Bathed in the Gospel

Posted on April 29, 2013 by mrsgore81

The way she lifted her legs in perpendicular fashion as I lifted her out of the bathtub let me know that the way we do bathtime has become routine to her…

Laying a clean, full-sized towel completely out across the bathmat, I always set her down “just so” on her bottom before pulling the back part of the towel up to her neck and then wrapping the rest of it over her shoulders and around her arms. I finish up by swaddling her little legs, feet, and toes, patting her dry as I go.

Once she looks like a little terrycloth burrito, I grasp her by her towel-covered arms, and, lifting her up into my left arm and perching her on my hip, I hold her legs in a sitting position with my right arm.

We go straight to the bathroom vanity where she says “Hi, baby!” to her reflection in the mirror, her hair a riot of wet, dripping curls, her smile exuberant, her skin glowing with health and cleanliness. I then carry her into my bedroom where a laundered set of clothes awaits her on the bed next to a new diaper, Johnson’s baby lotion, and a brush.

This is our routine, and we could both probably perform it with our eyes closed.

She is used to being bathed, my little one, having the yogurt washed out of her hair, the dirt washed out of her fingernails, the living washed out of her day…

She is used to being wrapped up and dried, cuddled and loved, lotioned and combed, diapered and groomed.

She is used to being dressed in fresh, clean clothes.

Just like she is used to raising her legs just right to land on her towel.

And I realized as I dried her today that, what might feel like routine to me…or even sometimes drudgery, if I’m being honest…says something monumental about her life, as well as my role as her mother…

and that, while bathtime is such a common ritual for us that she knows how to hold her body when she emerges from the tub, the very essence of our routine says something.

Something big. Something important. Something eternal.

Because her simplest routines contrast so deeply with those of children all over this fallen world. They have routines, too…

Rocking themselves to sleep at night in orphanages with too many babies and not enough workers.

Hiding food in their highchairs to make sure there will be enough for their next meal.

Moving from foster home to foster home, different bed, different rituals, different guardians.

Pulling dirty and wrinkled clothes out of a pile before dressing themselves and going to school.

Eating whatever they can dig up in the pantry or whatever someone will give them for free.

Getting on a church van to attend worship and learning about who made them from strangers rather than family.

Bearing their own fears and burdens with no one to talk to, no one to comfort them, no one to guide them.

And it should never be lost on me that, in many ways, one of the simplest and most obvious differences between those children and my little girl who sticks her legs up when I lift her out of the bathtub is…me.

The world can very much disparage and downplay the calling of motherhood, and sometimes I am the first one to listen, forgetting that this full-time job I have of caring for children who would be helpless without me is kind of huge, and that, while I may not be changing the world as I prepare their breakfast…

I have at least changed theirs.

When my children are clean, it is because I’ve bathed them. When they are full, it is because I have fed them. When they sing a song from memory, it is because I have sang to them so often that the words have imprinted themselves on their brains. When they are wearing clean and pressed clothes, it is because I have washed and ironed them. And when they learn how to walk those ancient paths of truth, it will hopefully be because, aided by the Spirit and covered by grace, they are following behind me and their Papa.

The things I do as a mother all day, every day, might be simple gestures…

making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich…

singing hymn after hymn until they fall asleep…

telling them who made the flowers and the rocks and the trees and the sky…

reading them a story…

cleaning up their vomit…

buying them healthy food at the grocery store…

bandaging the tiny cut that made them cry…

taking the time to really listen to them while they talk…

getting the stains out of their clothes…

but they are gospel gestures.

And it hit me with beautiful and convicting clarity today that any amount of passion I have for the sanctity of human life, any compassion I feel for the orphaned or the abused or the hurting, any desire I will ever have to bring the good news to a lost and dying world…

well, it starts here.

At bedtime.

At breakfast, lunch and supper time.

At reading time.

At bathtime.

At home.

And while it may not always feel like I’m doing anything really important in the world and while there are days that I entertain the notion that my life is pretty mundane and that my college degree was a huge waste of time and money, I need to periodically remind myself that I’m doing something pretty big.

And so are you…

Remember that the next time you pull your baby out of the bath and she knows what to do with her legs.

Gideon’s “War” Birthday Party – The Prequel

Posted on April 16, 2013 by mrsgore81

Warning: the following post might give you a startling glimpse inside the sickness that is in my head, and I hope you still love me after you read it. I am kind of a weirdo about birthday parties. Not yours – I never judge a party we attend, and am just happy to have free cake – but ours. It is how I show love and is one of the most utmost expressions of my heart toward my kids. We’ve all learned to deal with it, but I do always worry that my potential over-the-topness in this one area will discourage others who don’t “do” parties…

Therefore, it would make me so happy if you would read this post before continuing on. Thanks a million!

Oh boy…

I always think the party we just had was my favorite party ever…

until the next one.

And so I can safely say, a couple weeks past my son’s 6th birthday, that his World War II-inspired “army” or “war” party was my favorite party ever.

And I really mean it this time. For reals.

(I think).

It doesn’t even matter that the planning stages for this party were a little different than normal…

Usually, the day after Christmas is over, I start involuntarily daydreaming about his March birthday party. I can’t help it. I love birthdays!!! Love them. It’s what I do, yo.

Therefore, I usually have two really good months to get a handle on what we’ll be doing and to start finding ideas and recipes and so on and so forth.

This year, however, I was unknowingly pregnant on the day after Christmas, and the month of January and most of February became a black hole on the calendar. I know I was alive, and I know we continued to do stuff like go to church and I think I brushed my teeth a couple of times, but…that’s about all I remember. ‘Twas the worst first trimester I’ve ever endured.

And once I emerged from this twilight zone of sorts, I had other important things to do, like pluck my giant, untamed eyebrow, and make food for my family (they were almost emaciated), and so, really, Gid’s birthday party had been pushed to the furthest back burner on the stove…you know, the one no one ever wants to use with leftover oats and and dried-up rice and the singed bits of paper from the tea bag…

(apparently, no one ever wants to clean that burner, either)…

Thankfully, we had at least settled on a theme earlier in the year, although even that took a little work this time, mostly because I made the mistake of asking my son what kind of party he wanted. Silly me.

“Ummmm…a Batman party!” he exclaimed.

“Well, Gid…we don’t really do parties like that…” I hedged, turning my nose up at the thought of all those paper party decorations I would probably have to buy – and then throw away – from Oriental Trading Company. If I’m going to buy party supplies I want to be able to use them again and again.

“How about a superhero party?” he asked.

“Well…Anna had a superhero party last year…” I said. I didn’t mind the idea of having the same theme as my niece, but Amy and I had already been there and done that, feverishly sewing capes and eyemasks in a Sunday School room at the church 24 hours before the party. I wanted to do something different.

“How about…a knight party?!” he said.

“Hmmm…a knight party…” I replied, as my mind started quickly cataloging all the things we could do with that. Lords and ladies. Big turkey legs for everyone to eat. Kid jousting?…

“We could maybe do that…” I said, the idea sort of intriguing me. But it wasn’t really hitting me in the heart like our birthday parties normally do. It wasn’t quite right…

and then I had a brain lightbulb, the really bright kind that turns my eyes all buggy and psychotic.

“How about a war party?!” I exclaimed. “We could have a REAL war with two teams, and you can wear camouflage and you can hide in the woods at Granddaddy and Grandmother’s house…

his face lit up, even more than my brain lightbulb, and I knew. This was our party. Winner winner, chicken dinner.

And right then and there, I determined that this would be our first full-out BOY party for my son since, you know, he is really and truly entering the realm of boyhood. No frills. No cutesy. No baby stuff. Just fun awesomeness for Gideon, in the hopes that he would feel like he was in paradise on the day of his birth.

But then I fell into that first trimester abyss I just told you about.

And when I came to in late February and realized that we only had a few weeks left until his party was here, I started that silly daydreaming process I usually start on December 26th.

And in the course of one of those daydreams, I accidentally injected some Mrs.-Gore-weirdness into his perfectly normal little-boy “war” party and turned it all vintage and whimsical, and before I knew it, his laid-back camo-heavy party had turned into a World War II-inspired affair, complete with a Red Cross station, a Mess Hall, a playlist full of nostalgic soldier songs, and lots of googling…

“What did soldiers eat during World War II?”…

“Vintage army recruiting posters”…

“Military songs from World War II”….

“Vintage mess hall plates”…

And I began to be truly grateful that I didn’t have much time to plan this party, because it became very obvious to me that I could have gone wayyyyy overboard with this one. I love me some 1940′s, and, if I had had my typical 2 1/2 months to plan this party, I am almost positive I would have had veterans from each of the armed forces there, and possibly a USO stage where I would have crooned song after song to the horror and embarrassment of my immediate family, especially my brothers.

As it was, thank God, we did a lot of “making do”, substituting the tin mess hall plates I found at Etsy with disposable cake pans from Wal-Mart, forgoing all the awesome WWII posters I could have purchased (again, at Etsy) by finding, printing, and matting free images online, and using our trusty ol’ Martinelli apple juice bottles for drinks rather than buying the canteens or enamel mugs I was dreaming off.

That first trimester saved us a LOT of money.

And when you are a collector of old things, and you have friends who are also collectors of old things, it is absolutely crazy how quickly you can throw a party together full of…old things.

That’s right, I’m talking about authentic WWII helmets, ammo boxes, and…wait for it…COTS that belonged to actual soldiers during the actual war (I think). I’m still over-the-moon about it, and I am so grateful, as always, to my friends and family for so generously pitching in and lending their hard work, their generosity, and mostly, their understanding; that I am surrounded by people who “get” me and love me, nonetheless, seriously humbles me to the core.

ALLLL that to say, I am pretty excited to share with you (if I haven’t already lost you with this blog post), in a 3-part series, Gideon’s “War” Birthday Party.

Here’s a sneak peek…

Part 1…coming up tomorrow!!

My Night with the Emporer

Posted on April 15, 2013 by mrsgore81

I’m going through this year’s pictures and came across a funny story I forgot to tell you…

It was past 1:00 a.m. and I was sitting up late in bed, reading what I am sure was the latest ground-breaking historical Christian fiction book on the market, when I heard Baby Betsie crying. My gracious husband – who, unlike me, does NOT sleep like a giant, inanimate boulder from the Rocky Mountains – usually handles the middle-of-the-night stuff, and so I was happy to hop up and handle this situation for him while he slept.

I ran up the stairs and tiptoed through our large, dark nursery, and, arriving at Betsie’s crib, gave her her pacifier and was covering her back up when I heard a sound behind me.

Turning around, I couldn’t believe what I saw…

I blinked.

I squinted.

I blinked three more times.

Yes, this was really happening…

A robed figure, unaware that I was in the room, was rising from the twin bed by the window. Standing up next to his bed, he pulled his hood up over his head, and bending down, quietly retrieved his lightsaber from the floor beside him. Standing back up, lightsaber held high, he shuffled noiselessly out of the room.

And I, snapping out of my open-mouthed, fascinated gaze, took off like a flash of lightning, and, running past him, fled down the stairs and to the office to retrieve my camera. By the time I made it back to the stairs, he was sitting there near the bottom, apparently waiting for me.

“Can I take your picture?” I whispered, in the dark.

He nodded, keeping his head down.

Then he stood up…

and shuffled into our bed, where we all spent the rest of the night snuggled close together, him, me, his Papa, and his lightsaber.

It was the first time I’ve ever slept with Emperor Palpatine…or anyone from Star Wars, for that matter.

It wasn’t as creepy as I thought it would be.

But one thing is sure. If it weren’t for these pictures, I would be certain this had all been a dream…

Mother Hen Goes to Neverland – Part Three

Posted on March 22, 2013 by mrsgore81

continued from Part Two: “Finally, we reached the main entrance to the PAC. “Here we go…” I thought, ready to greet a roomful of identically dressed children hanging on the arms of their loving and indulgent mother. But boy, was I was wrong…

Well, there were lots of children there, but they were dressed to the nines in…real clothes.

Not one Tinkerbell.

Not one Wendy.

Only one Peter Pan.

That’s right, ONE.

And he happened to be attached to my hip.

All of a sudden, I was faced with a new and unexpected conundrum, the reality that a veritable spotlight was placed upon us as we made our way through the extremely crowded room, inside the ladies restroom and eventually back out, and up the stairs and across the mezzanine, accepting the compliments and the delighted stares of every. single. person. we. passed. The children and senior adults we walked by were especially taken by my little lost boy, and Gideon received lots of waves from little ones even younger than he was, their mouths slightly hanging open to see Peter Pan right in their midst.

You know, I always think I will enjoy the spotlight…until I’m in it. To say my cheeks were burning would be a bit of an understatement.

“Why is everyone looking at me and waving at me?” Gideon asked me, and I wondered if, for the first time, my sheltered son might be realizing that not everyone goes everywhere dressed in costume.

“Oh, I don’t know, Gid…” I responded with a small smirk on my face.

“My name’s not Gid. It’s Peter.” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Well…that’s why everyone is looking at you and waving at you. You’re Peter Pan!” I muttered.

And then something even more unexpected happened to poor Mrs. Gore.

Right there, standing in line to have our tickets scanned so we could enter the theater, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, Small Elephant decided to make an uninvited appearance.

In other words, the impact of this meaningful night with my son hit me with full force, and a huge, dramatic, hormonally-charged lump began to form in my throat. I’m always sentimental. But when I’m pregnant…I’m a basketcase.

And when it was Gideon’s turn to hand the attendant his ticket, and he stepped up like a big boy and held up his paper, a shy and excited expression on his precious little face, the lump in my throat grew unswallowable as tears began to burn at the back of my eyes.

“Good grief, get a grip!” I furiously said to myself as I tried to take deep breaths and refrain from breaking down in front of an entire roomful of folks…folks who were already looking at us because of the bright green costume and matching cap (topped with a yellow felt feather).

But then the elderly attendant looked down and saw that Peter Pan himself was handing her a ticket for the show and she smiled so big and said “Well, hello, Peter Pan!” before looking at me and beaming at the cuteness that was before her.

Gideon smiled. My Mom chuckled. And I…Small Elephant…released some sort of manic, breathy laugh that was two seconds away from being a sob. Looking down, I pasted a smile on my face and continued to nervously giggle as I rapidly blinked away my tears, wishing that we could all just have a moment of silence to take in this moment without having the entire waiting audience watch Peter Pan’s pregnant mother have a meltdown in the mezzanine.

It was one of the most wonderful and awful moments of my life.

Lord, have mercy.

Well, somehow, we finally made it inside the theater, gasping at the amazing scene set up on the stage, and, finding our seats, I was able to fan myself for a minute with my program and get control of myself once more. “I’m a little emotional right now,” I confided to the man and woman to my left, “so if I start weeping, just ignore me. I’m fine.”

“Oh, I’m assistant to an OBGYN, so I see crying women all the time. We won’t even mention it.” the woman replied, leaning over her husband to get a better look at the pregnant spectacle next to him.

Before too long, the lights thankfully dimmed, and the magic that is Peter Pan played out before our very eyes, and for the next two hours I was caught between the beauty of the story, the set, the costumes and the music, and the pure pleasure of watching my baby watch all of the above. Peter Pan is the perfect tale, is it not, for a little boy with an imagination and a heart as big as the sky, and I could kiss J.M. Barrie (or at least give him a thimble) for crafting a timeless story of boyhood that continues to resonate so deeply today, while beautifully paying homage to motherhood and family at the same time.

Gideon belly laughed at every funny scene. He clapped enthusiastically after every musical number. And when he reached out and held my hand during the mother’s lullaby, those pesky tears gathered in my eyes once more as I meditated on the past 6 years, on all we’d been through together, and on how gracious is the God of the universe to give him to me and me to him.

And, while it was a real treat to see the amazing Cathy Rigby in action (seriously…she cannot be 60 years old! AMAZING, and I told my husband that what she is able to do on the stage is much more impressive than if Peter Pan was actually real and could actually fly!), I was very grateful that we were just far back enough that Gideon couldn’t see that she was, in fact, a woman. That just wouldn’t have gone over well a’tall.

I could go into great detail about all of my favorite scenes, about the graceful and lovely Tigerlilly, about the fabulous and glittery pixie dust that was thrown all over the place, but I’ll just say that, of the many theatrical performances I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying over the years, this play was, by far, my favorite. Magical. Hilarious. Entertaining from start to finish. If you ever get the chance to see it, please do…and tell them that Mrs. Gore sent you. (I’m a favorite in Neverland, you know).

At the show’s conclusion, my Mom and I took turns hefting Gideon up to see each of the cast members run out to take a bow and wave at the audience, and the huge grin on my son’s face and his wide-awake eyes at such a late hour told me that his first trip to the theater had been a roaring success.

But the show wasn’t quite over yet…

Holding up her hands to quiet the crowd, Cathy Rigby herself made an announcement, that the cast would be in the lobby to help raise funds for AIDS victims and breast cancer survivors, and that, for $5, you could get your picture taken with Captain Hook…

(I inwardly gasped. What a perfect way to end our night, and how fun for my little Peter Pan to have a real picture with the Cap’n as opposed to his Mama in a mustache).

…OR, for $500 you could have your name entered into a raffle to win an opportunity to come back later in the week and fly with Peter Pan on stage.

(I inwardly guffawed. $500. Ha!).

And then I heard a little voice beside me yell out “I wanna fly!! I wanna fly with Peter Pan!”

(And I inwardly groaned. Thanks a lot, “Peter Pan”…you are now dead to me).

After some final applause, as the crowd began to disperse, we sat back down in our seats to get Gideon’s boots put back in place and to find all of our stuff (my big bag of Red Vines, included). “Hey Gid…” I breeched, “we don’t have enough money to fly with Peter Pan. But we could get your picture with Captain Hook!”

“But I want to fly!” he pleaded, looking at the stage with longing.

“We just can’t,” I said. “It’s too expensive.”

“Ohhhh…” he whimpered, and I hoped that the night hadn’t just lost some of its magic for him.

As we made our way back down to the main lobby, Gid’s hand in mine, he said, hopefully, “Do you think you could just tell Peter Pan that we don’t have that much money, and maybe he’ll let us come fly with him anyway?…”

I laughed at his innocence, and Mom and I directed him to the line where Captain Hook was already taking pictures with his fans. “There’s Peter Pan!” I heard the Captain yell out as we walked by, pointing at us and waving.

“Yep…” I thought, waving back, “we’re still here! Peter Pan and his Mom and Grandmother…” We continued to receive stares and waves as the lobby eventually thinned out, and my cheeks hurt from receiving and returning smile after smile. It was like prom night all over again.

But the most difficult part of the entire night wasn’t trying to convince Gideon that we didn’t have $500 or finding the willpower to smile at passersby, but to keep my son from seeing Cathy Rigby as she autographed posters right across the room.

“Where’s Peter Pan?” he asked as we continued to wait in line.

“I don’t know…” I bald-face-lied, as Mom and I shuffled around to block his view of her. We had made it this far – he couldn’t find out that Peter Pan was played by a…a girl!…when we were so close to our departure!

“Hey! There he is!” he said, slipping around me and spotting Cathy Rigby at the table right beyond me. I held my breath as, immediately, a puzzled expression crossed his face and he asked, confused, “Hey…what happened to Peter Pan?!”

“Ummm…” I responded, before blurting that “the little boy who played Peter must have had to get to bed – it’s so late! – and that’s just another Peter Pan saying ‘hi’ to everyone.”

We all know that one lie always leads to another. But believe me when I say my hands were tied.

Gideon just nodded. “Oh. Yeah.” Made perfect sense to him.

But when it was all said and done, we had our picture with Captain Hook…

we left without Gideon figuring out that Peter Pan was played by a woman…

and we decided that, someday, he might get another chance to fly with Peter, and that, for now, seeing his first play was a pretty big treat. Before leaving, he gathered up and threw some pixie dust that was left on the ground…

and we flew back home to our nursery on the second floor where my little boy belongs.

I hugged him tight.

I tucked him in.

And I kissed his forehead and cupped his soft still-a-5-year-old cheek in my hand, memorizing his face, and this night, for safekeeping.

“Sweet dreams…” I said, knowing that, tonight, they were almost guaranteed.

“So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land.”

Peter Pan

Mother Hen Goes to Neverland – Part Two

Posted on March 21, 2013 by mrsgore81

So enough about my parenting philosophies and my 1500-word glowing endorsement of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan…let’s get to the actual show!

On Thursday morning last, I whispered to Gideon that he would not be taking a nap with his sisters that afternoon, but would be going somewhere very special with me and his Grandmother to receive an early birthday gift. His eyes lit up and he leaned in closely to whisper back excited nothings and to make sure I knew that he could keep a secret, and he spent the rest of the morning making exaggerated conspiratorial faces at me and patting Rebekah consolingly, even though she had no idea that when she woke up from her nap, we would have flown to Neverland without her. Our poor little Wendy girl…

But for that matter, Gideon had no idea we were going to Neverland, although I did divulge that his early gift was that we were taking him to his very first play…just so he wouldn’t spend the day conjuring up unrealistic birthday surprises of like, I don’t know, a helicopter ride or his very own living T-Rex.

“A play?” he asked, intrigued, “Like the one at Gabbie’s Kindergarten?!”

“Ummmm…it will be a little bit bigger than that.” I told him, my excitement growing into a fluttery little pit in my stomach.

By 1:00 p.m., the girls were asleep under Papa’s care, and we were on our way, an afternoon of relaxation and shopping – and food! – on the horizon, followed by our big night at the Performing Arts Center. I was kind of beside myself.

Gideon was such a good sport, sitting through a couple of hours at Anthropologie and A Pea in the Pod as his Mama got outfitted in a new maternity wardrobe: a week before, I had retrieved my maternity clothes from the attic to find that what remained was something they might dress a P.O.W in during a long Russian winter, and I nearly cried on the spot. The next day, my Mom offered to have mercy on me and take me for a little shopping spree if I could manage to get away early. I managed, and although I suppose we normally wouldn’t celebrate a little boy’s birthday by going shopping for maternity clothes, sometimes, necessity just calls with an urgency.

We broke up the monotony for him, though, with a short trip to Pottery Barn Kids, and then a 3:00 dessert at our favorite eatery in Tulsa, Queenie’s Plus. And please excuse me while I chase a rabbit…

Gideon was a curmudgeon of a baby (click here for more). He was claustrophobic, and grumpy and shackled by his own infancy, and I honestly couldn’t take him anywhere. Except for Queenie’s. They have an outdoor seating area on the sidewalk, and it became a refuge for us those first two years of his life – Mom and I could eat in peace, and he would happily watch the birds hopping around as he took in unlimited fresh air and solitude. It was the first public place I took him after he was born, and it was nearly THE only place we ate out until he was just past 2 years old.

And so there was something extremely touching about returning to that sidewalk table with him on this very monumental day as we sipped on coffee (and milk for him) and munched on our favorite desserts. I kept looking at him, trying to reconcile the little boy before me with the little baby I had brought here so frequently in years past, and I had to ask myself once more, “How is it possible that you can watch nearly every moment of their growth but not see it take place? Where did my baby go, dagnabit?!”

Anyhow, I am so grateful to have a place like Queenie’s to celebrate our special occasions, and the staff made such a big ado over Gideon’s upcoming birthday, even sending home some complimentary muffins to help him further celebrate the next morning. My heart was just overwhelmed to have this moment, at this place that had become like a second home to us over the years…

And it was here that my Mom handed Gideon a long, rectangular box wrapped in green and brown tissue paper and tied up with green string.

“Open it,” she said, “and it will help you guess which play we’ll be seeing tonight.”

Grinning, he tore into the box, eyes shining with that beautiful expression of innocent joy that children seem to have exclusive rights to.

Inside the package lay a brand new, size 7 Peter Pan costume, one that would actually fit! And one that would probably ensure that everyone we pass while Gideon is still wearing it to Wal-Mart as an 11-year old will know that he is homeschooled. His coolness will know no bounds…and it was as if Mom and I both realized at the same moment that we had not carried out this idea to it’s conclusion as it sunk in that we would be seeing this new costume for many, many years…well past the “cute” stage and more into the “sad” stage. Oh, well. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

“We’re going to see ‘Peter Pan’?!” he exclaimed.

Mom and I, leaning down at his eye level, hanging on his every word and reaction, laughed and giggled and clapped until I’m sure that everyone nearby either wanted to cry tears of sentimentality or maybe disgust at our obvious and overdone doting. Sorry, onlookers. We’re in love with the boy.

“Can I wear my new costume to the play?!” he asked.

“Uhhhhh…” I said, conflicted, for as eager as I was for him to get to wear his new costume and to match Peter Pan, you might remember that I had sworn when we saw Beauty and the Beast with my nieces that I would refrain from ever dressing my kid to match the star of the show we were seeing…unless we would be the only ones in costume, at a show like, say “Fiddler on the Roof”.

I was slightly joking when I said it, but not really, and now, as usual, my words were coming back to haunt me, and I cringed at the idea that I would look like an overindulgent mother as I toted around my own miniature Peter Pan among a sea of little boys and girls in Peter Pan and Tinkerbell costumes…

But later that night, after some more shopping and a fantastic supper at The Olive Garden, in the parking lot of the Tulsa Performing Arts Center, Gideon excitedly tore off his clothes and donned his brand new true-to-size costume, taking meticulous care in tucking his pants into his boots and securing his waist belt just so. As we made our way across the street and down the sidewalk, we had to stop every 5 steps or so to allow him to adjust his pants, his boots, his hat…

But finally, we reached the main entrance to the PAC. “Here we go…” I thought, ready to greet a roomful of identically dressed children hanging on the arms of their loving and indulgent mothers…

But boy, was I was wrong…

Did I say we would actually get to the play today? My mistake! But tune in tomorrow…the Grand Finale is coming up next!

A Letter To My Children (to read in the year 2030)

Posted on March 6, 2013 by mrsgore81

Dear children…

Did you know that before you were born all I thought about was myself and my beautiful hair, but after you were born I would have shaved my head if you needed me to?

Did you know that when you asked me questions and I answered them, I usually had no idea what I was talking about?

Did you know that when I made you eat your green beans against your will and seemed mean and strict and unfeeling, I was just desperate for your body to get any amount of nutrients because you hadn’t eaten a vegetable in 8 days?

Did you know that, even though I was your Mama, I was afraid of the dark, too? And tornadoes. And scorpions. And…lots of stuff, really. But I tried to be brave for you.

Did you know that a very large piece of my heart sits on top of your head and walks around with you wherever you go? Even in this grand year of 2030?

Did you know that I liked to watch you when you didn’t know I was looking and study every curve and line of your face, sometimes while you were sleeping, sometimes while you were watching TV, sometimes when you were coloring? The Bible is right. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. I know it full well.

Did you know that I kissed your clothes as I folded them? (when I wasn’t cursing the laundry…)

Did you know I always cried when I put your outgrown clothes in the attic? Every time.

Did you know I always cried the night before your birthday? Every year.

Did you know that I really didn’t care if you played sports or knew lots of poems or had the longest eyelashes…I just loved you and my favorite thing about you was that you were mine. You didn’t have to do anything to earn my love. It was your birthright, from Day 1.

Did you know that it made me pray and sometimes cry when you didn’t get along because I didn’t want you to waste precious years being selfish when you could be happier being nice?

Did you know that when I was grouchy with you I always felt conflicted on the inside? I couldn’t be happy in my grouchiness against you…it didn’t sit right with me, and so I worked really hard to get over it and enjoy you.

Did you know that I often prayed that you would never become a ventriloquist? But mostly, I prayed that you would follow hard after God, that you would love Him more than I did, and that you would sin less than I did. And that you would never be a ventriloquist. I feel like this cannot be said enough.

Did you know that I rarely let you walk by me without at least trying to reach out and pull you into my lap? I lived for the times you consented and breathed in your scent and covered your hair with kisses as long as you would let me.

Did you know that I don’t know how I’m going to survive having you grow up? Seriously. If you go to college or get married and leave me, I’ll probably be dead by the time you read this.

Did you know that, in caring for you, I have found more fulfillment than I ever thought possible? Diamonds and fame and wealth are nothing with you under my wings. Nothing.

Did you have any idea that, when I said silly things like “I love you to the moon and back and all the way to heaven” that words were actually failing me? Words don’t exist when it comes to my love for you.

Did you know that God has used you to help me grow? I have never needed Him more or prayed to Him more or praised Him more or thanked Him more or confessed my failings more. He knew I needed you in order to know Him better.

Did you ever stop to consider how many times you got poop on my hand? Too many times to count. Just thought you should know.

Did you know that, when I lectured you and made long speeches about your behavior, I was kind of making it up as I went along and sometimes I thought I sounded ridiculous but had to keep going so you would think I was scary? It was all an act. I was just trying to sound like a Mom.

Did you also know that everytime I lectured you, I felt like such a hypocrite, because everything you did on the outside was something I still struggled with on the inside?

Did you know that, even though you were tiny and young, you ministered to me so many times, and that when my heart was sad, your sweet hugs and your childish ways lifted me up?

And did you know that you made me feel like the most beautiful and talented and beloved woman in the world? When I made your eyes light up, I felt like a success. And you made me feel like a success almost every day.

I just wanted to say thank you, for all of it.

I love you forever,

Mama

To my beloved readers, if there are any ventriloquists in the house, my apologies. I meant no offense. But I’m glad you’re not my kid. Your puppets scare me.

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Sunshine.

Posted on November 28, 2012 by mrsgore81

She was heartbroken.

Because, even though her 5-year old Cousin Anna was still downstairs playing with Gideon, it was naptime, and 3-year old girls simply must have their rest.

It’s funny, isn’t it, that the ears of a mother can discern the different tunes and chords of their children’s cries? And while Miss Sunday is notorious for her loud, fake cry that she can turn off and on like a switch, this cry was real and deep, and I felt her pain in my own heart.

How tempting it was to give her the afternoon off and allow her to indulge in her heart’s desire, but we had a long night ahead, and I knew that she and I would both pay if I allowed her that luxury.

And so I held her, instead.

Sitting on her brother’s twin-sized bed, she straddled my waist and buried her head on my shoulder where I could feel her tears sinking into my shirt. We rocked, together, riding out the storm of her hurt, and I absent-mindedly mused over what a blessed invention the rocking chair was, created, I am sure, for moments such as these.

Still yet, mamas can rock just about anywhere, even without a special chair.

“Can I sing to you?” I asked her, searching for any means with which to ease her sadness.

She nodded, and her wails of despair immediately calmed down in both decibel and frequency.

First it was her standard favorite, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”. And then the old standby “Rock-a-bye Baby”. With each word I sang, her tears ebbed a little more, and she began to relax on my chest.

And then I heard her muffled voice from my shoulder: “Just one more?…”.

I breathed in the smell of her long, golden hair and relished the feel of her warm body cuddled into mine as I perused my musical index for the perfect song to describe the way she makes me feel…

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,

Oh please don’t take my sunshine away…

I sang the song to her, the words flowing directly from my heart to her ears, and as I sang, I praised God for the gift of children, especially, at the moment, for my beloved Miss Sunday.

There were times in my young life when I thought that motherhood would be a stifling road, one that would ruin my body and strip me of my dreams, one that would leave me haggard and old and washed up and…lost. At that egotistical time in my life, nothing scared me more than the thought of forgetting who I was and losing my “identity.”

I understand now that I had a sinful aversion to self-denial and living for others, and that I had digested the lies of my culture, hook, line and sinker…

But God, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, knew so much better, and He weaved a sanctifying tale of motherhood into the story of my life, one that has changed me and challenged me and humbled me and taught me first-hand that great paradox of Christianity, that “losing ourselves” is where we are actually found, and that in dying is discovered the road to life and life abundant.

And now I have these little gifts running helter-skelter all over my house, keeping me on my feet from the minute theirs hit the floor in the morning and until their eyes close in sleep, and I am training myself daily to live for Christ by living for them…

but sometimes, like today, it hits me that it’s not all dying and losing, is it? And it’s not all exhaustion and training…

for as boisterous and energetic and sinful, even, as these little ones are, they are sunshine.

And I have seen over and over again that, when times have been especially dark and confusing, and when the outside world seems unbearably cruel and unjust, God uses my children to bring moments of happiness that transcend words and reason: a small hand on my shoulder radiates peace and comfort, a mispronounced words pops a giggle out of my mouth, an unscripted and unplanned moment of togetherness drops down like a gift of grace from the sky…

and I fall in love with God’s plan for my life over and over and over again as I heave a great sigh of contentment and see with clear vision that children are a blessing and a heritage from the Lord, and are, at times, great little ministers of peace and hope and love. Not burdens. Not exhausting little monsters. Not roadblocks to personal success or achievement…

if only we would always see them so clearly and bask in the sunshine that they bring into our homes during these precious and fleeting years.

As I finished the song, Miss Sunday asked me to sing it just one more time.

And so I did. For her and for me. She needed the extra comfort and time, and I needed to say the words – and the accompanying prayer of my heart – again and again and again…

I may see less of friends, but I have gained one dearer than them all, to whom, while I minister in Christ’s name, I make a willing sacrifice of what little leisure for my own recreation my other darlings had left me. Yes, my precious baby, you are welcome to your mother’s heart, welcome to her time, her strength, her health, her tenderest cares, to her lifelong prayers! Oh, how rich I am, how truly, how wondrously blest!

Elizabeth Prentiss, Stepping Heavenward

Halloween Magic

Posted on October 31, 2012 by mrsgore81

Well, its finally here…

The day of our year that most inspires our imagination.

The day where it is perfectly alright to eat candy for breakfast, lunch, supper and dessert.

The day when my kids actually look normal and have minions of other costumed children to blend in with.

Happy Halloween, everybody!!!

Thinking back over all of our past celebrations has left me a bit sentimental tonight, and I have a gut feeling that someday, I’ll painfully miss these days of playing dress-up with my kids. I have a deep affection for all holidays, but Halloween is truly special with its beautiful Fall backdrop and its cozy warmth and whimsy. And there is something so fulfilling about helping the innocent dreams of my children come true as I scour the internet and our closets to find costumes that will best help them look like their favorite characters.

This year is sure to be a special memory for all of us, and I’ll share more about that in the days and weeks to come…

But for now, I’d like to share with you the most special moment of last year’s Halloween. We had been busy, busy, busy, getting dressed in our pioneer costumes, meeting up with Jerry and Amy and the girls, taking lots of photographs, loading up into our covered wagon, trick-or-treating all over town, and I had been quite wrapped up in just keeping the festivities moving and keeping the children happy. We were at our last stop of the evening, a hustling and bustling Trunk-or-Treat at our town’s Assembly of God church, and we were stopping at each car to get candy, saying “hello!” and “how do you do?!” to townspeople we hadn’t seen in months, and the air was just positively thick with celebration and Halloweenish goodwill. That’s when I happened to look down and take notice of Miss Sunday, my fair-haired little Indian maiden.

She had reached up and taken my hand, and I noticed that her confident and bossy aura had been replaced by one that was subdued and watchful, and just for a couple breaths of a moment, I had the joy of seeing on her face one of the most beautiful facets of childhood. She was in awe. She was overwhelmed. She had slowed down in her running and gunning and had taken time to look around her and feel the wonder that a night of merriment with one’s family can bring. Halloween had captured her for a moment, and what I saw on her face and felt in her touch took me back to my own childhood, and the many similar moments I experienced growing up in our free and bountiful country. Moments so big and so over-the-top that the only thing I knew to do was sidle up close to my Mama and grab her hand, anchoring myself to what was normal and safe, even as my heart and my imagination were captured by what I saw taking place around me…

Trick-or-treating.

A hugely lit Christmas tree.

Musicians or actors on a stage.

Fireworks.

Sunday worship.

My heart would catch within me, and I would study the people and the scenery around me, trying to understand the mysteries of life and why we were doing what we were doing, sometimes unsure of how I felt about it, but mostly…happy. Especially with Mama by my side.

I can’t believe I’m the Mama now.

I can’t believe how wonderful it feels to anchor my little ones on their biggest days.

I can’t believe Halloween – and all the days in between – is even more magical now than it was then.

Life is beautiful. Enjoy celebrating it today!

And I’d love to hear from you…what are you dressing up as? What are your plans? Any special memories or funny stories to share?

Selah Springs: The Revelation

Posted on October 20, 2012 by mrsgore81

~ The following post finally sums up what God did in my heart as I was happily holed up in the Hill Country. I hope it is a lesson I never forget, and that it encourages you, as well. ~

So here we are at the end of our second full day at Selah Springs Ranch, and I’ve realized something…

I’ve got to cut down on my time at the computer when I’m at home.

Here’s what happens.

During the children’s naps, or after they’ve gone to bed or when they’re watching a movie, I sometimes (often) sit down just to mindlessly peruse facebook or Pinterest. I have no qualms about admitting this out loud. As the youths say, its how I roll, yo.

But most of the time, during this daily downtime when the rest of the house is sleeping, I truly and actually sit down at the computer to “work”…which, in my world, means to make important internet purchases (I can HEAR my husband guffawing from here), or to edit and organize photos, or to work on inspiring and world-changing blog posts (like the one where I looked like a beached whale on the Slip n’ Slide). And in the process of my work, when I’m waiting for something to load, or when I can’t think of what I want to write about, or when I absentmindedly wonder if I have any new notifications or e-mails, I consequently pull up a gazillion tabs, including Pinterest and facebook and my antique AOL account and my Anthropologie wishlist, and…I get irretrievably lost.

Sometimes I emerge from this coma-inducing Internet Neverland feeling grouchy and discontent, and my heart knows full well that I have poorly misused my time, but…more often than not, I enjoy the heck out of myself.

I love the internet.

I could spend days on it.

That said, here at Selah Springs, without this delightful hobby lingering enticingly in my home office 24/7, I am finding that I was sorely in need of a week-long internet detox…

if only for the purpose of realizing how much I needed to have an internet detox.

And the reasons have surprised me.

For it is not uncommon to hear people resolve to fast or withdraw from the computer, is it? They might realize that the internet has encroached upon their time with their families or has kept them from doing their chores, and they need to step away for a bit in order to reinstitute who is machine and who is master.

But that’s not really my issue (this time). Because, even though I am a huge fan of all of my favorite internet haunts, I usually rigorously guard my family time, and have even refrained from purchasing an iphone to keep the internet in our home office only. I rarely allow myself time on the computer when my kids are downstairs, and spend most of their naptime at least trying to do my aforementioned “work”, and that’s usually after I’ve completed (a few of) my daily chores. And so the problem I have been awakened to goes a little deeper than that and stung a little worse…

For I’ve been slapped upside the head by the following realization: Not only do facebook and mindless internet surfing potentially replace face-to-face time with the people in my life when we are in the same room together, it also replaces something when the people in my life are asleep or out of the house…

my thoughts of them.

It distracts me.

It exchanges the quietest and richest times of my day with dull and shallow entertainment.

In other words, during the most potentially meditative moments in my life, I am voluntarily allowing my heart and my thoughts to be pulled away from the ones I am called to love more than anyone or anything, and worse, including my Heavenly Father.

As I have been without my dearly loved imac this week and have lolled around the Ranch or even spent a day shopping with my girls in Fredericksburg, I have once again become acquainted with how long a day can be, full of opportunities to think and to pray and to love. At home, I most usually fill those empty spaces up with my computer. A quiet moment comes and I slip into the office and check for facebook notifications. Or the kids run upstairs to play and I sit down for “just a second” to add a book I’ve been meaning to buy to my Amazon shopping cart. Or I get lost in the midst of my “work” like I mentioned above. But here, at Selah Springs Ranch, I am finding that those empty spaces are much better filled, and completely – and I mean, completely – change the way I relate to others…

I find myself missing my husband more often and wishing to cuddle up next to him on the couch (but no funny stuff, Mister)…

or thinking intently about my role as a wife and mother and asking for grace to live like Christ…

or communing with God as I drink in the beautiful world He made for us…

or thinking about my kids and cherishing their sweet faces and mannerisms…

or thanking God for my entire family and praying for their well-being…

Thus, by the time the empty space is over and we are together again, my thoughts are not wrapped up in some distant world. They are focused. In the quiet of the day, I have been meeting with God and thinking of and longing for my family, and I am ready to show them my love when we are once more reunited.

The result?

I reach over and rub my husband’s back more often when we’re sitting beside one another.

I am happy and prepared to sit and read a book to my kids when they ask.

I can more easily discern what is true and honorable and just and pure and lovely and commendable (Philippians 4:8) from what is fleeting and self-absorbed and unedifying.

I have patience stored back up when the quiet moment is over and welcome my children back downstairs with open arms rather than hopping up with an addled brain and foggy intentions…

Its amazing what God can do in your heart when you allow yourself to be talked to.

And so, really, my “revelation” was a simple one: what I had at Selah Springs – the focus, the intentionality, the gratitude…I want that every day.

And so from now on, I’ll be more closely monitering my extracurricular computer activity, not just when the kids are awake, but when they are sleeping. And when I am blogging or writing, I will not open extra tabs. And I will still enjoy facebook as much as ever, but once a day, in one sitting.

The rest of the time, I want to use my brain and resourcefully use the peace that God allows me each day to mindfully – rather than mindlessly – recharge and reset.

I’ve been operating for years under the assumption that naptime was ME-time. But the conviction of the sweet Spirit of God has shown me this week…

Me-time (without serious moderation) is sinking sand. But living for others – even when they are asleep – is some kind of beautiful and makes the heart much, much happier when naptime is over.

Coming up tomorrow ~ the FINAL Selah Springs installment!

Mrs. Gore’s Cure for the Common Cold

Posted on August 19, 2012 by mrsgore81

I woke up sick Saturday morning, after a week of trying to avoid catching whatever it was that had my son, Gideon, down for 7 days and counting.

Stuffy nose.

Headache.

Extremely sore throat.

Not to mention the tossy and turny night of sleep the entire family had, what with a thunderstorm, and a crying Gideon (who couldn’t breathe or sleep and refused to take the red cough syrup we offered him), and a teething Betsie, and, not to be outdone, a scared Rebekah who fled from her upstairs room at the first flash of lightning.

The night was so dramatic, Mr. Gore reportedly slept in the sunroom floor beside Gideon (who had finally fallen asleep on the glider), and I woke up sometime that morning with Rebekah on my face, my head pounding and my throat raging in discomfort. I was so groggy and felt so sick that, rather than shuffle around the house to find my husband, I felt around for the cordless phone and called him.

I’m so glad I did, because I discovered that he wasn’t even in the house, but in the shed, putting together the chalkboard he is making for our homeschool room. He could come in and take care of me, he said, followed by a gentle reminder that this was one of his only days to work on the chalkboard before our first day of school on September 4th.

I’ve gotta have that chalkboard.

And so the next 3 or 4 hours were spent just trying to make it until naptime.

Coffee helped a little.

Especially the 2nd cup.

And then I gave in and took a couple of extra-strength Tylenol.

And then, after I finally managed to feed them breakfast, Gid and Rebekah joined Papa in the shed, and it was just me and Betsie.

The day was much easier with just one child to watch, but time still went tick-tockingly slow, and I was hard-pressed to get much of anything done, my primary goal being to maintain a good attitude and to allow Betsie to roam around a bit rather than be locked up in her playpen where I was sorely tempted to put her.

But time marches on, and water has a way of boiling even when we’re watching the pot; before too long, I heard a little knock on the door. Looking out the peephole, I saw that my visitor was very short with a thick crop of red/blonde/brown hair. Gideon was back. And extremely dirty. It was straight to the shower for him, and I wondered how much longer it would be before Mr. Gore would return with our sure-to-be-dirty daughter. We were so very close to lunchtime now, with naptime just around the corner.

Somehow…someway…I had almost made it through this painfully slow Saturday morning…

However, when Gideon was finished showering, something extraordinary happened. Leading his baby sister to follow him up the stairs, he shut the nursery door and “baby-sat” her for me so I could rest. As I heard their laughter floating down the stairs, my heart immediately relaxed within me, and I sank down into a chair and waited for the rest of my family to come back home.

And that’s really when my day sort of turned magical…

I heard them before I saw them. Hopping up and opening the front door, I met them on the porch, both of them wet from the rain they had to run through to get back to the house. Rebekah was howling and Mr. Gore was smiling as he held her close. “She heard thunder about halfway across the yard and got scared.” he explained.

Setting her down on a towel right inside the front door, he asked for a couple of more minutes to tidy up the shed before lunch. Nodding, I began to “clean” Rebekah with wet wipes (or “wipe wipes” as she calls them), even as the tears continued to flow down her soft cheeks. There was a nice breeze blowing through our open door as I knelt there before her, and a steady rain continued to fall, leaving puddles on our sidewalk for the first time in months. The grass here in Oklahoma is so sun-scorched and rain-thirsty it has turned to the color of straw, and numerous tree limbs lay scattered across our acreage from trees that just seem to have given up and let go of their extra weight in the rec0rd-breaking temperatures.

Thus, the beckoning to go out-of-doors became irresistable. Turning my ear toward the stairs, I listened to make sure no one was crying before asking Miss Sunday if she might like to join me on the front porch.

“But I’m scared…” she cried. “The thunder might get us…”

“No it won’t…” I called, as I made my way to my rocking chair outside. “Come sit with me! I’ll keep you safe.”

Seconds later, I heard the creak of the screen door and her swift but heavy footsteps upon our concrete porch. Reaching me, she held up her ams, and I plunked her down safely in my lap.

She cuddled up against me and laid her head on my chest before wrapping her soft little arm around me. I covered the both of us with my favorite lightweight blanket and we methodically and calmly rocked, the wind blowing our hair back while light drops of rain periodically splattered us, even from our cozy perch under the shelter of the porch.

Sitting there with my 3-year old girl in my lap, my longing for naptime shifted, and I was left with one desire: to sit there forever, rocking, loving, holding, singing, and talking, with lots of kisses atop her head in-between.

“Isn’t God good to us, Rebekah?” I asked her.

She nodded her head, and pulled the blanket tightly under her chin. Her damp hair was turning wavy on my arm, and the wind was blowing wisps of those perfect golden strands all around her face.

“We are enjoying some of the best things that there are in life right this minute: family…and love…and rain…and God’s creation…see the trees blowing in the wind?” I said, hoping that she might pick up on a few of the many words I was saying, and that the truth would begin to take root in her heart that life was best enjoyed in simple and pure moments like we were sharing on our front porch, surrounded by the things God had made rather than the destructible treasures of man.

We sat quietly for a time, her blue eyes looking unblinkingly up at me in her signature gaze.

Finally she piped up. “I’m so gwad that God sent some wain to help gwow my fwowers.”

For just moments before, she had been picking and then replanting wildflowers by the shed where Papa was working. “Yes!” I exclaimed. “God is SO good to send some rain on your flowers.” I thought of the handful of farmers I know who had been desperately needing this rain, and trusting in the sovereignty of God to care for their crops and for their livelihood. My heart was happy to consider the gratitude they must be feeling at that very moment, echoed in the high-pitched voice of a 3-year old girl who was also worried about her plants…

It took Papa longer than he expected to tidy up the shed, and Gideon and Betsie were having a grand time upstairs, giving me and this treasure of a daughter plenty of time to commune with one another as we rocked and rocked and rocked. Before I knew it, lunchtime was upon us; Mr. Gore, seeing that I was in Mama heaven, offered to make the children some sandwiches, and allowing us to rock and sing songs until it was time to eat.

We soon moved on to the next part of our day – naptime! – but I was very glad this misty Saturday morning to have found the cure for the common cold, a surefire distraction to all that ails you…

Love. Family. Gratitude.

And for sure, a good rocking chair on the front porch.

Want to hear another Front Porch Tale from the archives? Click here.

Tag Archives: motherhood