The Making of M.O.M.

I figured it's time for some laughs around this joint. I know I could use some. What better than a Das Not Funny! Friday to give me a good chuckle?

A few days ago I was in desperate need of a hair cut. I decided to take Ashlee over to my grandmas and let Elizabeth go with me. On the way over to my grandmas Elizabeth, Ashlee and I started talking about babies.

Y'all have to understand, Ashlee is a baby lover. She spends the majority of her day kissing, hugging, ~~screeching in the loudest voice possible~~ talking to Abigail and trying with all her might to make her laugh. So I figured it would only be natural for Ashlee to want several babies of her own.

"Ashlee, how many babies do you think you want to have when you grow up?" I asked, glancing in the rear view mirror.

"OH, NO! NO! NO!" she said, waving her arms in front of her, "I'm not having any babies. I'll adopt some though!"

"What?" I said shocked, "You don't want to have any babies from your belly? Why not?"

"Because," she said, as a look of terror crept across her face, "I don't want to be pooping any babies out of my butt! No.thank.you!"

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We live in a town with limited restaurant options which means we frequent the same places often. The older 3 really don't need my help in the bathroom anymore, and when we're in a place that's smaller and if I can see the bathroom doors, I'll let them go on their own.

But, I'm always telling the kids that if a stranger approaches them in the bathroom they are to be nice and polite but if they start asking them too many questions they are to simply say, "My Mom is expecting me back at the table" and then politely excuse themselves and come straight to me.

One afternoon I took the biggest 2 girls out for a lunch date. Elizabeth went to use the bathroom and, of course, a few minutes later Ashlee had to go. Elizabeth emerges from the bathroom giggling, loudly, following quickly by Ashlee doing the same thing.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"Mom," Ashlee said through spurts of giggles, "Wizabets and I were in the bathroom washing our hands and I said 'Hi' to her..."

"and I said," Elizabeth interrupted, stifling her own laughter, "My Mom is expecting me back at the table."

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One of the ways we discipline Aaron is to take away any toy resembling a weapon. Just threatening a day without weapons makes his little 4 year old self straighten right up.

However, once those toys are taken away, I'm faced with a barrage of questions about when the next day will be when he can have weapons.

"Mom," he said, looking at me with his big blue eyes, "tomorrow, can I have weapons again?"

"Yes, buddy" I answered, "tomorrow you will be able to have them back."

"Good! Then I'm gonna cut your leg off. And you'll have to hop like dis" (insert a 4 year old hopping on one foot) "and you'll never catch me again and take away my weapons!"

Well, that's one way to avoid punishment. Or not.

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Yesterday morning he had his prized weapons taken away, yet again. As he played in his room he sang the following song:

"I'm Aaron. Da supa-he-whoa boy! I can fly through da air and kill all da emenies. But I can't use da weapons because my Mom took dem all away!"

Good to know his consequences are sinking in a little.

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At the beginning of July we were temporarily living at my grandmother's condo while our house was being treated for an outbreak of fleas. It's pretty glamorous to say your house is flea infested, by the way.

Anyway, one night Luke and I had tucked all our little babes into bed. We'd stuck Ashlee in the bed in the master bedroom because she was having a harder time settling down.

The door to the bedroom creeped open and her little head squeezed through.

"Dad? Mom? I need to show you something."

Luke replied, less than thrilled with, "What."

"You have to come in here," she said, almost whispering.

"Is it a green light on the ceiling?" Luke asked.

I whipped my head around, looking at him nearly in shock.

Ashlee, equally shocked said, "Yes."

"That's a light on the smoke detector. Go to sleep."

"Oh," Ashlee said.

The door clicked shut and we both started giggling.

A few minutes later the door reopens and she stammers, "That's not funny!"

The door slammed behind her. Yeah, actually, it was.

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Olivia has beads in her hair. Something she's wanted for so very long but I've not been able to make happen.

Now, she enthusiastically runs up to me and says, "Momma! Wanna hear my beans?" as she frantically shakes her hair from side to side.

And all this time I thought it was a marble.

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Ella regressed a bit when Abigail was born and decided that poop was best made in her diaper, not in the potty.

The last two days, however, she's gone in the potty! Yay!

Yesterday I asked her if she had pooped a lot in the potty. "Was it a big poop?"I asked, wondering if she had really finished or just relieved the pressure until nap time and a diaper was secure on her bottom.

"Yep," she responded, her blonde curls bouncing around her as she flipped her head up and down, "a big poop. Daddy poops."

"Daddy poops?" I asked.

"Yep. Daddy do big poop. I big poop like Daddy!" She was real proud of herself.

I, on the other hand, while proud of the poop in the potty could have gone with out this information.

Y'all have a great weekend!

"How are you?"

The words roll off their tongues as we casually pass in the hallways at church.

I think they stare at me a little longer than they used to. Maybe it's just my imagination. We've always gotten stares.

"I'm okay," I answer.

At least at this very second.

Why do we ask people that in passing? When we ask, do we really even care what their answer is? Or are we just trying to be polite?

I think it's just a miserable effort at polite. Because if we really wanted the answer to "How are you?" we'd stop, pull up a chair, lean in real close, look them in the eye and say, "How are you? All of you? Really?"

I'm guilty of it too, though. I've passed people in the hall at church or in the store or even asked my friends, "How are you?" and yet, I either already know the answer or truly, I don't want to know.

Luke said he's done asking people how they are unless he really has time to stop and listen.

I agree.

Sundays are hard. Maybe it's because I half expect her to come bouncing into the worship service with her shoes missing from her feet and her skirt swishing around her and a hat positioned squarely on her head. It's like somewhere, in my mind, this has all been a dream, a funeral I've planned in my head and it's not reality.

You know the ones. The funerals you plan when you can't get ahold of your husband or child or best friend and you're certain that they're dead somewhere so you just begin planning their funeral in your head?

Maybe that's just me.

But that's not the case this time, is it? No, there really was a funeral. She really is dead. (As Aaron likes to remind me. Daily. And every day I force myself to acknowledge him politely instead of sending him back to bed until he's 15.)

Elizabeth is writing a story about her.

Ashlee talks about her and laughs at her silliness.

Lucas randomly bursts into tears.

Aaron reminds me often that "Paige is dead."

Olivia sees silent tears streaming down my cheeks and asks me if Paige is "still at Jesus."

Luke is hurting, trying to find refuge in the things that don't seem to spark yet another memory of her. And folks, let me tell you, it's hard for our family to find things that don't involve memories of her. Nearly every song, nearly every place we've been to, someone's laugh in the distance, it all can lead back to a memory of her.

And most of the time, those memories come out of the no where, like a surprise to me. It takes my breath away and I want to drop to my knees and cry out with wailing sobs just like I did a month and 2 days ago on the floor of my kitchen. But usually, I'm in a crowd or sitting in church or just reading aloud to my children. So instead of wailing I pause, breathe, fight the burn of tears in my throat and eyes and try to move on.

And I hate every second of it. I hate that students are moving back to college and she's not. I hate that Grace is still here instead of in Kenya. I hate that something hilarious happens and I know how hard she'd laugh and so I reach for the phone only to remember that she'll never get my text.

I'm mad her BFF Mary has to walk the rest of her college years alone, without her.

I'm broken for her mother who has to figure out what life looks like with one of your children buried, in a box, in the ground.

It hit me the other day that, statistically, Luke and I will have to bury a child. My paternal grandmother had 4 children. She's buried 2 of them. My maternal grandmother had 4 children. She's buried 2 as well.

By sheer statistics, chances are that Luke and I will outlive one or more of our kids. That throws me not only into a state of fear but into deeper mourning, if that's even possible.

And yet somehow, amid all this emotion and confusion and pain and sadness, life must go on.

I must (and want to) still school our children and try to clean our house and keep up with the laundry and watch too many episodes of 24 late at night with my husband.

(Near) six month olds still have diapers that I need (and want) to change.

Two year olds must still be disciplined and tickled until blonde curls cover her pudgy cheeks.

Six year old girls still need late nights at the store with their Mommas, just to act silly and spend $3.00 trying to get a stupid stuffed animal from the rip-off game that is the claw machine.

Four year olds still need to have a play-by-play of our day as soon as his tiny feet hit the floor.

Eight year olds still need to sleep with Mom and Dad some nights just because she's a cuddle bug and I know her heart will be full the next day.

Six year old boys still need hugs and kisses from their Momma and a reminder that one day we'll be able to talk about her without crying.

Three year olds still need to dance during breakfast and sometimes, with their Momma.

Life goes on even though I wish, so desperately, it would take an extended pause and allow me to just sit in this moment, miss her, and my children not grow up by one more day.

But reality is that, for most of the world, their days have not been measured in days/memories/life before July 24th and a new life after July 24th.

I feel like I need to justify to people that our family is still pretty rocked by the death of a 20 year old girl. But the truth is, she wasn't just any 20 year old girl.

She is our Paigey.

The one that taught us that God is always big enough, there's always time to sing the Beaver song just one more time, Peanut M&Ms are best when shared with people you love the most, spontaneous dancing is always allowed, it's okay if you look like an idiot - the memories later will be worth it, God will never fail you - even if you feel like a failure yourself, being yourself is more important that being who others want you to be, discipling someone is painful, tedious, a lot of work but always fun and being discipled is crucial.

And so much more that I could never put into meager words.

We're still broken. We still miss her. I still fight back tears every, single day and especially on Sunday as I walk through the halls of the place where I first saw her face.

It's doubtful I'll be able to enter the youth area for a very long time. Standing in the worship center is more than my heart can bear.

So when you ask "How are you?" and I answer, "I'm okay." Know that at that very moment, I'm just okay.

Not better.

Not worse.

Probably forcing a smile and wishing I'd taken the route outside instead of through the church. Or wishing I was at Kmart.

I prefer Kmart over church because at Kmart, no one knows about her.

And typically, Sundays are the hardest days of the week.

So before someone asks me one more time how I am, let me cut them off at the pass and answer them.

I'm okay.

No more. No less. Just okay.