Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
my hope comes from him.

He alone is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

-Psalm 62:5-6

Sometimes, I’m all out of words. No matter how I try to string them together, the verbs and adjectives cannot hold the weight of my heart. It is a thin strand, and a heavy heart.

In these moments, I turn to the words of God. I pitch my tent in the Psalms and camp there, straining to see the light in the dark valley.

Trust in him at all times, O people;
pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge.

One thing God has spoken,
two things have I heard:
that you, O God, are strong,
and that you, O Lord, are loving.

-Psalm 62:8, 11-12

Please, dear friends, pray for Ava.

Summer is coming. In just over a week, Noah will finish another year of preschool, and we will begin that lazy stretch of days known as summer vacation. I use the word “vacation” loosely, since in reality, this will be a challenging season for me as I attempt to balance motherhood with a part-time job and no childcare—all while maintaining my sanity and hopefully keeping up with the laundry.

(So if Pete shows up at work in a T-shirt and mismatched socks, you’ll know how it’s going.)

It’s interesting to be entering this season now, after the events of the past month. My grandmother and Pete’s grandfather passed away within two weeks of each other, and the jolt that comes after losing a loved one, even after living a long, full life, brings home the reality that our time here is limited. I keep thinking to myself, over and over, Make the most of the time you have. I look into the faces of my little boys, who so desperately want my attention, and I realize that the day will come when they will no longer hang on my every word; a time when their idea of a perfect summer day won’t be a date with Mommy at the playground and ice cream cones at Brusters. These days, the technicolor days of childhood, are the most fleeting of all.

That’s why, for a time, I’m coming unplugged.

Which is not nearly so dire as it sounds.

I have a love-hate relationship with my computer. It is a tool that I use for many things: earning an income, paying bills, organizing recipes, blogging, e-mailing, iChatting, internet surfing. It helps me stay connected to loved ones, far and near. It introduces me to new people and ideas. It allows me to find information quickly and easily.

But the computer is also a thief, a stealer of time. It contains more information, both useful and trivial, than I can possibly digest in a thousand lifetimes. Like the proverbial greener grass on the other side, it feeds the mindset that I am always one click away from that even more interesting blog, that even better tidbit, that even tastier recipe. Unlike a book or magazine, which is limited in scope, the Internet just goes on and on and on, allowing the information glutton in me to gorge myself silly. I can start out googling “homemade baby food” and, through a series of enticing links, end up perusing Sarah Jessica Parker’s wardrobe from the past two decades. Click. Click. Click. Meanwhile, my babies are quite literally growing up before my eyes—that is, when my eyes are on them.

So I ask myself, at the end of my life, which memories will occupy my thoughts? Sarah’s sequined slip dress or the way Jude smiled when he first pulled himself to standing, carefully planting his fat little feet beneath him? A two-star movie review, or Noah’s hilarious interrogations? (The other morning as I was nursing Jude, when I switched sides, Noah asked, “Is the other side a different flavor?”) Why not invest more time in the story unfolding right in front of me?

This summer, I hope to be fiercely protective of the one thing no one else can give my family: my undivided attention. The days will be longer, my free time will be shorter, but the opportunities to be there for my husband and kids—to be physically and mentally present—are too precious a gift to squander. I am tired of giving the best part of myself to my job. I am weary of frittering away my time on things that don’t last. I am done with just “getting through the days,” assisted by PBS Kids and caffeine. To quote WALL-E, one of Noah’s favorite movies, “I don’t want to survive. I want to live!”

On a practical level, I am taking steps to limit my computer time considerably, such as taking a summer hiatus from blogging. This is a bit like giving up chocolate, so I am experiencing some of the effects of withdrawal. To compensate, I have rediscovered my love of journaling—scribbling across a page, unedited—and I am enjoying having that space to process my thoughts and experiences in raw form. A larger project is in the works, and I am hoping to make some headway in the coming months. Sometimes the good stuff doesn’t bubble and rise to the top unless it’s been stewing awhile.

Other big plans for the summer include: getting my hands sticky with glitter, glue, finger paint, flour, dirt, sidewalk chalk, sunscreen, and sand; going to bed early (sometimes) and staying up too late (sometimes) and reinstating The Glorious Sunday Afternoon Nap, which covers any deficit; honing my light saber skills with Noah; chasing a soon-to-be-toddling Jude; eating Beki’s cooking; embarking on some wild adventure with Pete as we celebrate ten years of marriage in July; reading books and writing letters (the kind that require paper and stamps!); baking cookies and inviting friends over, even when my house is messy.

(OK, so that last one’s a stretch.)

I look forward to reconnecting with you in September. Thanks for visiting this corner of cyberspace—it means a lot to me. Wishing you a wonderful summer!

Love,

Lauren

That’s the word that came to my mind when I saw these pictures, taken at a service project last night at our church to assemble meals to send to Haiti (25,000, in fact).

It’s hard to know how much of it Noah grasped—sending meals to little boys like him who are hungry and in need—but the energy of the place, and the spirit of the people serving, had to make its mark, even in some small way.

Like a light that can’t be hidden.

*     *    *

Prayer Request: Please keep my “Nana,” Bette, in your prayers. She suffered a stroke over the weekend and is currently in the hospital. Our hearts are heavy.

(Warning: Lauren gets philosophical.)

Pete and I are sore in need of a vacation. Between sickness, work, and other commitments, it’s been a tough season. On Wednesday afternoon, I put the boys down for their naps and eased my own tired limbs into bed with a copy of Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, a favorite writer of mine (for literary and historical reasons—she was Charles Lindbergh’s wife). Her small volume is a meditation on life, using the beach and its shells as her primary metaphors. I underlined and starred its yellowing pages, recognizing so much of myself in her descriptions.

“This is an end toward which we could strive—to be the still axis within the revolving wheel of relationships, obligations, and activities… With our garnered free time, we are more apt to drain our creative springs than to refill them. With our pitchers, we attempt sometimes to water a field, not a garden. We throw ourselves indiscriminately into committees and causes. Not knowing how to feed the spirit, we try to muffle its demands in distractions. Instead of stilling the center, the axis of the wheel, we add more centrifugal activities to our lives—which tend to throw us off balance.”

“On the contrary, [a woman] must consciously encourage those pursuits which oppose the centrifugal forces of today. Quiet time alone, contemplation, prayer, music, a centering line of thought or reading, of study or work… It need not be an enormous project or a great work. But it should be something of one’s own… What matters is that one be for a time inwardly attentive.”

“[It is] revolutionary, in fact, because almost every trend and pressure, every voice from the outside is against this new way of inward living.”

(And to think, she wrote this in 1955. Before the Internet, before Facebook-Twitter-Blogger, before text messaging, before cyber-commuting, before cable. Before Target.)

I am notoriously guilty of adding to the “centrifugal forces” spinning around me, and of falling down flat on my derrière as a result. Something in me is finally saying STOP. ENOUGH.

Yesterday, with Anne’s sea imagery still swirling in my head, I made a spontaneous proposition to Pete at lunchtime. “Let’s go to the beach this afternoon. Let’s just go. You go to your meeting and I’ll feed the kids lunch and get them ready, and then we’ll go.” It sounded crazy, but kind of wonderful. After a few minutes of deliberating, we landed on a plan.

“We’re going on an adventure with Daddy,” I told Noah when I picked him up from preschool, giving him no other information. He peppered me with questions throughout the afternoon as we colored pictures and cleaned up the toys. Just the word “adventure” lent an energy to the day that had us both smiling.

By 4:58 p.m., we were staring at this:

And doing this:

(I got all my hair cut off, but that’s another post for another day.)

Even though we told him we weren’t there to swim, Noah plunged into the water up to his waist, laughing and waving his arms. No one has to teach him about living more fully.

After our beach romp it was time for a yummy dinner at J.B.’s Fish Camp, where Pete and I dined on hush puppies and blackened fish sandwiches.

It wasn’t an afternoon of solitude and contemplation, but it was a step in the right direction. Spending time with the people I love the most, talking with Pete in the car, standing in the sand with Jude in my arms and the sea foam tickling my ankles—I could feel the axis of the wheel slowing. Our brief outing was a pocket of pure delight in the midst of a busy season, and all it required was half a tank of gas and a willingness to break from the routine.

That was the gift the sea gave to me.

(P.S. Ladies, I recommend you put this book HIGH on your summer reading list. Toss it in your beach bag, and bring a highlighter!)

I think Noah is getting to an age where he can recognize when I’m officially going off the deep end. I used to be able to tear my hair out and wring my hands without an attentive audience. Not anymore.

Today was The Day of No Naps. This is not unusual for Noah, who usually spends an hour of “rest time” in his room, wreaking all kinds of havoc but staying out of sight. Jude, however, was uncharacteristically alert. No amount of cuddling or nursing or crying it out would lull him into Dreamland. And it just so happened that this was a day when I had a pressing job deadline that required lots of calculating and formulating and communicating with our CPA. This is hard enough without a baby crying. Add to the mix a persistent three-year-old tugging on my shirtsleeve asking me to play trains, and it was nigh impossible.

So I lost it. I had one of those Bad Mother Moments that I am glad was not captured on reality TV. “NOAH!” I exploded. “I CANNOT PLAY TRAINS RIGHT NOW! I HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO! DOES ANYONE UNDERSTAND THAT?! I AM TRYING TO GET THIS DONE!”

I was mad: mad at the CPA, mad at myself, mad at my children, mad at the world. I just wanted to be left ALONE without the bodies of my offspring crowding me. I wanted to go tell Weight Watchers where it could put its precious Points System, and then I wanted to go eat chocolate by the pound. I wanted to run outside and sprint down the sidewalk until I was tired (this would only take about 30 seconds). I wanted to SHOUT, so I did.

Then, the worst thing happened. Noah’s face crumpled, and he cried. Not a whiny cry, or a tired cry. A hurt cry. My words had wounded him. He just stood there, eyelashes fluttering, lips quivering, tears spilling down his cheeks. He was not oblivious to my tone or my meaning. He knew I didn’t want to be with him, and it stung.

I had screwed up, and I hated myself for it.

I wish there were do-overs in parenting. In all relationships, for that matter. Instead, we have to lean into grace. I scooped Noah into my arms and cried into his hair, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mommy’s just so tired.” I pulled myself together quickly, worried that a sobbing mama might be just as scary as a shouting one. “It’s okay. This can wait,” I said, closing the lid to my laptop. We hugged some more, then we walked together to the nursery to lift a screaming Jude from his crib. Within seconds, Jude was smiling. Within a few minutes, Noah and I were smiling too.

I wish I could say that’s the end of the story. I wish I could say I sat and built trains and ate Goldfish crackers and cracked jokes with Noah until my husband arrived home. But dinner had to be made, and the house had to be picked up. It didn’t get any easier. Sometimes I wonder if I am the child, kicking and screaming to get my way. Human nature doesn’t change with age, we just learn how to mask it better.

However, next time, I am putting myself in time-out.

I passed traffic school with flying colors, my final punishment for speeding on a hasty flight to Beki’s house (along with that lovely $155 fine). On an exam of 40 questions, I only got one wrong. See if you can guess the answer.

Q. If you are pulled over for speeding, which of the following will automatically exempt you from penalization?

a. Being 9 months pregnant
b. Crying
c. Having a tired, whining toddler in the back seat
d. All of the above
e. None of the above

The answer, as I so painfully discovered, is E. It only cost me $155 and four hours of online traffic school (at $29.95) to find out.

You will be interested to hear, though, that I have made my peace with the law. I am no longer a hardened criminal. After reading page after page of accident statistics, I have come to the conclusion that a ticket is infinitely less painful than an accident with extremely precious cargo involved. Although I wish I could have learned that for $20. Or $10. $5?

So if you are ever on the road and get stuck behind a very poky, law-abiding Ford Escape, I suggest you pull into the passing lane. Just make sure you consult your side-view mirrors, glance quickly in your blind spots, and signal. (Trust me, I am a traffic school graduate.)

Dear Saturated Fat:

My friend. My dear, dear friend. It is with a mixture of sadness and indigestion that I write this letter to you. We have shared quite a journey this past year. So many memories. From those late-night spoonfuls of peanut butter to the chocolate Oreo ice cream to the McDonalds Third-Pounder Mushroom and Swiss Angus Burger that I promised myself I was buying just because I had a coupon, you have always been there for me. That’s why this is so hard.

You see, I need to take a step back from our relationship. It’s not you—it’s me. I think our friendship has become… unhealthy. Sure, we’ve had our fun, but did we really think it would last? If we’re honest with ourselves, I think we both saw this coming.

I might as well tell you—I’m going to start seeing someone else. Someone who understands my nutritional needs. The Vitamins and Minerals have been asking me to hang out with them for months now. I can’t put the Antioxidants off any longer—they’ll think I’m ignoring them. And that Exercise—he is relentless! How many times can I refuse his invitations to go walking? I can’t deny it—I find him kind of attractive. All that glistening sweat. I need to be with someone who makes me feel alive, and I just don’t think that’s something you can deliver right now.

This isn’t the end, though. We’ll still spend time together—Friday nights, holidays, parties. I want to make this relationship work. But if that’s going to happen, we’re both going to need some space.

I hope you can find it in your heart to understand. Some day, you will thank me for this.

Affectionately,

Lauren

Written on the eve of rejoining Weight Watchers, postpartum.

“Ssh, Jude… Ssh…” I whisper in my baby’s ear, swaying back and forth. It is 9 p.m., and Jude is restless. I, on the other hand, am desperate for sleep. I shuffle into the living room and flick on the DVD player, hoping to kill some time watching the March of the Penguins documentary I have checked out from the library. Next to Spiderman, penguins are dear to Noah’s heart, so I want to refresh my memory of the film and see if it is something he would enjoy.

Despite my fatigue, I soon find myself absorbed in the story. The “march of the penguins” is the emperor penguins’ annual trek to their ancestral breeding grounds, a 70-mile journey across Antarctica’s unforgiving landscape. Those who survive the long march then begin the “dating and mating” phase of procreation, an equally perilous endeavor. I am fascinated by the role reversal that takes place between the male and female penguins in incubating their chick. The mother lays the egg, but the father is the one who tends it, keeping it tucked beneath a flap of skin for two months while the mother heads seaward to load up on food for Junior. The ultimate working mom and stay-at-home dad.

As the film progresses, Pete emerges, sleepy-eyed, from the bedroom. “Go back to bed,” I say, “We’re fine.” Cradled in my arms, Jude stares up at me, alert.

“No,” Pete says, sitting down next to me. “I’ll keep you company.”

I know he has to get up early for work tomorrow morning, but my protests are half-hearted. The truth is, I want him there. We sit in front of the flickering television and watch as the mother penguin begins the precarious process of passing the egg to the father penguin, who balances it on his feet. For the penguins, this delicate dance is a matter of life and death: drop the egg or allow it to sit just a second too long in the subzero temperatures and it will freeze, killing the chick. The transfer must be slow and deliberate, executed with utmost care, until the egg is tucked safely beneath his father’s insulating feathers.

Drifting toward sleep, my mind begins to travel the landscape of the past 10 months, recounting my own journey toward childbirth. The territory was familiar, but also forbidding: The early nausea that left me incapacitated on the couch, too sick to clean or cook. The sleepless nights where I tossed and turned, nearly bouncing Pete out of bed. The weight gain. The labor pains. The dizzying joy of meeting our baby for the first time, holding his slippery limbs to my chest.

Now I am adjusting to being alone in my body again, no longer bearing the weight of new life. Lately I find myself staring in the mirror, poking and squeezing my doughy middle, trying to remember the lean, lithe woman who ambled along the California coastline with Pete just a year ago. I frown at my unkempt hair, at the stubborn crumbs of mascara clinging to the corners of my eyes—residue from the day before. I peer down the dark corridor of my insecurities, tempted to wander too far from what I know to be true: I am loved. I am lovely. I can do this. I will, one day, get a full eight hours of sleep.

Other winds howl at me from the dark depths, cutting into my consciousness: deep-seated fears about my children, now that they are out in the world. The nagging paranoia that keeps me checking on Jude’s sleeping form to make sure he’s still breathing. The panic that seizes me when Noah takes one too many steps away from me in a busy parking lot. The concern over swine flu, RSV, vaccinations gone awry. Their vulnerability terrifies me.

From my perch on the couch, I watch as the penguins complete their dance, the eggs safely shuffled from mother to father. Jude is dozing in my arms, his mouth hanging slightly open, his breath milky sweet. Pete has nodded off as well, his head leaning at an awkward angle on the cushions. My husband is not a night owl; this vigil he has kept with me is an expression of love.

Only later, when I lay my own head down, does the thought that has been jangling around in my head come into focus. It was triggered by the sight of Pete there on the couch beside me, keeping me company. The man who held my hand through every contraction. The man who sees beauty where I can’t, and tells me so.  The man who prays for his family, faithfully, in the quiet hours before we wake.

It isn’t our chicks that I am passing over to him with penguin-like precision, to be tucked safely beneath his feathers. It’s me. It’s this heart, fragile and vulnerable as an egg. Pete stands beside me in the cold wind and says, I want that. Let me hold onto it for you. Let me cradle it like I would my own child.

And slowly, with great care, we dance.

Gasp. Sputter. Cough.

I have finally come up for air.

January 2009 will, thankfully, never repeat itself. It was a month full of good things — the culmination of which was the Conversations women’s event at my church (a dream fulfilled that I will tell you about later) — but certifiably insane in its pace. I will not tell you how many videos Noah watched as I tried to cope with life, work, ministry, and his ever-so timely decision to quit napping. Nor will I tell you how few times I cooked. Or shaved my legs. Or returned your phone calls and e-mails.

Or took the time to just… be.

Something had to give. I went to church one Sunday and our worship pastor sang “Come to Jesus,” and I did. Jesus has this thing about taking on heavy burdens, so I handed mine over. No claim check. The Harry Houdini chains I had locked on my ankles began to loosen, and I started floating back to the surface.

And the next day, I said goodbye to one of my work commitments. My favorite one. The one that requires the most concentration and energy and creative focus. I just knew God was telling me to pour all of that energy into my family right now. I cried, I deliberated, I prayed. But I knew it was the right thing.

Which brings us to… ah… February. The month of love. My favorite month in Florida, which of course means pleasant temperatures and good hair. Over the past two weeks, I have cooked for my husband almost every night, testing my culinary prowess with a lemon zester and kabob skewers. I have taken Noah for walks in his stroller, waving hello to neighbors who’d thought we’d moved because they never saw me out walking anymore. I have sat on Beki’s back patio and shot the breeze, in the breeze. I have felt our baby moving and lain awake with my hand on my tummy, marveling at the miracle blooming inside me.

Come to think of it, there seems to be no shortage of miracles around here lately (I cooked, remember).

It’s just that I’m finally standing still long enough to notice them.

Q: Where have you been for the last month?
A: In the Galapagos Islands, studying sea turtles and working on my tan.

Q: No, really. Where have you been?
A: Working a lot. 18+ hours a week. I have a part-time admin job, which I do from home, and I write curriculum for my church. I’m also helping plan a major women’s event at church, which has been in gestation for almost a year. Next Friday we launch this baby (the event, not my real baby, who is comfortably swimming in utero).

Q: Now that you mention him/her, how is the baby?
A: He is doing swimmingly. Yesterday I had my 13-week appointment. Nice strong heartbeat. According to the internet, fingerprints have already formed on his fingertips. Could this process be any more miraculous?

Q: Good question. Could this process be any more miraculous?
A: Uh… no. I think I already answered that one.

Q: So you think it is a boy?
A: I am placing my bet.

Q: What are you doing with your first full day off in three weeks?
A: Krispy Kreme and shopping with my guys. Purchasing my first maternity clothes of the pregnancy (to make room for the Krispy Kremes). Playing Scrabble Sprint online. Blogging. Reconnecting with my inner couch potato. Making eyes at my hunky husband. Nursing my cold.

Q: Are you ever going to post more pictures to Project 365?
A: Yes, when I have more than one day off in three weeks. Don’t worry, this shutterbug has been snapping away.

Q: What’s the best news you’ve heard all day?
A: That my friends Ann and Davison are going to stay with us for almost a whole week at the end of next month. They are such good friends that they don’t even complain about our lumpy futon.

Q: What is the funniest thing Noah has said lately?
A: He calls the Incredible Hulk the “Incredible Milk.” He sees his picture on all the posters for Universal Studios, and being rather superhero-obsessed, he always points him out. Pete and I think it is so funny that we haven’t corrected him.

Q: Will you ever blog regularly again?
A: Yes. Someday. Life is just really busy right now. I still read all your blogs, so keep writing everybody.

Q: Where are you going right now?
A: To nap. The house is quiet. Signing off…