The Warm-Up

I am the mom of 3 violinists. Well, let me correct that-- I am the mom who yells at 3 girls to practice the violin while I hear them say, "I wish I played the piano." That sounds more accurate.

I haven't ever stopped to consider how many violins there are around here. They have been here so long, they've just become part of the scenery. Ordinary. Part of life.

I looked at the cases the other day and decided to line them up. Just to see what they would look like. Gently placed, ordered by size. Lovely and quiet. I stood back and wished my life looked like those 3 violins. In order, placed just so, pretty to look at.

But life isn't about the order and the pretty, is it? No, it more defined by the daily battle to practice and the yelling that precedes it. That's the truth of it. Life is consumed by the ugly and hard parts. Pretty tends to show up at unexpected, small moments. And then things settle back to the regular rough and crazy.

I've been to my fair share of violin performances over the years. I've listened to endless notes sung by a bow. But, do you want to know my favorite violin sound? The warm-up. I know, it's weird.

Before every concert, every recital, all the violins are being tuned, all the violinists are practicing various parts of music. And they are all playing at once. No order. No conductor. Nothing staged or pretty. Just every violinist playing their own violin, in their own way. And when they join all together, without fanfare or worry of what their performance means, beauty transcends.

I tend to want my life to look like the polished performance. Pretty, ordered, finished and touched. But really, truly, my life feels like the warm-up. More of a beautiful chaos. One that requires constant tuning, adjustments and practice. I feel like most days, I can't ever reach up and out of the warm-up. I can't ever make my way into performance ready.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe life isn't about the end game. Sure, that's the goal. But maybe it's not the purpose. Perhaps the soul of life comes from the warm-up. From the tuning and the practicing and all the yelling it takes to get there. Maybe, just maybe, that's what makes the polished performance even possible. The rough and the crazy are the only things that let the pretty and ordered shine through.

What would life look like if we all decided to warm-up and tune together? All playing at once, all in our own way, each with their own music? Somehow, I think that that kind of beauty just might be the truest purpose of all.

Play your own notes. Without fanfare, without polished performance. Play and let your music ring true.

Odd

I'm odd. Did you know? In years, I mean. I had a birthday, and now I'm odd. I really hate being odd. Really, really.

It's put me off my game. This oddness. Well, and the simple fact that school is almost out. That little tidbit has sucked away my will to live. Just kidding. No, not really.

I've tried to settle in to my odd. You would think it would be easy, seeing how I face this dilemma every other year. But somehow, this odd year feels even odd-er than normal. I can't seem to shake it.

Maybe it's not my age. Maybe it's me. Could that even be possible? That I'm just simply odd? No matter my age? I don't know. That's a crazy idea that I don't know if I can accept. If I did, I think I'd come undone.

I have considered trying to balance out the oddness. Like, doing only an even amount of tasks each day. Eating an even amount of M&Ms. Washing only an even amount of dishes. That sort of thing. But honestly, that would just be weird. Right? Being weird and odd is just too much to handle.

I'm open to suggestions. Truly. If anyone has experience with being odd, I'd love to know how you continue living. Oh, and if you have tips on surviving the summer with kids who talk back to you, suck away all your money and fight non-stop, I'd love to hear those too.

Who knows? Maybe an even number of people will give me an even number of ideas, and then all will be right with the world. At least the odd part of it, anyway.

Love On A Sunday

The Random

Child #1 turns 16 in 5 months. Five! All I can think about is having another driver. I'm seriously dreaming about it. Just knowing she will be able to drive herself to her 5,000 running workouts gives me butterflies in my stomach. This little nugget of goodness may be the only thing that gets me through the summer.

***

On the flip-side. Child #1 is driving. She is also taking driving courses on-line, which means she knows the real rules. The legal ones. Do you know how irritating it is to have your teenager point out all of the laws you are breaking while you drive her EVERYWHERE? I know it's completely wrong, but I find myself saying, "OK. I'm allowed to do this, but you aren't." Great parenting skills are my forte.

***

I think I have arthritis in my elbow. Only one of them. Can 40 yr. olds have arthritis? I'm actually hoping I can get my doctor to say that I can't use my arm to cook, do laundry or pick up everyone's crap for a month.


***

The oldest daughter drew a picture of Todd and I for our anniversary. During church. Such a righteous activity, no?

 Who has the better hair? And, let's be honest, Todd is looking a little on the plump side. Good thing my body is the shape of a triangle. It's like we were meant for each other.

The Voice You Hear

She has crossed the finish line for the last time this season. Her goal was to run the mile under 6 minutes. She ran it at 6:03. She was not happy. Personally, I think anything less that 45 minutes is stellar.

Once her sweat dried off and we were home, she talked about her race. I could see her mentally reviewing things in her head. So I asked her, "Do you hear me when I am screaming for you while you're running?" From the sidelines, all I can do is cheer her forward. Race after race. Week after week. There I am, yelling at the edge of the track.

Until I asked the question, I hadn't stop to consider if she could actually hear me. Maybe runners get in a zone and tune everything out. Who knows. She considered my question before answering. She told me that she could always hear male voices, just because they are louder. But then she turned to me, her head tilted to the side while she thought. "You", she said. "I can always hear you".

I've thought a lot about that declaration over the last week. I've pondered what it truly means. Above the chaos and the other voices that surround this girl, she can still hear me. So what am I choosing to say?

Words have power, I think we tend to forget that. In truth, I most often feel like my kids don't hear any of the words that come out of my mouth. Their brains are set on mute mode. That's just the norm. Mom speaks, children ignore.

But, what if that is just the outside picture? What if that is just the way it appears, but not the way it really is? What if every word spoken makes its way inside, burrows down deep and layers itself next to all the others?

What if we start to use our voice with the knowledge that it will be heard? Every time. Every word. No matter the noise that surrounds you. It just might change the things we say.

A small voice won't travel far. Your voice needs to leave the sidelines and make it all the way down the track to the runner you are cheering for. Sometimes, that's a great distance to reach. So you better use your best voice and your strongest words. Every race. Every time.

You.
I can always hear you.

In A Blink

Easter then:

Easter now:

Dresses no longer match.
Sisters still don't like to sit next to sisters.
I continue to threaten in order to catch a picture.
No more missing teeth.
I'm not allowed to curl their hair.
Or pick out their clothes.

But I am allowed to stand back and watch them with awe.
They grow so fast.
They change so quickly.

Love.
Always love.
Then. Now.
And tomorrow.

Reason #324 I'm Not A Good Mom

I have cleaned many things in my 40 years of living. Many, many things. Cleaning tends to be second nature for a mom. It's what we do. Even when we hate it.

Yesterday, I decided to be supermom and win my daughter's praise by cleaning her bathroom. Most days, I avoid her area of living on purpose. Whenever I walk in her room I start to itch. She has stuff strewn everywhere and it gives me a panic attack. And I rarely step foot in her bathroom. The instant I do, I feel like I've been struck with Hepatitis.

But, I collected my courage and cleaned. Let me just stop and give pause for dramatic effect... For. The. Love. I can't describe what I witnessed. I will admit that I had to clean the shower twice. Twice! It was that bad. One little bathroom, for one little teenager. One hour. An hour! I couldn't feel my arm after I finished. And I was sweating, which I loathe to do.

So, here's my line of thinking: Have I failed to teach this girl what clean actually looks like? Is she blind? Are teenagers given a higher threshold for living in filth? I can't reason it out. Even now, 24 hours later, and I'm still convinced that I've flunked another 'mom-teaching-moment'.

OK, someone please tell me what I've done wrong. For reals, I need to know. Because something needs to change. I can't go back in there. I just can't.