Kristen is originally an Oklahoma girl but has traveled far and wide with her Air Force husband of 15 years. Kristen and David have 3 precious young’uns, twin sons (age 10) and a daughter (age 7). She is a forever work-in-progress whose current refining location is Colorado. She and 3 dear friends write to encourage at Moms Sharpening Moms.

At two, major separation anxiety had this boy clinging to my leg and crying as I dropped him off in the nursery or childcare room. I had to psychologically gear myself up to attend a MOPS meeting or Mother’s Day Out because I knew the first few minutes would be an ordeal. He would cry because he wanted Mama and no one else would do.

Now I’m the one fighting separation anxiety. While I love the freedom that comes with older children, I sometimes miss their unabashed ways of love-display that came from their preschool little bodies. Oh, I do not miss the crying fits. What I do miss is their bright and blazing way of showing love, like running full tilt and knocking me down with squealing hugs. Or, curling up all snuggly in my lap.

This tall 10 year old can’t fit in my lap.

I am striving to stop neck pain that comes from persistently looking backwards and enjoy my children in the here and now. What I have discovered are many moments – gifts from my Daddy – that show me this child’s love is as real and present as it was when he was very little. The difference is these moments sneak in more subtly. Moments like:

Leaning his head on my shoulder.

Sidling up to me while movie watching.

Asking me what I think about his new Lego creation.

Singing along with me to the car radio.

These love gestures are so small that I may have missed them had I not been looking.

The hallmark of these child-rearing years seems to be tension. Tension from children as they balance drawing close and pulling away. Tension from this Mama who balances her job of embracing cuddly close while encouraging (appropriate) independence.

I wonder if Jesus aches over this tension, too. Balancing our free will with His desire for us to want His presence. It is such a comfort to think that whatever I am feeling, He gets me. He’s been there, done that.

Those of you with young’uns beyond the preschool stage, what love gestures do your children show? Am I the only Mama who thinks they are few and far between ’til I take the time to see them?

They have always been buddies, but as we approach first grade this week, they seem to have grown into more. They are connected, these two. They are connected in ways I am understanding less about, but appreciating more. I have of course always been thankful for them, but the feel of this thankfulness changes as they grow. As those long restless nights of nursing two at once have faded fuzzy, I have a growing respect for the gift of twins, for the beauty of two girls at one time and what it will mean for them for a lifetime. I take great comfort in knowing they will always have each other.

Is there a gift that has slowly changed form over time? Are there small, subtle gifts in your hands even now? The guidelines for Tuesdays Unwrapped are here. In summary, link up with the permalink to your unwrapped post, or your link will be deleted. I would also ask, as a courtesy, that you would please link back here to Chatting at the Sky by either using the button or a text link somewhere in your post. Thank you.

He is the youngest of three, two big sisters ahead of him. My sister has three boys and always told me There’s just something about boys. I couldn’t imagine what she meant before he came along. Now, I find myself repeating her words in my heart. And I can’t think of a better way to say it. There is indeed just something about boys. If you have boys and know what that something is, feel free to share in the comments.

shared with I Should Be Folding Laundry’s You Capture :: summer.

Stacy is a wife and mama who loves the Word of God and connecting with women. She and her husband, Mike, have served with Campus Crusade for Christ for the past 17 years. They have four girls, ages 8 months to 10 years. In her own words: “Most days, I try to teach them a thing or two about having a Biblical worldview, math, and language.  Everyday, they teach me how to grow in grace, patience, and dependence on the Lord!” You can learn more about Stacy by visiting her at 29 Lincoln Avenue.

It has happened again. We are late. I yell up the stairs to her as if my barking will make her move faster.  Waiting on her I assemble all the necessary items.  She takes her place in front of me and I begin once again to pull her hair up into its required ballet form. Brushing and pulling, I work quickly.  I reach over with my foot and pull the stool to myself.  I step onto it so that I can rise above her to finish the job.

And I stop in the middle of the most beautiful bun I have ever made and I wonder: When did this happen?  How is it that she is tall enough that I’m the one needing the step? All at once I see her in the mirror. The room seems to be spinning but I am only seeing her. She is 3, 7, and 10 all at the same time. What happens when the step is not enough for me?  What happens on that day when she is more than me?

“Mom!” She calls me back to the moment and hands me a hairpin.  I smooth her hair, kiss her head, and step down.  I look into her face and we see nearly eye to eye.  She has her daddy’s baby blues and eyelashes worthy of a mascara commercial.  She is beautiful.

“Grab your bag and let’s go.” I watch her exit, half dancing, half running, and I smile.

So many minutes I have spent with her that seemed to drag on (nursing, potty training, listening, making peanut butter sandwiches).  But the years have flown by faster than I could have imagined.  I am well aware that my time with her is half dancing, half running away.

She will be more than me. Isn’t that the point of parenthood?  I want to send her into the great big world to live bigger than I have.  I know that if I am going to continue to mold her that I will myself need to be daily shaped by the Lord.  I can’t pour into her what I don’t have.  This drives me hard to His side.

My prayer for her is that she will listen for God’s voice every day, love Him with her whole heart, and hold fast to Him all the days of her life (Deuteronomy 30:20). He has big plans for her.  I just know it.   I’m honored I get to see it unfold. The view from the step stool is pretty amazing if I do say so myself.

As a mom who doesn’t need a step stool yet, I am thankful for this reminder to remember to enjoy. Take a moment to say hello to Stacy either in the comments here or at her place, 29 Lincoln Avenue. I love her blog name and header photo! Makes me want to stay a while. . .

He has never been taught how to love something. I have never had a logical conversation with him, teaching him what it means to adore a hero. He does that all by himself. Because he was created to worship. And so were you. I don’t care who you are or what you believe, you worship something. You may not call it that and you may not even recognize it, but the need to ascribe worth to something (or Someone?) is innate. Don’t you think?

Dayle Allen Shockley is an award-winning writer in Houston, and the author of three books. She has contributed to many other works, including multiple Chicken Soup titles. To learn more about Dayle, visit her website or her blog, A Little of This and That. This story is adapted from her book, Silver Linings.

My daughter turned nine in what I call the summer of my bleeding heart. It all started when her cousin, Leslie, mentioned the two of them going to summer camp. Anna Marie was ecstatic. I, on the other hand, terrified.

I asked my husband what he thought.

“Absolutely not!” he fairly thundered. “She’s too young.”

But parents aren’t always as firm as their voices. After much pondering, amid pleas from the girls, we capitulated.

As the day of departure approached, I couldn’t stop thinking about my child spending a week without me. Would she remember to bathe? Who would come her hair? What if she cried for me at night?

Despite such tormenting questions, several weeks later found me and my sister  driving our daughters to the place of surrender. Upon arrival, maternal terror washed over me like a tidal wave as I observed a sea of youngsters swarming in every direction, looking as I feared my child would, as soon as I was out of sight. Hair disheveled; clothes rumpled; hard candy hanging out of their mouths. Lost and without hope. It was all I could do to keep driving, but the campers in the backseat had ants in their pants.

By mid-afternoon, we stood inside a dormitory, staring at rows of metal bunk beds and stark concrete floors. I couldn’t imagine leaving my child—my baby—here for one minute, let alone for a week. I considered grabbing her and running, but it was too late. She and Leslie now stood beaming beside the bunk they had chosen as “theirs.” Could we please unload the luggage?

Exchanging horrified glances, Gayle and I stumbled outside and returned with  suitcases. As I spread sheets across a puny mattress, I decided to offer my umpteenth lecture concerning housekeeping and oral hygiene.

While I rattled off a list of ingenious tips, Anna Marie’s eyes remained on my face, but she appeared to be in a trance. “Are you listening, sweetie?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Mama, I know you’re worried about me and everything, but—are you finished?”

I wasn’t, but just then a dorm monitor announced that teams were being formed for a volleyball game—commencing in thirty minutes. Anyone interested, please form a line.

Like calves out of stalls, the girls bolted forward and were assigned to a team. It appeared to be our cue to leave.

“OK, girls,” my sister said, as faint as I felt. “I guess this is goodbye for us.”

That’s when my child’s face wilted. “But I’m fixing to play volleyball, Mommy,” she said. “Can’t you stay and watch me?”

Upon hearing her call me “Mommy,” I was renewed. Maybe this was a sign she still needed me. Of course, we’d stay.

The volleyball game ended quickly. My little camper was among the losers, but didn’t seem to notice. She dashed over to where I stood, her face flushed.

“Mommy’s got to go, sweetheart. We’ve got a long drive home.” I hoped for a bear hug, but she only nodded and smiled. Kissing the top of her head, I said, “Bye, angel. I love you.”

Watching the girls sprint toward the line forming in front of the cafeteria, Gayle and I let out a collective sigh. My heart hurt.

As we drove away, I circled the grounds, unable to resist a final look. When I spotted them, they were side-by-side, discussing whatever nine-year-olds discuss on such occasions, their faces anxious and eager. It was almost unbearable to look at them standing there, because I knew they would never be that small again, because of the way they were growing up, right in front of my eyes.

I gave a long blast on the horn. When they finally saw me, I waved frantically out the window. Timidly, Anna Marie waved back. And, ironically, I was filled with an intense pride that she was able to stand there—without me.

The thought of leaving my babies at camp is terrifying. But I also know when those letting go times come, knowing they are ready makes it easier. Dayle, thanks for this beautiful perspective. It is certainly encouraging to those of us coming on the road behind you. This post nicely rounds out some of my thoughts this week on mothering and living in the moments this day has to offer. If you have a moment, please visit Dayle’s place and say hello at A Little of This and That.

But not really.

Being a sentimental sap means I take photos to remember and I record to relive. In fact, we do it here together on Tuesdays. But I have to be careful.

Sometimes enjoying this moment skirts dangerously close to longing for the days that were before. My feeler gets the best of me and I am swallowed up in a sea of sentiment until it feels as though I might drown in the sorrow of life moving on. That sorrow, though evidence of a tender heart, is able to steal the moments of this day, the ones the Lord has made. To embrace the day I have rather than long for those other days is one of the most difficult challenges of my mother heart. Remembering the then threatens to overwhelm my now with a swirly mix of sentiment and regret. I didn’t hold them enough, enjoy them enough, pray enough.

We are given this day to live and breathe and move around in. Grace is lavished. Mercy overwhelms. Love holds us together. Today.

Is there a gift waiting in a quiet place? Is there a moment you would like to unwrap here with us? The guidelines for Tuesdays Unwrapped are here. In summary, link up with the permalink to your unwrapped post, or your link will be deleted. I would also ask, as a courtesy, that you would please link back here to Chatting at the Sky by either using the button or a text link somewhere in your post. Thank you.

Don’t ever forget what life was like with three little ones in preschool. I know your tendency to remember only the pink fuzzy sweet, but also I want to remind you of the fighting and the reasons why the laundry didn’t get done. Because every time you entered the laundry room, someone fell and needed you. Or the twins started to fight. Or someone had to teetee.

Speaking of teetee, when a young mom tells you that she doesn’t hardly have time to use the bathroom, believe her. And when you see her at the grocery store or at Target and you notice her balancing three kids, 2 gallons of milk and a life’s supply of diapers, go to her and smile at her and tell her you think she’s doing a good job. And when she starts to cry, tell her that even though you miss those days, you also remember how hard they were. And send many blessings her way.

And for those young moms who you know in your church? Or for your girls who have babies of their own now?Don’t wait for them to call you and ask for your help. Call her and offer to come Thursday between 2 and 4. And bring her coffee.

Love, Your Younger, Less Showered Self

This post was never published, though I’m not sure why. I wrote it nearly 2 years ago and just found it in my drafts folder. My kids are already past the diapers and the needing-help-to-tee-tee stage. It has helped me to remember how quickly these days pass. . . and maybe to offer encouragement to those who are still in the midst of them. Because even though it’s true that the years are short, sometimes it’s nice for someone to acknowledge those long days the years are made of.

The rain continued to fall and I read on, entering into a narrative world of grief with small glimpses of hope mixed in. An hour passed, then two. I craved the quiet last night. I wanted the time to read and listen and hear. As rain echoed against windows and doors, I found myself thankful.

Lately I have tended to turn on the TV when I clock out of duty, my mindless escape from thought and responsibility. But the noise of it has become like a party goer with poor people skills, carrying on and on and never noticing if you are bored or angry or hurt or sad. He just keeps on talking and laughing and making his colorful noise. The life of the party. The look-at-me guest. I was happy to keep that guest from my living room last night.

Is it hard for you to find the time for quiet?