My First Gift

He made me a mom.  I remember the doctor's words when she called us into her office to let us know that, no, I was not experiencing the flu.  What I had was going to last much longer.  I remember her grin and my shock at the unexpected news and the silence in the car as my husband and I processed the idea of a change in the timing our dreams.

The best change ever.

I remember the fierce love I felt so early on, so surprising to me, when I experienced some possible complications and feared the loss of that tiny promise of life.  I remember begging God to let everything be okay.  I remember the fear and the anticipation of considering being a parent for the first time.  I remember the first kicks . . . the first of everything.

And then he arrived.  I had never experienced such joy.  When we brought him home, we took turns holding him, examining him, memorizing him, admiring him . . . awed that this perfect baby boy was ours to keep.  Ours alone. 

He taught me the ropes of newborn care -- the shocking realization of what true dependency means.  The all-hours feedings, the "right-now" attitude.  The realization that the labor of his birth was nothing compared to the new job I alone had now.  This thing called motherhood.  I didn't think I could do it. 

And then he smiled.  Four weeks into being on call to a demanding tyrant, he offered a gift, and I was forever hooked.  I didn't realize just how many gifts he had offered me before that moment until much later . . . . how many lessons he was teaching me and how many moments I didn't know would never return.  And I wish now my memory was better or that I could go back and relive just a day now and again.

And now The Thinker's eleven.  Just like that.

He's led me through so many different stages of life, surprising me, frustrating me, challenging me, and captivating me at every turn.  Now, he's this compassionate, competitive, intelligent, handsome, and funny boy-turning-man.  And I long to hold him tightly as he is, for I'm so much more aware of how quickly time passes, how soon he will no longer be eleven but eighteen and then thirty. 

Yet even as I long to hold on, every day I pray that he turns less ours and more His and that he will let his Heavenly Father guide him wherever that will take him.

And wherever that is, he will always, always, carry my heart.

Happy Birthday to my first gift born.

And I count one more time my many gifts #576 - 589:

birthdays to count

grace in parenting

the timing of my first gift

the lessons God teaches through our children

agape love

the privilege of watching children grow

The Thinker has a spiritual birthday too

another reason to gather with family in winter

conversation with my sisters and my brother

Baby Girl's "Happy Birthday to you"

The Stinker's excitement in choosing a gift (and "can't I give both?")

comfort in the hope that each season of life will have its joys . . .

and that moving forward means moving closer

each and every hug from all my Gifts

My First Gift

He Carried My Heart in His Pocket

The night before that first day of school, we cuddled close, discussing the next day.  The Thinker asked oodles of questions; I tried to ease out his bundle of nerves.  It was time to say goodnight . . . the end of the day marking the end of ten and a half years of togetherness.  A trail of silent tears marked his climb up the stairs after he kissed his baby sister goodnight.

I followed him up a few minutes later to tuck him in, determined to mark this moment with the positive.  From my dresser top, I lifted the treasure I had found on our beach trip:  a flat, heart-shaped stone the size of his palm. 

We sat on his twin-sized bed, side-by-side.

"Do you remember the day I found this rock?"

He nodded.

"What does it look like?"

"A heart," he answered.

"I'm giving this to you for tomorrow.  Put it in your pocket, and whenever you are nervous or a little stressed, you can squeeze this heart and know I'm thinking of you and praying for you."  We sat in the silence for a minute.  I asked one more question, "Who made this heart?"

"God did," he replied, with a grin.

"So when you squeeze it, you can also know that God loves you and is right there with you, wherever you are.  He put this rock in just the right place for me to find to give it to you.  He's been thinking of you all along, and He's not going to stop now."  We both breathed a little easier, the relief on his face my reward. 

The next day as he climbed aboard the bus for the first time, I caught a glimpse of a heart shape in denim.  He carried God in his heart and my heart in his pocket.




 

Gifts #206 - 222

a God who doesn't stop thinking about us

surviving the first week of school

early morning Bible studies with my thinker

a nice morning bus driver (who was also mine)

catching up at the end of the day

kind and good teachers

friendly students and familiar faces

new school supplies put to use

staying home with The Stinker and The Princess

more relaxed school days at home

games in the afternoon with my middle

peace about a decision

an Internet connection fixed

a chance to carry another's burden

a family gathering for birthdays

kind words from good friends

He Carried My Heart in His Pocket

Ice Cream: The Responsibility and Privilege

He came out carrying ice cream, and I knew.  We had made the right decision.

We were on our way to my in-laws' house, and we needed to stop at the store for ice cream.  For some reason I decided to send in The Thinker instead of towing all three of the rascals inside for such a quick purchase.  I gave him a few dollars, and told him to buy a quart of vanilla ice cream and some chocolate sauce.  He looked at me and said, "Alone?" 

"Yes.  By yourself."

He took the money with a smile, looked both ways before crossing the parking lot and passed through the automatic doors.  I drove around the lot to park beside the building where I could see the doors and waited. 

He emerged a few minutes later with the store brand of ice cream ("Because it's cheaper, Mom") and Smucker's Magic Shell Chocolate Sauce.  They weren't the choices I would have made, but they were perfect. 

"Those machines are weird, Mom.  They talk to you and everything."

"You used the machines?  Did anyone help you?"

"No, I figured it out.  The lines were too long to wait to buy just two things.  And I figured if I had trouble, I'd just ask someone."

He talked for awhile about choosing chocolate sauces, anticipating his dessert later that evening.  He read the back of the bottle and told me about what you need to do if you accidentally place the bottle in the fridge.  I stole glances at him as I drove.  He was sitting taller.  More confident.

All because of ice cream and a little bit of freedom and responsibility.

"And you know what, Mom?  I get what you've been saying about privilege and responsibility." 

And that's when I knew.  He's growing up.  And it's a good thing.

Just remind me of that later. 

Ice Cream: The Responsibility and Privilege

Marvin K. Mooney and "The Talk"

"The time has come, the time is now." 

And if I were Marvin K. Mooney, you'd better know
I would go. Go. Go! And I wouldn't care how. 

But I'm not Marvin K.  I'm the mom, and the time had come to begin The Talk.  Yep, that one.  (Note to my dad:  If you're reading this, it's okay to stop now).

The Thinker has always been my challenge.  He's a questioner of all things.  From the time he was tiny, he stumped me with difficult thoughts -- often in public places, and particularly in the grocery store.  I think it was because there he knew he had my attention.  It was just he and I, face-to-face, as his stumpy legs dangled from the cart seat, and he sucked his Tootsie Roll pop.  I still remember being in the shampoo aisle with a couple of witnesses when he asked me, "How did Jesus die on the cross if you can't kill God?"  The Thinker was three at the time.  Where to begin with that?

So, I wasn't too surprised really when he started asking about babies and where they come from.  The Princess was born over a year ago, and we had answered a few questions through that process as vaguely but honestly as possible.  But vague wasn't cutting it anymore.  A friend of his had a sister who was unmarried and pregnant, and he just couldn't make sense of it anymore.  He kept asking questions, such as, "Did they just get too close, Mom?"  Hmmm. 

Image by Penny Matthews

I flash back to asking my dad what a virgin was when I was about six.  Thanks to Madonna and "Like a Virgin," the word was all over the place.

His response, "You better go ask Mom."  Bless his Marvin K. Mooney heart.  (I love you Dad, and I warned you to stop reading.)  It just wasn't something we discussed much at our house. 

I remember always being embarrassed when the topic came up.  Heavens, I still am depending on the company.  But we want open dialogue, and we want our kids to talk to us, so I took the plunge.  I asked a few questions to make sure The Thinker and I both knew what he really knew already.

You know men and women are different, right?
It takes an egg from the woman, and a seed from the man?
And God created a special way for married couples to create a baby?

Yes, but HOW?

We got out the books from the series God's Design for Sex as a sort of guideline (for me to know what to tell).  We didn't read them word-for-word . . . just talked as we looked. 

His response when it was over and we'd clarified a few things was, "Well, that's weird."

Yep.

He and the hubby talked about it again another night.  It was just some more affirmation about God's purpose and design for physical love.  Questions answered about how Mary was a virgin and had Jesus.  More dialogue.  And for a few days, I watched for changes in him.  Holding my breath  . . . afraid somehow that we'd spoken too soon, and all of a sudden he would be no longer innocent boy, but a stranger with too much knowledge.  But he's not.  He sees it as it is -- or he's forgotten about it for now (which is kinda what I'm hoping). 

I sigh with a little bit of relief, because it's done.  Until I realize that, actually, it's really just begun.  There will be more questions and more dialogue.  If he doesn't start it, we will need to.  We'll have to talk about STDs, premarital sex, pornography, homosexuality, etc.  . . . Yikes.  It's a long list.  But I'm putting on wisdom and courage and stepping outside of the comforts of ignoring and avoiding --

  -- because the time has come to go. Go. Go! and Parent with Purpose.

Marvin K. Mooney and "The Talk"