The very first time I went home with Lee Stuart, I heard all the stories about him. I heard about how he didn’t go anywhere without a basketball in his hand; how he could be found asleep at night, his arm slung over his dirty ball; how he had to be reminded to set the basketball down at the dinner table and actually sit in a chair.
I heard the stories, and I laughed, imagining that dirty little boy who loved the rhythmic sound of the ball hitting pavement. But I didn’t really understand who that little boy was because I couldn’t merge him with the grown man I married.
I couldn’t, that is, until Landon came along.
It took us a long time to find the right name for Landon. We’d had one all picked out, stored in our arsenal after Tia surprised us with all her girliness upon arrival. But by the time Landon came along, too many others had discovered our treasured name and it no longer felt special, so we went back to the drawing board.
For months we went back and forth until we finally settled on Landon as the first name. Then it came time to pick a middle name. We tried combinations of Landon with our father’s and grandfather’s names, and it never seemed to fit just right. Then one night, shortly before he was born, I sat up in bed and looked at Lee.
“What about your name?” I asked.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Landon Lee,” he said, and we both knew that was it.
Lee was pleased with our choice for the obvious reason. What man doesn’t feel a twinge of pride at the thought of his son bearing his own name?
I was pleased for other reasons. First, I found a sort of comical sweetness in Landon carrying Lee’s name given that Lee was so shocked by this surprise third pregnancy that he didn’t talk to me for two days after I told him.
As if I was the sole culprit in our rapidly expanding family.
Second, I just liked the ring of it: Landon Lee. It sounded strong and manly, and the two names slid together like a puzzle piece.
Today, we celebrate Landon Lee’s 8th birthday, and more and more as this child grows I see evidence of the fact that we really had nothing to do with his naming. This was the name chosen for him from the beginning of time – we had only to stumble upon it, and how glad I am that we did.
See, Landon bears more than his dad’s name – he also possesses a great deal of his dad’s personality.
As I watch Landon maneuver around the house, I think back on those stories I’ve so often heard of Lee as a boy, and I see now who my husband must have been as a child.
Delightful.
Funny.
Passionate about sports.
A jokester.
People Pleaser.
Unable to function without a ball nearby.
Landon’s chosen sport (of late) is soccer. He lives, eats, and breathes the sport, and when things settle down, and the corners of our house fill with blissful silence, it won’t be long before you hear, or see, Landon kicking a ball against the wall.
He spends hours each day outside, often by himself, kicking the ball into the soccer net, roaring through the yard as he wins yet another World Cup. It’s all in his mind, of course, but it plays out like a vivid dream for the rest of us to enjoy alongside him.
Though he looks the most like me, he bears his father’s spirit. And so it is that Landon Lee was the perfect name for this delightful boy with the twinkly blue eyes. He plays hard, sleeps hard, laughs hard, and wakes up each day to do it again.
And I’m the one with a sideline view as he grows up.
I was twenty-five years old, a brand new mom, and I rolled slowly to a stop in front of her house. I picked up my weeks old baby boy and walked to the front door, loaded down with an overstuffed diaper bag, several blankets, and a deep need for someone to tell me I would survive.
When Laura opened the door, she whisked the baby from my arms and bounced up and down with him while I set up the pack and play in a nearby bedroom. Once he was settled and sleeping peacefully, little bum up in the air, she and I sat on the couch, and we just talked.
Her kids were all off at school, and for the first time since she’d become a mom herself, she had extended periods of time alone. Her youngest had just begun first grade, and now all three were in school full days. She and I were both in transition.
Laura was looking at her free time and evaluating how she would fill it. Would she go back to work? Would she get another degree? Would she stay home? She had a lot of options, and just as I was adjusting to life with a newborn, she was adjusting to life with quiet spaces.
For the next eight years, Laura and her husband, Tom, would pour faithfully into Lee and I. They, and another couple at our church who also had children one step ahead of ours, were instrumental in our understanding of what it looks like to raise children in a Christ-centered home.
In fact, outside of our own parents, the greatest impact on our lives since we’ve been married has come from the Hughes and Krosley families.
Last night, Lee and I and the kids sat in front of the TV and watched, sometimes with tears in our eyes, as Tom and Laura’s youngest son, the little boy who had just started first grade on that day so long ago, stood up on a stage and received the Wendy’s Heisman award.
We were as proud as we possibly could have been.
Not just of Zach, though of course we’re proud of him. He’s grown from a squirrelly little boy into a young man who looks out for the needs of others, and who is one of the hardest working kids we’ve ever known.
But we were also so proud of Tom and Laura. They’ve raised three amazing kids – kids who aren’t just talented, though every single one of them are just that – but they’re also kind, loving, giving, humble, smart, and hard working.
I can boast the same things of Kevin and Pam Krosley, the other couple to mentor us through the early stages of parenting. Their (five!) kids are growing into amazing, talented, godly young people who look out for the needs of others. They’re raising world changers, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the impact these families had in our lives at such an early stage.
Even after we moved away, the Krosleys and the Hughes have continued to invest in us through phone calls, visits, and encouragement. They are still two of the couples we look to for advice, and though we’re watching from farther away, we continue to observe how they raise their kids.
Our children are now the same ages that the Hughes and Krosley kids were when we first met them. We’re in the trenches, and some days I’m certain that I’m failing miserably. Other days I take, perhaps, a little too much pride in my children’s outward talents, forgetting that the character of the heart matters above all else.
But we constantly come back to the lessons we learned from the Hughes and the Krosleys. We learned from them the value of focusing on who God has created each one of these children to be, beyond their gifts and abilities. We’ve learned to focus on the fruits that we see developing in our kids: the compassion, and mercy, love for others, and hearts for service.
Were it not for these two families who invested in Lee and I as parents, I’m not sure where we would be. I think back to the days when those dear friends were in the same trench that we now find ourselves, and I remember that it wasn’t always easy or pretty.
They fought for their kids, they prayed over them, and they dug their heels into the process, all the while letting us see what it takes to raise our own world changers. Transparency goes a long way in mentorship, and we hope to pass that torch along to others who may be a step behind us in child rearing.
And so this is my public thank you to the couples who have shaped and molded us, who have loved our kids and let us be a part of their journey. We’re proud to be called your friends.
I am desperately behind in life. I’ve barely kept my head above water this week (and I can’t even blame it on pregnancy this time), and it doesn’t appear I will catch up anytime soon. So, in lieu of writing any actual new words, I’ll go ahead and repost this blog from April, 2014: Also known as “The Day I Killed Santa.”
And yes, for the record, all of my children are now in on the “secret” of Santa. Luckily we’ve got Annika coming up behind them. Christmas magic, take two!
I will (hopefully) return with original material next week.
***
My children were all up and dressed before the sun awoke up this morning. This is partly my fault since I put them all to bed before the sun went down last night because PREGNANT MOMS GET TIRED!
I also forgot, yet again, to play Tooth Fairy last night because PREGNANT MOMS HAVE NO BRAIN CELLS! So Sloan, bless him, woke up disappointed one more time when there was no money left under his pillow.
Now let me give you a tiny glimpse into our philosophy on the “magic” of childhood. We have always celebrated things like the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause with our kids. I know some people do not agree with this, but for us, it was fun and we’ve never felt that it was harmful practice.
I destroyed the myth of the Easter Bunny for our children last year because, honestly, it was my least favorite story. I mean, it just logically doesn’t make sense.Bunnies don’t even lay eggs, for heaven’s sake!
Side note: I have a distinct memory from my childhood, when I swear up one side and down the other that I saw the Easter Bunny. I heard a noise outside and went to cross the hall to my parent’s room, and a six foot rabbit stood on his hind legs at the end of the hall. I was so terrified, I dashed back to my bed and pulled the blankets over my ears.
My parents maintain to this day that it was simply a result of my overactive imagination. I’m not entirely sure it wasn’t one of them dressed up to torture me. Either way, the memory is as real as the nose on my face and I will stand by the story until the day I die.
End side note.
I came stumbled into the kitchen this morning at 6:20, and the first words to greet me were, “Mom! The Tooth Fairy didn’t come again. Is the Tooth Fairy even real?”
I’ve been wanting to let Sloan in on the secret of the Tooth Fairy and Santa for awhile now. I just really wanted him to hear from us, and not other people, that these were simply the fun aspects of being parents, so I took him to his room and tried to let him down gently.
“No. The Tooth Fairy isn’t real. I’ll give you a dollar for your tooth later, though, okay?”
Bribery is an art form, friends. Don’t judge.
“Well,” he said, and I knew it was coming. “What about Santa?”
“Saint Nick was a real person, and he really did give gifts to those less fortunate. They hung stockings outside their windows, and on Christmas morning he would leave little treats, or necessary items in their stockings. It’s the magic of giving to others, and that’s a part of Christmas we like to celebrate.”
“Sooooo…Saint Nicholas is real?” Sloan asked.
“Well,” I answered, “Saint Nicholas was real. But he died a long time ago.”
Tact is also an art form. Look at all the things you’re learning from me today!
“And now,” I continued, “one of the fun things we get to do as parents is carry on his magical tradition of giving. We give to others at Christmastime, and we give to our children. We are Santa Clause! It’s a privilege to be Santa for our kids, and now that you know the secret, you can be Santa with us!”
He sat on his bed, face registering utter disbelief. “So you bought all those presents?”
“Well, yes,” I answered. You’re welcome, I thought to myself.
“But I’ve heard Santa’s sleigh on the roof on Christmas Eve!”
There was no real answer to this, so I stayed quiet. This is probably somewhat akin to my vision of the Easter Bunny as a child.
“So,” he continued, still processing. “If I get to play Santa with you, does that mean I get to climb on the roof and slide down the chimney?!” His eyes lit up.
“Uh…no. That doesn’t actually happen. That’s part of the myth of Santa.”
Face fell again.
“Now,” I continued,”part of the fun of being Santa is keeping it a secret. You can’t tell anyone else about this because then it’s not as fun, so can you keep this just between us?”
He nodded slowly. (I give it a week before the other two kids know about Santa.)
“I just can’t believe you’re Santa,” he said, shaking his head. Then he shrugged, stood up, and asked for some cereal, because when you’re a ten year old boy, food conquers all disbelief.
So the basic theme of this entire story is that I was Mommy the Dream Slayer this morning, and I destroyed the magic of childhood before the sun even rose above the trees. Later, after I’d sent them off to school, I got tickled about the whole conversation and called Lee (who is out of town) to tell him that I destroyed childhood for our firstborn today, and to congratulate him for missing out on that parenting milestone.
So…anyone else in need of a little dream slaying today?
Apparently I’m on a roll.
(PS – I know this can be a hot button topic in some circles, so respectfully I ask that it not become one here. Santa and the Easter Bunny always have very small roles in our holiday celebrations. Kind of like Nutella plays a small role in our every day snacking, but it is not our main source of nutrition…)
I’m currently sitting in a coffee shop, Christmas carols warbling through the speaker behind my head, and my chai tea offering a relaxing scent to what feels like a very holiday heavy morning. The Florida sky is grey today, the temperature a brisk 60 degrees.
It’s about as Christmasy as our sandy state can muster.
I’ve been staring at a blank screen for thirty minutes, willing brilliance to tap it’s way out of my fingertips. I want to start a new novel. I want to tell a new story.
I’m terrified.
I’ve never really had to look for a story before. My first novel came to me. It was practically gift wrapped and placed in my hands. And with the release date coming up in just six short months, it’s time to start in on the second story. Only, I feel like I’m shooting blanks.
There’s a sense of pressure hanging over me now that wasn’t there before. It was easy to say I was writing a novel the first time around because there was a sense of impending excitement surrounding it. There wasn’t a publisher, so anything was possible. But now? Well, to be honest I’m terrified of becoming a one hit wonder.
All of that assuming that my book will be a hit, of course. (And I am believing big, folks!)
So I type out story ideas, brief synopses of potential books, and I stare at them with a million questions. Are these too cliche? Are they interesting enough? Will people want to read a story about this subject? Will this fit into my brand as a writer?
What is my brand as a writer?!
The business side of writing can be paralyzing, and almost mind numbing. You’ve got to think of marketing and platform building. You have to keep your name on the forefront so potential readers know who you are. You need to stay engaged in the writing community, and most importantly – you must be predictable.
Any mother knows that the idea of predictability is a laughable concept. I cannot predict my days any more than the weatherman can accurately predict the weather. Which means I generally have a basic idea of how a day will go, but a surprise storm could well up and change a predicted sunny day into a deluge at any moment, leaving me completely surprised at the turns of events.
Maintaining predictability in my online interactions is only one part of the challenge, though. Because I also need to establish myself as a predictable brand. And what does that mean?
It means when people go to the book store to buy my books, they should have a basic idea of what they’re going to get.
I’m working to figure out what exactly this means for me, and how to operate within these parameters. Thankfully, I have smart people on my side who are willing to help me figure this out. I’m grateful for these smart people, because otherwise I think I’d stumble around in the dark until I finally threw my hands up in exasperation and decided to call it quits.
I don’t want to call it quits. I want to write. I want to tell stories. I want to ride this wave of creativity that keeps my soul afloat, even in the midst of all the unpredictability.
And so I will keep returning to the blank screen, tapping out ideas, many of which will probably be erased. I’ll keep scratching at the surface, waiting for inspiration to coming calling again. And I will keep my eyes open for the next story that needs to be told, because it’s waiting out there. I can feel it.
The muse is starting to whisper my name.
What are you up to these days, dear readers? What projects are you working on, and how are you maintain predictability in the midst of this unpredictable life?
There’s this memory that sort of hovers over me every year. It floats in sometime after Thanksgiving, and grows increasingly strong until Christmas morning when it roars past me like a freight train.
Sometimes I wish I could catch the memory, maybe climb back into it, and wrap myself up in the warmth of that moment.
It was Christmas, and I was young. My brother and I burrowed beneath blankets upstairs as the winters winds of Wisconsin knocked at the window panes. It was the middle of the night, not even close to being a reasonable time to wake our parents. The clock by my bedside said 3:30. We decided to wait until 4:00 to go downstairs.
Because, obviously, 4:00 is more than reasonable. Ask my mom. She loved getting up that early.
Brett slept on the floor by my bed, and on this night (morning? No…definitely night), I was reading Ziggy to him by flashlight. I’d read the words, then show him the pictures, and we’d both snicker because, for whatever reason, we found Ziggy hilarious.
It’s very tactile, this memory of mine. I remember the darkness that wrapped around our house, the way the windows rattled now and then with the wind. I remember my toes being cold, and not really wanting to get out of bed, but so longing to see what treasures waited for us under the tree.
I remember being happy and excited. I remember feeling both cold and warm, or…maybe it’s just the memory that makes me feel warm?
Mostly I remember feeling completely at peace.
The thing about Christmas is it tends to get under your skin. There’s something about the holiday season that wraps all tight around your heart, forcing you to recall short snippets of time, replaying them like movie reels in your mind.
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I love that Christmas memory. I don’t remember the gifts we received that year. I just remember being happy in my bed, giggling with my brother, anticipating the day to come.
There’s another Christmas memory that has loped it’s way into the reel in recent years. This one, too, has been pressing down on me for the last few days, reminding me that I’m not a kid anymore, but that Christmas can still hold a particular brand of magic.
It was three years ago that I sent off our completed dossier to Russia. I’d had eleventy frillion documents tracked down, signed, notarized, and copied, and I sent the stack of paperwork as thick as my arm off with a thrill in my heart.
And the week before Christmas it all sort of unraveled. Whispers of a Russian ban on American adoptions made their way into my heart, and began to squeeze tight.
It was Christmas night, and I was up all alone. The children were in bed, the events of the day having pushed them into slumber swiftly and mercifully. Lee was asleep, too, and so I sat alone.
I curled up in front of the tree, all lit and glittery with memories old and new, and I sipped my hot tea. I thought of a little girl far away, alone and waiting for a family to choose her, and I prayed the prayer that only a mother can pray when she feels powerless to help her child.
I’m not one to claim to have heard the voice of God often. I don’t toss that idea around lightly. But on this still night, I heard the word Wait.
In this memory that keeps flitting around my subconscious, I hear the voice audibly. I don’t believe it was quite so clear that particular night, but I do remember growing still in spirit as the message washed through me.
Wait.
Tonight, we brought home our Christmas tree, and while Michael Buble´ crooned Jingle Bells in the background, we pulled out the lights and ornaments, and we dressed the spruce in our living room.
“Put the breakable ornaments up a little higher so Annika can’t get them,” I told the big kids, and they did. And all the while, Annika stood in the middle of the carpet, her eyes dancing with delight at the wonder of it all.
Three years ago last week, I put our dossier in the mail to Russia. It’s been a long wait, but tonight I felt a warmth spread quick through my soul. It’s the same feeling I get when I think of that Christmas morning in my bed with a flashlight, and a Ziggy book.
Peace. Joy. Anticipation.
The thing about Christmas is there’s always room for one more memory – another snippet to add to the reel.
