A Kiss to Build a Dream On

This morning while riding the train I got quite nostalgic thinking about Rocky and I's courtship, how long ago it seems and yet how my heart feels like it was yesterday that we shared our first kiss. It's odd, but every time this baby moves I think about how he was only made possible because his daddy asked me out on a date. (A date I almost didn't go on, but nevermind that...)

I am so grateful for the life God has given me.

Today I am 32 weeks pregnant with baby boy. For 32 weeks I have worried, prayed, laughed, sang, smiled and of course, rubbed my belly. I am so in love with being pregnant and even more in love with this baby in my belly. Of course I miss having a waist and being able to pivot (PIVOT!). Sure getting out of bed is harder and it's becoming impossible to tie my shoes. I've gone up a few bra sizes (bras aren't cheap!) and have become clumsy and forgetful, and yeah, severe heartburn and extreme pregnancy hormones are a thing.

But man...

Being pregnant is awesome.

I know I've said a million times that I didn't ever think it was something I would get to do, and so for that alone I am so thankful. But even outside of that, even if I took reproduction for granted (which I do not), the experience of growing a baby is just so neat. I love it so much that I allow it to break my heart for all the millions of women who might never get to do this. I remember being in that camp...and I still grieve for them. I still pray for them. I know God works miracles...I'm shoulder-to-shoulder with them hoping the miracle will be theirs.

But back to that kiss.

That first date led to many more dates and about a month later, to our first kiss.

And boy was it a doozy! (Just imagine me fanning myself and blushing.)

He was all I wanted in a man PLUS a good kisser? Was I in for it, or what?

That kiss was the beginning of so many dreams, for me and for us as a couple. Dreams about marriage, and ministry and family. About hopes too precious to say out loud, and fears that went deeper than I ever knew. That kiss both awakened me, and slayed me, because I knew I was done for. That was it. Ruined.

He had my heart.

This man, who I had so wrongly thought for so long was a non-committal goofball, had captured me and planted in me dreams that I never let myself dream before. And God has allowed so many of those dreams to come true through my marriage to Rocky. A wonderful marriage built on love, respect and teamwork, an active ministry at church and with our children through foster care, and now a baby on the way.

Blessed does not begin to cover it.

As I count down to baby's due date, I am overwhelmed with pride and love that his daddy will love him fiercely, protect and provide for him, and shepherd him to love Jesus, just like he already does for our boys. Just like he does for me.

And for that, well, as if I didn't already love him beyond words, I will love him even more.

Thank you for all the dreams your love has allowed me to dream. I love you. -N.

Push

Being a parent involves saying so. many. words.

Sometimes I wonder why God made introverts at all. It seems like the whole world is full of talkers, noise-makers, sound-causers.

It's enough to fry my senses.

And then I wonder even further, why did God make introvert mothers?

Last night, while watching the Golden Globes, a girlfriend referred to Fifty Shades of Grey as "mommy porn."

I had to disagree.

"Mommy porn" to me is a silent room where no one is calling out, "Mommy?" every 5 seconds.

Parents coach their babies and hope that their first words will be "mommy" or "mama" or "dada," and when that word finally escapes your child's lips it feels like overwhelming joy. Like the Grinch must have felt when his heart grew 3 sizes. It's the best feeling, and the novelty of it lasts a while, I'll admit.

But then.

"Mommy" can start to sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Please don't misunderstand; I love my kids and I love being their mom.

But the constant "mommy" calling, never-ending stream of random questions, and non-stop chatter can be overwhelming for this loves-her-quiet-and-her-personal-space mama.

Yes, laugh now.

We all know I"m growing a tiny human who will shred every last bit of quiet in this house to smithereens.

And personal space? Ha! I may as well say adios to that now.

I guess I'm just trying to wrap my head around more noise, more mess, more imperfect, more of my sin coming to the surface.

Kids need.

Kids need a lot.

Kids need a lot all the time.

This is why so many say that becoming a parent has been the greatest sanctification process of their lives. It really does take all of you, and it will not satisfied with a mediocre offering.

The thing is, even knowing this, even feeling how I feel some days (exhausted, overwhelmed, frustrated, anxious, over-stimulated), I would still do it all over again.

That crazy, biological, innate, inexplainable love you have for your child conquers all the things that bug the hell out of you. The "Mommy?s,"the pee on the toilet seat, the mountain of laundry (of clothes that aren't even dirty but got thrown in the hamper due to laziness), the everyday spills of beverages and meals, the destruction of my once-nice things, the constant talking-sounds-noises coming from my children...I can keep going, but you get the point...I would still do it again. (I would still find all these things annoying, too).

I know that I am both called and privileged to be a mother. I know the lives He has entrusted me with are precious. I know that He has equipped me to do this job, even when I get the urge to run and hide in my room or cry because why won't they stop talking to me? I know I'm not a cookie-cutter, pinteresty mom packing bento boxes for my kids' lunches and coordinating celebrity-level birthday parties for all their friends; I'll never be that mom. I don't even have the energy to consider trying to be that mom. I certainly don't have all the words it would take.

But I am an advocate. And a defender. And a loud voice where there are too many hushed whispers.

And that's who my kids need me to be.

Sure, we still snuggle on the couch and sip hot chocolate and read story books and have tickle fights; we do all those things that mamas and sons do. And they need that, too. And I'll be that for them, too.

But sometimes, this mommy likes to remember when she wasn't one; When she and her husband would steal off to San Diego on a whim and stay in a hotel on the beach, or drive up the central coast of California and go wine tasting, or jet off on a plane to some new destination...That, my friends, is mommy porn.

And when I've had my fill of reminiscing about life B.C. (before children), I take a deep breath, pick up the laundry basket, grab a roll of toilet paper under my arm, and get back to work.

C'est la vie.

Unwritten

It's 2015.

What a weird number.

Even living in it, it seems like some sci-fi futuristic year where a machine should make my meals and a robot maid should clean my house.

And yet, life is the same as usual.

Looking back over 2014 (because isn't that what you're supposed to do at the beginning of a new year?), I feel exhausted!

Rest was not a big theme in our lives last year. We bought a house and started renovating it, began hosting more get-togethers, dinners and out-of-town guests, became landlords to two sets of tenant-friends, grew a baby, saw both kids enter school full-time, refinanced said house, and nursed about 1,000 (it seems) colds, fevers and allergy attacks.

And that's not even counting all the foster care-related stuff.

2014 was full blessing, but also full of busy.

This busyness culminated in our entire household getting sick the week of Christmas; colds that Rocky and I are still trying to kick. It was an interesting way to cap off the year...

Meanwhile, my floors need to be cleaned, the stairs haven't been vacuumed or swept in months (what's the point when there's constant drywall dust from ongoing construction?), my refrigerator and pantry are disgusting, our bathrooms are consistently covered with filth from dirty little hands and toothpaste explosions, and every room in the house has doubled as storage since we are in the full-blown stages of nesting renovations.

Today a friend asked me, "How are you keeping your sanity?"

Honestly, I'm just too tired and maybe even too lazy to lose my sanity.

The thing is, I have an awesome husband who is both my friend and my partner. I don't need to stress or nag about the things he's working on because I know he's working on them. And bonus, he's working on them for me. I don't need to get anxious about everything coming together on time or about the house not being as clean as it was pre-kids because - NEWSFLASH - it's never going to be that way again.

Sure, I can be annoyed by the fact that sweeping has become obsolete because my formerly-fabulous banana leaf dining room chairs have become so destroyed by my kids that they consistently shed fibers like they've been attacked by a wild animal. And I can get frustrated by the (seeming) fact that no one picks up after themselves in common areas, leaving me to perform a room sweep before I go to bed every night. And yes, I can fume about the fact that my kids have broken more clothes hangers and non-toy items playing with them as if they were toys that I can even count...but what's the point?

Having kids has taught me a lot about the things I value.

I wish I could say with some wisdom and humility that they've opened my eyes and made me a more patient, loving, live-in-the-moment person, but sadly, that's not where I'm going.

I still really want the clean house, and functional furniture, and not to step in toothpaste when I get up to pee in the middle of the night.

I want to sleep in (if the baby will let me), and drink coffee in bed on the weekends and go on a spontaneous date with my husband without having to entertain, or make plans for someone else to entertain, my children.

I'm selfish. I admit it.

Having kids just makes selfishness more obvious.

I don't want to be selfish, mind you.

But it's a reality.

And I know I'm in for a rude awakening once baby boy arrives and I literally have to move myself from the back burner to that nasty, greasy crevice between the back of the oven and the kitchen wall. I know that I have seen nothing yet when it comes to dying to self, humility, exhaustion, desperation.

Truthfully, I'm kind of scerred.

You should pray for me, because I know that pretty soon I will be stepping in worse things than toothpaste.

Still, new years hold so much promise, don't they?

The blank slate, the unwritten pages, the anything-is-possible air.

Who knew that in 2014 we would conceive our miracle baby?

Who knew that in 2014 we would see the tide shifting for our boys towards permanency with our family?

Who knew that in 2014 we would witness miracles in our families? Healings, reconciliations, redemption stories?

2015 will hold all of those things, too, and maybe more.

Maybe Rocky will get a new job that he loves.

Maybe we will adopt our boys.

Maybe one of our siblings will get engaged or married.

Maybe someone in our family will come to Christ.

Maybe there will be an unexpected death, or loss, or tragedy that shakes our faith to the core.

Maybe 2015 will be challenging and not nearly as positive as 2014.

But isn't that life? We just don't know what's coming next.

Which is why, all this to say, that I need to learn how to better live in the moment. To be open to anything.

Every year, bloggers in the blogosphere (that's a thing) choose a word (kind of like a resolution) that they hope will embody the year. I never participate (1) Because I'm not a "blogger," and (2) Aforementioned laziness.

This year, though, with so much changing in our lives, I feel compelled to choose a word. To have a word, like a mantra, to fall back on when I start to get anxious, or nervous, or stressed.

The word I've chosen is OPEN.

I want to be open this year. Open to new friendships, to a different lifestyle, to my family's ever-changing needs, to this city's people, to the God I serve.

I want to live freely and peacefully in a state of openness that will lead to a healthier me, for both myself and my family.

I want to believe that His yoke is easy, and His burden light, and that I don't have to carry around all this should've, would've, could've that most moms live with everyday.

I want to enjoy the people God has placed in my life without conditions and expectations.

I want to be content in every circumstance.

I'm going to start this year being open to everything and up for anything.*

Join me?

*Except skydiving and sushi, Rocky Stone.

Take My Life

Today I turned 34.

Somehow, each year the number seems so old, but I still feel like the same "young" me. Maybe wiser, hopefully gentler, but still me at the core.

Rocky and I were just talking about how old being in your 30s used to seem when we were kids. In fact, I'm sure many of our elementary school teachers were probably in their 20s, and we thought they were old!

I never thought I'd be an "old" mom. Sure, I knew I'd wait longer to have kids than my own mom did (hello, 17!), but I thought I'd get married in my mid-twenties, have a few babies, adopt a few more and call it a day, attending my kids' high school graduations before I turned 50.

Boy, did I have a few things wrong.

Never could I have imagined the path my life has taken. The valleys and mountains, the victories and struggles. Never could I fathom that each new year would be better than the last; that looking back on my life I would see God's grace and goodness more and more as time passes.

For that, and so many other things, I am thankful.

This morning my little one ran downstairs in his underwear to tell me "Happy Birthday" and give me a hug. It was pretty much the best birthday greeting ever. The Avengers underwear didn't hurt. Neither did the sweet cocoa skin and genuine excitement my son had for my special day. My big boy is shy, and heart-felt sentiments embarrass him. He wants to be cuddled until the cows come home, but words, and expressing love verbally, are hard for him. He still managed to mutter a "Happy Birthday" behind bashful eyes before running away. I'll take it.

Thirty-four years of life.

That's more than Jesus lived, you know.

I'm one year older than he was at the time of his death.

And I'm hoping and praying for many more years with the ones I love.

I have so much to learn. So much to grow. So much to see, taste, experience, enjoy.

I also have so much to labor. So much to toil. So much to carry, reconcile, bury and let go.

There are parts (big parts) of me that wishes my life was much like my lunch break today; A spa facial in a quiet, dimly-lit room, surrounded by soothing scents and sounds. I desire to be insulated, cocooned, left alone in peace. Clean sheets and aromatherapy.

But this life I'm living, the one I like to think I've chosen, but one that truthfully has been chosen for me, this life is messy and painful and full of sacrifices and interruptions and inconveniences. It's piles of dishes and laundry, tutoring, cleaning (again), incessant chatter and busyness. Not much external peace.

And yet...

There He is. Offering me peace. And joy. And wholeness.

Offering me a life that is more beautiful, more true, even in its brokenness, than that spa room that beckons every part of my selfish flesh.

He has called me and He has planted me and shown me favor beyond what I deserve.

He has entrusted me with my husband, my children, my job and my calling.

He has equipped me for every good work He has asked me to do.

This year, my 34th year, He has called me to mother my first-born child, for whom I have prayed for a long time. He has called me advocate for my boys, to encourage my husband, to step away from the security I find in my career. And for some reason, maybe it's the time of year or the growing life inside me, but I can't stop thinking about Mary. I can't stop thinking about how she felt every kick, and wiggle and hiccup of her Savior son as he grow in her belly. Every time my son kicks I want to cry thinking about Mary and her baby, Jesus. She must've felt all the things I feel when he moves. She must have prayed over him and the great unknown, because even if your son is destined for greatness, does he not still need your prayers?

This dear, sweet baby of mine. I know God has a plan for him, and I am so honored that God has chosen Rocky and I to steward His life for our King.

I will walk into my 34th year with confident faith that Jesus is good, for my life is a living testimony to his faithfulness.

Free Bird

Tonight we told our children that their father had been released from jail.

These are truly words I never imagined I would say to my children.

Growing up and imagining motherhood you never quite think about all the alternative ways to build a family. You only think in the traditional sense; I'll grow up, get married, have a baby, etc. Even as a child I knew I wanted to adopt, but I didn't really know what that meant.

I've always carried around a burden for orphans like a millstone around my neck.

Tonight we celebrated as a family the release of their father. They had lots of questions, one of the first being "Can we visit him?"

So complicated, these little lives.

Such a delicate situation into which they have been thrust.

We had to explain to them that they could not see their daddy right away. That he had to meet with their caseworker and take care of some business before he would be allowed to see them.

They have not seen their father in 9 months.

Nine long months they have wondered about him. What was jail like? Was he safe? Did he have friends? Was he lonely?

We talk openly and honestly with the kids in an age-appropriate manner, and we never lie. We simply tell them enough. It's not fair that everything else in their life is so secretive and chaotic. They deserve to know the very basics surrounding their family to help them understand why they can't go "home."

Home.

That's another tricky concept that I never thought I'd question. Home is where the heart is. Home is where your family is. It's where you live.

But what if those first two, "Where the heart is, " and "Where your family is," are only half-true? What happens when your heart is split in twos and threes and your family is split up into 7 different homes? Where's your home then?

Sometimes it's hard being their mom and having to share them, and their hearts, with so many others. It's hard to reconcile that even though their little arms are strung around my neck and their heads are nestled in my shoulder that they are thinking about everyone else that they love that they don't get to snuggle with. I wonder if they lay in bed at night, before falling asleep, thinking about their mom and dad and brothers and sisters. People they may very well never share a "home" with again.

I think about carrying that around at 6 and 7 years old. What that must do to them.

It is easy loving my kids.

It is not easy watching them hurt, knowing they're torn, feeling their pain.

I suppose that's true for any parent, regardless of how your children came to be yours.

It's not easy watching the ones you love suffer.

I wish there was an easy answer for my babes. I wish there was a resolution that would make everything ok and allow them to be with all the people they love. I wish they didn't have to discover so young that sometimes, most times, adults make as many mistakes, if not more, than kids do. That even though we're older, we're still trying to figure it all at. That even when we're mommies and daddies, we're still selfish, and broken and imperfect. That we all need Jesus.

More than anything I wish I could comfort them.

My hugs and kisses feel so empty, so void sometimes when compared to the scale of their hurting. I wish I could absorb them into myself so they could feel protected and insulated from the realities of their lives. I wish so many things for them, for their parents, for their siblings, all of which can only be realized through Jesus.

In the meantime, we're going to keep praying. Keep hoping. Keep hugging and kissing and snuggling. We're going to live like tomorrow will be a new day, and anything is possible.

We're going to have peace that surpasses understanding and confident faith that our Savior has only just begun His work in our lives.

We're going to show our children that hope is never lost; That the Redeemer can always make things new.

Blue Christmas

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't set your kid on the right path if he's bound and determined to rebel.

This has been our week.

Every now and then, we notice a "relapse" of sorts in our kids' behaviors. Reverting to old coping mechanisms, regressing into younger versions of themselves, avoiding eye contact, blatantly disobeying and then staring at you with dead shark eyes...Yeah, that happens.

It's been a frustrating week (well, few weeks) of behavior in our household. Some of it has been pretty understated; a timeout here and there. But a lot of it has been straight up annoying, especially when discipline doesn't help cure the behavior.

I know there's something at the root of it. Either he knows what it is and can't (or won't) verbalize it to us, or he's upset and angry and frustrated and has no idea why.

The hard part in being parents to our sons is that we have no idea how to help them. No idea what's going on in their heads. No idea why they're behaving the way they are all of a sudden when it's been butterflies and rainbows for weeks.

Why is our little one all of a sudden drawing on surfaces that should never see marker?

Why is he breaking things and making holes in his bedroom wall?

Why is our oldest flipping over a table at school "just because?"

Why is he putting his hands on his brother in an aggressive way and then staring at us with a blank look in his eyes when we try to talk to him?

Why are they both putting their fingers and other objects in their mouths like infants?

Why are we putting them to bed every night only to have to go back upstairs to their room an hour later because they're out of bed, playing and making a mess?

These are the things that we're dealing with right now.

It's not always.

It's not even often (anymore).

But right now, this is where we're at, and it's damn frustrating.

And disappointing.

And I hate feeling disappointed in my children.

Somehow, being disappointment feels so much worse than being angry.

But then I don't even know if I have the right to feel disappointed. Are my children so hurting, so damaged that I shouldn't expect them to obey, respect adults, tell the truth...? It's hard to say.

On one hand, I think, "They going through so much. Having to process and accept so many things that are unfair and confusing, things they shouldn't have to deal with."

On the other hand, I think, "Yes, that's all true, but we've also been raising them for 14 months, and they know it's not ok to disrespect adults and lie and hit and steal and destroy."

And then I think...isn't some of this normal behavior for "normal" kids?

I don't even know anymore.

I'm tired, and angry, and disappointed, and frustrated, and defeated.

It's my favorite time of year, and this year, I'm just not feeling it. Not the joy, not the hope, not the beauty. I'm trying, God knows. I've got twinkle lights, and candles burning and stockings hung, but the mood in this house emanating from these kids...it's depressing, and sad, and hurt and burdened. It's all overwhelming. Consuming.

I'm praying for patience. For grace and compassion and all the things Jesus came to teach us. I'm praying for a softened heart and open eyes and a humble spirit.

I desperately need help, need Jesus, to walk through this season (and the ones coming up) with these kids.

I know that even when this season of misbehavior wanes, there will always be another in the future, because their lives will never be what they should. They will always be lacking something, or someone they love. There will always be an emptiness, a longing, and maybe even a bitterness for the way things will turn out. My children will always have these burdens, forced upon them, to bear.

And me and Rocky, well, we bear them, too.

God With Us

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and with it the beginning of introspection and gratitude.

A new holiday has been ushered in. One so full of hope and expectation that it's hard to understand how it gets overshadowed by shopping, and Santa, and all that glitters. But, of course, I'm guilty of that, too.

Don't we love shiny things?

Things that sparkle and glow and shimmer?

Pretty things.

Only this year, as I bundle my babes and decorate the tree and sway to Christmas music in the kitchen, my heart is burdened.

Another white police officer not indicted for using force that resulted in an unarmed black man's death.

Another injustice.

Another case of racial inequality.

And then there's my babies, and their broken hearts.

Our big boy became unresponsive during Thanksgiving dinner. I could see he was sad. I know he missed his family. There's no "getting used to" living with people who are not your own.

He breaks my heart.

And the little one...the little one sees his brother being sad, and wants to be heard. Wants to ask questions, and tell stories, and not be forgotten.

He's not mature enough to verbalize his own feelings and confusion. But it's there. Every now and then a random thought will escape his lips and this tiny child will stop me in my tracks with the very big things he has rumbling around his young mind.

These children should not have to contemplate a parent's future release from jail.

Or live with the memories of neglect, abuse, and hunger.

They shouldn't be torn in half, or fourths, trying to figure out who their heart loves most.

They shouldn't have to carry around guilt and betrayal for being happy and loving us back.

But they do, and they will for some time.

This, the season of giving, of hope, of celebration and cheer and glad tidings and the Gospel...This season, this year, needs to be one of reconciliation, redemption, salvation; Not just for me, but for my children, for their family, for this country, for the world.

We are lost and hurting and in need of a savior now more than ever.

And while Santa is fun and Bing Crosby's crooning from Pandora is charming and all that glitters catches my eye and calls me away, that baby in the manger will have my heart and my devotion because He is the only one who knows this burden we all bear, this road we walk, these lives we live.

He lived it, too.

He knows our pain and sees our despair and hears our cries for help.

And He has answered. He has heard. He is Emmanuel.