The next stage

We found out last week that Will got on track four for Kindergarten at Sycamore Creek. It's the track we wanted at the school we've heard so many great things about. And it's the same track as his preschool and church buddy David Aaron. His first full day will be August 3. Everything is lining up perfectly. 

Except for this pit in my stomach. 

I woke up at 4am this morning with an ache in my chest from the anticipation of missing my boy once he's in school all day. The ache welled into tears when I got alone after preschool drop-off this morning. And I've been off and on like that all day. (At least it's fair to say I'm not procrastinating on processing it.) Last night an already-elementary-school-seasoned friend told me bluntly that I'm going to hate it. (Gotta love those honest friends.) He'll be gone all day, get home tired and cranky, and then have homework, supper, and bed, she said. 

Motherhood is a funny thing. You pour your heart and soul into this little person, you painstakingly get him right where he's supposed to be, and then he breaks your heart by doing exactly what you want him to do: Growing up.

Today I let myself linger in this motherhood paradox, caught between happiness and sadness at the prospect of everything going exactly as planned.

I know the Lord will continue to remind me these next few months of the sweet thoughts He reminded me of today as I felt all the feelings: 

Will is not mine; he is His. 

Growth is a blessing (and one I'm humbly aware some don't get to experience). 

My Bible reading today was from Numbers 33. (I must admit, when I turned there, so eager for a word from the Lord this morning, my heart sank low. What could Numbers 33 have for me? Turns out, more than I thought.) The chapter is about the stages in Israel's journey out of Egypt. It says that the Lord commanded Moses to record all of the stages of Israel's journey, and then the chapter goes on to do just that, line after line. So many moves. So many changes.

Sending my baby to Kindergarten is another stage in the journey of being his mom. The Lord is at the lead, and He will move us along, change after change. 

I'm trusting Him with all my aching, grateful heart.

 

Here's five!

So Will turned five... six months ago. I'm obviously too busy keeping up with him to post about it!
I cried on his birthday, which is unusual for me. Something about five feels like a big deal. He'll never be more mine than he currently is, and big things happen at five (ahem... kindergarten), which tangibly mark the beginning of him leaving my nest. Mother tears over the passage of time are a weird mix of sadness, gratitude, and sentimentality--an apt description of me on September 15!

Will is fun and full of energy and ideas. He loves to cook and go fishing. He'll proudly tell you his favorite food is shrimp!

Here's five!

Our beloved Richard!

Precious preschool class. Gracie, Grace, Will, Kate, Hadley, Ella Shae, Virginia

A kid-sized cart at the grocery store is Christmas for my kids

Always inventing!

The great wait

A friend recently shared a quote with me that I keep thinking about: "The need is your call."

Since March, Ryan and I have been attending meetings and filling out paperwork for Christian Adoption Services, the agency we're using to adopt our third child.

Our reasons for adopting are many, and typical of me at least, they might sound more practical than revolutionary.

First and foremost, we believe Scripture and what we know about Jesus affirms our decision to adopt.

Jesus loves children. Jesus tells us to love children and to care for orphans. Jesus has given the Thomsens more than we need, with the intent that we share with those in need.

Since March, I've also learned that when everything in your life is bent toward something--your resources, your time, your desires, your faith, Scripture, your husband--it's unnatural to go the other direction. So that's where we find ourselves: taking the next, natural step on this narrow path of faith we call life. (That's not to mention a close friend who is blazing the trail with the same adoption agency and has proved invaluable to me, five-year-old Will who prays for a baby brother or sister, and Christian friends who affirm that adoption seems right for us.)

Last Wednesday, we turned in the last of the paperwork and officially embarked on this very strange pregnancy otherwise known as adoption. A pregnancy that, for us, could last a week or nine months or longer. Instead of birth pains, we'll have waiting pains. Instead of my water breaking, we're going to get a phone call.

If you're reading this, we probably know each other, and that gives you permission to remind me later of the things I'm about to say: When I'm not lassoing my thoughts as I should, I dream up situations that worry me. Of course I do. What if I don't bond with the baby? What if the baby has an illness? What if the birth mom changes her mind? What if the birth father comes around after the fact? Basically, What if it's not easy? 

Here's what you can repeat to me later in a text or email or straight to my face: I have eternity to be comfortable. I can reserve convenience for later. For now, I'm trusting I'll feel the Lord's pleasure during the newborn baby days and during the identity-crisis teenage days, and during every day of parenting three children in between. And I'm also trusting and hoping that none of you have to get in my face later because our new baby will in fact be a great fit in our family--in ways I've thought to pray about and ways I haven't.

Our church just finished a sermon series on sharing our faith. I, like most other Christians I know, struggle with following Christ's command to make disciples of the nations. While it's not our only motivation to adopt, Ryan and I are excited about the opportunities that adoption will afford us to share the gospel with people in the grocery line, at the gym, and on the playground. The simple truth is that we are adopted, too.

And that's really the beauty of it all. Jesus inherited a disease-ridden, wayward child when He adopted me. I hope recognition of this and gratitude for it will help me as we embark on this minuscule model of a much greater reality.

And then of course there's the sentiment I expressed at the beginning of this post: Need. If there are babies that need loving families, who's going to do it if we don't?

Practical? Maybe.

But when practicality lines up with Scripture lines up with desire lines up with circumstance, there's no way to go but forward.

And so for now, we wait.

And jump when the phone rings.

Snow boots and shorts

Remember these things.

The kids yelling for waffles in the morning and then fighting over who gets to push the buttons on the toaster.
"More milk, please" and "can I have my own coffee?" (After all, "I just want to do what I see you do, Mom," says Will.)
John's iconic come-here finger and then patting the floor for me to sit.
The sound of John yelling for "Whoa" (Will) and asking for him every time he wakes up.
John gathering up all three puppies from his bed before he'll let me lift him out. And his favorite blue puppy with the indented tail from so much love.
Finding rocks in the bottom of the washing machine and leaving a stick on the hood of the car at church so we can take it home with us.
Will asking to cook something, his cake concoctions and carrot slices and salads that he insists we all eat.
My feeling of apprehension every time Will says, "Ohhh, I have an idea!"
The sound of the power wheels tractors on a warm day.
John yelling "truck" from the back seat persistently louder until I acknowledge it, too.
Cereal snacks, the orange fish spoon from the cereal box, the bowls with the built-in straws.
Snow boots with shorts and hair that sticks up.
John's prayer at dinner: "Daddy. Amen."
"Five minutes" of Curious George before bed, and "will you check?" as I leave Will's room. "And bring water?"
Our 3 am snuggle habit.
Seeing "glitter" on the side of the road (instead of litter) and "gullets" for his toy gun. Too cute to correct.
Tiny pieces of torn-up paper trash all over the house, spillings from Will's garbage trucks.
"What can I do to earn a dollar, mom?"
Fake burps, even from the two year old!


...the mundane life of a mom with little boys. I know I'll yearn for it when they're big. Oh, to remember these things!

Mother's Day 2017

I said shit in front of my kids

"You're within the one-hour departure window. I'm sorry, I can't check your bags. You've missed your flight."

[Insert expletive in front of the children.]

Seattle, Washington. Day five. Two kids. One hotel room. Beautiful wedding. But, two kids. One hotel room. Day FIVE.

"Go stand in the 'Assistance' line over there to rebook your flight," said the airport lady who I wanted to punch. And it wasn't even her fault, but I still wanted to punch her.

"We will run. We will leave our bags here. Heck, we will leave these kids here with you. PLEASE let us get on the plane!"

She said no, and I said shit.

And went and stood in the Assistance line with people flying with tubas.

Kids, toddlers, boys: They don't do lines. So Ryan waited while I followed and corralled and excused-me'd, and pretty much Lost. My. Mind in the busy Seattle airport.

Turns out, we just did a dry run, as our flight got rebooked for the same time. The next day.

Fun.

Minus Whitney and Derek's beautiful wedding, I spent the first four days of the trip inside the hotel room because, well, the baby has to nap. And he's exhausted from travelling, and Seattle, your 5pm is really his 8pm, so... "It's 4pm? Oh! Gotta go!"

Anyone who knows me knows I don't do hotels the same way kids don't do lines. It's a weird, totally nonsensical, impractical, irrational germ-thing. But if I see you downstairs at the breakfast buffet and your hair looks greasy, I'm convinced you slept on my pillow last night and now my face is touching your hair grease. And the bed bugs. I truly can't elaborate further or I may not finish this post.

I don't do hotels.

(But my kids do, and that makes my blood pressure even higher. "Please don't roll around on the carpet." "Oh please don't play with the shower drain." "Please, please don't snuggle up with that communal blanket!")

So when Day 5 was not Trip Over Day, I lost my cool for a momentary, public, out loud, four-letter-word. Sigh. (That wasn't the word.)

In all seriousness, God's goodness oozed all over us the entire trip, and especially those last 24 hours. He allowed us to rebook our lodging, our rental car, and our flight within moments. We drove back from the airport, put John down for a nap, and afterwards enjoyed an afternoon corralling kids sightseeing in Seattle.

Not even a month later, I can say it was totally worth it.

And really mean it:

Will and I rode the ferris wheel overlooking the city. Very high, Very amazing. Very worth it.

Lasting good

Last week, Will turned four and threw his pacy in the pond in our backyard. Today, I moved too-small clothes out of both boys' drawers and replaced them with the next size up. John started Mother's Morning Out at BayLeaf, and Will now goes to preschool three days a week. Will's adorable vocabulary now sounds more like adult vocabulary: "I didn't realize that, Mom." "Actually, I'd like milk instead." And his little brain is thinking bigger stuff, too: "Why do leaves swirl when they fall off the tree?" "What do kangaroos eat?" "If a tree burns down, how will the squirrels find a new home?" And, these days, John does more than grunt and scream for what he wants. He points and he nods and he says "hot" and "treat" like they're going out of style.

Today, as I was folding John's 12-month clothes to put them in the bag for the attic, I got to thinking: Why does change, particularly my kids growing up, carry with it such a sting of sadness? It's actually totally impractical to feel sad about them growing up because I obviously would never want the alternative. So why do I feel sad?

For a while now, I've noticed when I give Will a treat, he usually always asks: "Will you get more of these for us?" Or when we go somewhere fun, "Can we come back here?" His concern about the lasting nature of his enjoyment always strikes me. He can't enjoy the present until he knows it's going to last. Once I nod, he happily carries on.

We all want good things to last.

Mom confession: I haven't corrected Will when he asks if I'll "do him a favorite (favor)," or if I'll let him push that "bunt (button)," or if he can ride the "ebelator" at the mall.

I want those little bits of adorable goodness to last as long as they can.

Of course I hope and trust the next phase will be as good as this one, but like all things future on this earth, that's unknown.

Just like Will with a bag of M&Ms, at every good phase of my life, I want to be assured. "Lord, can we do this again? Can this goodness last?"

Truth is, Lord willing, my kids are going to grow -- past toddler-sized clothes, mispronounced words, sloshing in mud puddles, obsessions with garbage trucks, even past snuggles and kisses. But thanks be to a gracious God who reminds me today that it's not them I should be clinging to for lasting, unchanging goodness in my life. That's only going to come from Him. The One who never changes. The One whose goodness is truly eternal. To look for it elsewhere will definitely leave me sad, at best.

I pray He'll write these baby phases on my heart in permanent marker, I pray the next phase will bring as much happiness and adorableness as this one. And I pray that the God who never changes will give me contentment and joy with every changing phase of my (and my kids') lives.

(And p.s., For those of you reading this who are thinking, "Man, she just needs to have another baby," -- because I know someone is thinking that -- I said I wanted to stay here. Not go back there. Smile, smile, wink, wink. Love ya, mean it.)

Who wouldn't want to freeze this adorableness:

That is MY kitchen from when I was a kid. Perfect condition for 30 years.
No lie: Will shattered one of the cabinets within 30 minutes. See below.

#boys

Practicing to be in Uncle Derek's wedding

Will's first day of preschool. 3-year-old class.

John's first day of Mother's Morning Out.

Throwing pacy in the pond b/c 4 year olds don't have pacys.
Lord, help us.

Honestly, I don't know why more people don't think to wear
goggles in the bath.

John's first haircut. June 2016

Just a typical afternoon at the Thomsen house

Loving easy

I love easy.

No, really. I really love easy.

A pack of nabs, wrinkle-free clothes, crock pots, auto-draft, evites.

And sleeping in. Oh, and staying home. And letting somebody else. You know what I mean. Just letting somebody else.

Who's with me?

About three months ago, my love affair with easy took a downturn. Don't get me wrong. I'm still infatuated with easy. Daily I fight for easy.

But I've realized therein is my problem.

Precious baby John joined the Thomsen ranks behind two-year-old brother Will back in April, and easy took a vacation. A long one. In fact, I'm not sure if easy is coming back.

Now again, let me disclaim this entire post: If it sounds like complaining, forgive me. I don't intend it to. If it sounds ungrateful, or selfish, or whatever the adjective is, go ahead and think it. If it sounds like true confessions of a woman whose profession (motherhood) is challenging her beyond her wildest imagination, then hear me out. We're tracking.

We took a three-day family vacation to Hilton Head this week. After crawling back up into the front seat at midnight on the drive home from consoling John in the inferno, straight-jacket, torture-chair contraption otherwise known as a car seat (his words, not mine), I bemoaned to Ryan:

I don't think I'm cut out for newborns. I do everything I know to do. I've switched formulas five times, I've put the pacy back a thousand, I've bounced, I've rocked, I've walked, I've swayed, I've worn, I've strolled, I've burped, I've swaddled, I've vacuumed, I've darkened, I've medicated, I've read, I've literally typed "Does it get easier?" into Google, I've cried, I've thrown my hands up. Meanwhile, friends on Facebook are posting their home made dinner menus for the week, pictures of their kids reading during home school and other pictures of their newborns napping in strollers at the pool. (Babies do that?)

Does anyone else have this problem but me? 

Newborns are unpredictable. I don't like unpredictable. Newborns are just impossible to figure out!

Newborns aren't easy. 

In his usual cool, unintentionally insightful way, Ryan responded, "But don't you like a challenge?"

I mulled over his comment the rest of the drive home.

The  next day (the day after vacation, which by the way, I hereby declare to be Dooms Day), Will put grass in the lawnmower's gas tank, John cried, Will spilled his apple juice (three times?), John cried, Will pooped and stuck his hand in his diaper, John cried, Will climbed out of his crib, onto the window sill, and broke the blinds in his bedroom when he was supposed to be napping. And John cried.

Later that night, I crawled into my bed, got out my Bible (was that dust on it?), and joined John in his favorite past time.

I only had a few minutes, but in the quiet, the sweet Holy Spirit met with me:

Stop loving easy.

Stop craving comfort. Stop waiting for each day to "get better." Stop complaining about the job being hard. (And stop being surprised when it is.) Stop wondering when it will end. Stop striving for convenience.

 Work hard, with love and gratitude, and stop loving easy.

It was like I got hit in the head with a two by four, except much better. The Holy Spirit enlightened my heart to a sweet reality. I was convicted (still am), but it felt wonderful. 

Ending my love affair with easy means I get to begin one with rewarding. I get to meet strength and perseverance coming from a place I know isn't me. 

The day after the day after vacation (Redemption Day), John seemed to cry a little less. Or maybe it was just because I quit expecting him not to. 

Perspective changes everything.

By the power of the One who never once loved easy (the Cross, hello), I'm putting an end to my love affair. May I love rewarding, may I love persevering, may I love His presence at work in me, but may I never settle for loving easy again.

They're worth it.

Baby John

I am filled with the spirits of affection, as my mother used to say.

John Daniel Thomsen was born April 11 at 5:27 pm, weighing 7.13 pounds.

I had heard countless times that second babies usually come quicker than the first. John was no exception, and it turns out this is the first of many things he has done differently from his brother.

John was due April 7, and whoever told me the cruelest thing doctors do is give pregnant women a due date was right. My mental calendar ran out on the 7th. For those next four days, I was certain every hiccup was the beginning of labor. I was afraid to call anyone for fear of it being mistaken as The Call. I packed my hospital bag fuller and fuller.

Mild contractions did finally begin Friday night, but I was too afraid of crying wolf to say anything. (Maybe if I kept quiet they'd really start!) I slept through the night, and by 9 am on Saturday the contractions were painful but still ten minutes apart. Will was at Grandma's, so I bounced on the exercise ball, tried to watch a movie, and mentally determined that I would not call the doctor until the contractions were closer. This was after all my second time at this -- I knew the ropes.

By around 2 pm, the contractions quickly picked up speed. I called the doctor on call, and he said I could come on to the hospital and get checked. (I remember thinking this last time, but there ought to be a siren or a flag or something you hang out your car window when you're headed to the hospital in labor. Red lights and labor pains don't mix.)

We got to Rex and were in a room by 3:30. As planned, the first thing I did was ask for the epidural. And could she rush it?

We need to check you first, said Peggy the nurse. I bet you're 9cm. 

To which I said, No way. Other women get to the hospital at 9cm. Not me. Just get me my epidural, and we'll all be fine. 

Wouldn't you know, I was 9cm.

I've never felt such a feeling of pride and horror at the same time.

I can still have the epidural, right?!

Dear nurse Peggy rushed like her pants were on fire to get me the blessed epidural. The anesthesiologist walked in the room, did his job, and I waited for the relief.

And waited.

Peggy put an ice pack on my leg: Do you feel this? 

Oh how I wished I didn't.

Dear nurse Peggy called the anesthesiologist back, and the moment he darkened the door, baby John started making his way. I can still see that doctor out of the corner of my eye make a 180 degree turn and leave the room. No use for him anymore.

I seriously have to do this without pain meds!?!

Oh dear nurse Peggy and Dr. Alvarez. Doctors and nurses, for all of their medical skills and knowledge, are first and foremost cheerleaders. Or they should be. Those two were.

A few moments into it, the thought hit me: I don't have a choice. I have to do this. Let's just get it over with!

And fifteen minutes later, John was born.

My cup overflows.


[More pics:]

Dr. Alvarez

Nurse Peggy

April 11, 2015: The day my second baby was born
and my first baby became big.

John's "gifts" to Will

Hospitals have great dirt

Proof John has endured much abuse from his brother since Day 1...

...and a lot of love...

...a whole lot of love.