Every day, Mirabella prays variations of the same prayer.  “Please help Aunt Nae see her mommy again,” she says.  

Last night, as I knelt by her bed, I said, “Honey, Aunt Nae’s mommy is in heaven.  She is not going to see her any time soon.”

Not surprisingly, I wasn’t ready for what followed.  Her bottom lip stuck out and her eyes welled up.  I explained that Aunt Nae’s mommy is not sad; her body is perfect now, not broken like it was before.  She is with her husband and friends, she can see and dance and sing; she is happy.

“But how come the person who goes to heaven isn’t sad, but the other people, the people who are missing them, are sad?”  She said.  It was a great question.  That I couldn’t answer.

“I’m going to die one day, right Mommy?”  She asked, clear-eyed.  I cringed and told her she would, hopefully many, many years from now.  I take pride in being honest with my children, but there are times when I question that choice.

“When we get to heaven, will we see God?” She asked, wanting to know what he might look like.

“What do you think, honey?”  I asked. 

“I think He might be sort of a girl.  And I think He has brown skin.  And white or black clothes.  And He is bigger than a giant.  Does God ever sleep?”  She asked.

“No.  He never does,” I said.

“But then doesn’t He get tired?”  She asked.  She cried for her loved one who lost a mommy.  She cried for questions with hard answers, or no answers at all.

I sang to her and rocked her and hid my own tears.  It was among the first times she cried because she was sad and scared. And all I could do was hold her.

“How can I think of anything else, Mommy?” She asked.  I sang “My favorite things” and asked her to think of some of her favorite things.

“Well, my favorite things are flowers and lots of snow hills…and YOU!  My family!” She burst into tears.  And, I’m not going to lie, so did I.

It is so heartbreaking, mothering a child.  It’s beautiful, and sacred, maddening, hilarious and sad.  All at the very same time.

Recently, upon reading a presentation on corporate retention strategies broken down by generation, I IM'd my co-worker, "I don't even know what generation I'm in."  

"X'er," she replied, too soon. She is five years my junior.  A remarkably accomplished, poised, insightful and wildly talented 25, but still, 25.   Indignant, I retreated to Wikipedia.  It seems the dates of Generation X are in question, but many accounts put its end around 1980-82.  So it is fair to say I'm in.  At first blush, I don't necessarily identify, from a generational perspective, with people 20 years ahead of me.  But then I said to my co-worker, "I didn't get my first cell phone until college.  I had email at the end of high school, but didn't use the Internet much otherwise."  I asked her if she could remember a time before instant communication.  She couldn't.  

I work in a technologically advanced community. It's not that I am ignorant of technological advances in communication.  But too often I hear myself, in a voice that sounds much older than my own, railing against constant contact. I am on Facebook, and though I can appreciate its benefits, I can't bear the thought of reading one more inane post detailing someone's housecleaning to-do list or trip to Applebee's. (I know, I have a navel-gazing blog.  I get it; it's ironic).  I have, for that reason, avoided Twitter.  I don't need to know that level of detail or frequency about anyone I know, let alone celebrities or politicians I don't know.   

My family and friends rib me about never having my phone on my person.  It's a real argument Daniel and I have had repeatedly.  It makes him anxious to know that I have the kids with me, sometimes hundreds of miles away from him, and am often unreachable.  What if something happens, he reasons, and I understand his point.  But I prickle at the idea that I am to be accessible to anyone who wants to get me at any time just because it's become normal.  I want to live my life, look around, and not just long enough to take a photo to post online.  I don't want my kids to remember their mommy as always having her head down, thumbs flying. 

Daniel recently received an iPad, and Mirabella occasionally plays games on it.  It's not that I think the games are bad.  I know many are educational.  But she is four.  I see infinitely more value in her actually coloring than in coloring on an iPad.  I want her to run around, not manipulate an avatar on a screen.  I want to encourage her love for board games and wooden puzzles, for pages she can turn and touch and smell.  

I do not shun technology. My preferred method of communication is e-mail.  I don't really find that odd, because I'm a writer anyway, and also because I have little time when I am not driving or at work when I am able to focus on one thing in a quiet location.  But I do not text much and can't understand conducting long conversations via text. Though clearly I can see the appeal of chronicling a life in some form online, for me, it only goes so far. In the last three weeks alone, I have learned of three engagements on Facebook.  One was a co-worker, but I am in one of the other weddings, and the third is for a close family member.  I knew they were coming, but I guess I was looking forward to the calls, the excitement, the stories.  Does it make me old-fashioned?  Maybe I just want to feel important-- that  I matter enough that friends would think to share their news specifically with me? It's selfish, I guess, and maybe that's all it is.  But I can't shake it.  

Yesterday I needed to reach a (young) co-worker who sits in a different location and I emailed her.  Repeatedly.  Sheepishly, I turned to IM.  It occurs to me that you have to change to grow.  I know I need to speak to others in their language-- and in their preferred mode of communication-- if I want to get through to them. Am I running the risk of falling behind?  Am I already there?  And am I doing my kids a disservice by tempering the electronics? Or maybe my gut is right-- though there will be plenty of time for them to look at screens as they grow-- that the time and space to run and play is what's really threatened.

Last year, in January, I wrote this:  

"So, in 2011, with trepidation, I am going back to making resolutions. It's just one, but it's sweeping. It is not poetic: I resolve to get organized. But what does that mean? It means purging all the rooms of my house, definitely. I have already used my label maker more this month than in all of last year combined. But I am not good at compartmentalizing, and it's hard for me to treat this change as if it applies only to stuff. I am reading the book, Organized Simplicity, that defines living simply as "living holistically with your life's purpose." For me, that means setting systems in place to: a) make my home a haven for my family and others around us, and b) make our life count. If you roll your eyes, I won't judge you. These are principles that would have made me nauseated even just a year ago. It has taken me a long time to get to where I am; to where I want to embrace the life and gifts I've been given with my whole self and without fear. It means a lot of change that will take time and tears. It involves painful decisions I'm not yet ready to share. It means letting go of one dream in favor of another and choosing not to let a past failure dictate our family's future."  

I'm fairly certain that, at the time, I did not know what I meant. I definitely didn't understand the implications.  It has all been harder than I thought it'd be, but it's also been more beautiful.  It has resulted in changes I couldn't have seen coming.  Daniel has accused me lately of not being able see our progress for all the unknowns we currently have.  He says they're blinding me.  He's right (and he needs to subscribe to this blog so he can see me say that, in front of God and all of you because my husband, bless him, doesn't hear that much). 

I say I believe in celebrating each other.  And life.  Not just big things in life, either.  We make a big deal of birthdays, holidays (even the made up ones), and sometimes just regular days.  Life is mundane; it can be draining.  We all need little things to look forward to, to break us out of the monotony, to remind us that we count and that just being here is miraculous. At our house, that looks like a bottle of champagne on a random weeknight, special tablecloths for just about any occasion, and the feeling that a spontaneous dance party is always lurking around any corner. Even if there are dishes in the sink. So in that spirit, I want to have it on record that I have taken a moment to recognize the changes that have come in this last year, and that I really am thankful for them.  

1. We got out of our house. This one, as I've mentioned here many times, was terribly bittersweet for us.  Mirabella still breaks down occasionally over missing that house.  But it was absolutely necessary for us to move forward in many ways.  We took a risk.  We couldn't see a way out.  We cried.  We prayed.  We enlisted the help of the best Realtor we know.  And God provided a way out and a place to land, and it's all been something we couldn't have predicted.   

2. We simplified our stuff. In part because I just. couldn't. takeitanymore, and in part because of the move, we finally faced our stuff.  We took the time to consider what we want to hold on to and how we want to spend our limited time and space.  Unfortunately, as it turns out, this is not a one time event.  We are constantly evaluating what to keep, trash, and give away-- and the larger issue of what to consume in the first place.  But we have made major progress, and our backlog of stuff (was a basement, is now an attic) is considerably pared down.  The mere thought of it is no longer overwhelming.  And for us, that's something.  

3. We have paid down a massive amount of debt. When we started out, we didn't have the foresight to set our life up the way we might have wanted it in the future.  It was our biggest mistake.  We spent years angry at each other and ourselves about it.  We don't do that anymore.  We just didn't know any better.  So now, we are, quite literally, paying for past mistakes.  We paid off about $25,000 in debt in the last year alone, and are continually on our way to freedom from debt.  We are not done.  But we are working toward a near-term, tangible goal that, for a long time, has felt impossible.  Daniel reminds me, at our State of the Union meetings (that feature wine and frequently make me want to crawl under the table and hide from his spreadsheets), that this is all a very good thing.  

4. We live a healthier and more organized life than we did a year ago. I am sometimes overwhelmed by all the changes left to make. To say there is no chaos would be silly. But the bottom line is, it's better now than it was.  

5. I realized my goal of being a (very small) Small Business Owner. This one is so new it's actually still news.  For a long time I have considered what I really want to do.  What would it be?  How would I accomplish it while also being the mother I want to be?  I've thought through many iterations of what that might look like, and last year, I settled on the idea of starting my own creative services business.  It would start small and slowly, with just me writing and editing, but would eventually expand to include others and their respective talents (namely, graphic and web design).  Last week, I marched out of the Small Business Administration with my very own newborn business.  I had already started working with my first client two months prior.  Yesterday we got our first piece of mail.  I've decided not to do what I usually do, which is act bigger than whatever moment I'm in, and just fess up-- I think this is really exciting and I don't care who knows.  

I am under no illusion that we have "arrived" anywhere.  We are still in constant movement, strangely, even when we're stalled.  But it would be pretty obnoxious of me not to notice all the good that's already been heaped on us just because we've got farther to go. 

The important thing is this: to be ready at any moment to sacrifice what you are for what you could become.
--Charles Du Bos

Before I was a mother, I regarded tantrums as something good parenting prevented.  Once I became a mother (of a baby), I acknowledged there was a time when even "good" parents could expect tantrums, but that they would be mild.  Not the screeching and lashing out and rolling around on the floor (of Target) kind.  "Good" parents didn't have children that behaved like that, I thought.  And mostly, I didn't either. 

Prior to their turning two, with both kids, there was screeching. But I attributed it to frustration at not being fully vocal.  Between two and three there were tantrums, mostly at home, and mostly solvable by timeouts.  Between three and four we had tantrums, and these I attributed to blossoming independence.  Which brings us to four. 

By now, I only sheepishly admit, I thought we'd be done.  Even relatively recently in my motherhood, when I saw a child of four or five throwing a fit, I determined they were "too old" to behave that way.  I condemned them or, more likely, their parents.  

The tables have turned.  

My elder daughter is bright.  She is, for the most part, cheerful, and energetic, social and active.  She is a wonderful child.  But she is also testing us on a daily basis.  She is an emotional creature.  I cannot always predict what will set off the tears.  Or the whining.  Other times I can predict it, but I refuse to be held hostage by it, so I begrudgingly proceed into what I know will be a glass cage of emotion.  My usually sweet daughter's face will contort; there will be tears and yelling.  Mostly just on her part.  We do not tolerate it, but we have also not necessarily found the best way to deal with it.

I find that trying to reason with a child in the throes of a tantrum is much like trying to have a rational conversation with a person who is drunk.  It cannot be done, and if you try, you will end up dissatisfied.  A child in a tantrum is not in her right mind.  I realize this, and that it is of the utmost importance that I remain calm, because she is, very likely, frightened by her own lack of self control.  It is imperative that I not lose control myself.  But, by very nature of the fact that a tantrum is going on, I am decidedly not in control.  

Thankfully, the worst of these moments do occur at home.  I can count on one hand how many major meltdowns have occurred in public.  Usually I can distract or stave off or penalize them away. Usually.   We do not spank, though that's not really what I want to talk about.  And I am not judging you if you do.  Anyway, I'm just saying that it's something we have thoughtfully considered and chosen not to do. It's relevant to this discussion, becuase it means we do not have this trump card; this elevation of consequences. I am willing to accept it, but certainly it makes things more challenging when the situation devolves.

Distraught over the lack of respect and whining we started to see recurring in our daughter, and over the resultant negativity presiding over our home, we attempted a positive reinforcement track, the token economy. We decorated a mini checker set and pencil cup and let Mirabella personalize it with stickers.  We wrote her name on it.  It was all very exciting.  We created an illustrated list of treats and the number of tokens they cost. We made a list of behaviors that earn tokens (denoted by a smiley face) and those that cost tokens (denoted by a frowny face).  As a result, we have endured constant ribbing from various family  members amused by this effort. They ask how many tokens Daniel earns by doing something well (or more likely, how many he should have taken away).  For about a month, every time Mirabella did something Emerie didn't like, Emerie would should "BELLAS!  TOKEN A-WAY!"   But giving and taking goes on throughout the day, so we felt a little better because she always has opportunities to earn them back once they are lost, and there are many opportunities to praise her for good behavior as well.  

However, the tantrums persist.   Mirabella's fourth birthday party took place at a bowling alley, much to her delight.  We did not keep score and she ended up bowling for about an hour straight.  She was elated.  Every now and then, when the pins wouldn't clear, she would get frustrated.  We explained the reset button, and she pushed it with reckless abandon. Lightning struck my brain.   Now, when I sense her losing it, I give her an opportunity to push her reset button.  "I can't find it," she'll whine, or, "I can't reach it."  Not surprisingly, the reset button is never in the same place twice  (unless it's in the middle of her back.  It is often there).  It seems, sometimes, she can sense she is not going to enjoy the coming consequences, and this trick works.  For now.

I have lately considered using it on myself.   In our small group the other night, as we took prayer requests, I prayed for fewer freakouts.  Ahem, of my own.  Fewer times when the stress gets to me, fewer graceless moments, fewer instances of angry mommy.  Or, umm, wife.  But I think Mirabella might be on to something.  When I need that button the most, I can't seem to find it.

Here's what I'm not missing lately: Opportunities to listen, learn, and be gracious or patient.  What I can't seem to find: The grace, patience and sleep I need to face them.  

This last week has been tough.  For the first time, my so-fledgling-it's-not-even-a-business-yet company was tested (since the company's just me, that means I was tested).  And I'm short.  In nearly every way I could be.    

One of my favorite people often says, "I'mma just be real."  Can I be real, friends?  Often I'm just angry.  I'm angry that I don't know what or where or when is next, angry that my husband is gone so frequently.  Angry that I'm not in control of really anything.  I am angry that the setup of our life doesn't yet reflect what I long for it to be.  And then?  I'm angry that I get angry and can't do a better job managing it. I am not angry with anyone.  No one is at fault, so I have nowhere to direct it.

Daniel called me out this week.    "Why are you so angry?" he asked, after I lost my patience with him over probably nothing.   I told him why and that I think I have a right to be.  And also, that I'm not happy about it and can't figure out a place for it to go.   "We need to find you a different punching bag," he said, and he's right.  I know.  Maybe an actual punching bag?  Working two jobs, raising two kids, and managing a home with any level of proficiency requires time and energy.  It requires care and leaves very little space for self care.   

We are blessed to have support in the way of wonderful childcare, family and friends, and a church community that is so much more than that there should be a different word for them.  We are not alone.  Yet in the midst of that, we can never answer the question, "What can I do to help?" with anything tangible.  Because, really, nothing tangible is wrong.  Like most people, our plate is loaded, with good and difficult things. We have uncertainty.  But that's it.  So I am left sort of complaining, like now.  Then feeling bad about that too, like five minutes from now.
 
I have a need to know what's coming.  That's how I am.  If there was a time when I relished the unknown, it is gone.  And yet, here we are, unsure about so much.  But sure of this: That we have each other. That we have a Lord who deeply cares about our dreams and who sees around corners. That we have today.  

I turn my struggle toward acceptance, toward thankfulness. Even though I don't know what the coming month or year holds, I can choose to be thankful for this day.  I can settle into the discomfort of the things I can't control.  Somewhere in there, if I nestle deep enough, maybe there is peace.