Here we are, the fifteenth of December. I was hiding a few more Amazon shipping boxes when you handed me your brother’s dog puppet shoved inside of a Santa hat.
“Mom! It’s a gift for you!” (my heart swells at your spontaneous generosity)
“Thank You,” I reply. And knowing the gift is in they eye of the giver, I ask, “What is it?”
“It’s a dead hyena! We killed it for you!” (my stomach now swelling)
“Oh…well…thanks Mimi…wanna play tea party?”
I had to say thanks, because giving is what this is about, even if it’s in the offering of a hunted predator. The best thing I could possibly bestow on you this time of year is the heartfelt gift of charity.
Amidst a society of utter Christmas chaos, I’ve collected some give-not-get ideas. With His birthday just a week away, we won’t accomplish everything on my to-do-list (mostly because it requires the sacrifice of my shopping time), but with some planning we will at least conquer a few.
1. The grateful game
It’s a household favorite. I wrap a few empty boxes and lids, so they can be opened and closed again and again. Everyone fills a box with a “gift,” this could be an ornament off the tree, a favorite toy, a dinner spoon, whatever. Next, we take turn giving gifts. The rules are simple – when you open your gift, you must say thank-you, and find one thing you like about it. I enjoy the silliness of saying things like “Boy, I really like that I can eat ice cream with this!”
2. Buy a gift
I shall force you to physically take money out of your bank and buy a gift for someone. It’s not-so-novel, but often forgotten when there are twelve nieces and nephews to consider, and it’s easier to just do it myself. If this is too cumbersome, my plan B is to have you bring your own money to put in the bell-ringers pot. I can’t avoid the grocery store the week before Christmas anyhow, so we might as well make it purposeful.
3. Give to the poor
There are impoverished people standing on street corners in every city across America. I’m not sure why we treat them like rabid stray dogs, and justify our behavior by saying that helping hurts. I know, I know, if you give them a crutch, they’ll use it. But the high is 25 degrees today, and it wasn’t me that said give to the poor, it was Him. Here’s how we’ll do it: You kids will decorate paper lunch bags. We’ll put a few cookies inside, or maybe a pair of new socks that I was going to stick in a well-socked stocking. Coupons to a fast food chain or lightly used gloves or hats would work well too. Of note, none of these gifts promote cocaine addiction. I’ll store the bags near your car seat and have you be on the lookout for someone in need as we drive through town.
4. Visit the old-folks home
It sounds like a lot of work, but it’s not. First, we will make simple Christmas cards out of folded computer paper. You’ll wear your most gaudy dress (old women love this). Next, I’ll take you children to where the “grandmas and grandpas” live. No need to call ahead. Some nursing homes won’t let us go past the front desk, but don’t worry, there are always at least five people in wheelchairs parked by the front door, trying to get a piece of the action. Often you and your brother are scared of the old saints because our society has done such a marvelous job of hiding them away. No worries, I’m fully prepared to do all the handing-out and “Merry Christmas” duties myself.
5. Shed light on giving.
On Christmas morning, rather than a free-for-all present wipe-out, we’ll slow down. You and Beau will make a pile of the gifts you are going to give. When it’s your turn, you will be the one to give the present to its recipient.
The gift is in the giving, in presenting opportunities for you to think outside yourself. After all, it was the first Gift, a Savior, who inspired all of this.
“…I bring you good news of great joy. Today in the town of David, a Savior has been born to you, he is Christ the Lord.” Luke 2:10-11
Sing-a-ma-jig
What I'm saying isn't getting through. As I hurry around the house, doing five things at once, my spewed instruction is received like sign language in a house for the blind, resulting in a louder rendition of the same mute message. Over. And over. And over.
And sometimes it's not just my mouth, but my ears. You, sweet one, will appear at my feet with a life-changing concern and I have no idea what you want. I hear your words perfectly articulated- they just aren't registering. If I could only understand, I'd do it in a second. Your so worked up and I can't even make out what the problem is. We're like a couple of sing-a-ma-jigs in a presidential debate.
Why am I like this? How did I get here? Here's how: there's a feast on my floorboard, and my steering wheel is sticky. I just finished a slobbered candy-cane and slighted the drive through Starbucks man (1.37 to be exact). I'd call my sister to complain, but there's a land-line in my purse.
A heap of hullabaloo intoxicates my brain, and in that mess, my perspective gets lost. My head begins to bobble. I forget the one or two important things I want to achieve today. I forget to respect those little goals, those little people. I wish I'd found a profound answer, something deep and insightful that grabs at your soul. But it's only more of the same.
We all just want to be heard.
I don't have a twelve point plan. It's just one step, or squat really. It's one of my most powerful parenting improvements yet. If I want to be heard, or to understand, I look at you, not just from across the house while I load the dishwasher, but I kneel down and look at your beautiful blue eyes.
Turns out, we're both speaking English.
And sometimes it's not just my mouth, but my ears. You, sweet one, will appear at my feet with a life-changing concern and I have no idea what you want. I hear your words perfectly articulated- they just aren't registering. If I could only understand, I'd do it in a second. Your so worked up and I can't even make out what the problem is. We're like a couple of sing-a-ma-jigs in a presidential debate.
Why am I like this? How did I get here? Here's how: there's a feast on my floorboard, and my steering wheel is sticky. I just finished a slobbered candy-cane and slighted the drive through Starbucks man (1.37 to be exact). I'd call my sister to complain, but there's a land-line in my purse.
A heap of hullabaloo intoxicates my brain, and in that mess, my perspective gets lost. My head begins to bobble. I forget the one or two important things I want to achieve today. I forget to respect those little goals, those little people. I wish I'd found a profound answer, something deep and insightful that grabs at your soul. But it's only more of the same.
We all just want to be heard.
I don't have a twelve point plan. It's just one step, or squat really. It's one of my most powerful parenting improvements yet. If I want to be heard, or to understand, I look at you, not just from across the house while I load the dishwasher, but I kneel down and look at your beautiful blue eyes.
Turns out, we're both speaking English.
Schooled by a Tyke
Your brother has been coming to some profound realizations lately. I just wish they weren’t about me. A few weeks ago I was working intently on something when he ran up and yelled, “Matt happy!” Its not the first time he’s made this declaration. In fact, he may just be the happiest kid on the block, according to him. So I smiled, kept at what I was doing, and said, “Oh good buddy, Mama’s happy too.”
Not satisfied, he took the opportunity to school his mother.
“No… Matt happy, Mama busy.”
Ouch. My face blushed like it did the time I gave Cody Enzler directions to ride his BMX to my house. I told him I lived off Regina Street. He thought I said a certain female orifice and actually screamed on the phone.
This time, your brother caught me and called me on it. I was on my iPhone, checking Facebook, responding to a text, or emailing a friend for an all-important granola recipe. Whatever the app, it was so intoxicating I couldn’t even look up.
It’s embarrassing when your bad habits are so blatant that a two year old notices. Here I am, with luxury of staying at home while millions of other moms work overtime to pay the bills, and I’m caught browsing wreaths on Pinterst.
I may have said vagina back in the ninth grade, but I meant Regina. And I was indeed totally ignoring your brother, but it was not my heart’s intention. I’m thankful for the call to wise up. It’s a small thing, to put down my phone and respect my child enough to look him in the eye. If society weren’t so mind-sucking, it would be no problem at all. I’ve been trying, and like a good little teacher, he rewarded me with this little nugget...
Running into the kitchen full speed, he collides into my leg and yells “Mama…is…awesome!”
Lesson: Put down your phones, pick up your kids.
1 John 2:15
Do not love the world or the things in the world…
Not satisfied, he took the opportunity to school his mother.
“No… Matt happy, Mama busy.”
Ouch. My face blushed like it did the time I gave Cody Enzler directions to ride his BMX to my house. I told him I lived off Regina Street. He thought I said a certain female orifice and actually screamed on the phone.
This time, your brother caught me and called me on it. I was on my iPhone, checking Facebook, responding to a text, or emailing a friend for an all-important granola recipe. Whatever the app, it was so intoxicating I couldn’t even look up.
It’s embarrassing when your bad habits are so blatant that a two year old notices. Here I am, with luxury of staying at home while millions of other moms work overtime to pay the bills, and I’m caught browsing wreaths on Pinterst.
I may have said vagina back in the ninth grade, but I meant Regina. And I was indeed totally ignoring your brother, but it was not my heart’s intention. I’m thankful for the call to wise up. It’s a small thing, to put down my phone and respect my child enough to look him in the eye. If society weren’t so mind-sucking, it would be no problem at all. I’ve been trying, and like a good little teacher, he rewarded me with this little nugget...
Running into the kitchen full speed, he collides into my leg and yells “Mama…is…awesome!”
Lesson: Put down your phones, pick up your kids.
1 John 2:15
Do not love the world or the things in the world…
Underwear- under control
I roll my underwear. When the laundry comes spewing out of the dryer, it’s only my jockies I look forward to folding. Like origami, I overlap twice then roll like a ding-dong. I’m not packing for a trip to the moon, but it’s darn near as thrilling.
Here’s why: In my drawer, to their left, live the mismatched, often single, sometimes holey socks. They’re disheveled and totally out of control. This represents the majority of my life. But right down the middle are my neat and tidy undies. Every morning they salute me in their obedient place. The faithful little row holds it’s own in the midst of chaos.
I’ve gone over this with God. Yes, I’ve prayed over my underwear, and I’m happy to report He’s given me the go-ahead. I tell Him that He can have control of every bit of my life- and He’s always finding more territory to rule- but I get to roll my underwear. They’re under my reign.
In motherhood, we get off course when we focus only on controlling our children, their behavior, their clothes, and how many peas they eat at dinner. When we relinquish some of that,and instead seek to please Christ as parents, we gain eternal perspective on our role. I'm not saying we let them run naked at the park, but that we consider how Christ would handle our daily parenting "situations" and invite Him to help us. I guarantee, it's a more peaceful place.
Mimi, when you become a mama, do as I say: Give it to Christ. Be weary of the areas you seek to control, and watch out, He may just ban you to the underwear drawer.
"Trust in the Lord your God with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight."
Proverbs 3:5
Here’s why: In my drawer, to their left, live the mismatched, often single, sometimes holey socks. They’re disheveled and totally out of control. This represents the majority of my life. But right down the middle are my neat and tidy undies. Every morning they salute me in their obedient place. The faithful little row holds it’s own in the midst of chaos.
I’ve gone over this with God. Yes, I’ve prayed over my underwear, and I’m happy to report He’s given me the go-ahead. I tell Him that He can have control of every bit of my life- and He’s always finding more territory to rule- but I get to roll my underwear. They’re under my reign.
In motherhood, we get off course when we focus only on controlling our children, their behavior, their clothes, and how many peas they eat at dinner. When we relinquish some of that,and instead seek to please Christ as parents, we gain eternal perspective on our role. I'm not saying we let them run naked at the park, but that we consider how Christ would handle our daily parenting "situations" and invite Him to help us. I guarantee, it's a more peaceful place.
Mimi, when you become a mama, do as I say: Give it to Christ. Be weary of the areas you seek to control, and watch out, He may just ban you to the underwear drawer.
"Trust in the Lord your God with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight."
Proverbs 3:5
Do as I say, not as I did.
When I was a little girl, your Nana would make play dough from scratch. She'd sit us three girls down in those retro white saucer chairs and work away at the stove. It took forever. With her back to us, she'd pull out the steaming ball and knead it in her hands until it was just the right color and consistency. We'd beg to have some, to which she'd always reply It's too hot.. then pause and add Do as I say, not as I do.
The remark has returned to me since becoming your mama, mostly while I eat raw cookie dough in front of you, or any other time I'm too tired to explain.
But this blog is where the phrase becomes sincere. There is so much I can’t tell you about motherhood since – well- you’re 4. But lest I forget, I'll put it here. Do as I say, not as I did. See I was one of those new moms who screamed much louder than her baby. And I'm quite sure the neighbors heard me yelling in the garage and breaking things. No, there's no raccoon in there, its just mama.
If I could fast forward to when you become a new mom I would love-pummel you and tell you to let it go. Give it up. We serve an almighty Savior who will meet you in the garage and take you from there to sanity. I promise. If He can do it for me, He can do it for anyone.
So now I'm the one with the hot dough in hand. Or maybe I'm the hot lump, finally succumb to the One who can transform me from mere flour, to blob, to awesomely bright play dough.
"...Behold, like the clay in the potter's hand, so you are in My hand..."
Jeremiah 18:6
The remark has returned to me since becoming your mama, mostly while I eat raw cookie dough in front of you, or any other time I'm too tired to explain.
But this blog is where the phrase becomes sincere. There is so much I can’t tell you about motherhood since – well- you’re 4. But lest I forget, I'll put it here. Do as I say, not as I did. See I was one of those new moms who screamed much louder than her baby. And I'm quite sure the neighbors heard me yelling in the garage and breaking things. No, there's no raccoon in there, its just mama.
If I could fast forward to when you become a new mom I would love-pummel you and tell you to let it go. Give it up. We serve an almighty Savior who will meet you in the garage and take you from there to sanity. I promise. If He can do it for me, He can do it for anyone.
So now I'm the one with the hot dough in hand. Or maybe I'm the hot lump, finally succumb to the One who can transform me from mere flour, to blob, to awesomely bright play dough.
"...Behold, like the clay in the potter's hand, so you are in My hand..."
Jeremiah 18:6
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