This is a big first for me. And only because my friend Holley asked. And only because it was on the topic we all have been discussing the last couple of weeks – beauty.

Hop on over here to watch. Zoe’s in the video too. I needed backup………….

The ritual has begun – the spraying and lathering and rubbing into scalps of sweet smelling SPF 50  on blond hair and pale white bodies. {Sorry, boys, you may have got my blue eyes, but you also got my British genes.}

They love it. They stand – arms akimbo – and rotate slowly as I mist them. Teeny tiny waists astride gulping swimsuits that all but swallow their cute little patoots; hide their calves and brush just short of their ankles.

I could literally eat them up.

We wade into the water together.

Their tiny selves next to my not-so-tiny-self. And it makes me proud.

Because this body of mine that can’t ever seem to find a flattering suit, this body birthed those two boys. This body has seen life that the adorable taut, toned and tiny lifeguard girls on duty couldn’t possibly dream of yet.

This body has housed 3 miracles and it turns out that miracles need room to grow.

This beautiful amazing body has stretched to accommodate three sets of feet, three heads, three hearts, three sets of flexing limbs. This body is round where some say it should be flat; soft where some say it should be hard; and full where many others are running on empty.

This body knows what it is.

And it is much, much more than a swim suit.

{Revisiting this post from last year, after our first trip to the pool today and my third baby; I needed the reminder!}

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But sometimes being a mother is more than a series of moments connected only by dirty diapers, empty baby wipe bins, toy cars strewn all over the bathroom floor, and bum cream.

If you listen closely there is a melody that connects it all.

There is a pulsating rhythm of life keeping beat in the background to all you do. There is jasmine-sweet harmony that results from the eclectic collection of the many varied things a mother does in a day. All she is. There are lyrical moments of comfort given and received that are heart-breakingly tender. There are sweet serenades of love to babies who sleep on, oblivious.

There are rousing choruses of boys, crashing between boxes, climbing couches, drumming anything, dueling everything. The sound of gospel songs echo from a four-year-old who is holding forth on the majesty of his John Deere tractor. The hallelujah chorus rises with the sun and fills a bedroom of pajama clad babes, dancing with the dust motes; sharing their shaft of light.

Oh the wonderful music of motherhood. The cymbal, the harp, the tamborine. Shake it, dance it, celebrate it. Life giver, man maker, owie kisser, brownie baker, car pooler, home schooler.

Sing it out loud.

Sing and listen to the echoes of your day – they resonate with rich acts of selflesness. Sing it because it is true. You are more than the sum of what you do. You are the pitch perfect solo act that makes your home more than four walls and a roof. And if that comes at the price of your skinny jeans it’s still totally worth the trade!

I don’t know much about a lot of things, but I know motherhood, and I know it rocks. And there’s nothing better than rocking out with another mama who can spin a yarn about a day spent folding laundry and wrassling kids.

Whether on line or in person. There’s wonder in the sharing.

And I’m so pleased you have stumbled onto my site. Anytime you need a pick-me-up, come on back and we will turn up the music together and celebrate the soundtrack of motherhood!

Here are some of my favorite posts on this most favorite of subjects:

Why I Blog and a Bit About Quiet Desperation
It’s True What They Say About Childbirth, And Then Some
What You Can See When the Light’s Just Right
The Letter No Daughter Wants to Write

And I’d love to keep you company on the journey. You can sign up to get my posts emailed to you for free right here. Or add them to your blog reader of choice by clicking here.

Happy Mother’s Day sweet friend. From my chaos to yours!

~Lisa-Jo

Got five minutes? Let’s write. Let’s write in shades of real and true and unscripted.
Let’s just write and not worry if it’s just right or not.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Go leave some comment props for the five minuter who linked up before you.

It’s a great way to catch your breath at the end of a long week. And it gives me a chance to give one of you a little somethin’ somethin’ from DaySpring, who I love more than chocolate – and folks, that’s a LOT!

Last week I got to give five of you five minute artists the glorious Life to the Full Pitcher and Platter. Suh-Weet!

Congrats to the randomly selected: #90 Doug, #19 Hilary, #48 Kim,  #97 I will show you yours, and #115 Jaclyn. Your email with details is on its way.

This week the darling Give Thanks Caddy is up for grabs.

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes for the prompt:

If you met me….

GO

You’d notice my crooked smile and learn way more about me than you might have wanted to know. You’d wonder what kind of accent I have and why I wasn’t paying more attention to the boys running wild at my side. If you met me I’d likely be less interested in small talk than getting to the heart of you. Or me. Depending on how little sleep I was running on and how much time we had to connect.

If you met me I’d hope to find a way to sneak into the conversation how amazing you are and how what you do matters. And I hope I’d listen more than I talked, but I sure couldn’t promise it. If you met me you’d find I laugh loud, I love to make fun of my quirky life and still embrace it hard in the same breath.

If you met me, you’d be meeting shades of Peter, our kids and my South African roots. I bet I’d find a way to use the word “my daughter” in a sentence since I am enjoying what that tastes likes on my tongue. I’d probably refer to her as a “peach.”

If you met me I’d love if it were over tea and something chocolate flavored.

If you met me, I’m sure we’d be friends.

STOP

OK, your turn – show me what you’ve got.

{Subscribers, just click here to come over and play along.}

You don’t run, you simply walk, and it’s brave even when it might not look that way from the outside. Some days you take a newborn to your dentist appointment and when she starts to cry you just smile and tell him, “Better work fast, doc.” Some days you sit in a parking garage and change a baby on your lap, with a facecloth and a bottle of water because you forgot to pack the wipes.

Some days when you thought you’d treat yourself to Starbucks you end up getting a mouthful of Novocain instead so you just keep driving and suck on the pop tart your son left behind after “breakfast.” Some days you end up being on time when you thought you’d be late and you feel like a super hero because of it.

Some days you let a friend into your home without tidying up first and it feels wonderful. Some days the two hours you spend laughing with her over diaper blow outs, nursing faux pas, and the wonder of losing 20 pounds thanks to one tiny baby is more precious than all the laundry she folds for you while she’s visiting. But dang, if that folded laundry ain’t miraculous too.

Some days are long, but full of beauty – if only you are willing to find it in the most unlikely of places. Like in an empty laundry basket, a full fridge, and a clean stove. Like in a pile of little boys’ socks, a husband who walks home from the train station so you don’t have to come out at night, and the blog comments from strangers whose stories are so achingly familiar they reach through the computer screen and wrap themselves tight around your heart.

You.

I mean you.

You with the honesty and laughter and living room that looks like mine. You with the battle zone for a playroom and the sense of humor that never quits. You with the ability to see wonder in a pile of diapers and joy in a two am feeding.

Thank you so much for being part of my some days, these days.

I would so have you all over for chocolate cake and coke floats if I could. Here’s to you!

So, around here, we spend them wisely. On lots of words and layers of meaning that haven’t been edited. We just write. For five minutes flat.  That’s how Five Minute Friday was born. Want to play? It’s fun. And it’s never too late to link up. Also? My friend Sara whipped up this super awesome button for the occasion! You can grab the code over there in the right side bar.

1. Write for only five minutes.
2. Link back here and invite others to play along.
3. Go salute the five minute artist who linked up before you.

It’s fun, creative, and challenging. And there’s a beautiful leather journal in it for one of you from DaySpring. (Tara won the tote from last week).

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes on the prompt:

When I look in the mirror, I see…

GO:

I see a belly that can’t possibly be mine and a baby I can’t believe we’re about to have. A girl. Will she learn to love her womanhood or will she get lost in the labyrinth en route like her mother did? I see a face both older and younger than I feel and a missing tooth. I see the roots of harmony and hair dye and the pale skin both my sons inherited. I see very little space left for breath below my rib cage, so full as it is with baby’s toes.

I see a woman. I see a wife. I see a mother.

I see my mother in my crooked smile that curves always higher up to the left than the right.

I see contentment hard won and joy that layers over the worry. I see the blue eyes I inherited from my Grandpa and the eyebrow quirk I got from my dad. I see tired and happy at the same time. I wonder what Jesus sees as he grows this life with me and we count the days down to meeting the baby girl that still surprises me.

I see life.

Both inside and out.

STOP

(That was five minutes flat and I added the links in afterwards.)

OK, show me what you got:

So there we are, hanging out at reception with all the other belly-licious mommies and there hubbies, except that there’s one father-to-be flying solo. The dear old nurse leading the “deluxe maternity tour” (which in itself is funny when one considers how utterly basic and primal child birth is) approaches him and asks if his wife will be joining us. To which he responds, “Yes, she’s just looking for a parking space.”

Booyah! And this date is off to a great start.

Cue light conversation about measuring the thinning of the cervix, ice chips, the size pants you want to be sure to pack even after having delivered the baby, and how little sleep you can anticipate in the months to follow and you could have cut the romance with a knife.

It was at that point – after an hour and a half of touring together – that our guide looked over at my husband on the elevator ride down and said, “I recognize that Detroit Tigers cap – haven’t you been on one of my maternity tours?”

Ummmm, insert awkward silence.

“Yes, I’m sure I recognize you, weren’t you on a tour yesterday?”

Pete just smiles, looks down at his feet, shakes his head and mutters no, no, it wasn’t yesterday. To which the other Michigander in the elevator, the guy who took his wife to the wrong hospital before they finally made it to the tour 45 minutes late responds, “maybe that’s when he was here with his other pregnant woman.”

Priceless.

To comfort myself, we bought a large helping of chocolate pudding at the hospital cafeteria on the way out. I had to take my teeth out to eat it. It’s probably helpful to explain at this point that I’ve had horrid dental work done throughout this pregnancy. And currently I am missing a front tooth, have a half completed implant and a dental plate with a fake tooth that looks nothing like a real one. None of which I can eat properly while wearing.

So there I am, toothless, with a chocolate pudding grin and my false tooth sitting in my lap as we pull out of the parking lot. “Can you believe those people?” I ask Peter as we pull onto the freeway.

He looks over at me. “No,” he says slowly. “I can’t.” And then he may have muttered something about how on earth he got me pregnant in the first place.

Ahhh married people dates, there’s nothing like ‘em.

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There are tiger mothers who ferociously protect rather than (figuratively) eat their young.

There are tiger mothers who rear up on hind legs and wrestle the world, its demons, and themselves for the children they are entrusted with.

They are the mothers who monitor health rather than the violin. The mothers who learn another language, drive dark nights through slums looking for run-aways, and enter into negotiations with social workers, schools and pediatricians.

The mothers who pound the pages of Scripture in their frustration, who lose sleep and weight and their sense of direction. The mothers who bleed second chances and still find the energy to forgive way past the 70 times 7 threshold.

They are the mothers who wrangle joy out of the darkest shebeens and rescue love that has been utterly lost in translation.

They pour themselves out like so much sweet syrup over piles of pancake happiness and the whole house is gut full. Full of goodness, full of hope, full of learning curves within curves that encircle a family and make them one.

This is my family and this is the mother my father married after my own mom died. She is ferocious in her commitment to every child that passes under their roof. I watch and wonder from afar – a whole ocean blue as her eyes between us. I would learn her parenting by osmosis if I could find my way back to the Southern hemisphere more than once every few years. I would sit in her shadow and talk parenting and learn the art and the discipline it requires of the mother.

Of the mother.

How she must sacrifice and offer her raw heart up to the God who gave her the children she is trying to tame, to shepherd, to lead. And how He gives it back to her more broken and more beautiful than any artwork we could aspire to. It is the way of the tiger mother who wants to lie down with The Lamb.

And it is the only kind of Tiger Mother I aspire to be.

No editing, no back-tracking, no pauses. Just words. This week, let’s focus on friendship.

Start:

We sit curled up on the couch for not nearly enough hours talking kids, love, faith, family and words. So many words. Between us we’ve got so much to say that we’re tripping over each others’ sentences, filling in the pauses for breath with our take on what the other has just shared. We bubble over with the joy of sharing and equally of being heard.

It’s like soul food.

Served hot and steaming from a sister who knows how to nourish, these are the kind of words that are good for the body and satisfying for the soul. I savor them. I let them roll around on my tongue, in my gut.

The clock ticks; kids run in and out. I rotate movies for them, ferry pretzels and water bottles back and forth – whatever it takes to postpone every delicious second of this sacred afternoon. The shadows lengthen and the warmth drains away from the room, but still we talk. We talk until it’s time for dinner and I feel just like the kid who got to eat dessert first.

Stop!

OK, it’s your turn – whaddayagot?

{Oh and those adorable cards up there in the photo? They’re from DaySpring. And I plan to give a set to one brave five minute artist today!}

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I’ve felt empty of words.

Full of baby. Full of noise and chaos and worry and kids who launch themselves out of bunk beds with no heed for their physical safety or my mental well being.  Full of to-do lists that wrap themselves around me, paralyze and scare me. Full of mailboxes that won’t quit and a head ache that won’t go away and the poke, poke, poking on the inside of a baby girl outgrowing my insides and forcing her way into my head.

Because my head hasn’t had room for her.

My head has been full of all those lists and worries and to-dos.

But she’s coming just the same and this week I stopped to think about it. I mean, really think. Teeny tiny baby dependent on me again-think. Tiny toes and fresh baby skin and milky breath-will be here in 4 weeks-think. Register for pre-admission and beg for the chance to take a maternity ward tour sometime *before* my due date-think.

The thinking might also have looked a bit like crying at times.

But there it is. Suddenly there’s room for her. Room in my head, which seems more important than the room that naturally blossoms in my heart. Room to think on her. Room to ponder her. Room to remember this start-from-scratch stage of motherhood.

And for her to move in, other things had to move out.

So we’re in process. Moving. Boxes of junk piled high in my head and on their way out. Slowly. Setting up more than a crib. Setting up boundaries for work and social media and my smartphone. Setting up notices to pay attention to the last of the days spent just with my boys. To savor them like so much ice cream and chocolate sauce licked clean from the bowl. To just sit on the couch and watch them dance to Shakira’s World Cup Soccer anthem for hours. On repeat. In their underoos and nothing else.

To watch Pete as he sleeps in just the exact same posture as Micah and marvel that he will soon have a daughter. To anticipate seeing him in doting newborn mode again.

To talk to friends. Not just IM them. To talk and laugh and apologize for being absent for so long.

To surface.

To listen. To be quiet enough to actually hear. The gentle whisper.

It all took me quite a bit longer than five minutes this week. Thank you for understanding. And for still being here when I got back.

Share your week with me? The five minute or the “and then some” version.