On Measuring Valentine's Day

I wonder how to measure a complete and successful Valentine's Day. How do you measure if it was good enough?

Before the babies came, Valentine's Day was measured at work. Who had the long stem roses delivered? Who had the fanciest dinner reservations? Who had the most booty and swag, and the largest and most balloons? That was how love was measured.

Now I have three boys and I am home on Valentine's Day. For the last three years we celebrated around a meal with an arsenal of boy-rated fancies, and boy-themed cards, and boy-inclined shiny-s and large over done red plunder. It was a sight to see. But not this year. Dr. Romance had a night class that canceled a fancy family dinner. Instead, we settled for a quick breakfast meal. Mornings already are rushed with Dr. Romance heading to Harvard, and the two older boys heading to two different schools. So that old Valentine's measuring stick came out. I wondered if this mama's Valentine's Day was good enough.

I wondered as I packed heart shaped lunch sandwiches. I wondered as I set out paper packaged dinosaur heart plates for breakfast. I wondered as I cut hearts from frozen waffles. A guilt wave surged over such a hasty breakfast. Frozen waffles seemed so common.

I stopped wondering when I pulled out the whipped cream, because whipped cream makes you forget all kinds of stuff. And my love, Dr. Romance, presented me secret sophisticated strawberry sauce he bought in California for such a time as this. We drew initials on the waffles, because every superhero loves his initial monogrammed on everything, like the big S for Superman. And the two of us working together, assembling three boys' waffle plates, could not be measured.

I giggled when Dr. Romance handed me my breakfast plate. He was cooking behind me. I don't know how to measure a man that presses Wilton cutters over my cheesy eggs.

We gathered the baby's plate. He did not measure himself as leftovers.

I don't know why I worry. Those boys measured breakfast as special. They measured with laughter. To them, I was good enough. I gathered the plates, and the eldest wandered into the kitchen. "Close your eyes, Mommy. We have a surprise for youuuuuuuu!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I closed my eyes, fully expecting a Valentine's card, stuffed with a gift card. I opened my eyes, and was a bit confused by the red velvety tower until I saw the logo on the card.

I first saw Sugardaddy's on Throwdown. Seventeen months ago I held my newborn in my arms and drooled over their Tahitian Blondies. I settled the baby, and then fell asleep on the couch before the show ended. Dr. Romance surprised me a day later with them on my doorstep. They are not for the every day. Frozen Valentine's waffles cannot even touch this stuff.

But even greater joy came from his words in my card. They measured me.

 

And that little card, with those little words, were enough. If those lightly scrawled words were enough, how could my frozen waffles not be enough?

Because there is more. With wisdom and genius, the evening class was canceled at the last minute. I almost cringed when Dr. Romance, in all of his elation, proposed we order Thai food for dinner. This was definitely not my idea of a Valentine's dinner. I don't crave Thai food. But Dr. Romance does, and so do my kids. So I silenced those inner thoughts and picked up dinner with my eldest. As he nearly skipped down the sidewalk with joy to the Thai restaurant, I took a breath, and smiled. I looped my arm through his. "C'mon, you're my date," I said. Once home, we unpacked dinner, pulled out the Valentine's Day cards that arrived from afar, and read the many ways we are loved.

No fanfare. No gift bags of swag. No red explosions filling our dining room.

But this Farmer Valentine's Day? It was more than enough.

One Day You Will Not Be With the Band

There are days I take your pictures with my eyes. I want to blow up those moments, make enlargements of those frames, and wrap my arms around you. I want to squeeze those pictures behind picture frame glass to my chest and never let you go. Sometimes I tease you and tell you I never want you to grow up, and we giggle and laugh, because we know that is impossible and Crazy Talk. That day will come.

One day you will not be with the band.

One day you will not sit together in a circle, not with drumstick pencils, not making your music.

One day you will stand on your own, away from the safety of our family.

That very thought has shaken me to prayer for you. You will walk to your own beats. Some days the music will be loud and full of life. Some days it will be slow and hum drum.

And for all of those days, I pray that God brings you friends that will walk with you. I pray you find iron that will sharpen you. I pray for wounds from friends, those that you trust, and not kisses from enemies. I pray that when you fall, there will be someone to help you up. I pray you will find friends that will love you at all times.

Over ten years ago, we made the walking kind of friends. We have cried with these friends through birth, death, love, and loss. They are lifers.

This weekend I cried for three straight days for walking friends. I have cried tears with intensity of love. I care very deeply for them.

I stared at Dr. Romance, and I choked out, "I cannot imagine having to give a baby back."

And as he scrubbed the dirty dinner pots in the sink while I rocked the computer chair back and forth he said, "I think you can. That is why you are crying. Are you going to be okay?"

And I am okay. Because our friends shared their lives, because they shared their pain, and they shared God's triumph. And because their baby is one step closer to home!

They walk. They share.  

And I am in awe that the very God that has performed a Jim-dandy in their lives can perform Jim-dandies in our lives, too. Their God is my God, and WOW.

And for you, my three sons, I want those friendships for you. I want you to know the longstanding ones. I want you to walk with trustworthy friends when you are no longer with the band. I want you to walk with those your whole lives. So I am praying for those friendships, even now.

So today I continue the list and count the ways He loves:




#8 for boys that drum feverishly in a brother band

#9 My Dr. Romance that considers my work "our work"

#10 for boys that LOVE this home, our family, our jokes

#11 friends that are lifers, friends that are walkers

#12 the baby that is one step closer to home from Uganda to her forever Vitafamiliae

#13 that God uses the work of thieves for his good, to perform a modern day miracle


#14 that God uses even a Ugandan judge to show MERCY

 

These Souveniers

Boys don't check thermometers on winter days. I do, but they don't. Boys press their faces to the windows, fling back bedroom curtains into superhero capes, celebrating with a-hootin' and a-hollerin' for stretches of white powder.

I don't like to be cold. I am ruined forever, a Southern California girl, raised to believe 60 degree weather required a heavy coat. The years we recently lived in Hawaii only thinned my blood for the worst.

And now on the East Coast, I have complained too much. I have checked the thermometer too many times. But as the snow falls, and the bedroom curtains outline my boys like superheroes, I savor these days like souvenirs of motherhood. I hush those complaints of bitter temperatures and make a choice.

I wonder like my boys. I dream of more days on the bullet speed sleds, the fancy ones we bought for days like this.

So out the door, to find the van and the truck, bandaged in snow.

 And to define our snow days with scooters and snow scrapers, carving out our own family memories...

...surveying the work of the snow blower; it huffs a growing wall of snow.

 

I wear my Boy Mom lenses. My spectacles, the ones that let me spy things I could not see, I would not see, if not on this very journey of Boy Mom. I see the boundless adventures, I see the superheroes, I see the make-believe turn into make-true.

The igloo they made with Dr. Romance three snow storms ago, with a tunnel addition built snow storm before this last, now rising to greet the morning. The igloo, the sugar loaf of an alp that is a stage for their imagination to run, the yard stick of how great is the snowstorm.

 

The same Wonder that draws my boys to the God-made of the snow covered igloo

draws me to the icicles that fortress our front porch.

The long cones that spiral like crystals, the ones that point straight to our welcome mat, that first greet outsiders. I eye them, measure them, inspect them. I wonder that they melt, grow, freeze, melt, grow, freeze over and over for days.

This year in New England is most probably a once in a lifetime experience for our family. We will move in June. I make a choice to see the beauty here now, even when the temperature seems to gnaw at my bones.

So today I will start my list and count the ways He loves.

#1 Sons that love to play the heroes

#2 Heavy snow falls that bring more sledding days

#3 Heavy snowfalls that build the igloo

#4 My Dr. Romance that considers snow play a family priority

#5 The baby that sits with me in the window as the others hurl snowballs at us

#6 Icicle crystals that hang like eye candy

#7 Neighbors that help snow blow our yard

The Hard Lessons

One day I won't lean toward the hard way. Several years ago we adopted a "free" dog. We had just moved across the country, from California to Virginia, and a puppy seemed like a good idea. We loved him dearly, but he was far from "free." We learned that the hard way. He chewed a hole in our white carpet down to the threadbare. I covered the ugly hole with an ugly area rug for awhile. Not long after, he swallowed an entire bottle of vitamins that nearly killed him and made him seize. He lost those vitamins, all 144 of them, all over the leftover white carpet. We used every last cent of the very last paycheck I earned before birthing my eldest to install durable, beautiful hardwood.

Hard. Wood. Hard. Lesson. Beautiful. Durable.

The baby has been fussy lately, crying, with FOUR new little white mountains jutting up through his tender gums. He follows me endlessly, sometimes clinging relentlessly. It was cute the first few days. But hours and hours passed of see-sawing between lap time (or hip time) and just allowing him to scream when I set him down. When my arms got tired he sat on the floor. And when my ears got tired he sat on my lap. HOURS.

And then, I just couldn't get "things" done, "MY stuff" done. I rushed through phone appointments, left projects half finished, and stampeded through my day. It was like someone had called checkmate and had me cornered.

To call me snarly may have been an understatement.

So I cried uncle.

Really, would the world come to an end if my stuff did not get done?

What was the cost of getting it all done?

I slid down to the hardwood. I sat. I felt the firmness under my fanny of that hardwood. Time has passed since I just sat, stopped running in circles, stopped making my own head spin. I sat eye to eye with my baby, giggling, playing peek a boo, and pushing buttons on electronic toys. And in a moment the baby relaxed, to his usual little giggles, playing his favorite teeny monkeyshines. This is his idea of peekaboo. He only agrees to cover his sweet head, and not his chocolate eyes. He lives with those fingers in his moth, too. This is my baby, the one I haven't seen since the teeth started to erupt.

Sitting there, I pressed my palms down on the hardwood behind me, resting as we played. Those minutes were precious, the most peaceful minutes in his tearful days. My spirit soared. Sitting on the hardwood came the hard lesson.

These days with my last baby are numbered.

They are once in this lifetime.

These days are eyeblinks.

I don't want to count the cost.

I want the cost to count.

How about you? Are you making a change for the cost to count?

Hair Brained Time

I have a weakness for hair brain ideas. I rationalize them in the sacred name of family fun. Actually, I directly insist on such moments, convinced my family will thank me one day. You might know what I mean.

So on 01/11/11 at 1:11pm I attempted one such hair brain family moment. I warned Dr. Romance 38 minutes ahead of time. I wanted a picture of our family on 1/11/11 at 1:11pm.

But after wrangling three small boys to the stairs, and setting everyone in their places, our family picture looked like this:

Did you catch anything wrong? Like the TIME? Or the fact that my baby is pantless? OR that not everyone is in on the plan? My daydream of a perfect family memory was snapped into pieces by the click of a camera. I was a teeny sad. No perfect photo meant an incomplete day dream of showing this picture years from now to my grandchildren at  a future Thanksgiving. I may or may not be dramatic, right?

Dr. Romance offered an inkling of sympathy until he noticed I was not too aflutter. I was already pondering and planning 11/11/11.

And then Dr. Romance offered to alter time.

 

And the photo still did not come out like the day dream. And I laughed at myself. I laughed at the day dream. I laughed that it was not going to happen just right. 

I laughed.

It was cathartic.

I laughed. I stepped away from a haze of worries that spouted recently. Already I am thinking six months from now. I have no idea where we will live. I have no idea what life will look like for my kids. I have no idea if we will sell our house in California or if we will move back. I have no idea. And my mind swirls. I like to plan, even plan more than hair brained family fun. The irony is that on New Year's Day, our family gathered around a plate of cookies, and we made a plan. We agreed to trust God in 2011. Just a few days later, I was baffled by worry. My will to trust began to fizzle.

But my mind raced when Dr. Romance altered time. If no one can really reset time, and we just did, how can I not reset my thoughts? How can I not get back to the goal?

So I am altering my thoughts. They will come, the uncertain ones. But I am going to get back to our family goal for 2011. I am making a plan to TRUST.

What about you? Have you made a plan that needs to be altered?

Boy Mom Truth

I entered Life As A Boy Mom practically clueless. I came from Girl World, my life with only one sister. My mom has 4 sisters, and my dad has 9 sisters, which means I have 13 aunts. I have carloads of female cousins. Before babies I worked almost exclusively with females. I make friends easily. And, I love my girlfriends.

I knew not one thing about guarding a little boys heart in 2004, when I had my first child. Before Life As A Boy Mom, I thought little boys were, ... hmmmm, just not girls. I had no idea that they would need me, that they would confide in me, or that their brokenness would bring me to tears. I bought into what strangers whispered.

Boys are trouble makers.
Boys are mean.
Boys are rough.

Now I have three boys.
Mine to share with Dr. Romance, for now.
I am no stranger to boys.
I don't listen to whispers anymore.
Sometimes I cancel their whispers, their bold comments.
I tell them my truth about being a Boy Mom.

Last night my boy sat in my lap and cried.
He spilled mean words to my ears that he heard from other kids.
More heaves. More tears.
He misses San Diego.
More heaves. More tears.
I fight back my own tears.
He will miss Massachusetts when we move away in June.

I shelter him in my arms.
I wipe his tears.
I ask questions.
I want to know and he shares.

Here is my truth.
Boys can be honest.
Boys feel with hulking, soon to be, manly hearts.
They are wishful and dream.

Boys are sensitive.
Boys share boy bonds early on.
They have their own love language.
I don't speak it. But I spot it.

Boys require space.
Boys are loud.
Boys are physical.
They love to roam outside from the beginning.

That need to roam, I count it all joy.
So when the trash needs to be taken OUTside...
When the leaves need to be raked OUTside...
When the snow needs to be shoveled OUTside...
I am last on the list.
Because I am a girl, and I like to keep my pretty sock feet clean.

Boys confront fear.
I cringe. I do not like fear. I do not need to shake hands.
Boys are decisive.
They know what they want.
They author their own decisions
head first, in the dark
plummeting 20 feet in the snow.
The three year old bobs up,
dusts himself off,
and calls it fun.

We call time. We call last sled.
They listen. They obey.

Boys are generous.
Boys are thoughtful.

And the six year old declares,

"I give my last sled time to you and Daddy. You sled together and I will take your picture."

What about you? Do you have a truth about boys?

On New Year's Wonders of an Igloo, Cookies, and Blessings

Three thousand miles on a plane only spells F-U-N for three active boys for about three minutes. We lived. We survived. We deplaned. My tribe was actually well behaved. The grouchy lady in front of me, though? Not so much. Her heavy sighs and piercing eyes drove me to offer her Dr. Romance and Son2's seats at the front of the plane in UPGRADED seats. I didn't share that they were upgraded seats. That would have been TMI. But in my most concerned voice I did share that if SHE was uncomfortable she and her husband could trade....well, she didn't agree. But she didn't look at us or sigh at us anymore.

Our Christmas trip to San Diego was delicious. It was downright beautiful. We drank up family visits, warmer weather, and Legoland. My kids swam outside in a heated pool. They were spoiled by grandparents on both sides. My mother in law even flew in to see my kids. We all were refreshed. The boys ran with old friends. And Dr. Romance and me? We held hands in a movie theater alone, and we dined by candlelight alone. Aaahhh!!! And then the end of the year arrived, the very last day of the year, the very last day of our trip. We boarded for Boston and arrived home minutes before a new day, and a new year...

New Year's Day was hushed, still, and vacant in our neighborhood. We relaxed in the quietude and the familiar of our "for right now" home. The boys had their own ideas about quiet and concentration. And together, two dedicated brothers and Dr. Romance diligently handcrafted an igloo in our backyard.

 

And their joint labor did something for this mama's heart. I was so proud. I propped the baby in the window so he could see, so he could know he was part of this brotherhood. But boys don't play like girls. They don't ooh and ahh through windows. No...my rascals saw their brother and inducted him. They pounded together snowballs and hurled them at our window. The baby screamed delighted, begging for more. And finally, the igloo was complete.

Later that night, our family came together around a plate of raspberry white chocolate macadamia nut cookies. We explained to the kids that we wanted to review all of the ways God had blessed our family in 2010 and think about how we would trust Him in 2011.

And they really made my pen move, grasping gratitude, blessings, and the handiwork of God. Even as children they witnessed the otherwise unpredictable, the unsolvable, and the impossible of 2010. They added those memories to our list. Dr. Romance and I spoke our memories aloud and then I recorded those, too. And slowly and humbly, we asked that our children count it all joy, that they too lay stones, remembering where we have been before we ask God to lead us where we will go.

I don't know what I expected. I did not expect that a 6 year old and a 3 year old might catch a glimpse of God's intentional presence in the Farmer family. I did not expect our family to produce an exhaustive list the width of our table of ways that God provided for our every need. I did not expect that my children would trust God so easily in 2011. And quite foolishly, I did not expect them to empty the cookie plate.

So we anticipate many changes for our family. We anticipate God sized answers to our small human questions. Right now, we have a lot of those small human questions that expose our uncertainty. We approach the new year with expectancy that we will see wonders greater than an igloo, of times we could not have done a blessed thing on our own strength. And around a bigger plate of cookies we will sit and list our gratitude.