Because She Can Read

If you have read this blog for very long you may have noticed a few things.

I think our kids are funny.

I like to take pictures of them and to tell stories about them.

There are six of them.

But one does not appear here nearly as frequently as the others.

Yes. I know.

But it has nothing to do with my love for Riley, our beautiful teenaged daughter. (Or maybe it has everything to do with my love for her.)

The primary reason I do not write often about Riley is simple.

She knows how to read.

I love Riley. Of course I do. I think she's funny. And beautiful. Kind. Flexible. Easy going. Friendly. And loaded with potential. I loved her twangy little accent and her unruly, choppy hair the day I met her six year old self. And I was thrilled the day her adoption became final when she was nine.

But this blog is actually not a place where I lie.

Soooo . . . .

The truth for me is . . . parenting Riley can be hard.

Maybe parenting any teenager can be challenging. So I've heard.

And losing both my mother and Kevin's mother in such a short span has altered a bit of our perspectives on ourselves as teenagers. (There are just some memories only a mother holds.) Sometimes I forget that I was ever like Riley. Fifteen. Absorbed in me.

Because most days I feel as if Riley is just so . . . . not like me.

And I never really know how to handle that.

If I am honest, and I did just proclaim that I am, I would have to admit that most days I am pretty confident of only one truth regarding my parenting of Riley. I'm not doing so well.

My tendency is to correct, reason, monologue . . . because I desperately want to see this fifteen year old live up to that untapped potential. I want to see wise decisions. A pure heart. A life that doesn't look like every Disney teen bouncing across our screen or clogging the radio waves.

Yes. I'm pretty sure I just discovered the heart of the issue.

I want what cannot be had just yet. I want the end without the means. I want the prize without the race. I want her to have the knowledge that only comes from experience because I want to spare her the heartache that so often accompanies that experience.

Ah. Fifteen.

Even revisiting it vicariously is difficult.

I'm Sorry

After a kid infraction of most any variety, we require an apology from the offender. (A real apology. Not a mumbled-under-your-breath-just-because-Mommy-made-me-do-this sort of apology.)

Someone is always apologizing for something at our house.

Recently, after one such incident, followed by a mostly sincerely apology, the offended party refused to be consoled.

"'I'm sorry' doesn't change anything!" the still wounded child shouted.

But I think maybe she was wrong.

I think it changes a lot.

When one of my darling offspring spills a drink for the seventeenth time that morning and actually speaks the words, "I'm sorry Mommy for spilling that drink. May I help you clean it up?" something is changed.

My attitude.

My heart is softened.

Your "I'm sorry" changes me.

Because, at first, although my brain tells me the spill was just an accident, I just want to let my anger win. I am tired of cleaning up messes.

But the spoken apology pulls me back to see the bigger picture. The example I would like to be. Your "I'm sorry" reminds me that I want you to learn how to be forgiving and gentle in spirit so I had better figure how to model that behavior myself. Your "I'm sorry" reminds me that you are four (or six or two or thirty-five) and you deserve the same grace I want you to show me the next time I have to say "I'm sorry". (Which will probably be soon.)

So, sweet child o' mine. I'm sorry, but I think you are wrong.

"I'm sorry" changes everything.

Thanks, Piper

Not too many days ago I was instructing my determined (read: stubborn) youngest daughter. She did not care for my instructions.

I don't actually remember what I was asking the spirited (read: strong willed) two year old to do or to stop doing, but I do distinctly remember her response.

Piper Finnian said, "I don't like you." And she spoke clearly. Very clearly. (She's a pretty good communicator. Maybe a little too good.)

I was really embarrassed. Really embarrassed.

Because I wasn't at my own house. The words were not spoken where only I had the displeasure of hearing. Nope. It never works that way - does it?

At that moment, I desperately wanted to parent based out of my embarrassment.

I wanted my parenting to show everyone watching me what type of mother I am.

That's a recurring theme to me, it seems.

I foolishly want my children's behavior to reveal something about me as their mother.

Right then, I wanted Piper's behavior to reveal that I am a good mom. A put-together mom. A mom in control. A mirage.

Ouch.

My Pride. Revealed. Again.

And actually, the truth is . . . Willow's behavior was reflecting my parenting. And reflecting me. Parenting in an imperfect world. By an imperfect parent.

It was exactly right. Piper's little attitude was reflecting truth.

What I wanted was misleading. A lie. A false representation.

And what I got, from the mouth of my persistent (read: obstinate) little girl, was a reminder that I need much too often.

I have to parent from something far more solid than my feelings. Something far more stable than my emotions.

I need to parent from what is true and right and pure. From what is reliable and secure.

And that isn't me.

Here We Go

Alert: This post is being typed from a computer with a dying battery. In a hotel room with no access to photographs.

The Band of Keigley are on the road. (And you would know all the minutia of our family's Christmas journey south if you followed Riley's Facebook updates. But please do not. We do not wish to support her addiction. I'm actually not joking.)

The start was a bit shaky . . . an hour and a half later than intended, snow and ice the first forty-five minutes, an accidental opening of the completely, tightly packed Suburban's back door two minutes before the official Buckling In Of Passengers was scheduled to begin, half of the loaf of bread originally intended to be our lunch eaten by Super Nutso But Lovable Terror Magnus, and a near breakdown only narrowly averted by a kind husband's quick and gentle words.

But we made it all in one piece through our first two stops of our adventure and are currently resting at Stop Number Three.

In Jacksonville we hung out with Sarah and Erik and Austin. We were treated like royalty. Fresh, delicious Snickerdoodles were sitting on the counter when we arrived. Sweet hand decorated Christmas tins filled with treats sat underneath the tree for Keiglets. Scrumptious from scratch pancakes, thick cut bacon and some kind of tasty sausage were served up for dinner. And Luna was all quiet and sedate. We really felt loved and welcomed. What a sweet start to our trip. Thank you Sarah and Erik - thank you! You will become a regular stop on our southern route, should we be wild enough to undertake said journey in the future! (And if you'll have us of course!)

Reluctantly the kids buckled up again - it was as if Otto Fox's muscle memories kicked in with the clicking of his carseat buckle. The cries of frustration began. Really, he was such a trooper. Who wants to be strapped into the same place for hours on end, with little to no wiggle room?

The Suburban headed itself straight to Melbourne - the GPS leading the way. (On a side note, apparently Piper Finn is now afraid of the GPS. For hours (yes, hours) she spoke these words, "I scared. GPS." It cannot be explained. I will not try.)

In Melbourne there resides a family. A beautiful family. Three great kids. Two amazing parents. We love them. (I could go on. I could gush. And it would all be deserved.) We had so much fun that this really needs to be several posts - but there's that dying battery issue, you know?

We attended church with them. Enjoyed seeing Page play guitar on stage. Then we celebrated two SIX birthdays - Mosely and Hezekiah. You actually can see adorable photos of this at Gretchen's blog. Cute. Cute. Cute. Gretchen made incredible matching Mickey and Minnie Mouse cakes. Two cakes. They looked so cool. I think it was the first birthday party Mosely has had with friends her own age! And then we went to the beach, because they pretty much live in a vacation spot. And Page took photographs that might actually be so good that they might sustain the mirage - because the setting, the lighting, the background - all just worked in perfect union for a few fleeting moments. The results are fantastic! I can't believe ambient lighting can make such a difference! I hope soon you can check them out here or at Page's site. The kids played so well together. We had great conversations, delicious meals and a fab evening of screaming at the television set when Russell was completely robbed of his hard-earned Sole Survivor title. (Yeah, I said "robbed". And I will loudly and passionately defend my stance. Loudly. And passionately. Even if it is a trivial TV show. Just watch me.)

And now we are one mile outside of the entrance to the Happiest Place on Earth. (We'll just see about that Disney.) And apparently the most dangerous as well. I have never seen so many signs reminding me to lock my doors, hide my valuables and put my keys in my pocket. Makes me more than a little cautious. There was even a government-issued, flashing orange road-sign-type sign blinking and proclaiming these warnings. Yikes!

Tomorrow is Mosely's big day. A day of seeing Peter Pan. And pushing that hefty new double stroller. And riding those infamous teacups. Walking miles with six mostly small children. Watching Bergen see a giant Buzz Lightyear. Spending Riley's college tuition on a hot dog and a pretzel. Letting Mosely wear her beautiful, re-created just for her from my old flower girl days, pink fancy dress on her birthday.

It's a special day. And I know it will be perfect. And messy. And funny. And exhausting. And silly. And filled with loads of laughter and plenty of tears. And that's all okay with us!

(Blessing on you, little battery. You did real good.)

A Story of Hope

At lunch yesterday Mosely made a very unusual comment that seemed to be right out of left field.

"I wish I could meet my first parents one day," she said.

My head actually whipped toward her - it was such an unexpected comment.

We have made the choice to speak normally and often about Mosely's adoption and her introduction to our family when she was but a wee little three-month-old sausage baby. (Hey - "sausage baby" is the term Mosely uses. And listen, if you had the privilege of meeting her at that age, you would agree. Her appendages closely resembled sausage links. It's just true.) So it was no surprise to hear her speak about being adopted. We all talk about it as a matter of course here.

But it was the first time I had ever heard her express any sort of desire or longing or interest in her birth parents.

And I was genuinely surprised at my internal reaction.

Sure, I kept my external reaction appropriate and moderate. (I hope.) We talked about her birth parents and then we let the comment stay as it really was - just a part of the lifelong conversation we will have with our third daughter, whose story happens to be of a different variety than say, our fourth daughter.

Inside, however, I was actually kind of hurt. And even as I felt that, I knew it was probably irrational. Mosely is five (almost six!) and wondering things out loud is perfectly normal. Talking about your past is part of figuring out your future and your place in the present. I know. But I still sort of felt sad. And somehow less important. Like my role or my ability as Current Mom was being called into question.

And I admit I was a little surprised at Mosely's developed thought process along those lines. I honestly (perhaps foolishly) assumed I had a good five or ten or more years before this type of conversation would even start rolling.

Adoption presents its own set of unique issues. And they are really no more or no less daunting than the set of concerns with birth children. But I think it's misleading to pretend that the issues are the exact same. They just aren't. Sometimes they converge, cross over, merge, and so and so forth. But they are still not the exact same.

I think one part of that difference might just be because with adoption, you can always legitimately ask "what if?" What if genetics play a larger role than I thought? What if we are not the best choice? What if the nature vs. nurture debate really does have a clear victor? And dozens of more questions, deeper and scarier than we would like to see in print.

Adoption is such an incredible journey. One in which I am truly grateful to participate. But like all grand undertakings, like all uncharted territory, like all acts of love - there is such a risk as well. Such a frightening forced opportunity for vulnerability. And therefore, a much greater danger of pain. And suffering. And of having to stumble your way through the dark sometimes.

But I think at its heart, Mosely's story - and every story of adoption at any level - is a story of redemption. A story of hope.

And I don't want her to miss that.

I don't want to miss that.

What Do We Do?

(It's another one of those this-picture-has-nothing-to-do-with-this-post-other-than-the-fact-that-this-is-my-blog-and-this-is-my-cute-kid. Apologies to all.)


I just heard this line in a song . . .

"If you feel it, it must be real."

That turns my stomach.

This idea is absolutely pervasive. It has invaded everything. Our music. Our movies. Our commercials. Our attitudes. Our expectations. Our brains. Our hearts. Our actions.

And I hate it.

Because it is a lie.

I'm not saying feelings always lie. I'm not saying feelings are wrong. Or sinful. Necessarily.

I am saying - you cannot trust only your feelings. You cannot live from your feelings alone. You cannot base your actions on your feelings.

It is a dangerous way to live.

But we hardly know what else to do. We hardly know how else to play this game.

Because it seems everyone else is doing life by their feelings.

And I just wonder . . .

How can I rescue my kids from this disastrous pursuit of what feels right, of what feels good - of feelings forcing behavior?

(Is there any defense? Because some days it seems as if the battle has already been won.)

I don't think seclusion is the right answer. Avoiding the world hasn't proven to be an effective tool in my experience thus far. (Just look at how many kids graduate from private schools and home schools and instantly embrace everything they felt they were denied.)

I believe that you learn truth by studying truth. You don't learn what is true by studying what is false. You memorize what is real so you can recognize the fake. If I am intimately familiar with a made-from-scratch chocolate chip cookie, it won't be hard to taste the difference in a processed Chips Ahoy. I don't have to study every brand of chocolate chip cookie, from Great Value to Soft Batch, to know when I am being offered something less than homemade.

But even though I know that in theory, I'm not sure I know how to teach that to our children.

Particularly our teenage child.

The one who needs the balance, the steadiness of truth most at her vulnerable age where everything Mom and Dad says sounds silly and everything popular culture says sounds cool.

So what do we do?

(This isn't really one of those hypothetical questions. Go ahead and answer.)

Are You Sure?

I find myself always asking,

(repetitively, yes)

How can I best serve God?

(Right now. In this life. In the present.)

And the answer seems to always be given

(repetitively, yes)

softly in my mind,

boldly in my life.


By serving the people living at this house.

No, no, no.

Can't I do something glamorous?
Something big?
Exciting?
Cool?
Highly visible?
Dramatic?

God,
Don't you need a writer for a really popular magazine?
Do you need me to work at a theatre like Flat Rock Playhouse?
Do you want me to sell all of my possessions and travel across the country with my family in an RV for you?
Do you want me to sequester myself away in some private hideaway and write the next great novel?

Oh.

You
want
me
to stay
here?

To wash these clothes?
To wipe so many sticky hands?
To kiss golden heads when they cry?
To stay up late holding inconsolable babies?

To
serve
the
small
humans
who
may
(or may not)
ever say
thank you.

Are you sure?

Oh.

I am supposed to be busy
about the business
of
straightening
the
arrows
you gently placed
in
our
quiver?

Oh.

But . . . .
No one notices.
The hours are really long.
The salary is sub-standard.
The benefits
are
not entirely
tangible.

And
it's
hard.

Really hard.

Oh.