What Sandi Patty Taught Me About Myself

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When I was growing up, I dreamed of being gospel singer Sandi Patty (now Peslis). My parents bought me one of her cassette tapes for my birthday (Live: More Than Wonderful in 1983, if you must know). I think I sang 'Was It a Morning Like This' four Easter Sundays in a row. I sang 'Another Time, Another Place,' as a duet several times. I tried, unsuccessfully, to reach those stratospherically high notes she sings so effortlessly. But still, someday, I was going to be Sandi Patty.

And then -- she sinned. Not a minor sin, like coveting someone's house or car, or telling a white lie. She sinned. Big time. As in, she was rumored to be in a relationship with someone else, and ultimately got divorced.

I stopped listening to her as much around that time, but not because of that. Truth be told, I was too busy to pay attention to the gossip, the half-truths, the venom that was undoubtedly being spewed in her direction. I was going to school full-time, working full-time, getting married -- and then a few years later getting divorced.

And that's when I learned that some Christians -- albeit only a few --can be very, very, very unkind.

I went through my own divorce in the mid-90s. While the circumstances surrounding my marriage made, in my mind, divorce a necessary but painful option, I was ill-prepared for the backlash I would receive.

I got an anonymous letter with tracts about how my divorce was going to send me to hell. I had a (former) good friend tell me God told her I was ruining my life forever. I had a Pastor tell me that if I wasn't working so much and had spent more time focusing on my husband and my home, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did, and I should go home and ask his forgiveness. And I could go on and on and on.

I wasn't in the spotlight. I didn't have any kind of fame or notoriety. I was just a mid-20s small-town girl trying to take care of myself.

To be clear, I had many, many friends who were supportive to me during that painful time. But isn't it often the voices of dissension that speak the loudest? Feeling kind of beat up and abandoned, I moved. 800 miles away, to be exact. "For one year," I told everyone, including myself.

That was in 1999. It's been a long, long year in Nashville. But years I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. I've rediscovered myself. I've made even more lifelong friends. I found a job I seriously, seriously, seriously love. And I married my husband and had my sweet little boy.

But, back to Sandi. Divorce or not, and whatever led to that divorce (which was not, is not, and never will be any of our business, famous or not), she still has one of the most beautiful voices on the planet. Her voice can make me both weep and jump out of my seat, all at once. So, truthfully, her divorce and remarriage was barely a blip on my radar.

Her daughter, Jenn, is on staff at our church (and a fantastic singer and even more fantastic human being, by the way). So, last Sunday, Sandi came to our church. To speak.

Here's where it gets a bit difficult. In the interest of full disclosure, life was a bit busy last week. We returned from an 11-day vacation, to six loads of laundry, four suitcases that needed be unpacked, virtually nothing to eat in the house (unless crackers, caramel corn from the beach and 3 oranges counts as food), work to catch up on, and a house to get ready for our home study for our adoption. It slipped my mind until Saturday. And then I thought, 'I really should post something on Facebook and Twitter about her speaking at our church, in case someone wants to come.'

I probably had that thought a dozen times on Saturday.

But I didn't do it.

Because sometimes I'm just a big, big coward.

But my cowardice is not without excuses, even if they are pretty paltry. Social media, i.e: Facebook, can be one of the cruelest places. We sometimes forget that there are real people reading real words. We have turned what (I assume) was meant to be a place for friends to gather, into a divisive place where we criticize people's politics, religion, cultures, life choices, etc.

And I wanted to write it. I really, really, really, really, really, really did. But I didn't.

I didn't because I was afraid some Facebook friends would make a comment. We (and I'm sadly including myself in this generalization), LOVE to point out the sawdust in someone else's eye, while ignoring that 2 x 4 that's in our own. We forget that sin is sin, and we ALL SCREW UP. We soak up the endless pool of grace for our own lives, but pretend for others, it's a puddle.

So I didn't, because I was afraid. Afraid that someone would write something unkind. Afraid that a stone would be cast that I wouldn't catch quick enough. Afraid that I would have to defend a situation that happened so long ago and never was and never will be any of my concern anyway.

Afraid that someone would remember the sin and not the forgiveness.

Afraid that someone would rather crucify than take to the Cross.

Not my finest moment.

But I have to say, whatever I expected to come out of Sandi's mouth, it was not what she actually spoke about.

I imagine I could live to be 100 years and not have the bravery she had.

She got up and spoke about her mistake. She didn't hide from it. She didn't pretend it never happened. She didn't try to cover it up or make excuses. She talked about it.

She talked about what she learned from the mistakes she made, and how she's moved on since then. Rather than pretend that life was a big, big slice of happy, she stood before thousands of people, including some who had undoubtedly cast a few stones at her once or twice, and was very, very real.

I urge anyone who has been tempted to speak unkind of another person's choices to watch her speak below.  She starts speaking at 53:30, but if you want to hear her sing, go to 42:30 on the video first.

I was afraid to post a tiny little Facebook status, while she stood before thousands of people (with many more watching online), and said, "I screwed up. Here's what it cost me and here's what I learned."

More important than her bravery, which I could (clearly) learn a lot from, she gave us all hope. Hope that whatever has happened is not the final page of our story. Hope that we can still get out of our messes, even if we made them ourselves. Hope that we don't have to wallow in self-incrimination anymore.

Hope that grace is a vast ocean and not contained in a measuring spoon.

Hope that all things -- even our mistakes -- can be redeemed.

Hope that we can begin again.

Hope.

The Moments That Make Us

It's been a WEEK. And by a week, I mean the kind of week that feels like it will never ever ever stop, and could I please just get five minutes to myself to read a book or brush my teeth or maybe just maybe drink one cup of coffee in peace instead of taking sips while handling 50,000 other things all at the same time kind of week.

You know what I mean.

It started on Monday. I was very excited to get a writing assignment for a print magazine (Country Weekly), which involved interviewing a new artist (Joel Crouse), at a fun place downtown (12 South Taproom). I traded my faded shorts in for a skirt that's been hiding in the back of my closet since the birth of Reagan (but amazingly still fit, sort of), asked my father-in-law to keep the sweet little boy, and drove downtown. I was even early enough that I got to go into one of those cute little shops that plays soft music and has flickering candles all over the store and charges $12 for a bar of homemade organic lavender soap.

The interview went great, and I drove home with that rush that I get when I get to do what I love. The story wasn't due until Friday, but I figured I would get it transcribed while Reagan napped, and by Tuesday morning, I'd have it turned in, wowing the editor -- and maybe myself just a bit -- at how proficient and reliable I was.

And then The Fever began.

My father-in-law commented that Reagan felt warm to him, but I thought/hoped/prayed that it was just because Reagan had been playing outside. I mean, not only did Reagan eat two lunches, but he had been outside alllll day. Surely, he was fine.

But as soon as I got him up from his nap, I knew he was warm. Too warm. 101 degrees warm, in fact.

Sigh.

He barely ate his dinner Monday night, and fussed through the night until my husband slept with him on the couch. I fell asleep somewhere around 12:30, and got up to start my day a little after 5. By Tuesday afternoon his fever was mostly gone, but he was achy and kept saying "It hurts, Mommy. It hurts." We cuddled, we colored, we watched 7,169 episodes of Caillou (his new favorite show). We  played outside a bit. He even asked if he could help me make dinner (true story).  He seemed better, but still fussier than normal.

He went to bed at his normal time, but woke up a little later. I held him, cuddled him, gave him medicine and put him back to bed. At 11, he woke up again, screaming. I brought him downstairs, read him books, cuddled some more, and put him back in his bed, again, and then sat by his bed, holding his hand until he fell asleep. For about 45 minutes, I sat there, watching him fall asleep. Every now and then his eyes would flutter open to make sure I was really still there. If I moved, he'd stir and hold my hand tighter.

This is what motherhood is, I thought. This is what I waited for all those years. This is so worth it. I felt that motherly pride and silently patted myself on the back for doing such a great job.

At 4:00 in the morning, when he woke up yet again, I wondered why in the world anyone ever bothered to have children in the first place, and convinced myself in my exhausted grouchy exhausted exhausted EXHAUSTED state that the very idea of having children was ludicrous, and I would never once in my life get a full night of sleep again.

Needless to say, I did get a full night of sleep -- the very next night in fact, while my husband slept on the couch with Reagan all. night. long. (This was after he  told me that I needed more sleep than he did, which I think was his polite way of saying I had officially morphed into The Crazy Person).

He was right, and by Thursday morning the world looked much better. But it made me think about the moments in our life that make us who we are. They are the good, life-affirming, positive, feel-good moments -- like getting to do a job you love, holding a child's hand while they fall asleep, drinking a cup of coffee uninterrupted while the sun comes up, catching up with an old friend. Those are all really good moments.

But it's also those sleep-deprived nights, the times when our car won't start, or the bills pile up, or the diagnosis is bad. It's when someone cuts us off on the road, or the waiter is rude or the request is denied.

I'd like to define myself by the good moments -- the times when my life is going well and I like who I am. But I need to remind myself -- often (and probably a lot more often than I do) -- that the bad moments, or how I respond to them, define me as well.

Yesterday, I took Reagan to the doctor, and then ran a couple errands. By the time we got home, I was supposed to log in to a webinar about our adoption. It started at 1:00 and we pulled in right at 1:00. I unbuckled Reagan and told him to get inside as quickly as possible. He didn't feel the same sense of urgency that I did, and stopped to look at every stone, leaf, bug, flower, piece of dirt on the short walk to the front door. I was in a hurry, didn't want to wait for him, so after several reminders, I snapped at him -- and felt instant remorse. I was asking a two-year-old to respond as a grown-up.  I stopped, put my stuff down, got down to his level and told him I was wrong and I was sorry. He hugged me and gave me a kiss and showed me the rock he found -- and I still got to listen to the entire webinar.

I'm trying. I'm trying to be better in the good and the bad. I'm trying to focus on my attitude and not the situation. Not only to better myself, but for those around me as well. It is an absolute certainty that disappointments and rough times and difficulties and trials are going to happen. It's a part of life. But what I can choose is how I respond in those moments, the good and the bad. I'm a work in progress, for sure, but I'm trying.

But it is much easier after a full night's sleep and a good cup of coffee.

Adoption Update

Several months ago, we announced that we are adopting from India. Since then, in between moving into our new house, working, and chasing after an incredibly active two-year-old, we are making progress!

We sent off a large batch of paperwork last week. I met with our amazing social worker at AWAA this week, for a lengthy interview, and my husband will meet with her next week. We are still working on our dossier, which is French for paper chase, and they aren't kidding! Birth certificates, physical forms, background checks, finger-printing, child abuse clearance, employment letters, two different forms of financial statements, and on and on and on. Some have to be notarized, some have to be originals, some have to be copies. I'm grateful I like to be organized, but even so, our dining room table sometimes holds nothing but piles of papers.

We still don't know who she is, where in India she is from, or what our timeline will be for bringing her to our home. We have recently learned, though, that our agency has decided to keep our family's birth order intact, meaning whoever she is will be younger than Reagan -- a decision we totally support.  Part of me feels sad for the older children who may end up on the streets soon, but we have said from the beginning that we feel like there is a specific child in India who is meant to be with us, so we are fully trusting and supporting the agency's process.

We are also leaning towards taking Reagan with us when we go get her. We may take someone with us to take care of him during the day while we are running all over the country getting various documents signed. I want this entire experience to be one Reagan remembers fondly as well, and while we haven't decided for sure, my instinct right now says he needs to be as much of the experience as possible.

We're very, very, very grateful for everyone who has helped support us in bringing her home. It's been a humbling blessing to see so many of our friends, near and far, make a contribution into this entire process. Words will always fail me when I think of the ways people have helped us out. The estimated cost is as much as $40,000, according to the latest information on our agency's website. But, while we have been concerned about many, many things throughout this process, the one thing my husband and I have said over and over again is that the financial aspect of the adoption has never been one of them. We really do have faith that it will all work out.

With that said, we're planning a few more fund-raisers, so stay tuned. I'm already working on a few dinner party ideas and a songwriter night, and I'm very open to other ideas as well, so feel free to pass them on!

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of our friends who are walking this journey with us. We are very blessed.

P.S. To help us bring her home, click here, and in the bottom right-hand corner, put 'Johnny and Gayle Thompson' in the space for Designated Family. Checks can be made payable to AWAA, and sent to America World Adoption Association, Attn: Accounting Dept., 6723 Whittier Ave., Suite 202, McLean, VA 22101, along with a form that can be found here. Checks must be designated for the Eternal Family Fund. Or, you can donate to our GoFundMe page.

The Story of Madison

On July 4, we spent some time at a park near our house in the afternoon, with a nice-sized playground. Reagan slid down the slide several times, played on the swing set, went back to the slides, and then we went for a hike around the lake.

Afterward, we were all hot and tired, and ready to go get some ice cream, but we had promised Reagan, who rode in his stroller for the hike, that he could go back to the playground after our walk. So his father and I dragged our weary selves back to the playground for a few more minutes, wishing all the while we were sitting in air-conditioning.

I'm so glad we went back.

The playground was packed, and getting busier. Families were enjoying picnics, boat rides, fishing -- all the things that families do on a national holiday. Everyone clustered together. Siblings, parents, cousins, friends all wrapped around each other, playing together, listening to music, enjoying life.

As Reagan ran toward the slides, there was a little girl, maybe eight years old, by herself. She climbed up to the top of the slides, slid down, and climbed up again. While sliding down a slide is a solitary activity, something about her struck me. Reagan, being two, jumped in front of her, and I had to pull him back and remind him that she was first. She smiled shyly and said that it was ok.

After a little while, we went over to the swing set. There was a swing designed for small children, complete with an over-the-shoulder harness and extra safety measures. We put Reagan in. and he squealed with delight while his father pushed him higher and higher, faster and faster.

As he was swinging, the little girl came and stood by the swing next to him, which was a bucket-style seat, made for a toddler. She stood right beside us and pretended not to watch out of the corner of her eye, gently pushing the empty swing back and forth.

I found myself watching her, wondering what her story was. She just seemed so ... alone. Not alone as in someone had abandoned her at the park, but alone nonetheless. No one was checking on her. No one was playing with her. No one was making sure she was having a good time.

After Reagan was done, he wanted to swing in the toddler swing. The swing she was standing by. Again, being two and largely unaware of social graces, he asked to be placed in that swing, oblivious that someone else was already using it.

I reminded him that he needed to say "please," first, but she had already moved away, saying quietly, "It's ok. He can have it." So we pushed him in the swing, faster and faster, higher and higher, him giggling with the sheer joy of riding in a swing, and us laughing at the sheer joy of being his parents.

And then, my heart ripped just a bit.

As we were getting ready to leave the park, the sweet girl was still hanging beside us, just watching. My husband addressed her -- I think he smiled and said hello -- and she said, so quietly we could have just as easily missed it:

"Would you please push me on the swing too?"

Anyone who knows my husband knows that, of course, he did. Our sore muscles and fatigue by the sun vanished.

Her name, she said, was Madison. She climbed into the baby swing, really not meant for someone her age, and off they went. He pushed her faster and faster, higher and higher, her corn rows flying in the wind.

I stood to the side and watched, grateful that my sunglasses hid the tears pooling in my eyes. The look on her face was pure, childlike ecstasy. Something in the way she smiled and laughed told me she didn't get these moments often.

I don't know her story. But I had a feeling, watching her, that maybe she didn't have a Daddy. Or at least a Daddy that would push her on a swing. And maybe there weren't a lot of people paying attention to her. And maybe, just maybe, she needed someone, if only for a few moments, to remind her she mattered.

After a little while, she politely said she was finished. Maybe she was, and maybe she just felt like she had taken enough of our time. I don't know. But I know I walked away from the park different than I walked in. I felt a mixture of gratitude that I married a man who draws children to him, and who loves children fiercely and passionately, in a way that only he can. But I also felt sad. Sad that there are so many Madisons in the world. Sad for a little girl who had to ask a stranger to push her on a swing set, because no one else was around to make sure she was enjoying her holiday. And sad because a simple thing like a ride in a swing made for someone smaller than her might have been the best thing that happened to her in a long, long time.

I'm so glad Reagan insisted on going back to the playground.

Madison, wherever you are, you are a precious, precious girl. I hope someone tells you that often.

Writing Process Blog Tour

Thanks Ipuna Black for the Writing Process Blog Tour invite! She writes YA fantasy and is in the process of querying agents with her completed novel. You can follow her on twitter @IpunaBlack, on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ipuna.black, or on her website at ipunablack.com.

So, while I have made a living as a writer in some form or another since 2008, it's only been since the birth of my son, Reagan, two years ago, that I've focused more and more of my energy on that as a career. While most people know me as an entertainment writer, many may not realize that I'm also working on several book projects as well. As part of the Writing Process Blog Tour, I've been asked to share a bit of those details, which is a good thing, as now I'll be accountable to a lot of people to get something finished!


What am I working on?

The first thing I started working on was, believe it or not, a cookbook, and every now and then I jot something down, but finishing that project is going to take a while, at the rate I'm going. Several months ago I started working on a women's fiction novel, and I'd say I'm probably well over halfway done with the first (of what I'm sure will be many) drafts.


But what has me the most excited right now, and what takes up most of my free time, is a science fiction novel I'm working on with a good friend, Gregg Ackerman. I knew he was a writer, so I broached the idea to him of working on something together. Truth be told, I imagined us working on maybe a children's story or some short little novella type of thing, but when we got together, he had this AMAZING idea for a book, and so we hit the ground running. It strikes me as a bit odd, because science fiction isn't something I gravitate towards, in terms of what I read (although I do love Madeleine L'Engle's 'A Wrinkle in Time' and George Orwell's '1984'), but it's been a really exciting challenge for me.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I think what I love most about what Gregg and I are working on is that there's the science fiction element, but it's also a beautiful love story. I see it as (hopefully) appealing to a wide audience because it has science fiction and it has suspense, but at its core, it's about two people who fall in love, and the road blocks they have to overcome to find their way back to each other. Honestly, the twists and turns of the story keep me awake at night.


Why do I write what I do?

Well, I'm writing science fiction right now only because Gregg talked me into it. :-) But, I write because it's what I love to do more than anything. It's when I feel the most satisfied, the most fulfilled, and at my very best. The fact that it works with the way my life is structured, and that I have a super supportive husband, makes it that much better. Right now, I can't imagine doing anything else, unless Food Network would give me my own cooking show ...

I do hope to work on biographies and other forms of books at some point as well. I love the idea of sitting down with someone, famous or not, and writing out their story.

How does your writing process work?

Well, I have a toddler, so no two days are ever the same. Ideally, I try to write at least in the morning, during his morning nap, when I'm my sharpest, and whenever I have a sitter. If someone else is with Reagan, I often go to Starbucks. Sometimes, the change of scenery motivates me. More often than not, I work from my couch though. I try to shut all my windows on my computer so I'm not tempted to troll Facebook or check my e-mail every five minutes. But sometimes, if my creative juices feel like they have dried up, taking a short break to get one more cup of coffee, or read something mindless on the internet for a bit, helps me regain focus. 

Up until I got on the right sleep medication a few weeks ago, I would average about four hours of sleep a night. The up side to that was that I had a lot of time to come up with great ideas, and many of them are now in the pages of the book.   

Next on the Writing Process Blog Tour:

 Jenny Balliff has written a memoir about her experience with cancer and postpartum depression. She has a few novels in the works and is the president of the Boulder City Writers Group. She blogs at thewriteshelf.com

 Kimberly Wyse began writing as a child when her dad taught her to write her prayers. She turned to writing during a difficult time in her life and realized that it brought her joy and clarity. She honed her writing skills by earning a BA in English and MA in Theology. You can find her at www.KimberlyWyse.com. She writes about life from a Christian perspective, dealing with issues of extended singleness, marriage and children later in life, and career changes. She's currently working on a memoir about finding God in the middle of her long wait for a husband and children. She also works as a freelance editor and enjoys occasional speaking engagements.

Raising a Hands-On Child in a Hands-Free World

When my husband and I found out we were pregnant with our sweet little Reagan, who is now two years old, we sought out advice from almost everyone we knew who had children. We wanted to know what worked, what didn't work, and what mistakes other people had made, so we could learn from them. Part of being parents later in life, I think, makes us much more intentional in how we are raising our son, and eventually, our daughter.

One thing we have decided to do is make the conscious choice to stay away from a lot of the electronics and gadgets that fill so many homes. Truthfully, I've been contemplating a blog about this for some time, and then I read one by Renee Robinson, A Letter To My Boys (The Real Reason I Say No to Electronics), and she said everything I wanted to say so well, instead I'm just going to expound on a few of her well-articulated points.

We went out to eat for breakfast a few weeks ago, and Reagan and one other little girl, maybe a bit younger than Reagan, were the only two children in the small cafe. While her parents chatted, she was buried in an iPad, occupying her time.

I get it. I really, really get it. Believe me, I do. It is not an easy task keeping a toddler happy at a restaurant, or anywhere where there is a wait involved. But we choose to let him wait, and run the risk of him getting upset or bored or throwing a toddler-sized tantrum, because the truth is, life is full of waiting, and he might as well get used to it now.

Renee writes, "I want to talk to you when we are out to eat. I want to listen to your questions. I want to have training opportunities. I want to allow space for conversation that can take us deeper. And if you are always distracted with electronics, well… I might miss those moments."

Yep.

We've also made the decision to not bring electronics with us when we travel. So far, in Reagan's short little life, we have made four trips to PA and back (1600 miles round trip), and one trip to Florida, and he's done very well. Yes, we've had to make more stops when he gets bored and restless, and yes, it gets tiresome to find ways to keep him happy and content while strapped to a car seat, but we do it anyway. We do it because we both have such fond memories of road trips with our families, and I want Reagan to have those same memories. And, like Renee says, I don't want to miss a moment with him. If we had a car that played DVDs (which we don't), we would have missed so much, even on our 40-minute drive home the other night. We would have missed him making the animal sounds in the 'Barnyard Dance' book, which we have read so. many. times we can all recite it by memory. We would have missed him trying to make us laugh by making a series of funny noises, and then cracking himself up. We would have missed watching him read through some of his books on his own, looking very serious as he turned the pages (even though one was held upside down).

So much we would have missed if his eyes were glued to a screen.

"Yes, when we are waiting at a doctor’s office for an hour, it would be easier to quiet you with my phone. But if I did that, I fear I would send you a message that says I’d rather hush you than hear those precious words falling from your lips.

I can’t bear the thought of allowing you to miss out on the wonders and mysteries of this world. When you are transfixed on a screen, the beauty of this world will be lost to you. In every moment beauty is waiting to be discovered. I don’t want you to miss it."

My husband works for Brentwood Driver Training, and he says so many teenagers don't know how to get to their house, even when they are in their own neighborhood, because they've spent their lives looking down, instead of looking out. They've missed so much, because their eyes were transfixed on the small screen in front of them.

When I was growing up, my least favorite time of the week was Sunday afternoon. There was nothing worth watching on the three channels we could get on our TV, and my parents actually rested and took naps, and Lord only knows how many times I said, "I'm bored."

I'm so grateful for those times I was bored. I am almost positive if my parents hadn't given me the opportunity to be truly bored, I wouldn't have developed such a strong love of reading. Because there was literally nothing else to do, I buried myself in books ... and I still bury myself in books today. Had there been the option of an afternoon of video games and electronic devices, that would have become my world. Instead, I immersed myself in whatever book I brought home from the church library, sometimes reading them twice in a row, and my love of other worlds, other cultures, other possibilities, was born.

I'm not delving into the increase of ADHD with the increase of electronic devices, because frankly I don't know enough about it. I do know, though, from information a teacher friend of mine shared with me, that a video screen changes so fast, it's hard for children these days to keep focused on things that aren't rapidly changing.They are used to a screen changing every three to four seconds, so they are becoming bored when forced to sit in a classroom or focus on a text book.

But that's not why we say no to a lot of what has become common place in our society. It would be so much easier to appease him with a game, or stick him in front of a TV so we can get stuff done. But, we say no because this parenting journey isn't about us. It isn't about doing what's best, or easiest, for us. It's about giving our children the best tools possible to equip them for the world in front of them.

Lest people think we shut off the TV and have returned to the Dark Ages, we haven't. At all. Reagan is allowed two short shows or one long one (i.e: two Thomas the Tank Engines or one Calilou) when he wakes up in the morning and gets up from his naps. And, we have unashamedly used a TV show occasionally when we needed to occupy him for a few minutes. I did it last week when my husband had to leave for work, and I still had some work to finish for my job. My husband did it the other day when he was home alone with Reagan, making dinner, and Reagan kept trying to get too close to the stove. And, we plan on taking Reagan with us when we travel to India to bring his sister home, and I am absolutely positive we will take along plenty of electronic help. 20 hours in a plane is a long, long time for anyone, let alone an active little boy.

But, for day to day, we're going to continue to encourage him to play outside, to explore the world, and to even be bored at times.

"I want to watch your face illuminated by the majesty of life – not the glow of a screen. I want all of you. Because I only have you for a short while. When you pack up and leave for college, I want to look back with no regrets over the time I spent with you. I want to look back and remember how your eyes sparkled when we talked. I want to look back and remember how I actually knew those little quirky details of your life because we had time enough to be bored together."

 Our time with our son, and soon our children is so short. Too short. While I have him, I want all of him. I want to watch him draw pictures. I want to go for walks with him. I want to read to him and with him. I want to watch him build things with his blocks, when he's unaware I'm watching him, and he gets so serious he sticks his tongue out just a little bit while he's concentrating. I want to listen to him talk in the car about his day, or make funny noises. I want to watch him read books upside down and sing songs with him.

As he gets older, we understand it will become more difficult, and we will have to keep readjusting and re-evaluating to find what works for us -- and what works for us is not the template for what will work for everyone. At all. We all struggle and get bumps and bruises while we raise our families. There isn't one formula for everyone, and I get that. But I look to several of my friends who have remained largely technologically free as they raise their families, and I look at how their children have grown into such articulate, sensitive, caring, intelligent people, and I want that for our children. So, like everyone else, we soldier on, and hope that we make the best decisions for our sons and daughters in the process.

This Old House

We said goodbye to our old house this week. Well, truthfully, it was a long, drawn out goodbye, which started when we put it on the market, unexpectedly sold it only ten days later, closed on it in April, rented it back from the new owners for a month, and then finally moved into the new house last weekend. But earlier this week, we went back, cleaned out the few remaining remnants, fixed a couple of things, vacuumed it one more time, and turned over the keys to the new owners.

It was a good house for us. It was the first house we owned together as a married couple. We bought it a few months after we married, more for the financial sense of it than anything else. We knew we would eventually need more space, but it was a great price in the right part of town, so we bought it anyway.

We had big plans for that house. We had rooms we were going to paint, things we were going to buy, upgrades we were going to do to make it feel more like us.

And then, four days after we moved in, I found out I was pregnant. Almost as soon as we moved in, I felt the clock ticking towards the end of our time in that home. When out-of-town guests visited, for the first few months, they slept in Reagan's room, while Reagan slept in a bassinet by our bed. As he got bigger, it became more and more tricky to accommodate everyone. Within six months, I was thinking about our next house, already feeling the restrictions of a two-bedroom home.

We had been in the house a little over a year when we started talking about adoption, and then the clock ticked a little louder. Walls went unpainted. The gallery of photos we planned on hanging on the stairwell remained unhung. I stopped looking for things to add to our home, and started thinking about how much we were going to have to pack up, eventually.

By the time we found our current home, I had spent weeks looking at homes with our realtor. I think the official count was 37 homes I walked in and out of, not counting ones we drove to and didn't bother going in because it was the wrong neighborhood or looked too rundown or any other reason. As soon as I walked into our new house, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was meant to be ours. It just felt like home.

Suddenly, the old house was just that ... the old house. We had a shiny new house, with newly-painted walls before we even moved in. We bought new furniture, and other items to make it feel more like us. We made plans for upgrades and minor renovations, like expanding our deck. Before we spent a night in the house, it was ours. I imagined Reagan running around in the backyard, I planned the bedroom for the daughter we haven't met yet, and I looked for furnishings that would add our own personal touch.

I didn't think much about the old house, even while we were still living in it while packing up boxes, and throwing out bags and bags (and bags) of items we were discarding. By the time the movers came, I barely gave a thought to what we were leaving behind.

It wasn't until a couple days later, when I dropped Reagan off with a friend and drove to the old house to do a few last-minute things, that it hit me.

This was the house where I'd lay on our old couch at night, very pregnant, because some smell made me so nauseous during my pregnancy. It's where my husband fed me apples and milk shakes at night to get me through until the next morning (when I'd sometimes have more apples and milkshakes).

This was the house where we brought Reagan home for the first time, all six lbs. of him, afraid we might break him because he was so small.

This was the house we took turns rocking and rocking and rocking him through his colic phase, when all three of us were in tears because nothing was working.

This was the house where he took his first bath, laying in his tiny little blue plastic bathtub with his arms up like he was ready to box anyone who came too close to him.

This was the house where he started to crawl, took his first steps, said his first words, said his first sentence.

This was the house where he had his first big boo-boo, when he tripped over his toddler feet and landed head-first on the concrete.

This was the house where he splashed in his kiddy pool on our patio, and ran up and down the hill behind our house until we were both worn out.

This was the house where he went from being the worst sleeping baby to the best, seemingly overnight, and would sleep for 11 hours straight, sometimes more, before waking up and saying, 'Up, please. Up, please. Up, please.'

Reagan turned one in that house, and then he turned two.

And then we moved.

He probably won't even remember the old house, except through pictures. But we will. We'll remember the great memories, and the not so great ones. We'll remember the sleepless nights, the baby giggles, the explosive diapers, and a thousand other things.

I'm glad we moved. Reagan has a yard, and trees to play in. We have more space, more room to grow, and a place to bring our little girl home.

But it was a good house for us. It was good to us. It holds some of our best, and maybe a few of our worst, memories. The walls could tell countless stories.

Goodbye, old house. You will be missed.