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My days lately have looked a lot like limping. And thinking about all the organizing and packing I should be doing but can’t …do to the limp. Yesterday I rediscovered my favorite pair of wedge shoes (from Payless) and limped-no-more. But still, it’s hard to organize and clean in wedge shoes. So I sat, and read my new Kindle, and beckoned the children to fetch me a heating pad.

As I sat in some kind of important meeting on Monday I noticed a VP staring at my foot, covered in three or seven days of bandage residue and Vaseline along with leaky bandages and unpainted toe nails (which you could see of course due to the wedge). I decided last night to give the feet a good scrub, so I soaked my feet in Julia’s bath while she repeatedly inquired “Are you going to get blood in my bath!?! Are you going to get BLOOD in my bath Mama!?!” It took some seriously painful scrubbing but I think my mother would be pleased that I am once-again semi-presentable.

At the grocery store, where we dined on a delicious dinner of everyone’s liking of whatever-you-please-so-long-as-Hy-Vee-is-cooking-it, I reminded the girls that “Mommy needs butterfly band aids, don’t let me forget.” They were sorely disappointed to learn what butterfly band aids actually are – which is to say they are a marvel of modern medicine that hold together wounds of 22-stitches in length so the choppery can heal in record time – with nary a butterfly in sight.

We leave for Baltimore in a month or less. Sometimes I get a panicked feeling thinking about all I need to do, people I need to see, house I need to weed out before we leave – and then I remember that I just downed a frappucino during a rush-hour drive to Cubeville and the panic has nothing to do with Baltimore. I am looking forward to the adventure, but mostly not looking forward to saying good-bye to anyone. Even though it’s only for a while it’s still going to be ouchy in a choppery-ouchy kind of way, maybe I’ll limp for a while afterwards, and complain, that seemed to help with the foot.

On becoming a Mom…

It was a cool November morning when I became a mom. I suppose it really had happened nine months earlier, when my heart nearly lept from my chest as the test turned pink, or was it blue? When I walked out of the bathroom and met my husbands eyes with "YES" "YES!" YES!!!" "We're having a baby!"

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15 weeks along I knew I was a mom, aching for her health, when the doctor said I wasn't measuring correctly and took me right away for a sonogram. I was her mom, so proud of my little girl when all proved to be well as a grainy figure floated on the screen in a dark room… my belly exposed and covered in sticky cold goo hiccuping with giggles as I watched in amazement. My petite baby girl, looking like a beautiful little peanut.

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But in the early morning hours when we met face-to-face that sweet November day, that is when I saw the mouth that would say "Mama", the eyes that would cry when I wasn't close, the hands that would hold mine, the hair I would brush, the toes I would tickle, the nose I would wipe. I became a mom.

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In the cocoon called pregnancy, as my motherhood wings were forming, it became apparent I was surrendering much to this new vocation. My body, most obviously, was now scarred and forever changed. The younger, less saggy, less leaky, firmer me was morphed and changed into a mother. However, after I broke free of my cocoon it was suddenly very obvious that much more than an outward shell had been forever surrendered and changed.

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I was now the most important person in the world to a very tiny, helpless creature. I suppose that before motherhood I had lived as though I was the most important person in the world, at least a little… but to truly be the critical life giving and sustaining m-o-t-h-e-r… I was overcome with the burden on my shoulders and I spent many hours crying under the unexpected weight.

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Suddenly I was expected to wake when demanded, with screaming no less. Never before had I had poop and vomit on everything I owned, bedsheets and hair included. A phone call was no longer simple, for when would I ever find the time? How could I ever shower without peaking out ten times to holler for an update on her status? And would my body ever be my own again?

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When I became a mother the growing pains of my own ego surrendering to my inadequacy, my need for control surrendering to my helplessness, and my self-importance surrending to a child who didn't care if I was a rock star or the struggling mom that I truly was, all thrust me into a crucible of transformation. Surrendering in this way takes time. A lifetime really.

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I am a mother, and at the same time becoming a mother every day. When she rolled over and mobility presented a whole new array of issues I stretched my motherhood wings a little more. When she took her first steps, I stretched. When she spoke, I stretched, when she misspoke, and spoke back I stretched more. When we walked into preschool, I stretched. When I felt a tug in my heart that she did not belong in that preschool, and responded with yet another search of local options and time-off work to apply and call and think and ask and pray, I stretched.

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As I sit in this stew that is "what to do about Kindergarten"? I stretch.

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Motherhood is a lifetime of stretching beautiful wings that were formed in the cocoon of pregnancy (or for the mother who has adopted, these wings are also formed in the longing and waiting and anticipation and prayer of the search for her beautiful child as well). We've all got them, these wings.

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To hurry a mother along in her stretching is unhealthy. To be a caterpillar, not yet transformed, and yet think you already know how to fly is unfair. To encourage and love and walk along side one another as we all stretch at our own pace is the only way to take this journey. No one understands this unless they themselves have stretched, a little or a lot.

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I look to others who are stretching for guidance. I look to moms who have stretched much further for much longer than I have. I hope to encourage new moms, too, to show them that the stretching is naturally uncomfortable but that is normal, and we all do it - and that it all turns out ok. I look to the One who is stretched for us beyond our comprehension, who stretched to the point of sacrificing a child in order to make right all those things that will make our stretching hurt so much.

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This week, as we reflect on our own mothers and the many mothers in our lives, I wish you much stretching at a pace set by the One who calls each of us to a vocation of service and love for one another.

6 a.m. seems cruel and early as the rain falls outside my window. The night was cut short by an imagined - yet very mean - monkey. Julia could not sleep with this mean monkey lurking in her imagination, so we were not allowed the privledge either. Thankfully this monkey is unable to operate a simple door-knob so she was very satisfied when we finally shut the bedroom door and were able to drift back into dreamland.

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My dreams were no help, though the mean monkey thankfully did not make an appearance. My latest dream theme has been about finding my way around a large confusing building similar to a 70s dorm or my old Junior High School. I don't fit in with the strange crowd that also wanders the hall, and it is always dark, not like I'm blind dark, just dusk dark. Confused? Me too.

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I wake up late because the little snooze button on the side of my cell phone keeps nudging its way toward my willing finger. Makeup and hair (pony tail) go on quickly and soon I am blasting NPR and making my way to the cube.

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Ten hours, two tweets, one great lunch with a sweet friend, and plenty of spreadsheet fun later and I'm heading home. The handsome one lets me defrag into his ear for the majority of my rainy drive. And at last I am home.

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No sign of the monkey as I slip into jeans, and curse the day dress pants were invented. Everytime I slip them off I swear they're never going back on, but then Monday and its cruel dress code seem to mock me soon enough.

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I head to the in-laws to pick up the girls from a day of fun with Grandma. We cuddle and eat and wrestle and laugh. I exhale a long, slow no-more-work breath and think about how I am going to go to bed early tonight ...after I blog of course.

We were enjoying Day 3 of our Four-Day-Fall-Family-Adventure. My little brother was lamenting his school's decision to implement a business-casual dress code and decided that he would hit up JC Penny to boost his wardrobe of jeans and t's to the more classy khaki and polo. I was contemplating the ridiculousness of dress codes, maybe its my generation but I would prefer a uniform to a dress code personally. That is unless the dress code was elastic pants at all times, in which case I might go for that.

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The girls were pleased-as-punch to forgo Pennys and climb all over the foam play structures, which surely have a better name than that but I am coming up short at the moment. The space was walled in on three-and-a-half sides to keep the kidnappers away of course, so I sat on one of the perimeter benches and observed.

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Carolyn immediately removed her shoes and ran to the nearest climbing apparatus without batting an eye. She climbed triumphantly from oddly-shaped piece to oddly-shaped piece all the while observing other children with a little wonder, a little caution and a lot of friendly smiles. After a few minutes she approached a taller foamy-thing that had not yet been summited by any of the other children. She was motivated and her mad-monkey-climbing skills were more than ample to get her to the top lickity split. She stood triumphantly on the top with hands outstretched like a rock star, but after no one cheered she shimmied down to the next obstacle. Upon seeing that she had, in short-order, defeated all heights and tunnels she moved on to her second favorite thing...people. I watched in amazement as she approached a group of little girls, some obviously older than her, or taller at least. She walked right up and said with complete confidence, "Hi, can we be friends!?!" The girls nodded in approval and she turned to run as they followed her around the foamy-friendly-structures. One could hardly imagine this child's mother ducks behind the aisles when she sees a potential, former, or current friend at the grocery store. I had to wonder where she got her friendly-skills?

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And then there was Julia, much less friendly and much more timid. Every twenty-seconds or so our eyes would meet as she anxiously combed the sidelines for sight of her Mama. I would smile to try and encourage her, and she would seem satisfied, at least for another 18 seconds or so. Every now and then she would run over to my lap, lean against my legs as though this was how her battery was recharged, and ask "What should I climb next!?!" I would make suggestions but the darned play-pin-of-a-space was only equipped with about four foamy-features and she quickly was hearing repeats until I finally said, "What would you like to climb?" Her mouth just curled up to one side in apparent contemplation but her eyes seemed to say, "Look lady, I know I'm supposed to be a kid-and-all and enjoy this crap, but its germ-covered foam shaped like who-knows-what...what is fun about this, and how much longer do I have to fake enjoyment?" I offered my lap as a concession given that her sister was still in the throws of complete enjoyment, but she declined reluctantly.

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At one point Carolyn hollered out her sister's name just to make sure the three-and-a-half walls had indeed kept the kidnappers at bay, and when she was assured that it had, she went right on with her new-found companions. Finally Christopher emerged from Pennys empty-handed and decided Walmart would really be where it's at.

Attempt Two:

Sometimes I solitude. Sometimes I get away from my husband and children and job and house and interweb. Sometimes I don't talk for hours with only a journal and pen as my companions. Sometimes I go far from home where the surroundings are unfamiliar and quiet.

Today I brought M&Ms and pretzels. I stayed in a small conference room with an endless supply of sweet tea while the other forty retreat-attenders set out for the gardens, the great outdoors, the wind, the chill, the uncomfortable ground. I turned up the CD of nature sounds being piped through the PA system, birds chirped at me from the comfortable 71-degree man-made space and I felt 'still'.

Nature really isn't my 'thing'. Nothing against it of course, I think it's lovely to look at, but it rarely tugs at my soul in the way I hear other people say. Not that a conference room tugs at my soul either. I surprised a fellow-retreat-attender when I said I hadn't gone to the gardens, "Really" she said surprised, "I had you pegged as an outdoors girl, like a nature lover." Could it be the ponytail, poorly fitting clothes and pitiful makeup application I wondered - surely not.

In the stillness of the conference room I poured over Luke 12, an odd choice and not-at-all random, rather a very directed study about the 'Do Not Worry' section. I renamed it "Anxiety is Futile" - did I mention I want to see the new Star Trek movie [nerd alert], perhaps an overlap in consiousness there. I took notes of my thoughts, and spent a lot of time with my head turned up and to the left in deep thought, similar to the way my dad does but with about half the brain power as my dad.

I came away with some challenging thoughts on my mind, still wanting for more quiet time to think and pray. Thoughts about anxiety, thoughts about what 'God's kingdom' really is, and the question - is 'earth' the opposite of 'heaven' or is 'hell' and what are the implications of such a pronouncement of one or the other? 

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I spent the day in my cube. My brain (right side or left I am unsure) was crunching numbers, leaving the other side bored and wanting for excitement. Enter NPR Book Tour. I listened to a countless parade of intriguing (and some not so much) authors reading from their latest books and discussing plot development, inspiration and the like. It got me thinking. Being an author, maybe just on the side, would be an awesome gig. And then I heard a memoirst and realized that is what I should do...you know, cause I've got so much memoir material crowding this number crunching (ha). Perhaps I shall just dabble here-and-there with my blog, supposing that's not what I already do.

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Attempt 1:

When she was fresh from the womb, even just days old, I looked forward to the evenings and the ritual bath. It represented closure, I had defeated the lazy clock and at last completed another day of motherhood. In the overwhelming first weeks of breastfeeding (or breast-chewing for Carolyn), recovering from delivering life into the world, and realizing my own life was over as far as I had known it to that point, the clock was an obsession. Go faster, tick-tock-tick-tock, come on, maybe this ones broken, nope. Will she ever grow!?! Open your eyes and recite the alphabet, say 'mama', do something.

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At some instant along my motherhood journey the clock finally agreed to my pleas and sped up with such intensity I fear it may now be unstoppable. I stare at the girls giggling in the back seat carrying on conversations of complete sentences, the alphabet having been recited years ago, and I realize that the clock continues to be my enemy. Slow down, tick-tock-tick-tock, please go slower, nope. Why are they growing so quickly!?! Curl up in my arms again, say 'mommy' forever, never grow up.

And now as the sun sets on another one of the precious few days of my daughters' childhood I dread the bath. It represents dirt, sweat, tears being washed away with another day never to be seen again.  The legs that once curled up tight against the cool evening air now stretch a good portion of the tub's length. The toenails, once just slivers on tiny toes, are painted pink or red or purple or all of the above and dance along to the singing of 'Honey Honey' or 'Jesus Love Me'. We no longer turn down the lights and play soft music as we gently pour warm water over a soft newborn head - now its 'look up!...look up! stop screaming, the neighbors will call the police! Just look up! I have to rinse your hair!' 

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Two bare bottoms race from the bathroom and melt in hysterics onto our bed, wriggling beneath princess bath towels and shaggy wet hair. Nightgowns slip over their heads, gone are the footed sleepers with confounding snap-crotches. Once dressed and properly combed they race to their bedroom to make a book selection - then hop into bed. Even the books seem to go fast these days. I try to take it slow, convince the girls we must know what happens in the next chapter and go for another fifteen pages. It is to no avail, at last I must give kisses and hugs, say prayers and goodnights. The clock has won again.