one.

Love her with all you’ve got.
Tell her every day, show her every day.
Love her whether she is graceful or awkward, special needs or typical, healthy or frail. None of that matters as much as the very important fact that love heals everything. If you are broken, her love will heal you. If she is broken, your love will heal her. She is just what you need, and you are just what she needs.

You are perfect for each other.

Put down the phone, and play blocks.
Close the laptop, and have a tea party. Eat cookies together.
Cancel the meeting, and instead, sit on the couch with a blanket wrapped around you like a tent, and read Go Dog Go for the 373rd time.

Look her right in the eyes and tell her she is worth it.

She is.

Let her style your hair till it’s tangled up in knots and barrettes, and she tells you that you’re the Most Beautiful Mommy in the World.
You will be.
Sing her to sleep at night. Try to be patient.
Be her model for compassion and kindness and forgiveness.

Forgive her.

Forgive yourself. Because you will both make mistakes.

You will not get paid anything for this. You will get no raise, no promotion, no street cred. You will spend your money on her. All of it. She will need diapers and formula and snacks and braces and school uniforms and sports physicals and auto insurance and oh dear, college tuition.

You will be the one she needs when she scrapes her knee, drops her sucker, loses her laptop, gets her heart broken, and crashes her car. You will also be the one she wants when she needs a hug, loses her first tooth, wants to serve tea, makes a friend, learns to read, starts to drive, graduates.

If you do your job right, then someday,

She will leave you.

She will walk away, or drive away, or be carried away.

No matter when that happens, it will be too soon. When that day comes, your heart will stretch and break again, erupting and overflowing with Mama Love and

You will cry.

If you get the precious gift of being her mother for just one month, or just one year, or five years…or even eighteen years…don’t let it pass you by.

Those tears that I shed for you today, New Mom…They were tears of joy.

Congratulations, My Dear.

Today, your life is going to change.
And that is a beautiful thing.