My Sweet Girl

Sometimes I am scared of my four-year-old daughter.

Scared how she’ll react if she gets the Cinderella cup instead of the Tangled cup. Scared what she’ll do if we can’t find her puppy or her pony or her brown eyed baby doll, come bed time or nap time or car ride time or any old time when she decides she needs it. 

She can storm harder and longer than my temper can usually take. My day often consists of a delicate dance around her, not knowing what mood she is in or at what moment that mood might change. 

The name 'London' is derived from the Celtic word 'lond' which means 'wild' and 'dun' which means 'fortification' (also translated "a strengthening or improvement"). While her middle name 'Kate' is derived from a Greek word translated 'pure'. 

London Kate ... a wild, pure child who strengthens and improves. 

Our passionate, compassionate child with a temper so fierce and a soul so spiritual.

I am sad that I find myself functioning "around" her, rather than with her or for her. I was recently reminded that brown eyes aren’t the only things children inherit by blood. And I prayed that God would start to show me how to see. Not with a magnifying glass, but a mirror. After all, she is the one most like me. 

She tries so hard. I see it. I understand it. It is familiar. It is frightening.
I see my own temper. I see my own need for affirmation and reassurance. I see my fear of "what if" in every situation.

I see how long it’s been since I’ve enjoyed her.
I try to stretch and bend and pray. I start to pay attention and listen.
I remind myself of how I want to see this daughter of mine. The only one of my three who bears a striking resemblance to her mama. 

I begin to see the story God has for my sweet girl.

She dreams of being a "girl zoo keeper".

She snuggles deep beneath her covers every night and rests only after asking me if she looks "warm and cozy".

She worries about the seemingly insignificant. I know the motivation is genuine. She cares about others. Deeply. Sometimes she just has a hard time expressing it in a way that others understand.

She sleeps in the same position and thrives on the same routine every night. She likes to feel secure.

She thinks with expressions that are demonstrative. What you see is what you get. She wears her emotions like a mask on her face.

She is the one who will stop whatever she is doing at the most random times and simply say "Mommy, I love you". It's as if she knows that I need to hear it. From her.

She is the one who quietly follows me up the stairs after I've had a mama-meltdown. Without words she buries herself into me and takes my arm and wraps it around her. Her eyes speak so much love and joy into my soul. I am being comforted by my four year old. 

Sometimes, in the beginning, when I am still finding the words, I wait until she’s asleep. And I sit beside her bed and pray. I pray that God will shield her sensitivity but lace it with wisdom and faith in Him. I pray that she will trust her Daddy and me to protect her. I pray that God will show us how to do that. 

I watch her sleep and count the seven, eight, nine, twelve, thirteen stuffed animals surrounding her. I wonder how she even fits into that bed with all the puppy dogs, baby dolls, and various other animals clamoring for space alongside, so perfectly illustrating her love and compassion for all living things. I pray that God keeps her heart soft and huge, as it is now.

I begin to speak over her. Words of affirmation. 

Words like brave, strong, and beautiful.

I want to bottle up this peaceful feeling with enough reserve to last me through tomorrow, when I awaken in the morning unsure of when the next battle will begin. I want to just sit in that room wedged between a My Little Pony and a teddy bear in a tutu and stroke the hair of my sweet four-year-old and soak up the overflowing love that is so evident in those moments. My prayers pour out for this sweet girl of mine. She's tender and delicate and requires a relationship founded on details. She is one who I fight for … and that fighting draws her to me in a way I can’t describe.

a family affair

It's a family affair. 

Almost ritualistic, after dinner, we find our spots on the sofa in the living room. We barter for position (I'll let you hold my doll if I can have that pillow) and we eventually settle in to place. 

The Olympics. I remember doing the same with my parents. Cheering for Mary Lou Retton, Flo-Jo, and Greg Louganis.

I watch as my girls are captivated by the beautiful artistry and grace of the US Ladies Gymnastics team.  I giggle and cheer wildly as they pretend to walk the balance beam and do somersaults through the living room. My little Olympians. 

While they're cheering for Michael, Aly and Gabby, I find myself captivated by Debbie, Lynn and Natalie.

Also known as Mom.

The emotion on their faces tells a story in a tenth of a second. The fear is familiar. The pride is contagious.

That's their baby. And I get it. 

I watch my own babies and even at a young age, their experiences are vast. Some painful. Some pleasant. Some packed with so much joy that their little bodies can't keep up with the excitement. The story is unfolding. 

I do what I can to prepare them but with each day, it seems the gap widens a little bit more. I berate myself for the moments when I lost my temper or didn't give my full attention. I cherish the memories when they were too young to walk or talk and they needed me for everything. Some days I crave that dependence again. Some days I want to do it all over again. To hear their tiny heartbeat as it thumps against my own in the dark of the night while the gentle hum of our breaths rocks us both to sleep. 

But life moves at a pace that is too fast for my soul to keep up with. And I know that one day, too soon, I will be resigned to watching from the stands. I will watch as they step up on the beam and begin the delicate dance. I will hide my eyes, tense up, cheer, yell, remember to breathe. 

So, for now, I take a step back and hold my breath while they are learning to jump. And with each jump, I am learning to take my fears to Christ instead of piling them on the backs of my children.

Old and New

Sometimes friendship gets last place in my life. 

It's easy to prioritize my children, my husband, and my laundry.

But I was reminded this weekend of the importance of friends.

 

Lifelong friends that were there through first dates, high school, weddings, and midnight visits to the hospital when our babies were born. These priceless friendships that have endured the test of time. Friendships with decade buried memories and relaxed laughter. The ones who really know me. And really love me. Their presence is familiar and comforting, like a warm blanket on a cold winter day. They embrace me, all of me. These friendships had to be fought for. And they survived.

And the new friends that merged paths through life events: a new church, preschool play-dates, a move to a different city, dance class, soccer practice, a new job. New friends that reflect my current journey, introduced through shared life experiences. Friends that understand the familiar pain of a marriage on the rocks. And friends that share in the joy of a marriage reborn. Friends that I meet on the first day of school, both of us waving goodbye to our little girls growing up too quickly. Friends that understand the fear and loneliness of 2 am without our husbands because they are arresting drunk drivers, breaking up fights, and convincing an armed 18 year old that he does indeed have something to live for. Friends that rub knees and hearts with us while we sit indian-style on the soccer field sharing pretzels and pride in our children. 

Regardless of the age of the friendship, I need them.

I need to meet them for lunch and laugh at the silliness of our children. I need to celebrate life with them at anniversary parties, birthday parties, and a summer party just because. I need them to challenge me by digging deep, asking hard questions, challenging me, and encouraging me. I need to laugh with them. And cry with them. And forgive them. And apologize to them. And love them. And be loved by them. 

In John 13, Jesus commands the disciples to love each other. Jesus didn’t drop commandments lightly. There are only a few, rare instances in Scripture when He was so direct. He knew something they did not. They needed each other. 

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." (C. S. Lewis)