I decided long ago that I wanted to be a stay-home mom.  This–I decided–because more than anything, I wanted to spend my days tickling tummies and reading stories and bandaging the occasional boo-boo.  And I’ve done precisely that, for just shy of 16 years now.

Of course, there are also sheets to wash and meals to prepare and toilets to scrub.  These are the less glamorous of my duties.  But having eagerly accepted this role, I learned to take the bad with the good.

And then somewhere along the way, I got confused.

Somewhere along the way the laundry and shiny mirrors and crumb-less floors took priority over the tummy tickling.  Storytime was put off until the dishes were washed, dried and put away.  Impromptu chasing games had to wait until the bills had been paid and the checkbook had been balanced.

It wasn’t an intentional shift, but a shift nonetheless.

And then, to further complicate things, I got sidetracked by blogging and tweeting and status updating.

Not long ago I realized that all of this busyness had slowly but surely inched out my real responsibility: being a perpetually available mommy.

So here I am at a crossroad–wondering whether I should stay or go.

Selfishly I want to stay.  But–in all honesty–the inability to read and comment on your blog leaves me feeling icky.  I brought this site to life in order to establish a virtual community, not a soapbox.

I know that there must surely be a happy medium.  It’s just a matter of me finding it.

I hope you’ll bear with me over the next month or so – as I attempt to do just that.  And if–at the end of that month–I still can’t find it…well, then I might be slipping out the back door.

But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. :)

What do you think?  Do you struggle with the same issues?

Sometimes my brain is frenzied, ideas and inspiration buzzing like the traffic on a just-drenched anthill.

The never-ending birth of characters and the twists and turns of their puppet lives sometimes leaves me exhausted.  Spent.

{Falling behind my} self-imposed writing goals and deadlines leaves me knotty inside.  Which would be easily remedied, of course, were it not for the insistent here and now.

The here and now beckons constant: bills to pay, the unbalanced checkbook, appointments to schedule, vacations to plan, chores that need doing, ohandthelistgoeson.

And then there is the gravity of my first-and-foremost.  My little people.  My big one.

Jayce–with his wide ocean eyes–so patient, just needing my focus.  Wanting to paint.  Exploring the garden.  Questioning how to spell his sister’s name.  Always wondering something.

The wondering gets me.

The sound of his baby voice–the knowledge that his is the last that will echo here–stops me.  Catapults me to the present.  Freeze-frames the characters I’m busy puppeteering.  There they stay, eager to hear the conflicts I’m planting, the stakes I’ve dreamed up.

One more year.  Just one.  And then he’s off to kinder.

Just one.

So many moments to savor in the meantime.

Oh, but the tug!  The urge.  The drive.

There is no question as to which way this scale tips.  But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Jayce crawled up into my lap this afternoon, curling up under my chin.  He let me smooth his hair, kiss his head.  And then: will you rock me in my rocking chair?

Absolutely.

An anniversary has been weighing on me all week.  The anniversary.

We raced to his room (he insists on racing no matter where we are headed or what we are doing.  We race putting on seat-belts and eating our oatmeal and getting dressed in the morning.  Nothing is exempt from the race).

He won.

He always wins.

We assumed The Position in his rocking chair and we rocked.  And then we read books.  We rocked some more.

My mind wandered to that day.  I remember it well.  Too well: my baby, suspended and lifeless in that blue water.

But the feel of him, solid and heavy in my arms–in that rocking chair–brought me back to the present.  I rubbed my fingers over the chub of his cheeks, against his downy soft, sweet little boy face.  And once again I squeezed tight my eyes and silently–though with the force of all that I am–thanked God for the outcome of that fateful day.

And within that same span of a moment, I pleaded–so desperate–on behalf of another child.  Another mother.  Another family that weighs heavy on my heart today.  That soon they, too, will know the unspeakable peace that comes after walking so tight a rope and making it to the other side.

My Jayce is here at home with me–in my arms.  How I hope and how I pray that this other mother will soon be able to say the same–to know that gift–for years and years to come.

Like I was saying…the worst list is only half of the story.  As often happens, given time, beauty bloomed there–in place of the thorns that threatened to overtake me.

{Some of} The Best Things:

• The loss of loved ones taught me, early on, that there is no forever, at least not here on Earth.  And that each and every day is a gift to savor.
• That little girl–born when I was 16 and now nearly 16 herself–has grown into an extraordinary young lady, of whom I couldn’t be more proud.
• Like a carnival fun house, a tangled maze of dead ends and trick mirrors eventually led me to the arms of my Mister, and a love {almost} too good to be true.
• Tears shed over that imperfect child made for me a river of change.  Parenting her has opened my eyes to a world far more meaningful, a million times as beautiful than one without her.
• The Near Drowning is still raw.  Especially during this season.  But it, too, catapulted me to something better.  A place of awareness and the realization of fragility.  It reminds me that with each morning dawns a second chance–the opportunity to grant forgiveness to the person who time and time again proves hardest to forgive: myself.

It would be easy–and honest–of me to speak in cliches in regard to the hills and valleys in my life.  Every cloud has a silver lining…there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel…God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle. There are plenty more where those came from, enough overused cliches to fill the pages of a book.  They’re overused for a reason: they’re true.

Mine is not a blog that you can turn to knowing you’ll find sunshine and rainbows in every post, and there’s a reason for that.  Mine is not a life blind to heartache or deaf to weeping.  Rather, mine is a life marked up–scarred.  It’s a life chock full of lessons learned and better tomorrows.  One rich in pearls of wisdom that–eventually–grew from pits of despair.

I hope that within my posts you do see reflections of those pearls.  I hope that–in spite of my occasional downers–you find sparks of inspiration, and evidence of little victories.

The first time I was pregnant, and had just transferred to the continuation high school, I had an appointment with a teacher there to asses my chances of graduating that year–a whole year earlier than I was supposed to.  It was February, and my baby was due in September.  I knew–whereas this teacher may not have–that if I didn’t earn the credits I needed within those four months, that I’d not have the chance to come back and earn them later; I didn’t have the luxury of childcare.  She studied my records with a furrowed brow for long moments before finally looking up to me and declaring I don’t think you’re going to make it.

She didn’t know it then, but those words were just the push I needed.  Who was she, after all, to tell me what I could or couldn’t do.

I earned the credits, finishing up a week early, in fact.  I earned them in straight A’s and was asked to speak at my high school graduation, which I did.  With pride.

I was dealt a challenge last week, not unlike the doubting words my teacher delivered all those years ago.  And not unlike I did then, I intend to keep my eyes on the finish line, pushing onward and upward until I see my goal in the rear view mirror.

Where it belongs.

Charles Dickens wrote: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

So right, he was.  I’ve been in a thoughtful mood today–a reflecting mood.  A blog post came to me in the midst of all that thinking.  Two blog posts, actually.  Two lists.  One: The Worst Things.  And two: The Best Things.  I’m a save-the-best-for-last type of girl.

I started putting that first list together in my mind.  The further into the list I got, the more apparent it became that some of those things from my first list spiraled into things that would easily make the second.  Which of course got me to thinking about coincidence versus beauty by design.  If you’ve been following my blog for long, you already know on which side of that line I fall.

{Some of} The Worst Things

• Losing loved ones
• Getting pregnant too young
• Making terribly immature, life-changing decisions
• Having a baby with a genetic defect that leaves her mentally and physically impaired
• The Near Drowning

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t list these things here as complaints.  I really don’t.  Because I know full well that I lead a very blessed life.  Indeed.

Rather, I list these things here as a statement of fact.  Every one among us has a compilation of bests and worsts in our lives–listed or not.  One woman’s worst could be the wildest dream come true of the lady down the block.  Bests and worsts are relative: a sliding scale of moments that change us.  Strengthen us.  Mold us.

That list up there comprises the worsts I’m willing to share here.  Though it, alone, tells but half of the story.

In the midst of those moments–in the darkest, coldest, wettest trenches of them–I wondered at how I might survive them.  I can’t do this, I said aloud.  And in that instant I believed myself.  I didn’t believe there to be a way to summon the strength.  I just can’t.

Come to find out, I was wrong.  I don’t want to do this would have been far more accurate.  Not nearly as freeing though.  Telling myself I couldn’t allowed me an excuse.  Admitting I didn’t want to showed weakness.

I’ve crawled out from those trenches, inch by inch in some cases.  But here I stand on the other side–the benefit of hindsight casting a whole new light on that which I said I couldn’t handle.

Though it would be misleading to say that I handled it alone.  I’ve done no such thing.

I believe–with the conviction of a million truths–that each and every one of those worsts made me stronger.  No matter how they came to be, each of those events chiseled me down, only to build me right back up again.

It’s hard, sometimes, to be faithful.  To believe–really, truly believe–that that which does not kill us only makes us stronger.

This, though, is what I strive for.  To be able to see–even in the trenches–that I’ll emerge better.

I’m disheartened today.  Something I’ve been striving for slipped out of reach.  Thus the philosophical Darcie.  I’m typing all this out more for my benefit than for yours.  Sorry ’bout that.

There is another list: my bests.  The list that grew from this one.

I’m hoping–I’m faithful–that the view from the other side of this trench, too, will leave me with a warm fuzzy.  A knowing smile.  A grateful heart.  A lesson learned.

And the wisdom to show for it.

I cannot tell you how many drafts I have begun, only to subsequently scratch because I cannot get this post to say exactly what I want it to say.  The teen dating thing is a subject that weighs so heavily on my heart, for many reasons.  The first of which being that I am the mother of a teen daughter who is quickly approaching that stage of her life.  The second of which being that my teen daughter is herself the result of teen dating and I’ve spent her entire life talking honestly and openly with her in hopes that she will make choices that lead her down a less difficult path.

So when I heard the pastor say that dating equates to “practice for divorce” you might think I tended to agree.

But you’d be wrong.

Because I take quite the opposite stance on this one; I’d venture to say that dating is practice for marriage.

I have always believed that dating is a very healthy part of adolescence.  I think it’s quite normal for teenagers to be curious about and interested in relationships with the opposite sex.  The desire to have a companion, after all, was planted into our hearts long ago.  And I believe that–as they approach adulthood–teenagers can and should begin dating, so as to get a feel for what love and commitment is all about.  These are the experiences that shape their ideals for what makes a marriage.  Without those experiences, how would they know what qualities to seek out in a future spouse?

I know what you might be thinking.  You might be thinking that teenagers should have a list (figuratively or literally) of qualities and values that his or her future spouse should posess.  And I agree.  But I also think that without the very practical and principal application of dating, that it would be nearly impossible to get a feel for what those qualities and values look like, in living color.

My own experiences with dating began when I was quite young.  And if those experiences taught me anything at all, they taught me how not to let my daughters date.  But just because I won’t be allowing them the same things my parents allowed me does not mean that they won’t have their own chance to dip their toes in the waters of dating.  I want that for them.  Holding hands at the movies and first kisses and senior proms.  These are rich experiences.  Experiences I wouldn’t want to rob them of.

Dating brings with it more touchy {no pun intended, honest} subjects as well.  And those–I suppose–are what all the fuss is about.  For good reason.  There are bad things–really icky, no-good, just plain awful–byproducts of modern day dating.  But honestly, the only bad things I can think of have premarital sex as the root cause.  Seriously.  STD’s, emotional baggage, pregnancy.  All sex based.  Not dating based.

As a parent, I feel like it is my responsibility to speak crystal clearly with my daughters about sex.  Not just about the nuts {again with the pun thing, sorry} and bolts of it, but about the far more important aspects of it as well.  About the emotional and spiritual parts that carry on long after the deed is done.  You know what though?  It’s also my responsibility to introduce them to the experience of dating.  Cautiously, of course, and with plenty of guidelines.  They’ll know my expectations.  They’ll know the ground rules.  And I pray that–armed with that knowledge–they will make good decisions.

I have long clung to the theory that my job as a parent is to help my children grow both roots and wings.  And while it seems like it would be much easier to seal them safely inside a giant bubble, somehow I don’t think it’d fill the job description.

So yes, my daughters will be allowed to date.  I won’t deny them the butterflies and I can’t spare them the broken hearts.  I’ll equip them as best I can and then I’ll let them spread their wings.  I’ll be praying all the while, mind you.  Because when it comes right down to it, that’s all you can do: love ‘em, guide ‘em, let ‘em go.  And pray.  Pray, pray, pray.

Considering the fact that I have four children, perhaps we should add a small chapel onto the house.  You’ll know where to find me.

We went to church this morning.

While we were there the pastor preached on marriage.  He spoke about young people and dating.  During his “talk” he referred to dating as “pointless” and “practice for divorce.”

I have an opinion.

But I want to hear yours before I taint the conversation with mine.

So tell me.  What say you?

I couldn’t get her out the door fast enough this morning.

It was one of those no I don’t wanna you’re stupid I don’t love you mornings.

One of those mornings when an ugly seed plants itself in her belly.  And so abruptly it blooms – sprouting angry, hateful words.  They grow from the pit of her and spill from her mouth–one atop another–each limb packing a firm punch right into the heart of me.

And I have to step away.  To breathe.  That her overgrown vines not strangle me.

I haven’t mastered the pruning yet: to take a pair of garden scissors and patiently clip – gently separating thorn from blossom.  Weed from seedling.

Instead I feel like a clumsy herbicide.  Like I know no better than to spill gallon after gallon, wilting everything in my path.

My thumb isn’t green.  I don’t have the tools.

These are my excuses.

Sorry excuses.

So again I turn my face upward.  Full of questions.  In search of guidance.

Then I cast my eyes down.  With shame.  Sorrow.

Please grant me the tools, the patience.  Fill my shed with plows strong enough to withstand the cutting and the turning.   With shovels so that I may dig deep.  Shine away my rusted spots – spots that threaten to give way.
Allow me to fertilize a soil rich with patience.  Love.  Understanding.  Strengthen the clay walls of my pot that they not crack under the pressure of stubborn thorns.  Let me be rooted in you O Lord – that the fruit of my labor be nourished through your unending love.  By your mercy and grace.

She gets on the bus.

I sigh.

I take a deep breath.

I wait.

Faithful that through Him I may nourish a bed of roses.

In spite of the thorns.

I lead a blessed life.

This much I know is true.

Well, most of the time anyway.

Admittedly, I’ve been known to forget from time to time.

If I’m being honest I will tell you that there are days when my four young blessing from above seem particularly heavy.

Or when the space between these four walls I’m blessed to live within seems cluttered and cramped.

Sometimes the food that we’ve been so bountifully provided isn’t easy to get to the table.

And even the clothes that protect us from the elements tend to pile up, feeling far more burdensome than blessed.

It’s true.

Blessings don’t always feel just so.

They can be puzzling.  Vague.  Stifling even.

I’ve been there.

I bet you have too.

I wonder, then, if you’ve been here:

Have you looked on at two of your own blessings, as they sit under a shared blanket, watching Saturday morning cartoons?

Have you overheard whispers between two sisters, sharing secrets not meant for mom’s ears?

Have you crept into their rooms–under the cover of night–just to watch them sleep?

Have you prayed for quiet, only to find comfort in the joy of their laughter?

Have you watched them grow–too fast–and wished you could freeze them in time?

Have you held your breath when one of them gets too close to an edge, or a fire, or a busy street?

Have you glowed with warmth at the sight of them feasting on a wholesome, hearty meal prepared at your hands?

I have.

I’ve lived them all.

Little treasures–those moments are–in an otherwise ordinary day.  Not happenstance, or coincidence.  At least I don’t believe so; I take them as something deeper.  Something meant for me: reminders.

He walked this weary land, after all.  He knows how the days can run together.  He knows that I tend to forget.

So He sends reminders:

Snowflakes falling in the desert.

Babies born in the nick of time.

Stars shooting through the sky.

Little whispers, they are, sent to carry me through.  To remind me of that which I’ve been given.  Of that with which I’ve been so richly blessed.

So grateful, I am.

For the reminders.  And for this blessed life I lead.

*This is my take on Gratitude, which so happens to be the topic of this month’s Write-Away contest over at Scribbit.*

There was a day when my husband went to work in camouflage and big ‘ol black boots.

He left long before the sun came up.  And didn’t get home until it had gone down.

“Work” wasn’t a place back then.  It was a lifestyle.

A lifestyle that required not a brief case, but a gun.

I can’t say for sure–because he’s spared me the details thank heavens–but I think he may have had to use it once or twice.  In a desert on the other side of the world.

Our first Christmas together wasn’t actually our first Christmas together.

Because I was at home, here in one desert, while he was in another one entirely.

While he was away I had the most horrible, realistic dreams.  And they were always the same.  I wasn’t plagued by bloody scenes of a world I’d never laid eyes on.  It wasn’t roadside bombs or grenades or blown up convoys that interrupted my sleep.  Probably because I had no concept of those things.  The images that deluged my unconscious were of that which I knew.  Or knew of at least.

More than once I was startled awake and physically got up to go to the front door because I was 100% convinced I’d heard the doorbell.

More than once I cried on the floor of my living room in the middle of the night.  Mostly because I was relieved that the doorbell I’d so clearly heard had been nothing more than a cruel trick of my dreams.

Oh I hated those months.

That lifestyle.

And I lived it for just an itty bitty fraction of time.

Nothing in comparison to so many others.

Others who lived it for many years before we did.  Who are living it still.

Others who still go to work with a flag on their shoulder and a their last name embroidered on their chest pocket.

Others who say goodbye to their baby sons and daughters and husbands and wives for far longer than anybody should ever have to.

Others who do it graciously.  Dutifully.  Proudly even.

They serve us all.

They serve for different reasons.

They serve in different ways.  {Including some who don’t wear a uniform at all but wear instead the many hats of a spouse who is left at home}.

I’m remembering those people today.

Praying for them.

Honoring their sacrifices.

Thanking them for standing for us.

Whether it’s here.  Or thousands of miles from here.

Thank you.

*I stole borrowed the title of this post from Toby Keith’s American Soldier song.  So sue me.*