Posts Tagged ‘laughter’
So it’s February. Actually, February 9 as I write this. And—you guessed it!—it’s a Snow Day. All the schools in the area are closed. In fact, nearly everything is closed today due to “heavy bands of snow” and potential blizzard condition whiteouts in some (unpredictable) spots and very cold temperatures combined with the 8-14” forecast.
I’m sitting here by my fire reflecting on all the mixed emotions I’ve always felt about snow days. First of all, I wish they didn’t happen on Mom to Mom days; I hate missing Mom to Mom. But then, there is the excitement and beauty of a good old-fashioned New England Nor’easter. I remember the glorious excitement of kids jumping up and down with joy when they see their school on the TV cancellation list. We’d celebrate with pancakes or French toast and hot chocolate. Followed by layers and layers of snow apparel to prepare for a day of sledding and
snowmen and snow forts and gigantic snowball fights and general snow bliss.
And then—seemingly only 5 minutes later—someone (or several someones) tromping in with half the snowfall attached and trailing through the house to get a drink/go to the bathroom/need a snack/have to warm up/complain about sibling injustice . . . You know the drill. Let me just tell you: A mother never forgets what it takes to undress a snowsuit-clad toddler for the bathroom break that seems to occur every few minutes. And then get them dressed for the Arctic all over again. Or what the whole house smells like at the end of the day with wet mittens and scarves and snow jackets and pants and boots draped absolutely everywhere. Unless you happen to have (sigh) a mudroom the size of a gym. Still, I miss those days.
At this point I’m guessing some of you are nodding in recognition of all I’m describing. Others are probably gloating and thanking God you don’t live in The Land of Snowsuits. And others may be a bit envious. Your kids would love to play in the snow.
Somehow this snow day feels like a microcosm of the mixed feelings February generates. For those of us who love the snow (or at least love looking at it out the window if we don’t have to go anywhere or have kids with very large bladders who love being cold and playing out in the snow all day without needing breaks at 15-minute intervals), let me say it: It IS beautiful. And February seems to be the month that brings the most snow drama—at least here in New England.
February also brings Valentine’s Day. I for one have always loved Valentine’s Day. I liked making Valentine boxes and exchanging valentines in school. Especially if there was candy involved. Years later I loved the great “excuse” for romantic dinners. And more candy. I especially loved making Valentine cookies (I did do that some years—right, kids?) and having special Family Valentine’s Dinners. And now I love sending Valentine boxes to our 11 distant grandchildren.
But not everyone loves Valentine’s Day. For some it is most dreaded or best ignored. Maybe it’s long ago hurt and scarring associated with this day or it could be recent loss and pain—or maybe a lifetime of feeling alone more than ever at this time. This is a hard time—and February is a hard month—for many.
So it is that as I sit here looking out at the beautiful snow and feeling a strange mixture of delight and melancholy in the memories of many years of February, I find myself praying for all the moms I know. For joyful fun in the snow (or joyful gloating in the sand). For patience and endurance when the Snow Days (or any days) get long and lonely. And for healing of many hurting hearts in this February. Psalm 34:18 keeps coming to mind: “The Lord is very close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
For all of us, a reminder that both snow and hearts bring to mind our loving God. The One Who inhabits “the storehouses of the snow” (Job 38:22). The One Who loved us enough to die for us, that our sins, as bright and deep as scarlet, might be “as white as snow” (Isaiah 1:18). And The One Who also “loves us with an everlasting love” (Jeremiah 31:3).
An old hymn comes to mind: “There is a place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God.” Quiet rest? Are you kidding? For moms? In the heart of God, yes. Yes. Yes.
Feel loved this February, in the snow or not. Because you are.
The house is quiet now. Way too quiet. And way too orderly. Only the ticking away of my Mom’s grandfather clock, reminding me that time moves on.
For 38 glorious days, our home has been filled with the voices of children. My ten favorite children, to be precise. Shouts and giggles and fun and laughter and crying and bickering and “time outs” and whispered conversations between cousins coming from the “craft closet” (our master bedroom closet, repurposed) and loud games interspersed with “No, it’s my turn!” . . . You get the picture. 38 days of glorious chaos.
And now they’ve all gone home. As I write this, I shiver with remembrance of that unforgettable sentence about Hannah after her annual visits to the temple to see the son she had dedicated to God: “Then they would go home.” (1 Samuel 2:20b) Not quite the same, for sure. But still, the going home.
Our recycling and trash tell the story. Well, part of it anyway. Yes, the party’s over and they’ve all gone home. But I am left with so much more than the after-the-party remnants. I am a different person. More exhausted, to be sure. But so much more. I am a grateful Nana filled with new memories made over the past 5 weeks.
Games of Candyland and Chutes and Ladders and Sorry and Animal Bingo. Stories read, some by me and some by the children, who range in age from 10 years to ten months. Pirate stories told by “Farfar” (their name for Woody—“father’s father” in Swedish). Trips to splash parks and playgrounds and petting farms and the gorgeous York Beach in Maine—and the Lego Store and Build-a-Bear and the much-loved Superstore of Used Books. Diapers (“nappies” to my Irish crew) changed and tears wiped and grievous wounds cured(!) by Dory or Star Wars bandaids and nights of protest (“But it’s not bedtime yet!”) and disputes of nearly international scope about who got the most wiffle-ball pitches from Farfar. What seems like hundreds of hot dogs and PB&J sandwiches and pizzas and birthday cakes and ginormous ice cream cones consumed.
Ah, summer with grandchildren. I really didn’t want it to end.
Yet as I write this, I am reminded of summers long ago when I felt a bit more ambivalent about summer’s end. The start of school looked pretty good then! ☺ So as I ponder (the end of the annual summer visit) and miss (all of them!) and cherish (such precious memories), I also think of all of you moms out there. Some of you also missing grandkids who’ve gone home. Some counting the days ’til school begins (please Lord, soon!)—or wishing your kids were old enough for school! Others celebrating because school has already begun in your world. And then those moms who’ve made that first long journey (long whether an hour away—or thousands of miles) to college. For all of us, those mixed emotions that come with being a mom/grandmom.
May we always be grateful. May we always savor the memories. And may we always have the necessary strength that comes only from the Father of us all (and the joy as well). Summer, we salute you . . . it’s been oh, so lovely.
#1 Playdough in PJ’s is a super way to start the day.
#2 A closet makes a great craft and coloring room.
#3 Even Chuck E. Cheese can be a bonding experience.
#4 Kids of all ages love stories.
#5 Everyone needs a little glam in their life.
#6 Touching the nose is a good way to get acquainted.
#7 There’s nothing like Oreo cream-filled donuts to cheer you up.
#8 Cousins play hard and stick together.
#9 Ice cream is essential.
#10 Silly families are the best.
Thankful for a July of “glorious chaos” at our house. Here’s wishing all of you a Happy Summer!
This is a story you’re not going to believe.
In Mom to Mom, I frequently encourage young moms to focus on the things that matter most and to give up “Supermom” expectations. I admit that one of the things I gave up was fanatical super-clean housekeeping. Order and organization—yes. But obsessive cleaning in every nook and cranny—no.
Recently, however, our house has been looking better than usual because we are getting ready to put it on the market. As part of that process, I had a cleaning team come in this week to help me out. And you’ll never guess what they found.
Here’s how it went:
“Uh, Mrs. Anderson, do you have a bag or something where I could throw this away?” One of the cleaners is standing before me with a strange look on his face, clutching what look like two white towels or dust rags in his hands.
“Oh, sure—just throw those rags here in my kitchen trash. “
“Um, um, Mrs. Anderson, do you have any stuffed chipmunks in your house?”
My mind scans the assortment of stuffed animals throughout our home. A chipmunk? I don’t think so. But, well, maybe…
Before I can answer, one of the other cleaners approaches: “That ain’t no stuffed chipmunk!! It’s got bones and everything.”
“Yikes! You’ve got a live chipmunk in those towels?!!”
“Oh, no,” the girl responds: “He’s not alive. He be dead. Very dead. Stiff, actually.”
This is the truth, I swear. The cleaning team found a dead chipmunk in my house. And what’s worse, guess where they found it? Under my bed!!Yes that’s right—under my bed! It was wedged between the headboard and the wall in one of those impossible-to-get-to places that had not been cleaned, I can assure you, for a very long time. Obviously.
How did this unfortunate little creature manage to get into our house and all the way upstairs to the master bedroom? Here’s my theory: months ago (too many to admit!) we left for a trip just after our granddaughter, Gabriella, then 2 ½, had been visiting with us for several weeks. There had been plenty of coming and going through our patio sliders, and I’m not sure they had always been kept closed. Then, while we were gone, our burglar alarm was set off by a motion detector. When we came home, we found a few mysterious droppings in odd parts of the house—including our bedroom and the tub in the adjoining bathroom. At the time we thought it must have been a mouse, inspiring regular visits from the exterminator ever since. Now I’m thinking it was another kind of visitor…
The moral of this story? I don’t know. Maybe “Don’t ever have a cleaning team come to your house. You never know what they might find!”
It’s very humbling to share this story. But it’s just too funny not to. At least it attests to my authenticity when I tell you I’m not a fanatical housekeeper.
I also think there’s more here. How ironic that lately Woody and I have been complimenting ourselves on how great our house looks, given recent touch-ups and “staging” efforts as part of getting ready to list it. We’ve been especially admiring of our bedroom. Honestly—it looks really great! On the outside, that is.
But what was it Jesus said about “whited sepulchers” and “dead men’s bones”? I think there’s a deeper lesson here somewhere. But that’s for another time.
For now, just laugh with me. And take comfort in your own housekeeping struggles. Surely none of you have dead chipmunks under your bed!
“This book is the story of how we reclaim the things that are lost. It’s also the story of how a home can become sacred, and how in the process it can sanctify us as well. I can tell you these things because I have been in dark places—which is the only way any of us learns to love the light. . . . Home is . . . where we learn grace . . . where we find or lose God, or perhaps where He finds us if we will only be still long enough to listen.” (Tony Woodlief, Somewhere More Holy, p. 32)
So ends Tony Woodlief’s introduction to his amazing book, Somewhere More Holy. It’s the first book I’ve read this year, and I already know it will be at the top of my list of 2012 favorites. My daughter gave it to me for Christmas, and I began to love it the minute I skimmed through the first few pages.
For starters, it opens with a quote from Frederick Buechner. You know a book can’t be all bad, beginning with Buechner. I also like the fact that each chapter begins with excerpts from other favorite authors of mine. But it was really an author completely new to me—Tony Woodlief—who captured my attention with his first words and never really let me go until the end. Actually, I was very sorry to come to the end.
The book is a story that weaves together many stories. Stories from, as the cover tells us, “a bewildered father, stumbling husband, reluctant handy man, and prodigal son.” It is the story of deep loss. Probably the deepest loss any parent can experience—the loss of a child, a beautiful, exuberant little 3-year-old robbed of the rest of her earthly life by a brain tumor. Excruciating loss and pain.
It is also the story of some almost-losses: of a marriage, of father-son relationships, and of the ultimate Father-Son relationship with God. Woodlief recounts these losses and almost-losses with raw authenticity. Reader be cautioned: have tissues at the ready.
But it is also a story of hope and hilarity and, as Woodlief says in my beginning quote, reclaiming the things that are lost. The author has a rare ability to juxtapose joy and sorrow, the eternal and the everyday, the marvelous and the mundane, in ways that constantly catch the reader by surprise. Reading the book feels like riding a roller coaster. You never know where the next twist or turn will take you. And oh, those heart-stopping drops!
Woodlief is a really good writer. He’s also very very funny. Never have I read a book that took me from laughter to tears so unsuspectingly. There are—believe it or not—tons of LOL (“laughing out loud” for any non-texters) moments when Woodlief recounts parenting adventures with his four wild and wooly little boys. More than once my husband looked up at me from his football game while I was reading the book, wondering why I was laughing so hard.
Amidst the laughter and the tears, it’s also a great parenting book. The author takes us through various rooms in the Woodlief home where there have been lessons aplenty in marriage and parenting that he shares with humor, humility, and hope. Side note: you’ve got to love some of his chapter titles—e.g. “Where the Wild Things Are” for the chapter on the boys’ rooms.
Ultimately, Somewhere More Holy is the story of grace—God’s stubborn, abounding, relentless, amazing grace. Just what a mom needs more than anything else. Just what this mom needed more than anything else. Thank you, Tony Woodlief, for reminding us. And please, write more books!
“Isn’t that so funny?” is one of Gabriella’s favorite new expressions. Gigi, as we call her, loves to laugh. And sing. And dance. On our recent visit to Ireland to see her and her mommy (our daughter Erika) and daddy (our son-in-law Richie), I was reminded how very important it is to laugh. To actually have fun with your kids.
Every time we go to Ireland—and really, every time I travel—I am reminded of the universality of mom-feelings. On this past visit, we spent a lot of time at playgrounds—another thing Gigi loves. I loved playing with her there, and I also loved watching the other moms and kids at the playground.
One day we had the great good fortune of a long time on the swing. There was no line of people waiting, as there often is, for the toddler swings. As I pushed Gigi, a young mom pushed her son, a little boy who seemed about Gigi’s age (2 ½). His mom looked as if she had been pushing him on that swing for a very long time. In fact, she’d become almost robotic. Back and forth, back and forth.
Then she looked over at me, sighed, and said: “Ohhh, it feels like forever. The days feel like forever. “ As I nodded in instant recognition of those feelings, she went on to tell me how early her little boy gets up, how he doesn’t nap much if at all, how hard it is to get him in bed at his usual time now that the days are light so much longer, and . . . You all know the rest of the story well.
A few moments later I noticed a very energetic grandmother playing with several of her grandchildren. They were having a ball. The kids had set up a “store” under one of the climbing structures and she was “buying” all kinds of things from them (including ice cream—which definitely got Gigi’s attention!) Soon the kids tired of that game and ran on to another, and this very engaged grandmother looked over at me with both a big smile and a sigh and said, as she ran after them,” I am absolutely exhausted!”
Sounds familiar, yes? Days that feel like forever. Chronic exhaustion. It comes with the mom-job, with keeping up with these little energizer bunnies. Which is why I love watching my daughter and her daughter have so much fun together.
Yes, Erika’s days often feel like forever. And yes, she is most always exhausted (especially now that she is pregnant with Gigi’s little brother or sister). But even amidst it all, they do have fun. I wish I had a video of Gigi dancing with her mama in front of the mirror, traipsing around in her mama’s shoes (what little girl doesn’t love that?), or waking up in the morning carrying on conversations with herself interspersed with “Isn’t that just so funny!” (Not caught on video!) But we did have fun with her new scooter, new sunglasses, and glasses for Corduroy—and how about tutus for headdresses? I suspect it’s the having fun part that gets many moms through the not-so-fun parts of the mom-job.
I’m not sure I was that much fun as a mother. But I hope you are!
I recently returned from a trip to Michigan in which I met lots of moms – moms from three different Mom to Mom groups. Some were young moms with their first new baby; others had a houseful of toddlers and preschoolers. Some were celebrating their kids going back to school, others bemoaning kids who’d left for college. Yet others were mentor moms comparing notes (and pictures, of course!) about grandchildren. We all had one thing in common. Actually, we all had a lot in common. But one thing that struck me particularly was that we all so desperately need to keep laughing!
I was speaking on the topic “Can You Really Love Your Kids and Your Life—at the Same Time?” As I looked out on these audiences of moms, two things were obvious: First, these moms really love their kids. They really, really do. But also, these moms desperately need to be able to laugh with other moms about the daily “mission impossible” challenges of being a mom. Sometimes it’s a matter of survival. At the very least, it makes being a mom more fun.
As I talked with moms after each session, we found ourselves laughing a lot. Not that we didn’t have serious conversations. Some very heavy things were shared, and I find myself still praying for some of the moms I met. But I also noticed how crucial it was for these moms to hold on to their sense of humor.
There was the one mom who came half an hour early for our Mom to Mom Dessert Night because it just felt so good to get out of the house and let her husband put the kids to bed. She wasn’t in any hurry to leave, either, when the party was over. Even though she spent a good bit of her time showing me pictures of her two adorable little girls. 🙂 And there was the mom who told me “Hey, we’re doing pretty well even though my kids are so close together in age. I haven’t put any up on Craig’s List yet!” Laughter really is one of the best medicines for a mom.
All this reminded me of an older woman I knew many years ago who influenced me more than she ever knew. She was the woman I wanted to be when I grew up. An older woman in our church that most people called Grammy Perkins, she was one of the funniest—and Godliest—women I ever knew. And that, I must say, is one fantastic combination!
She led the Tuesday morning women’s prayer group at our church. And what mighty prayer warriors those women were! I remember my dad often commenting that it was the prayers of those women that got him through the completion of a manuscript he was writing on the Old Testament—and even got it published with a big-name publisher.
Grammy Perkins was also one spunky lady. One of the best stories I heard about her was how she got her driver’s license. As an older woman (I don’t know how old she was. She seemed very old to me—but then I was in fifth grade at the time!), she had never learned to drive. She kept telling her husband she was going to learn. “Oh, Julia,” he’s say. “You know you’re never going to do that at your age. In fact if you got your license, I would buy you any car you want.” That was all Julia needed. Out she went and enrolled in driver training classes—right along with all those teenagers. And, unbeknownst to her husband, she got her license. Then one night he came home for dinner to find her brand new license hanging from the chandelier in the dining room—along with a note on the kind of car she wanted. And she got it!
But what I remember most about her was a little prayer she said she often had to pray: “Lord, fix me up, Lord, fix me up.”
Oh, how often I need to pray that prayer. “Lord, fix me up, Lord fix me up.” As a young mom with small children, as a mother of teens, even now as a grandmother. It’s a prayer I need regularly. And I notice, along with wonderful Grammy Perkins, that one of the ways God works in me, one of the way He fixes me up, is through laughter. Truly, it is good medicine. Often, it is God’s medicine.
I believe it was Charles Swindoll who said, “Of all the things God created, I am often most grateful He created laughter.” I think Grammy Perkins would agree. Especially for moms.
Praying and laughing—perhaps the two most crucial ingredients for a mom. My prayer for you is that you’re doing lots of both!