My Last First Date Part 2

Not one dance

 

I'm not quite sure how our "second date" actually came about.  I don't remember the first week of school and I don't remember how we made plans to meet up as a group and go boot scootin', but I DO remember how excited I was.  Two steppin' was my most favorite thing to do in college and I hadn't done much of it at all in the first year at Texas A&M.  In fact, I hadn't done much of anything my first year at A&M.

 

I started my college career with too many ties back home.  The people I knew were 6 hours away.  Far enough to have a hard time getting home especially without a car.   My roommate was an upper classman and never "home."  I spent most of my first year in my dorm room, by myself.  The girls in my hall had all pledged sororities, most were upperclassmen, and all had lives.  They were busy.  I wasn't.  I went to class, the cafeteria, study groups.  That was it.  It was a very challenging year for me.  I was coming off of a busy high school exsistence.  Lots of clubs.  Lots of activities.  Lots of friends.  I was miserable in college.  I was deparately lonely.  I think, looking back on that one year, especially the first semester, it was possibly the loneliest I had ever been.  I spent weekends in my room and weeknights in the library.  I had even applied to LSU for the spring semester, was accepted, and had a dorm assignment.  I wanted my home.  I wanted my life back.  I wanted to be busy again.  

 

I was not a Believer in college but looking back, God's Hand was all over my path, even then.  I see that now. And I am thankful.  It would be a long time before I would come to know Him, but He loved me and He knew I would be sitting here.   

 

Somehow, before I left for Christmas break, I met a friend.  She was the one God used to keep me put.  She was the one who picked me up out of my pit and walked beside me the rest of my freshman year.  She introduced me to new people, taught me to sew, brought me to her house and cooked me meals and more importantly, introduced me to boot scootin'.  She signed me up for Aggie Wranglers, found me a dance partner, and drove me to lessons.  I fell in love.  It was the most fun you could have in College Station, and the best part, her friendship was enough to convince me to giveTexas A&M another shot.  By the end of my second semester, I had been chosen as a Fish Camp Counselor, had a new group of friends, and I met Patrick Fitzgerald.  

 

Going dancing on a Friday night with a big group of friends was exactly what I had in mind for an end to a great first week of my sophomore year of school.  Going in a group assured me plenty of friends to two step with, girls to hang out with, and no one to assume we were on a "date."  I felt like a bird let out of my cage my sophomore year of school.  I knew so many more people, I was in a new dorm, I had pledged a sorority, and my ties back home were not my focus.  

 

Patrick was in the group of friends, a mixture of new sorority sisters and some Corps boys.  Everyone had on their Rocky Mountains and Justin ropers, but my favorite, the guys in their cowboy hats.  Waiting in line to get in, I found myself next to Patrick.  He and I were joking around together and laughing.  We were talking about the first week and all that had gone on since we last talked.  It was still easy.  I liked talking to him, but there was still no draw to him for anything other than a friend.  In fact, I recognized another guy friend up in line that night.  I excused myself from our group and went up in line to chat with him.  I hadn't seen him since the previous semester. We had taken Aggie Wranglers together, gone on a few dates, enjoyed Sunday afternoons at Research Park with his dog, Image.  I distinctly remember Patrick's statement when I finally returned to our group, "You can go on ahead up there with him if you want to."  I was so taken off guard at the slightest hint of seriousness in his tone.  Once I caught his eye, however, his joking smile was there and we laughed, but I never forgot the way his statement sounded.  Whatever I thought I heard, I remember thinking that I was not in this to find a boyfriend and hoping I was wrong about his tone.  (We still laugh at this memory and he admits, he already like me at this point but would never have given me the satisfaction of letting it show.) We talked all the way in, talked as we settled in on two stools off to the side, and talked for the rest of the night.  Good songs would come and go and he never asked me to dance.  I so badly wanted to two step....but he never asked.  We laughed and joked and talked some more, but he never once asked me to dance.  

 

I danced a couple of times that night with some friends that were there and some from our group, but for the most part, I sat and talked and wondered why he didn't want to dance.  I wanted to talk, but I wanted to dance more.   The couples dancing went around and around, passing the very spot that I sat, almost as if taunting me.  I remember Garth Brooks, I Got Friends in Low Places, came on.  Ugh.  I wanted to dance.  As we talked, in the background I could hear the soft shuffling of boots on the dusty dance floor.  I remember feeling frustrated that night.  Not so much with the time I spent with him, but with the songs that came and went.  I felt awkward leaving him there each time I went to dance.  He explained that he couldn't two step well and I'm sure we joked about it.  I know I was bummed. 

 

Our night ended without one dance together.  I knew so much more about him, still thought he was a neat guy, and he was, looked fantastic in a cowboy hat and Wranglers,  but not one dance.  We parted ways  in the parking lot and I climbed into my girlfriend's car and we drove back to campus.  I thought about my night the whole way.  I knew that we would be friends, but that would probably be the last time we would go "dancing" together.  In my opinion, at that moment, life was too short not to dance.         

My Last First Date

My last first date was 21 years ago to the day...and almost to the time as I sit here and type. 


September 1, 1991 I was having a make-up first date with a guy I had been talking to over the summer and who I had known the spring semester of my freshman year.  I say "make-up" date because I was trying to make up to him for the fact that I had canceled on him the night before.  It had been bid day, August 31, 1991, and I had just pledged Tri Delta. My new "sisters" wanted to go out to celebrate.  It sounds bad, I know, but this was not a guy I thought I would be interested in beyond a friend to hang out with, so I didn't think it would be too bad to cancel and reschedule for a lunch the next day.  Beside, in my mind, a "lunch" was more for a friendship anyway, so it would work out great.



He picked me up from my dorm room and we drove in his white Escort to Rita's, a TexMex restaurant in College Station.  I still remember that I wore a white short set and he had on a pair of shorts and a polo.  I remember his car was hot, his air conditioning was broken and in the middle of the TX summer, it's kind of a big deal.  I kidded him that I might not hang out with him again, because I didn't like to sweat on dates.  He laughed and joked that he wasn't going to hang out with me again anyway so we were good.  We laughed.  It was just easy.  His radio was broken too so he had the Steve Miller band playing in his cassette...over and over and over.  I told him he was lucky I liked Steve Miller; he said I was lucky he liked me.  We laughed again. 


We talked from when he picked me up until he dropped me off.  It was not strange, I was not nervous, and there were no awkward pauses in our conversation.  He was a guy I already knew.  We had spoken all summer, shared information about our families, how we grew up, things we liked.  I already knew so much about him.  We talked as if we had been friends forever.  He was cute, but I seriously just liked him.  He was funny, interesting, and had a great quirk about him.  We joked with one another, laughed at the same things, and never once gave the other an inch.  It was fun.

When he took me back to my room, my new sisters were outside, so he and I parted ways without really any plans to see one another again, at least officially.  Walking away, my sisters asked who that was and commented on how cute he was.  I kind of shrugged, laughed it off, and told them he was just a friend, good guy, but just a friend. 


What I should have said was, "Oh, him?  He was my last first date."   

Numbered Days

"Oh.  Your days are numbered.  And it's all down hill from here."

A response to the question of "How old will you be on your birthday?"

Tomorrow, if the Lord is willing, I will turn 40 years old.  I was born on August 15, 1972.  Yes, I will say it again, 1972.  I will be 40.  Yes, I will tell you; I will be 40.

I will not be celebrating the 20th anniversary of my 20th birthday.  I will not tell you I am 39-ish.  I do not believe that 30 is the new 40.  40 is 40 is 40. 

Wow.  Sounds chipper right? 

To me it does.  I am looking forward to being 40.  I told my children this morning at breakfast, "I get to be 40."  And I mean it.  I am truly thankful for seeing 40 tomorrow. 

This has not always been my dream.  To be 40.  Of course I grew up hearing older women around me and their advice, "Don't ever ask a woman how old she is," "I am 40-ish,"  "You're only as young as you feel,"  and my personal favorite, "Amy, just don't ever get old."  Hmmm.  That's a hard one to stop.

You see, a couple of years ago, a great friend of mine died from a long battle with breast cancer.  She was my age with two small boys and a great husband.  Her death taught me one thing.  Growing old was never meant to be a bad thing.  Because the alternative, dying young, is not the better option.  I think of her so often, mostly because her picture is in my medicine cabinet.  We were both 29 in that picture with small boys, me with two and her with one, and a seemingly lifetime ahead of us.  We talked often about meeting up with our boys at Texas A&M to watch them in the Corps of Cadets.  We talked about their futures, who they would marry, and hopefully, one day be living close to one another.  We thought so much about our futures and the futures of our children.  Never once did we ever talk about, "What if we don't live that long."  Never crossed our minds.  It wasn't until my last phone call with her before her death that it really hit home.  She was dying.  She was not going to make it to the end of the year much less to the March Ins at Texas A&M.  She wouldn't see baseball games, progress reports, graduations, weddings.  She was going to miss out on the everyday stuff too, homework, parent teacher conferences, laundry, dinners, packing lunches. When I stand in crazy long lines at Walmart or while cleaning bathrooms or ironing...I think to myself...."She would love to be doing this."  And she would've. That phone conversation caused me to hang up and instantly see life from a new perspective.

Her death touched me deeply.  Her death got me thinking.  It changed me.  Because of her, I am more purposeful in my daily life. 

As I see it, if the Lord allows me to wake up tomorrow, I can live for the day and plan He has for me in each moment, or I can wish life away.  I can wish for simplier days or days of the future.  But if that is my focus, what will I miss in the moment.  How do I know what my tomorrow holds?  If I did, would it change my today?  I think that is the gift she gave me in her early departure from this life. 

Lord, make me to know my end

And what is the extent of my days

Let me know how transient I am 

Psalm 39:4     

You see, if I live each day thinking, Oh, if I were just back in college....oh, if my kiddos were a older....oh, I can't wait for school to start....I miss moments God doesn't want me to miss.  What will I miss that my kids will remember?

God knows my number of days.  He knew each of them long before there was one of them. 

Your eyes have seen my unformed substance

And in Your book were all written

The days that were ordained for me

When as yet there was not one of them.

Psalm 139:16

I believe with all of my heart my sweet friend had a perfect grasp of numbering her days.  She was given the opportunity to know the best guess of that number by her doctor.  She didn't want to know.  She wanted to live each day in the moment not looking forward to a day man was giving her.  She told me in that conversation that life had not stopped, boys still had to get to games, school was still going on, bellies had to be fed.  She did what she could, but said she did it savoring the "doing."  Living the thankfulness of the moment. 

Come now, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and spend a year there and engage in business and make a profit."  Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow.  You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.  Insead, you ought to say, If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that." 

James 4:13-15

She believed in God's goodness in allowing her to keep her days numbered.  To know that she would only be here for such a short time. 

The same needs to be true for me.  God doesn't want me living in the past or living with my eyes longing in the wrong way for the future.  My desire is to be in the here and now.  Enjoying the time I am given.  Savoring the moments.  Being thankful for my day and being thankful in my day. 

So teach us to number our days,

That we may present to you a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12

So tomorrow I turn 40. If the Lord allows.  Today I am thankful for 39. I am going to be thankful in my day.  Thankful for my sweet children.  Thankful that I found my one...and married him.  My desire is for each day I am given, that I realize how transient I am.  That I take each moment as a gift.  That I am thankful for each day given.  That I run my race well.  That I make this life here count.  That I remember to number my days.       

  

Built Bayou

Driving into Baton Rouge, I heard from the backseat,

Mommy, how do you know where you are going?

I know because I spent the first 18 years of my life "going" in Baton Rouge, the Bayou state of Louisiana.  Most people are surprised to know I am truly a Cajun and not a Texan.  I attended Texas A&M and married an East Texas boy and my only "flaw" in his eyes is the fact of my "home of record." So I let him claim me as a Texan.  But, Louisiana it is and it is a rare trip that I am able to make the 13 hour drive to visit.  I took advantage of a school in Alabama that Patrick had to attend last week and somehow used my charm to convince him to forgo the 45 minute flight to drive 7 hours halfway with us and free me up to only have 6 hours on my own. Made more sense the night I presented my idea then it does now typing.


Driving into Louisiana, I was so glad to be there.  The Bayou state.  Cajun food.   Zydeco music.  There was so much I wanted to do in such a short time.  I had a plan, an agenda.  There were restaurants I wanted to go to, a school store I had to stop by, and family I so needed to see. 

The O'Neal Lane exit took forever, but I made it and as I pulled off the interstate, it all came back.  I had driven down this road, upteen times and although it looked so different each visit, it was the same.  I rode past the intersection my sister and I got into a wreck in on a Friday afternoon, she in her Pantherette uniform and me in my cheerleading one.  I remember being put on a stretcher and riding the 2 minutes to the hospital.  I drove past the Burger King, now a Backyard Burger, that was my job for a year in high school.  I got sick on the Whopper line because of my disdain for mayo and was quickly promoted to cashier.  Seems throw up is an immediate qualification for order taking.  Turning into the neighborhood, I could picture the miles I rode on my rainbow bicycle up to the Cracker Barrel, now a SuperCuts, to play Pacman with my best friend, Angel.  I turned on to Bonham and honked and waved at Angel's Dad walking up the driveway to get his mail like he's done since I moved in at the age of 6.

My house.  16431 Bonham Ave.  My box of memories.  Oh, it looks so different now, but it's the same in so many ways.  It felt so good to be home.  This home is the start of good memories for me.  I started in a school I loved and my Mom was not in nursing school anymore trying to take care of two little girls on her own.  She was so excited to be in this new house, this same house I had pulled into the driveway with my children. She married my stepdad in this house and she was happy. We were happy.  She came to my school events.  For open house that year, I proudly showed her around my new classroom.  I had my own room in that house.  I got to pick the color on the wall and put as many stuffed animals on my bed as it could hold.  I can still remember the smell of baby powder when she would come to kiss me in every night.  Pulling up it felt good to be home. To not be the "Momma," but Amy, the 8 year old that zipped up my friend Angie into a beanbag and then got her hair stuck in the zipper.  The 6 year old that showed up to 1st grade with Miss Buford wearing green pants that Amy LeFeaux has never let me forget.  The 7 year old having sleepovers with Angel.  Playing Marco Polo in the backyard pool at night in the summer.  Learning to ride a bike and getting that purple banana seat rainbow bike for my birthday.  Listening to Michael Jackson's Beat It in my new Boom Box for my 11th birthday.  Crying long into the night when I didn't make Varsity Cheerleading my Sophomore year.  Studying for Mr. Moore's Biology class in my bedroom with Kirk Cameron on the walls.  Talking on the phone to too many people.  Dressing for dance recitals.  My Mom braiding my hair for Friday night football games.  All memories that built me.   

My visits now include trips to see my grandmothers.  Granny, my maternal grandmother who lives in a home, doesn't always remember me, and it makes me so sad.  She did remember our inside "God made ghetti too?!" story and it made her laugh.  And made me smile.  Then sad.  It's sad to know she is not there, not how I truly remember her.  She was good to me.  Always took me shopping for my birthday.  Played doctor office and grocery store with us during the summer days we stayed with her while Mom worked.  She could cook Creole like no one else and keep a house better than Merry Maids could ever dream.  As I fed her lunch, I teared up.  Full circle.  She once fed me and now, I am feeding her.  Part of who I am though is because of her.  We stopped by her house too.  I got to see my Pops.  The house was the same and I kept showing my children things from my childhood.  The stool  by the door I sat in and watched her cook.  The radio that looks like an old fashioned phone I played with.  The room I slept in when I spent the night.  The big backyard we would run through the hose in the summer.  The chalkboard I would leave messages on for them.  All memories.  Good ones.  Memories that built me.  Their Mom.  But once a little girl.

We visited my Grams.  My stepdad's mom.  The most welcoming and accepting woman I have ever known.  She looked the same to me, slower, but the same.  She became my Grams when my Mom remarried.  I remember asking her what I should call her.  I'm your Grams now.  So Grams it was and she never skipped a beat.  I was hers.  I was her granddaughter.  I spent many summer days with her too.  I swam in her pool.  She introduced me to The Sound of Music and To Sir With Love.  She would watch them as many times as we wanted.  She is the first one who cooked my famous Pizza Burgers.  They were famous long before I started handing out the recipe.  She was the most patient woman I had ever known and she loved her family.  With seven children to her name, her stories were legendary and her laugh, contagious.  I love my Grams.  She built a part of me.  A part of who I am.

Family came to visit.  My Aunt Kathy was there.  I knew she would be.  She will always be such a huge part of who I am.  I have so many wonderful memories of her.  She always seemed to be there when things were not good, smiling and ready to hug.  She took my Mom, Kelly, and I in for a short time after moving to Baton Rouge and it seems in my young memories, the beginning of good.  I remember things from New Orleans, but most are not things I wish I could remember.  But that time moving in with Aunt Kathy seems to be like a bookend to those.  I remember playing cards with her.  She taught me how to play Skip Bo.  Told me stories about kids going to "Night School."  Made me Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches.  Watched Andy Griffith with me.  Played the piano for me.  And loved me.  I had my first day of school walking a block from her house to Wedgewood.  She was waiting for me when I walked home.  I did homework at her table.  As I grew, she has always had a hug.  A sweet word.  She always made me feel she was proud of me.  She's a part of me.  She built a part of me. 

My best friend Angel came to visit.  I have told my children "Miss Angel" stories for years and she is legendary to them.  Lillie whispered when she walked in, "Is that the Miss Angel?  The one who rode backwards on your rainbow bike?"  That's the one.  She was the first friend I had in Baton Rouge.  I was coming off some really sad times in my 6 year old memory and she was a perfect fit.  Looking back God knew.  He knew I would need her then and how I would need her now.  I have the greatest memories with her.  I spent the night with her probably as much as I slept in my own house.  I often wonder if her Mom ever got tired of my body in her house.  It was one of the only families I remember that was in tact growing up and I loved being over there.  We loved baby dolls and Barbies.  We asked for the same things for Christmas.  We roller skated, rode bikes, and swam.  She knew every secret and she kept them.  I learned manners from her, how to make a bed, how to say yes ma'am, and shake out clothes putting them from the washer to the dryer.  I knew we would be friends forever.  We had a small season we lost the closeness and it was a time when I struggled with loyalty.  I hate this memory because it was completely my fault, but we reconnected before we both had our children.  I was able to tell her how sorry I was and how much I regretted losing our time together.  She forgave me.  She was one of the first people to show me true grace and forgiveness.  I think I love her for that more than anything else.  I use this memory to teach my children loyalty, what it means to be a friend, and what true forgiveness looks like.  Angel is a part of me.  She built a part of who I am. 

My time in Baton Rouge was precious.  I spent time with my family.  I got to talk with my Mom.  I forget until I am there how much a part of me the Bayou state is and the people who walked with me through my time there.  My memories from my childhood are definitely not all sweet.  We walked through some hard times.  But that house, that street were the start of good ones.  As the memories flooded in during my trip, I couldn't help but wonder, what decisions, what choices, if made differently would have changed my path?  And I am thankful for each and every one. Hard or not.    This place built part of who I am, part of who I will always be.  But I am here, back in Beaufort, SC with my Marine and four precious children because of the path that started back there.  God was using people and the place to build me to be exactly who I needed to be at each point in my life to get me here.  So I look back.  I have no regrets.  I am stronger for each memory and thankful that each day was ordained for me by the very One Who created me.  I can look at each person along my way and say, I was built by you for God's plan for me.  Built Bayou.  I like it.               

Fun Squeezer

I am not against having fun, truly I'm not.  I like to have fun as much as the rest of you.  I like organized fun.  Predictable fun.  Black and white fun.  Fun that is planned.  Fun that is logical. 

Not my man.  I married the fun squeezer.  He is fun even when there is not fun to be had.  He'll find it.  Because of my man, we are the family leaving Disney with four Mickey Mouse balloons, ice creams in the shape of ears, and pictures framed from Space Mountain.  We are the family leaving a ball game with cotton candy, ginormus number One foam fingers,  and faces painted.  He is the Dad with pockets-full of change for arcade games at the pizza place.  He is the Dad chasing down ice cream trucks.  He is the Dad running through sprinklers.  He is the Dad hiding behind doors to scare little girls.  He is the Dad wrestling with boys way after bedtime. Yes, we are that family.  I call him the Foam Finger Dad.  He has his foam finger in his back pocket and truly you never know when he'll pull it out.  When there is an ounce of fun to be had, he will squeeze out the very last drop of that ounce.  His fun is often times not logical, but it's fun.  His fun is definitely not predictable, but it's fun.  His fun is never organized, but it's fun.  His fun is fun driven.  It's not planned and often it's hard to do, but once it's happening...it's fun.  He's in the moment.  He is making memories.  He's wanting us to have fun.

He's made life fun.  For all of us.  He makes me smile when I am not the least bit excited.  He gets me on roller coasters I would never ride without him.  He makes me jump off of cliffs into bodies of water.  He makes me dive under waves that are way too big to be in.  He makes me get dirty when I just got clean.  He makes me a more daring Mom.  And when he's gone.  He's missed.  There is a noticable hole when he leaves.  In all of our years of separation, he has always left his foam finger at home for me to find.  He's made me a foam finger Mom in his absence because his fun squeezing is so missed and contagious.  He has made me a better Mom.  He has made me step out of my box. 

He's a great Dad.  He's all there when he's here.  And when he's not, he leaves us a part of him.  To enjoy life.  To squeeze the fun.  He's made me a closet fun squeezer.  He's unforgettable.  And I love him and the Dad he is. 

Happy Father's Day P.   

 

Teaching Cinderella

"Caley! Your turn." It's our morning routine. The boys get started on their own, I work with Lillie Grace, and round out the morning with Caley. I had just finished with Lil and had gotten her started on her own and now it was my baby's turn.

"Not Caley, Cinderella, Momma." In walked the cutest, curliest Cinderella complete with click-clicks, fashion accessories, crown, and purse.

"Why hello, Cinderella! So nice of you to join us this morning. It just so happens we are working on the first letter of your name...." and so it went. I taught a complete phonics lesson to Cinderella, reviewed skip counting by twos, and sent her on her way to the "cellar" to finish up some math.

When we started Kindergarten with Logan 8 years ago, I would have never allowed Cinderella at school time...and not for the simple fact that Logan would have never dressed up in girls' clothing...but because I was, at that point, too concerned with school "looking like school." We utilized our desk table most of the time, had plenty of "seat work," I even think I made him raise his hand that first year. Ridiculous, I know. I was so nervous taking on my child's education, even his Kindergarten one. I was so focused on the what and the how that I never even noticed the "him." It's not that Batman never showed up for school, I just never let him in. My thinking was that he needed to be serious about his learning and how can he be serious dressed up as a cowboy? I poured over scope and sequence, teacher curriculums, and milestones he should be meeting that I completely overlooked the fun, the imagination, and the joy. I grew quite a bit that first year of teaching Logan. I eased up quite a bit too, it was slow, but it happened. Toward the end of Kindergarten when a knight in shining armor (or plastic) showed up, I admired but quickly piled it up on the side for "after school." By the middle of first grade, an Aggie football player showed up. How could I make him take THAT off! Only the helmet was pushed to the side. By the time Cole was in Kindergarten, Batman reappeared and we read about fruit bats that day...with the mask still on. And by the end of that year, I was all about guessing as to which character I would face...with a smile. Since then I have taught Batman several times, a ballerina, a Marine pilot wannabe, Snow White, a Marine policeman, a little mommy and her set of triplets (whew, she had her hands full!), a fireman, Tinkerbell, an Indian, Minnie Mouse, and a host of other dress up characters. Recently I even had a camo ninja drop by. I have enjoyed my guests for school so much since that first meeting of Batman so many years ago. We have laughed, researched something new because of it, tried our best at changing our voices, and enjoyed a twist in our day.

School in our house never looks the same. People stop by, activities happen, plans change, and we adapt. But even when we have a full day at home, "school" never "looks" the same when visitors appear to learn. I love seeing their imagination and the fun being someone different brings. I am allowing them to still be kids. And the funny thing is, when their schoolwork demands they be more serious, they are no longer dressing up anyway. The days of Batman are long gone.

So today, instead of teaching Caley, I treasured teaching Cinderella.

Momentary Motherhood

"We interrupt this program...." Just as the man in the yellow hat was about to turn the doorknob to find out where all the bubbles in the hall were coming from....

"Ugh! Mom, Curious George is off!" my Lillie yelled as that ear piercing beeping filled the living room. "I don't like that sound!" "Mom!"

Her frustration was evident given Curious George is not often something we watch on school mornings. That morning was an exception because of phone calls that needed to be made before we got our school day underway. She was flustered on her one day to just sit and watch, her plans were interrupted. As she was asking the tv with her brain to will it to come back on, it suddenly did but missing the moments of the show taken up by the Emergency Broadcast System. Curious George and the man with the yellow hat were already cleaning up the mess. She missed it. Her plans ruined. Ruined by a moment. A moment filled with noise and interruption.

"Ugh! I missed that part."

I'm a lot like Lillie some days.

A few mornings later, thinking my teaching was done for the day, I hopped on the computer to check and respond to email that had been sitting in my inbox for days. I had been way behind on little things and I was hoping to use this time of quiet, children busy with work, to clear out that boxand maybe even sneak away to fb to see what others were doing. As I typed away, gathered notes, checked calendars, my little ones continued to need my help, a question about this, or help with that. With every tap on my arm, I could feel my frustration mount. I thought I had gotten them started in the right direction with school and I could work on my own agenda. I wanted them not to want me.

"Guys, can't y'all see I am in the middle of something? Please stop interrupting! I am not sitting on the couch with a magazine and coffee. Give. me. a. second." The frustration obvious in my voice, my plans interrupted.

It wasn't until a few short hours later, as I tumbled into my quiet time, late and in much need of encouragement, that was I convicted of my selfish, sinful desire for momentary motherhood.

Momentary: adj. Lasting only a moment (a very brief interval of time)

Motherhood: n. The condition of being a mother

Defeated, I thought back through the course of my day. I talked on the phone with a good friend while I nodded and pointed to children as they came down from upstairs, fixed and served breakfast all using hand signals and "looks". I had wanted so badly to catch up with her and was so frustrated that my kids needed me, had questions for me, wanted lovin', even though I knew very well that they would even as I dialed her number. I should have greeted them as I usually do with hugs and kisses to start our day, breakfast underway, we usually walk through our AWANA verses or share tidbits from Proberbs, we go over our schedule for the day and I have them look ahead to things that need to get done. Chores are done, dishes cleaned, laundry started, and our school day begins. I didn't want all of that in that moment. I wanted my moment. I thought about wanting to check email that morning as I had one needing help with reducing fractions. The neighbor that stopped by to chit chat as my littlest one needed me in the bathroom. And the list went on. A day full of moments. Moments that could have been better tackled with my head in the game so to speak. I was distracted by my wants, my selfish desires, my view of what I wanted my day to be filled with. I was trying to force my motherhood into moments with the rest focused on me. As I took my focus off of what God had called me to do that morning, I was forcing my job into moments; a job that can't and shouldn't be forced into moments. God has called me into the job of motherhood and that job is seamless, each moment flowing into another so as to make up my days. It's when I force the seams, when my view is interrupted by God's view...I am annoyed, I am frustrated.

Deuterononmy 6:6-7 (NIV) These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.

God's plan for me is to be focused, my job is to be seamless. It is not made up of small moments, but rather those moments make up my job. He tells me they will need me, they will ask me and I am to be ready for them because I am viewing my job as one that doesn't end as each little moment ends.

I was crushed by how quickly I had allowed myself to lose my purpose that day, God's plan for my day, my weeks, my years. I didn't want the lying down and the walking by the way and the getting up. I wanted a moment here or a moment there, the brief intervals of time. I didn't want the constant distractions. Not that day. In that moment, I realized, they aren't distractions when I am focused on what God has called me to do. They are more simply my moments, certain important points in time that make up the whole of my day.

I saw it this past week while the schools had off. How many mothers posted, "I can't wait for this week to be over!" or "I hate early dismisal!" or "Are anyone else's kids driving them crazy?!" They had the same focus as I did. Momentary motherhood. Living life hoping motherhood only has to come in small, short moments. The idea that we can be mothers for only small moments and still have our own lives, our own purposes apart from them. That's when I find no joy in motherhood, when my focus is on me and my purpose is for me. They are distractions. They are annoying. They bug me.

Someone told me once that raising children was like being pecked to death by a gaggle of baby geese. I laughed at the word picture...then. Probably because my focus was off that day. Had my focus been where God would have it to be, that word picture would not have rung so true. Raising children is a gift, a reward. That's what He says. Being pecked to death by a gaggle of baby geese would not be considered a gift, a reward. Not the way I am walking today thankfully.

My job is not to simply raise my children in short, simple moments, but to walk through this life with them with a focus on Eternity, seeing them on the other side of heaven. My two greatest focuses should be loving my man and loving my children (Titus 2:3). When my focus is there and not on "doing lunch," catching up, facebooking, shopping, chit chatting, or even blogging....I see my days as God sees them, moments making up life and not as life interrupted by moments, momentary motherhood.