My Happy Girl

I haven't been talking much about Ella so here's a post completely devoted to her beautiful smile. I think the picture says it all.

My Shameless Light

So, at the time of my last post, we were dealing with a bit of a blunder on mommy (and daddy's!) part and trying to correct Andrew and teach him what is appropriate to say and what isn't. I am happy to report that he (and mommy and daddy!) are doing much better in the bad word department. Andrew has since moved on to a new and exciting phrase that he loves to yell ANYWHERE and EVERYWHERE we go. He yells it before he goes to bed and as soon as he wakes up. He yells it in the store, in the mall, at the playground, in church. He doesn't care who hears him or who he's interrupting. What's the phrase, you ask?

"CHRIST IS RISEN!"

Ah, much better than my last post. During Easter in the Orthodox Church, it's customary to say "Christ is Risen!" and then to respond by saying, "Indeed He is Risen!" Obviously this is where Andrew got the phrase, but unfortunately for me, every time he yells it, he expects me to respond "Indeed He is Risen!" in just the same amount of gusto and excitement as he. I don't mind doing that at home, but in the store? At the playground? What if someone HEARD me?

I am ashamed to admit that I am embarrassed to proclaim Christ's resurrection with the same joy and freedom of a two-year-old. It is understandable why Christ wanted the children to come to Him. They had no agenda. They had no ulterior motives. They had no shame in their desire to know and be known by Him.

I envy Andrew and his simple faith. Andrew loves to say his prayers and I've started asking him to pray for specific things I'm worrying about because I know his faith could move a lot more mountains than mine can. I hope he will always be my little prayer warrior, and my little reminder of the faith that I am expected to have as well.

My Mirror

I am ashamed to say that Andrew has learned a bad word.

And he says it frequently.

At first I thought he was saying shoot, or shirt, or ship...but alas, he was not. The phrase, "Oh man, shirt!" just doesn't make sense, although for a while I tried to convince myself it did. "Is something wrong with your shirt again, Andrew?" I'd ask hopefully, but all I'd receive in reply was a confused stare. So I stopped denying it and started trying to figure out who to blame.

Shirt.

Who was I trying to kid? The fact is I can only blame myself, although I still partially blame Chicago city traffic. What can I say? It's my "naughty word" of choice, and it's come back to bite me.

As I continue to raise my children, I am discovering a nasty little secret that other parents failed to warn me about: our children are tiny little mirrors that reflect in painful detail our own flaws and weaknesses. They learn how to live life by watching how WE live life.

I thought parenting was hard enough when I thought all I had to do was TELL my kids not to swear. But now I have to not swear either? I can't tell Andrew not to throw a tantrum and then lose my own temper a few minutes later. I can't expect him to pray before his meals if I forget to pray myself. I can't teach him to love others and then have him hear me talking bad about people behind their backs. The list could go on....

A very wise person said it best to me: I can preach at my children all I want, but it's what they SEE me do that will influence them the most, not what they hear me say.

Talk about some heavy shirt.

I considered vowing to stop "preaching" at Andrew and just start living as I want him to live, but let's face it: a two-year-old inherently needs a lot of active and meaningful instruction on the do's and don'ts of life. But I will make a concerted effort to put into practice that which I preach. And hopefully my little mirror will reflect more good than bad.

Just as long as I don't drive in heavy traffic.

My Baby

Ella Grace Kincaid, born December 26th at 5:18 in the morning

Things didn't quite go according to plan, but then again, I'm learning that in life, they rarely do.

Thank God Ella's completely healthy now and all is well. Every time I look at my children I am amazed at God's abundant blessings.

My Apprehension

So, for 39+ weeks now, I have been begging God to make time go as fast as possible so that we could get to that blessed 40 week mark and I could be done being pregnant. The problem is, I was so focused on the "not being pregnant" part that I really hadn't been preparing myself for the "having another child" part. This fact hit me a week or so ago, and quite frankly, I'm scared to death.

I never thought I'd say this, but I sort of want to stay pregnant for a little while longer. My mind is now being bombarded with memories of those first few awful weeks of bringing home a newborn (a fact that no one warns you about, by the way). The pain. The sleeplessness. The hormones. Trying to figure out this new little creature that you have to take care of for at least 18 years. Of course it gets better, and of course I love being a mom, and of course I'll love my new daughter. But still, I'm freaking out.

But alas, the end is near. My prayers have finally been answered, and the 40th week is only a week away. I could use some encouragement, and some tips from those who have survived having multiple children. And prayers, please. Lots of prayers.

Probably the next time I post something it will be an update on my new little baby girl. When I say that, I get excited.

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My Lost Innocence

Since becoming a mom, I have become convinced that children are more in tune with the spiritual world than grown-ups. I believe their sweet innocence and purity allows them to see and experience things that we adults can only imagine and dream about.

Since Andrew started talking, it's been amazing to hear from him the things he sees. For example, often when we are standing in church, he'll look up, point to some obscure spot on the ceiling, and cry out delightfully, "Birdie, mommy, birdie!" This has happened several times, in several churches. I truly think that the birdies he sees are the angels. I like to imagine them playing peek-a-boo with Andrew, or tickling his cheek. He gets so excited when he sees them that they must be paying him some attention.

The other day we were driving past a cemetery and Andrew suddenly said, "Hi Jesus!" A few days later, driving past a different cemetery, it happened again. The next time we drove past a cemetery, I pointed to it and asked, "Andrew, who's over there?" and immediately he said, "Jesus. Hi Jesus!"

Even as I write this, I find myself thinking, "People are going to think you're strange if you say you actually believe your child sees Jesus and the angels." And sometimes I even catch myself trying to rationalize what Andrew is saying. Like, maybe he saw a shadow in the ceiling rafters that looked like a bird. Or maybe he saw a statue in the cemetery and he just thinks it's Jesus. But wait. Don't I say that I believe that angels are among us? Don't I say that I believe that Christ is alive and actively involved in our lives? So why is it so hard to actually BELIEVE what I say I believe?

In my 27 years on this earth I have become more cynical and disbelieving than I care to admit. As each day passes it seems I go farther and farther from that beautiful innocence I had as a child. How I wish I could see the angels!

This past week, a priest dear to my heart died very suddenly and without warning. As I was sitting at his funeral service, for one brief second I was overcome with an unexplainable emotion. I looked around at the icons of the saints who have gone before us, and at the living who were surrounding me, and the newly departed priest laying in the middle of us all, and as I heard the choir begin to sing the beatitudes,"...blessed are they who morn, for they shall be comforted....blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God..." I felt, for the briefest of seconds, that I was experiencing a tiny taste of what heaven would be like, and the awesomeness of Christ's presence. I began to cry uncontrollably, I think mainly because I wanted that feeling to last, and I knew it wouldn't. And it didn't.

I'm sure I could find some neat and tidy way of wrapping up this post. Some sort of over-arching lesson about how we should strive to have the faith of a child so that we can experience more of Christ's presence in our lives. And although that's a valid point, it feels somehow too neat and tidy. Too easy. So I'll just leave it here. I'll go to bed now, say my meager, yet heart-felt prayers, and hope that Andrew sees his angels for as long as possible.

My Impatience

The stress of parenting an almost two-year-old has begun to wear on me. Lately I have found myself dreaming of that mystical time in the far-off future where Andrew and baby #2 will be happy, healthy, and more importantly, SELF-SUFFICIENT. That magical time where my husband and I can take our kids to a nice restaurant and not have to worry about them yelling for french fries and then when they finally get the darn fries they mostly just eat the ketchup...at least that 50% of ketchup that actually makes it into their mouth. I dream of a time where I can take my children to church and actually STAY in church for the entire service, with no worries of the tantrums that inevitably follow when mean ol' mom won't let them knock over candle stands or run screaming through the sanctuary. I get very excited when I think of going on a vacation and not having to think about diapers and strollers and pack-and-plays and car seats and baby food and baby toys and nap time. And the idea of visiting someone's house and being able to sit relaxed and visit without having to worry about my children eating something they shouldn't or breaking something expensive seems like an absolute dream. I've actually caught myself counting the years.

But tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I did my nightly check of Andrew to make sure he's warm enough and sleeping well. I went in there and just fell in love with him all over again. Those chubby cheeks that were stuffed with french fries earlier today. Those little hands that innocently reach for the pretty candles at church. That padded little bottom wrapped in the thousandth diaper I've changed, sticking up in the air as usual (see photo). And his beautiful face, so filled with curiosity whenever we go somewhere new, just wanting to explore the world.

I reached down and put my finger in his hand, and even though he was fast asleep he grabbed onto it. I suddenly realized that this moment, this very moment, should be cherished and enjoyed. I need to stop dreaming about the future and start appreciating the moment. I'm sure that day will come all too soon where he won't want to hold my hand anymore. He'll grow up and be self-sufficient soon enough. For now I think I'll enjoy being needed.

Remind me of this tomorrow when he's screaming in church.
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