family Archives - Page 2 of 15 - Kristen Anne Glover

Reclaiming the Loo

Today, my friend Abbie invited me over to her place. She’s a mom of five just like me, including twins, just like me. Since Abbie is so much like me, I figured she would sympathize with one of my mom-problems: how to get the children to leave me alone when the bathroom door closes.

Am I the only one whose children think going to the bathroom is a group activity? I think not.

Mothers of the World, it’s time we reclaim the loo. Join me over at Five Days 5 Ways and find out my devious plan to help us do just that.

The White Crib

My first baby in the white crib

*100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: 34

I remember when we first found the crib. It had been tucked away in the attic of our seminary apartment building and forgotten. We were the supervisors of the building, so when no one claimed it, my husband brought it home because my swelling belly reminded him that we were going to need it.

All the parts were there, so we cleaned it and set it up in the walk-in closet of our one-bedroom apartment because there was nowhere else to put a crib. I cried when I saw it and shut the closet door. I was not ready for what that crib represented.

Just a few months later, my first little baby was asleep in that crib. I would stand there next to her and watch her sleep, rolling the word “daughter” around in my mind as if to make the idea less foreign and more real. Some things just take time, I learned. But I didn’t know it then.

There was another baby soon, and another—enough to dull the edges of early motherhood until it did not feel strange to call another person mine.

Every single one of my babies slept in the simple white crib with the arched wood ends and the wheels that liked to fall off if I tried to move it. There were scratchy little teeth marks on the railings from slobbery, teething toddlers and places where the paint had been chipped off by Matchbox car wheels when the twins were supposed to be sleeping, but weren’t.

Years passed the way years do, and it came time to take the crib apart and move the twins into real beds. But I couldn’t do it. I kept them in their cribs even though I often found that Paul had climbed in with Micah. Once or twice, he even got his fat little leg pinned against the wall as he tried to make his escape, and once or twice, he even fell headlong onto the carpet and Micah had to tattle all about it in pantomime because he couldn’t say all the words for “That fool tried it again.”

They needed a real bed, and I knew it.

But there was that crib. The crib that held all the babies that softened my independent, selfish heart into the heart of a mother. How different I had become over the course of the years. How different it felt to set up that crib for the first time than it did to take it down for the last time!

The last time.

That was the thing. Every other time the crib had been vacated, it was because a new baby was getting too big to sleep in the bedroom with me. A new baby needed the spot occupied by a now-big-brother or sister. A new baby had come into the home.

But these little babies stretched up and thinned out and turned into little men right before my very eyes, and there were no more little babies to take their place. There aren’t going to be any more babies.

I took a screwdriver to the old white crib with the scratchy teeth marks and the chipped paint and the railings where five little babies had learned to stand up before they had learned to sit back down.

And I cried hot, mama tears for all of it.

My husband walked by and crinkled up his eyes at me and wrapped me up in a hug because I really am the most psychotic person on the planet.

The white crib has stayed in the garage next to a gnarly old bookcase that needs some attention. I came across it this weekend while I was attempting to organize and straighten out and clean up all the stuff that has piled up in this house. “You should sell that,” my husband said.

I should.

But I am the kind of mother who likes to keep the things that remind me of where I’ve been and what God has done. That simple white crib represents many years of God at work in my life. It is a symbol of my stubbornness and my redemption and the incredible mercy of God. It seems as if things like that should be set up and looked at and remembered. But you can’t very well keep an old white crib forever.

Or can you?

My mind started spinning when I saw the crib in the garage, and while I really didn’t intend to keep it, a crazy idea came into my head. Perhaps I could set up a stone of remembrance in the form of an old white crib. Perhaps I could find a way to keep a memory of the incredible miracle of God in my life. Perhaps the old white crib was not quite ready to move on.

Join me tomorrow to see what became of the crib I couldn’t seem to give away.

My last baby in the white crib

First Love and Little Boys

*100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: 32

My son’s blue eyes are shining. “I have a present for you, Mommy,” he tells me. A smile that holds a secret spreads across his face.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. It’s for Christmas. When is Christmas?”

“Oh, Christmas is a long time away.”

“Like a year?”

“Yes, almost a year.”

He looks a little crestfallen. I can tell he’ s doing the math in his head and realizing that a year is about 23% of his total existence, and that’s a long time to wait. “Well…” he considers. “I wanted it to be for Christmas, but…here.”

He shoves his little hand toward me and uncurls five stubby fingers. “Treasures!” he announces and pours into my hand a bead, a BB, one found Lego piece, and a red bit of a Christmas decoration. “I been findin’ them for you,” my baby says with all the sheepishness of a schoolboy.

“Oh, Micah. I love them! Thank you.”

He points to the sparkly bead and shrugs, “That a diamond.”

“You know I love diamonds,” I say, fingering the bright pink jewel.

His blue eyes dance and he nods because he can’t think of what to say. Instead, he throws his arms around me legs and hugs me tight.

I hug him back and kiss him too. I just want to keep him there for a minute and savor the joy of being my little boy’s first love. Someday, he will forget all about pink diamonds and pretty buttons. But I won’t.

I take his treasures up to my room and put them on my dresser. I’m not sure what to do with them, but I can’t quite throw them away. I remember back to when my biggest little boy was Micah’s age.

At four, it was Jonathan’s singular purpose to find the prettiest rocks on the planet for me. Multiple times a day, he’d charge through the front door, recklessly kicking his boots off as he exclaimed, “Mom! Mom! I found a ‘pecial rock! It’s for you, Mom!”

I had to pause whatever I was doing to wash the rock and look at it under the water. I had to notice how pretty the sparkles were or how particular was its rock-ness. As sweet as it was, I sometimes wished there wasn’t so much gravel around the house.

Soon, I had so many rocks on my counters, I didn’t know what to do with them. I piled them around my house plants and the bird bath and eventually paved a pathway from the driveway through the blueberry bushes with special rocks. Sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, I’d toss the rocks back into the gravel and hope Jonathan wouldn’t notice.

Some days, Jonathan found other recipients for his rocks. Our tattooed next-door neighbor with the leather pants, dog collar choker and kind blue eyes was one of his favorites. As soon as Jonathan heard the beat of the bass and the belch of the Harley as it swooped up into our cul-de-sac, he got ready. “Mr. Tom! Hi! Mr. Tom! I have a ‘pecial rock for you, Mr. Tom!”

Sometimes I’d peek out the window at little brown-haired Jonathan, beaming up at burly Mr. Tom, who bent down and smiled back, ruffed some hair and shared a little common appreciation for God’s creation.

One day, after Mr. Tom had already received his daily rock, Jonathan’s screams erupted through the neighborhood. In a second, Mr. Tom was leaping over his fence and our retaining wall because he knew the little boy who loved him had been hurt. He had seen the discarded board and the rusty nail that had gone right through Jonathan’s tender foot.

Jonathan cried out and looked up into Mr. Tom’s face. “You’re okay, Buddy. I gotcha. It’s okay. You know I’m a doctor, right?” It was a little joke because Tom wasn’t a doctor at all. But you couldn’t tell Jonathan that.

Gently, he lifted my son into the car and sent me off to the emergency room without even letting me think or worry or be shocked at the sight of my child with a board nailed to his body.

A few days later, when Jonathan was up and around again, I headed up to Tom and Sandy’s green steps with a plate of cookies and a thank you. But I was stopped short by a neat pile of special rocks on the deck. Tom had saved every one.

One day, I noticed Jonathan had stopped bringing me special rocks. It’s not that he loves me any less, but he is older now, old enough to know that treasures go in shoe boxes and sock drawers. Treasures are for keeping.

But Micah doesn’t know that yet. He is young still, young enough to know that gifts are for giving, and the best gifts are for the one he loves most in all the world. The best gifts are for his mommy.

Unabashedly, he lavishes me with diamonds until I think I must be the richest woman in the world.

“When I get big, can I marry you?” he asks me.

“Nope, you can’t marry me, Micah,” I say as gently as possible.

“Oh. Is it because I’m too little?”

“No, it’s because Daddy would be jealous.”

Micah nods. He sees how that could be a problem.

“Well, then, when I grow up, will I still be your Micah?”

“Always.”

“Okay,” he shrugs again. “And, I will live right here with you.” Micah presses a glass marble into my hand and snuggles into my side. “’Cause I love you da best.”

It is a moment I want to hold on to, like a first kiss.

Someday, he might forget that I was his first love.

But I won’t.

Micah, 4

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