kids Archives - Page 8 of 29 - Kristen Anne Glover

When it Doesn’t Add Up: 100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood {20}

It was the counting by 2’s that got to me.

“Zero—it is zero, right?” Kya asked as she began.

“Yes, the even numbers start with zero.”

“Okay, zero-two-four-six-eight-who do we appreciate?” she chants and dances the way we’ve been doing for months. “Ten…ten-nine-eight-seven-six…”

“No, no Kya, you’re counting backwards now.”

“Oh!” she says with a grin and begins again. “Two-four-six-eight-ten-twenty-thirty-forty…”

“Wait…now you’re counting by tens. Remember, counting by two’s is just skip-counting. Just say our little chant. Remember our little chant?” Of course you remember our chant. We’ve been doing it for months and months and months on end.

Kya jumps right in, happily chanting all the wrong numbers. 12—14—15—16, she says at last, and I do not tell her she is wrong.

“Let’s write them out on paper,” I say instead. Sometimes, seeing the numbers helps, but today, she can’t remember which way a 10 goes, and she can’t remember what to call a 12, and she’s sure that 20 should have a three in it, somewhere.

She can’t do it.

She’s six-and-a-half and she can’t do it. Not today.

I take my heavy heart upstairs, and I think I will not cry. I will not cry. Not today.

But I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what is wrong, and I don’t know how to help. I have helped so many children, but I can’t help her.

It is agony. I want nothing more than to protect her from feeling stupid or slow or different. I want to hug her and tell her it’s okay not to know 1+0 or how many cookies you have left if you eat one. Just eat them all, I think, and then it won’t matter.

Because Kya is exceptional, and I want her always to know it.

Under her bright blue eyes and dimpled smile is a pure heart and tender spirit. Always caring, always attentive, always gentle—that’s my Kya. She is delightful, and delighted, in every circumstance. We call her our Sunshine in Seattle, because it’s always sunny when Kya is around.

She is also highly creative and so perceptive, it’s almost unnerving. Even as a baby, she could tell when something was different, something was new, something was off. It was her habit, every morning, to survey my wardrobe choices and give me her unrestrained opinion in the sweetest possible way; we nicknamed her “Quality Control.” She is witty. She is funny. She is the only one of our children who gets her father’s humor and the only one who can, so quickly, give it right back.

But she is also soft. Fragile. Vulnerable. It will not take much to crush her. Not much more than a stack of flashcards she can’t answer. And I worry about that, way down deep and in words I don’t want to say. I think of my impatience and I wonder, “Will I be the one to take it from her? Will I be the one to make her feel less than she is? Will my beautiful baby grow up to feel inadequate because her mother couldn’t let her be enough?”

That brings the tears out that I said I would not cry. That brings me to my knees and I beg, beg, God to make me more patient. Now.

When I come down from upstairs, Kya has drawn a picture for me. It is a page filled up with circles, each one filled up with a different pattern of beautiful colors. Her math page has been decorated with patterns and grinning people with legs and arms coming directly out of their heads. She doesn’t believe in drawing bodies.

She tells the boys all about it, but she can’t think of a word. “I can see it,” she tells them, “I just can’t say it.” Her sentences are filled with pauses and slowly spoken phrases as she tries to collect thoughts from a brain that can’t access words very quickly. When she was a toddler, she had her own language. It bubbled out of her in giggles and turned-around phrases. But she knows enough now to try to reach for words that sit just beyond her grasp.

Oh, how I love her.

She laughs at her brothers and her own silly words and they laugh too. She lets them answer her math facts and then lines them up to tell them Bible stories that are probably heretical and asks them questions that don’t make much sense.

“Paul, what’s first Genesis chapter six?” she asks.

Paul squirms uncomfortably in his chair because he has neglected his lesson.

“It’s God. The answer is God,” she says. “Micah? Mr. Micah? Do you know who made you?”

“Dod,” says Micah, because his tongue doesn’t quite say the things he thinks. Kya understands about that.

“Yes. God,” she says as hushed and holy as possible. Micah and Paul nod and try to remember that in this class, the answer is always God.

The answer is always God.

Who made you? God. Who knows your worth? God. Who created you just as you are? God. Who can be glorified in your weaknesses? God.

I believe. Lord, help my unbelief.

Because it’s one thing to believe it for me. It’s another thing to believe it for my babies. It’s one thing to come to terms with my own faults, but God—oh God! –it’s quite another to come to terms with theirs.

That requires faith, and on this beautiful day of motherhood, I find my faith is lacking. I find my mother-heart tempted to fear. I find myself worrying when I am told to trust. Trust. It is a beautiful thing to be able to trust my children to the God who made them, to see the missing stitch and give them back to the One who knit them together. It is a beautiful thing to know that love always adds up, even when the math facts don’t.

On Waiting: 100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood {19}

My husband’s slippers are made of soft shearling. They were a Christmas present from his mother one year. He wears them almost always because the thermostat is set on “economy” and that is not nearly enough to take away the chill that seeps into our house with the damp from the rain.

My husband wears his slippers so much, the rubber soles have begun to crack and leave little bits around the house wherever he has walked. “You need new slippers,” I say as I walk by with an armload of laundry.

“Mmm,” he replies, turning one over in his hand while contemplating the big gaps that have formed where the sole and the leather should meet. He is barefoot, and I notice the strange patch of freckles around his right ankle that showed up after a childhood cast was removed.

I remember back many years ago when I ran my fingers across those spots and wondered about them. It was the first time I had ever touched him. My heart felt almost sick to trace out that little strip of skin where his socks didn’t quite reach the bottom of his jeans.

I still get a little woozy over his ankles.

But it’s not right to let him walk around cold-footed in January, so I think I should set about trying to find him a new pair, maybe on sale. It’s not really the time to be spending money on shearling slippers, not while he’s still out of work and looking for a place to minster.

But I figure I can find something just to get him through for now.

A little while later, Jeff is at the kitchen table with a gaggle of kids around him. There is duct tape and a razor blade and the sound of something dangerous going on. I peek over their heads. The slippers are undergoing reconstructive surgery. The cracks in the soles are being sealed up, and the worst places taped together.

When we’re all alone, I ask him about it. “I can find new slippers for you,” I say, and he smiles.

“I want to make a deal with you,” he says. “I don’t think this is a good time for me to spend money on slippers, or anything else.” He lists a few other things that he is going to do without, and even give up, for the time being.

I nod, sadly aware that we need to find a way to make our tiny budget a little tighter. Jeff takes me by the shoulders and looks into my eyes. “I don’t think we should spend money on slippers because I want you to spend the money on your blog.”

I am stunned, so stunned I almost don’t hear all the beautiful words my husband is saying to me, all the words about how much he has wanted this for me, how he has felt a shared agony over the fact that this gift—is it a gift?—must remain unopened while the pressing duties of life and motherhood take priority.

“It is time,” he says, “for you to write.”

I choke back a sob that comes up out of the years of waiting, wondering, doubting. It is a sob for a dream that has been buried so deep and for so long, I thought perhaps it was dead. I thought perhaps it had never been real.

But it is a gift, he says, and my eyes fill up with his words. God’s gifts and His call are irrevocable. Time and circumstances cannot take them away.

All these years of waiting, of feeling the weight of a gift I cannot use, seem all at once not to matter. The season of early motherhood, when I couldn’t find the balance between using my gift and loving my children, when I couldn’t keep a home and entertain a dream, was just that: a season. Not the dead-hard season of winter but the sleepy-cold season of early spring when the ground is almost too cold to plant.

In the dark of the earth, with muddy furrows above and beside and beneath me, I mistook the season. It was not a season for dying. It was a season for being planted, for waiting, for growing in strength down in the dark so the gift could grow when the sun came to shine. It was not the end of a dream. It was the beginning.

On this beautiful day of motherhood, I am thankful that the dark years cannot diminish who God has made us to be. I am thankful that the gifts God plants in us do not whither for the waiting. They are simply waiting for the right time to grow.

100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: Dreary Days {18}

These are the months when the sky can’t hold up the clouds, they are so heavy with rain. Weepy and weary, those clouds hang close to the earth and close to my soul. Even though I have no reason to be sad, I feel it when day after day the heavens can’t stop crying.

It is raining harder than ever when my neighbor calls. Her refrigerator is feeling warm and the ice cubes are getting all melty in the freezer. I know nothing about large appliances, or small ones, for that matter, but I tell her I’ll slosh my way over to her house so we can stare at it together.

Mrs. Smith lives all alone now. It’s been over two years since her husband went into their bedroom to put on his shoes and never walked back out. She calls sometimes just to tell me what she had for lunch and to ask me if I think it’s safe to eat the mayonnaise that’s been sitting in a fridge that seems to be a bit too warm. She calls me sometimes, I think, just because she knows I was there that day.

“It’s not that old,” Mrs. Smith says while contemplating her refrigerator. “Mel bought it back in 2005.” But it was older than that, the service man tells her. It’s hard to believe it could have been that long because she remembers when they bought it. She remembers the fridge before this one and suddenly it seems like her entire life is parsed out between Whirlpools and Frigidaires.

Mrs. Smith tells me all this while I stand in her kitchen, vacuuming the coils on the back of her fridge like she’s asked. I wish I knew what to do. I know she wishes it too. Instead, I relive her of her condiments—two mustards, a bottle of Worcestershire sauce and a jar of hot horseradish she bought just for her grown-up son because she remembers he likes it—and I trudge back home.

I hear Mrs. Smith’s voice calling out from behind the door. It’s a heavy, metal screen door and I can’t see her face. She likes it that way because it makes her feel safe when she’s home all alone at night. “Thank you for your help!” the door speaks to me in Mrs. Smith’s voice.

I smile and nod, but I feel kind of bad because I really didn’t help at all. So I tell her to call me later, and I know she will because it’s crying outside, and on days like this, Mrs. Smith always calls. It wasn’t crying the day Mr. Smith died, but it’s been crying many days since. It helps her, I think, just to know someone is close enough to listen.

When I get home, the kids swarm the box of goodies from Mrs. Smith’s and discover the cookies she tucked into the box under a jar of ham glaze. I am fairly certain cookies won’t spoil no matter how long the fridge has been off, but that’s not why they’re there. They’re there because it’s been raining since November and Mrs. Smith has been counting the number of days it’s been since she’s seen my kids splashing around in her backyard.

They’re there because it’s been two years since Mr. Smith died and she can’t help but find someone closer to love. They’re there because Jeff had been gone for too many months, and Mrs. Smith understands something about that, and she feels it just about as much I do.

They’re there because it’s Mrs. Smith’s way of listening, of staring at the fridge with me even though she can’t really help.

It’s kind of the deal we have.

So on this beautiful day of motherhood, when the rain hung down and spilled over into my day, and I felt like I must have packed all my joy away with my Christmas decorations, I am thankful for the opportunity to listen even when I can’t help. I’m thankful for friends who hear even when I haven’t spoken a word. Most of all, I’m thankful for neighbors who let me in and keep me there just so I know someone is close enough to help.

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