I was watching my son play with his favorite friend-his big brother Ian. His brother is his best friend and the one he always wants to be like.
Lately I have been growing friendships too. There is the one friendship from college which went sideways for no reasons other than time and distance. We found each other again on facebook. Soon we'll be face to face again.
There is the friendship with an incredibly soulful family. They are hearts with legs. They are precious without being sticky sweet. Powerful without being overwhelming. Our kids initially brought us together. It is my sincere hope we are together long after we have sent kids to college or down the aisle.
There is one friendship which has stood the test of time. They knew us before and stuck around long enough for there to be an after. These are the people I have shared this about, "They know all our stuff and love us anyway." They have seen the good, the bad and the ugly. They were the people to whom we first 'came out' about my struggle with post-partum depression. They are the first people we call when there is news-doesn't matter if it's good or bad.
They are leaders. They are busy. It's easy, in the ground warfare that best describes our lives of late, to forget that friendship. To let the relationship be clouded by circumstance, presumption and miscommunication.
It usually goes like this. A few somethings are said or unsaid. Then there is a strong communication from one side or the other. A strongly worded e-mail goes back and forth. Then there is the call. On the call it starts out chilly but ends up in warmth of prayer.
Today was one of those. It ended up, as it usually does, in prayer soaked by repentance. On the way home I had a realization. The complicated and high stakes circumstances which led us into this difficult but necessary conversation will soon be past. The complicated and high stakes relationship we have with these friends are, and always will be, part of our future.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Mommy Musings
Preschool Ponderings
Every morning I have to wipe off my cheek. It's the sticky, often sweet, remnants of my three year old's kisses goodbye. He deposits two or three or four each morning when I drop him off at the Learning Lamp.
He has his friends, CJ is a favorite. He has his teacher. Miss Francine is always uttered with a little smile and lots of love. He plays until his clothes are wet with sweat. He naps until the little cot makes a mark on his cheeks.
He does all this, without me in the room. Sometimes there is a wave of melancholy when I realize he is indeed a big boy. It is in those times I wipe my cheek for a different reasons.
Animal House
I live in a house full of men. My dad, my sons, my dog (and probably my hermit crabs too) are all male. That means a couple things. First, there is never anything to eat in the house. There is food, lots of it sometimes. However, there is never anything that will fill the cavernous, gaping whole in their guts.
Second, passing gas is an art form. My father's favorite thing to do whilst chasing boys in the yard would be to gather them in a huddle, stick out their hind parts and pretend to 'wheesh'. I desperately attempt to instill manners. "Wheeshes" (my nice word for farts) are not funny. They are to be done in bathrooms. They are to be excused. It's a losing battle for me. {Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I do have a 'fart machine' loaded onto my phone as a nuclear option when stuck in something with children who desperately need entertained...and it is kinda funny.}
Finally, men are all about the pecking order. My dad picks on the seven year old who then picks on the three year old who then picks on the dog. Me? I am left as referee, cheerleader or rocking in a corner sucking my thumb-depending on the day.
Every morning I have to wipe off my cheek. It's the sticky, often sweet, remnants of my three year old's kisses goodbye. He deposits two or three or four each morning when I drop him off at the Learning Lamp.
He has his friends, CJ is a favorite. He has his teacher. Miss Francine is always uttered with a little smile and lots of love. He plays until his clothes are wet with sweat. He naps until the little cot makes a mark on his cheeks.
He does all this, without me in the room. Sometimes there is a wave of melancholy when I realize he is indeed a big boy. It is in those times I wipe my cheek for a different reasons.
Animal House
I live in a house full of men. My dad, my sons, my dog (and probably my hermit crabs too) are all male. That means a couple things. First, there is never anything to eat in the house. There is food, lots of it sometimes. However, there is never anything that will fill the cavernous, gaping whole in their guts.
Second, passing gas is an art form. My father's favorite thing to do whilst chasing boys in the yard would be to gather them in a huddle, stick out their hind parts and pretend to 'wheesh'. I desperately attempt to instill manners. "Wheeshes" (my nice word for farts) are not funny. They are to be done in bathrooms. They are to be excused. It's a losing battle for me. {Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I do have a 'fart machine' loaded onto my phone as a nuclear option when stuck in something with children who desperately need entertained...and it is kinda funny.}
Finally, men are all about the pecking order. My dad picks on the seven year old who then picks on the three year old who then picks on the dog. Me? I am left as referee, cheerleader or rocking in a corner sucking my thumb-depending on the day.
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