The Things I'm Saying Most Often These Days

"Slow down."

If you ask Andrew how old he is, he might innocently hold up his two fingers and tell you the truth. Or he might - just as innocently - reply, "Seven," and then smile as if he expects you to believe him without questioning. He is obsessed with birthdays and has had to endure not one but TWO Birthdays That Were Not His in the last few weeks; he requires constant reminding that it is not his birthday, and this is not his birthday gift... yet he always to chooses to believe what he wants to believe...

We have been in full summer mode since our inaugural summer trip to the beach, and within two weeks, he has become comfortable enough (in the junior pool) to leave his float behind as he plays, recklessly hopping around and occasionally plunging under the water, returning to air with a sputter and a huge grin. When he jumps to me from the side of the pool, he soars fearlessly, as if he could just take off flying at any moment, often tackling me entirely in his exuberance. And yet, for the life of me, I cannot get that kid to walk when he's out of the pool. No amount of whistles will teach that kid to slow down.

We have this problem everywhere - in the church hallways, in the parking lots, in the grocery store, even on his little Strider bike - the kid knows only one speed: fast. Judge me if you will (or pray for me), but I promise I have tried everything. I cannot get him to sit down in the grocery cart. I cannot get him to sit still for rest time. I cannot get him to slow down. It is just who he is. (Lord, help us!)

And yet, I confess - I love it. He is just so much fun! (And who could ever hold a grudge against those dimples, anyway?) We have a lot to learn about this third kid of ours, but it is already quite clear that he has a fierceness about him that cannot be tamed. And I can't wait to see how God will use that in his life.

(If we can just make it through alive...)

"I love it!"

In contrast, his big sister is an island of calm. Sure, she can hold her own in the screamfests that my children so often engage in, but her tantrums are beginning to disappear, and she is learning to be more patient and controlled, even in the face of her terrorist brothers.

Anyone can tell that Sarah is happiest with a blank sheet of paper (or ten) and a stack of crayons. She loves to tell me how everyone at school calls her "an artist" because of how much she likes to draw, and although I am aware of a certain need to curb her vanity, I am also secretly thrilled that she can be so proud of the gift God has given her. Last night, after the kids were upstairs, P and I spent a few minutes marveling over the drawings she had made that day: four or five sheets of paper, each with a "version" of the two images she was working on: the stylized faces of a boy and a girl. I explained that she had named them "Lisa" and "Max," as she had painstakingly shown me earlier that afternoon, and we admired the clarity of the emotions Sarah had illustrated with each one.

But I will be the first to tell you that I do not keep every one of these drawings (though P himself told me last night that maybe I should!). There are simply too many! And to be honest, I have the sense that Sarah doesn't particularly care that we keep a catalog of every one of these "masterpieces" - just that we enjoy them in the moment. For just as much as she loves to work on them, she loves to share them with people she loves. Not a day goes by that I don't find myself telling her how much I love the drawing she has made, or the note she has written, and carefully brought to me for my perusal. And often, she addresses her drawings to specific friends or to her teacher or to me. This is the best way she knows to relate to us, and I love it. I truly do.

That is not to say that she isn't fun outside of the "drawing room," of course. She has the best time playing with her little brother (who is still oblivious to the difference between "girl toys" and "boy toys," thank goodness) and tagging along with her older brother. On our beach trip, when Luke was crazy with happiness about searching for sea creatures on the jetty rocks, I loved watching Sarah trip along behind him, occasionally bobbing up to proclaim, "This is AWESOME!" in a tone remarkably similar to Luke's. She is a keen observer of others, and sometimes I catch her talking to herself in the mirror, trying out different words or phrases or attitudes that she's seen... of course, when she sees me, she quickly drops the facade and giggles and runs up to hug me, as if to reassure me that she knows just who she is, and she really doesn't plan to be anyone else. And I won't lie: I am relieved! I love that girl, and her confident smile (even with a snaggly front tooth), and her definite style, and her sweet spirit, and her quiet ways. She is so brave and strong and guileless, and I pray she will bring many to know Christ as she continues to imitate Him in so many ways.

"I'm proud of you."

Thanks to a recent Not Andrew's Birthday, Luke is now eight. I watched him this weekend as we were sitting around the dinner table at my mom's, and the other kids had already run off to play while he lingered with the grown-ups, talking about grown-up things. And it hit me: he's not a little kid anymore. I mean, I know there were clues - shopping on the other side of the aisle at Wal-Mart, finding out that he's less than a foot away from surpassing me in height, listening to him being more patient and sounding more mature with his younger siblings... and then realizing that for the first time, he didn't really want any toys for his birthday... But he's always been a firstborn: leading his siblings around, chiming in on his parents' discussions as if he were one of the adults in the room... and yet, it wasn't until that moment at the dinner table that I noticed the extra level of self-control, the patient listening and understanding of our conversation, the contentedness in staying behind when the others ran off to play. And I thought, wow - this is really happening. My kid is growing up.

And I'm excited. Because I like a kid who can read the books I also love, who can watch the movies I also enjoy, who can talk about the things that also interest me. But I'm also compelled to savor these last twinklings of the little boy, to give him room to still play with toys and be read to at bedtime and to occasionally act like a wild and emotional toddler. I'm reminded to put down my phone and my magazine and my to-do list and soak it up, this childhood joy that I hope will always be with him.

Sometimes I look at pictures of Luke from when he was a three-year-old, and I try to see the boy he has become. I could never have imagined - I can hardly even do it now! - how he would develop into such a unique young man. Stubborn and yet always deeply compassionate, smart but also very silly. I would've hoped for him to be a "reader," but I would never have presumed that he would actually fulfill that hope as he has, quickly reading through every single one of the books we gave him for his birthday. I would've hoped he'd have a good sense of humor, but I could not have guessed that he'd lovingly wear out all our Garfield and Calvin and Hobbes collections. I probably would not have hoped that he'd be big into sports, which is good, since he isn't. But I don't think I'd imagined how loyal he would be to his friends and family. How sweet he would (sometimes) be to his siblings. How interesting it would be to talk to him about sea creatures and fossils. And how unrelenting he'd be about crossing his eyes for family photos.

I originally planned to say that the comment I make most to Luke is, "Let's not discuss this anymore." And while I do say that a lot, I realized that the comment that more accurately depicts this moment in his life, and that I am trying to say the most, is, "I'm proud of you." I truly am. I'm proud of each of these kids, and I want them to know it. Luke is growing up and entering a great period of life, but it is not easy for him. The other day, I found him curled up in his bed, close to tears, after I'd settled an argument over a stuffed animal by informing him that the turtle actually belonged to Sarah from the beginning. I was surprised to find him so upset about it, and he explained that the turtle was a brother to his other turtle (also, by the way, not technically his), and that he was worried about Zippy not having his brother anymore. I did not know what to tell him, and it still amazes me a little that he would be so bothered, but then I think that deep down, he knows. He knows that things are changing, he knows that he isn't just a little kid anymore. And it's scary and sometimes very upsetting. So instead of saying anything, I tried something new: silence, and love. I sat with him and rubbed his back, and I told myself, "Let's not discuss this anymore." I tried to give him room to be a little kid, too, while also letting him know that I'm here - I'm here for the road ahead, the growing up, the letting go. It won't be easy, and there will be tears, but that is okay. I am still so, so proud of him.



As a few glorious, terrifying, blank-slate summer days rise up before us, I pray fervently that we will make the memories, have the fun, feel the skin-deep peace of rest - but also that I will catch the moments that are fleeting, without fearing the changes ahead. I want to slow down, love every repetitive moment, and leave off worries so that I can just be so, so proud.

What a good life this is. What a good Father we have, who has given it.