Parenting Wild things: Guest Post

It is five in the morning in the dark of winter when I sense motion somewhere in my otherwise comatose house. I begin to roll over dismissively, but notice my 10 year-old daughter standing over me in full on second-to-oldest mode, ready to give her report; she had just gotten up to use the restroom and found her little brother getting into the gifts that I had stayed up too late wrapping the night before.

I motion her back to bed and in an uncoordinated display of motherhood, lift my disproportionately weighted head off my pillow. Swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, I give my feet a few seconds to discover the floor before ping-ponging down the unlit hall.

My boy is nowhere to be found. 

Alerted by his sister's presence, he has fled the scene of the crime and is already in hiding. Twelve years of parenting tells me that this is probably not a good sign, but since the twinkling glow of the tree does not reveal shreds of wrapping paper littering the living room floor, as I had imagined it would, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

I conclude that he too had probably gotten up to go to the bathroom and been lured by the presents' greatly anticipated first showing. More than likely, he had simply moved in for a closer look and, letting his fingers trace and weigh the shapes of the packages, ripped an end or poked a finger through in the process.

It would be a quick fix-- I would be back under my fuzzy blanket before it had time to miss me.

The problem comes when I can't find my tape.

I know that I had buried it down into the ribbon box because I had done so intentionally--or did I?

In an act of determination, I empty and re-stuff the container more times than what is reasonable before abandoning the act all together. Somewhat perplexed and defeated, I plop myself down onto the couch, and that is when I notice it waving at me from under the tree.

Pssst. Over here, by the scissors.

I. did. not. put. those. there.

Read the rest over here

Poky

 Most of us have heard incredible stories of lost puppies coming home after being gone over months or years, and possibly distances of hundreds of miles. Well, we at the Denfeld house just recently experienced this very phenomena, and like others before us, we marveled. Our ‘puppy’ first joined my husband’s family on August 20th, 1982. He was a gift from Great-Grandma D. to my husband who was eight. The puppy was loved for a time and then the little boy outgrew him and the little boy’s mom did the right thing by finding him another home.


Well, I like to think this dog must have heard that there were once again little boys in the family because he has returned to our ‘doorstep’ after more than twenty years. His name, in case you have not already guessed, is ‘Poky’ and he was rescued most recently from a thrift store near where my husband grew up and returned to us by a friend of a friend, who recognized the name inside the cover and was thoughtful enough to put the pup on the path back home "over the bridge, up the road, through the meadow, and under the fence" where my husband’s children can love him.

On the surface, this just sounds like a sweet thing to have happen. I would be foolish though to think that this was just coincidence because I know the conversations that I have had with God over the course of this pregnancy. Questions about his timing and my need to control. Conversations that have boiled down my lack of faith in His provision or interest in me; about me refusing to step out and allow God the opportunity to provide in ways that make no earthly sense, but are in accord with his timing and His economy. There was a time that I lived what I said I believed and I truly knew what it was to rest in Him. That time seems like too long ago.

This reunion has caused me to think that I want to be like Poky. True, I was not given away, but I did sort of wander off. God is reminding me that his timing is perfect. He does not act prematurely, nor is he slack concerning his promises. He knows where I have been all along, and now I am being returned to where I belong-- home to the one who first loved me.

***A VERY important note: I am NOT pregnant. This very special incident occurred a few years ago after one of my last pegnancies, and I wanted to share it in honor of Great-Grandma Denfeld's 90th birthday this weekend. Again, just to be clear, there is no need to send my inlaws into a panic.

Now it is your turn. Every Monday we gather to write the words and stories that we wish to pass down to our children. Clearly, the format is broad, and both old and new posts are welcome.

If you would like to join us just add the link to your specific post below. Please mention on your site that you are joining us here and include a link back to this post from your page -- this is how others, who might wish to join us, will knows where to go.

Also, take some time to visit others who have linked up because community is one of the best parts of blogging. Now, go make friends.

Bave Words: Everything is Not Okay

It's falling in a steady drizzle and the weatherman says to expect more of the same; that's just what it does east of the Cascades in the spring. He could tell me to bring my umbrella and to allow extra time on the freeway, but he couldn't tell me how to shield myself from the anxiety or put the breaks on the upcoming turn of events. He couldn't tell me that this would be the day that my father's heart would stop beating...


I am posting at Kelli Woodford's site today, joining her series on Brave Words.

To read more, just click the link.