My boy.

Isaac is looking more and more like Jim every day. It's kind of spooky, really. In spite of their obvious physical similarities, there is no doubt that the boy is mine. Sometimes it's endearing. Like when he says things like, "Mama, sometimes I just like to listen to MPR so I know what's going on in Minnesota." Or, "Mama, I can sound exactly like pretty much every singer we hear on the radio." Those are pretty obvious indicators that the boy is mine and I like it.

Then there are times our similarities stare me down and I have to face my character flaws face to face, in the flesh. "Hello, perfectionism, pleased to meet you. Hello, fear of failure, how are you doing today?" Things I can brush aside in myself look me in the eye and I have to see that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree in both good and bad ways. And it's daunting and scary and overwhelming to want your kid to be so much more than you are. So much freer and able to handle criticism and flexible and able to learn from mistakes without throwing a hissy fit first because making mistakes sucks. Our hissy fits may look different since I'm a grown up and he's 7, but they are hissy fits nonetheless. Not very becoming for either of us, actually.

But I see it in him and I love him anyway. We talk about things that upset him and work on ways to handle it and I see that if it's okay in him, then it must be okay in me, and it's a form of free therapy that I hate because it means my kid is hurting a little bit and frustrated a whole lot. But he grows and I grow. And we learn that failure isn't an ending; it's just a new beginning and a chance to try something different to get a better ending.

Here's to Isaac and his mama. Growing and making mistakes and learning. Every day, whether we like it or not.

lost in translation

Christmas songs gone wild.
"Is Mark the Herod Angels Sing about King Herod?"
-Elliot

beddy-bye, freddy-fry

It was dark. Betsy-Tacy had been read. Audrey was cuddled under her comforter, clutching her snuggle blanket. I was lying next to her, running my fingers through her hair as we wound down the lazy road to sleep. I was just about to start singing her lullabies when she said, "Do you see my biggest smile?" I looked at her in the dark, her nightlight barely casting enough light, but, sure enough, there was a smile to rival all smiles. "Yes," I replied. "Why are you smiling so big?" "Because I love snuggling with you like this." I sighed my biggest, happiest sigh and said how much I love snuggling with her, too. We proceeded with songs and hugs and prayers and whispers and assurances that we'd see each other at 7 the next morning.

Bedtime. A beautiful time of day here at casa vanWestrienen. Life is winding down. Books are waiting expectantly on nightstands or in the pockets of gliders. Kids are all comfy and cozy. Days past are waiting to be discussed and digested and new days are ready to be planned. I (almost always) love the days I spend with my kids. We make memories and play rowdy and sing loudly and read quietly and color carefully and try to make our days beautiful. But at bedtime I get to snuggle quietly with each kid individually. We get to talk about our favorite parts of the day, sing songs I've sung every night since the kids were born, pray for people we love, and lose ourselves in the imaginary worlds of books. There are no interruptions, no to do lists, nowhere to go. Just me and my snuggle bunnies.

"It's a hard, sad time when I don't see you."
I was singing Elliot his lullabies tonight when he interrupted his first song to break my heart with this one little sentence. I asked him what he meant. "When it's nighttime Isaac sleeps and Audrey sleeps, but I just keep my eyes open."
Well, I know that isn't true because his monitor tells me otherwise, but his sentiment is sweet. That boy, he loves him some mama.







He would prefer I was always home, ready to pick him up when his legs get tired, kiss his boo-boos when he falls down, tuck him in and sing to him and read his books. When I do go out, running or to church or to a meeting, I return to Elliot's huge hugs and a squeal and I feel his love right in my gut, like a warm hug on my soul.
This sweet, sweet boy is music to my life.