Let me just apologize up front. You got shafted in the Crafty Mom department. 

You see, I’m a rock star at making sure you get healthy food at each meal. And sleeping? Boo-yah. I’m all over that. You’re growing up the best-rested kids on the block. I also worked hard at allowing some “creative freedom” and messes are excused in the basement in exchange for a bit of imaginative play. We have a never-ending supply of crayons, papers, even glitter (gasp!) glue. 

But your birthday parties are gonna suck. 

First, I cannot decorate a cake. I can bake one. I won’t burn it and I can even get something that is both gluten and dairy free to taste delicious. I once even made a pineapple upside down cake completely from scratch, without a box, and “poached” the pineapple. It was fantastic. I can also make sure that a substance filled with sugar, resembling frosting, will accompany said cake. You will declare it yummy. But the buck stops with flavor. 

It’ll look like a train wreck. With Christmas sprinkles, because that’s what I had in the cupboard. 

I once used a heart-shaped pan. The cake successfully appeared as if it were a heart. Total victory in my book. 

So, once we bring out the round cake with frosting dumped on, and you open your presents that everyone else brought (because gift-giving isn’t high on the list of skills for your father OR me), the excitement pretty much wanes. The decorations will be lacking – as in, absent – save the balloon wreath I made for H Boy on his 3rd birthday and have since recycled for every subsequent celebration. That balloon wreath might have been a birthday party crowning moment. 

And games, favors, and special treats for the party? Well, thankfully your Aunt Gigi is good at putting together a little bag of something something, or I’d never know what to offer. We might get one of those for the parties we share with your cousins, but the ones we fly solo… well, I’ll try to put it on the list. But I probably won’t remember (or want to purchase) those little bags to stuff it in because they’re too pricey just to have something to throw away later. 

I promise to do all that I can so that you grow to be happy, healthy, well-adjusted contributors of society. I even promise to remember your birthdays and mark them special and allow you to choose the menu for dinner (or the restaurant, if that is the case). But please, when you set the bar of expectations for your next celebration, remember who your mother really is. You will not be disappointed if you set your sights a notch or two lower than all your friends. 

Much love and Happy Birthday, 

Mom 

Many women relish their pregnancies. They “just love it!” Not so much me. I don’t hate pregnancy; I’m overall a very good pregnant woman in that I’m not a puker and haven’t had to manage other issues like gestational diabetes, blood pressure or anything health-related. I don’t hate needles and don’t balk at that orange drink they make you consume to test for sugar. 

However, even though it’s not been difficult, it’s still pregnancy. We’ve had a constant flow of pregnancy-induced sleeplessness followed by newborn neediness for several years now. After the weening of this one, I believe I’ll fall asleep and not wake up for a week. 

So, (while I retain the right to change my mind) in believing this is my final go, I simply must chronicle some of the things I’ve learned and experienced through my constant state of pregnancy. Someday this season of my life will seem like just a brief moment. The days are long but the years are short, right? 

I hope to remember what it feels like to have a tiny person move around inside. Jumping on bladders aside, it’s quite fascinating to watch elbows and feet protrude from my midsection. Sometimes I like to push back and see if we can’t get a little game of tag going. I wonder if the placenta doubles as a treadmill. I will confirm that there comes a point in time when the movement goes from sweet and miraculous to something more akin to a bad roommate situation. When it’s time for someone to move out, everybody is happier. 

The kids enjoy the belly as well, offering nighttime hugs and kisses and wanting to feel the kicks. I’m sure it’s hard for them to fathom that it’s an actual baby, a sibling, in there. We haven’t yet discussed the process of the baby coming out of mommy’s belly, but I do understand why someone came up with the Stork as an option. (A friend recommended a vague description of mommy “pushing it out” without details. I wouldn’t be lying but no anatomical definitions need to be given). 

I’ll be glad to part with all the maternity clothes. On average I require no less than 3 shirts to cover all necessary parts and pieces. 

Overall, it’s hard to imagine not doing this again. When I have a bad day or require a bit more rest, my husband encourages me that we’re on the home stretch. But this reminder is bittersweet – the closing of a door to another significant period in my life. Of course, my identity lies not in the production of my womb, but it’s served me well in creating such beautiful little balls of joy. One simply cannot participate in such miraculous work and quit it like a bad summer job. It’s a role that stays with you forever, even as the task of mothering takes new shape. 

We forget that God is likely offended that 70% of our prison population comes from the foster system, a social cause for concern (thanks, Angela, for that stat – it kept me up from 1-2am). I’m prone to believe that God takes offense at the fact that our society, our country, spends more money on purchasing trash bags, a means to throw away our excess, than it would take to rectify the clean water shortage for most of the world. I think that’s a bit offensive to the Father of those thirsty people. And honestly, long blog posts about “what offends God” probably ranks high on the list of offenses. 

Somehow, we religious Christian people have made ourselves God’s defenders. We carry His sword and shield into battle, protecting him from the evils of the world, whatever we deem and interpret them to be. That is, until we reacquaint ourselves with the passages of Scripture to remind us of how the relationship really works. God tells us numerous times that He will “go before” us and clear the way. He is the protector, the provider. He marches us into battle. He is our shield and sword. 

Perhaps we need to revisit our role in the relationship. Perhaps we need to be reminded of our inability to understand God and recognize God and know God – and Maundy Thursday serves the perfect time for such reflection. 

We only need to look at the life of Jesus to know what God finds offensive. It wasn’t the riff-raff of society. Jesus ate with slimeballs and women of “poor moral character.” And by “ate with” I mean associated with in the way of friendship. With such an audience, you can’t tell me there wasn’t at least a few dirty jokes cracked or that the conversation remained G-rated as someone poured the third bottle of wine. I’m not sure he took offense. 

Jesus hugged the riffraff of society. He doted on women and children – those commonly deemed as property. He touched the sick, he looked into the eyes of the disturbed. When those at the end of their ropes grabbed on to his clothes and wouldn’t let go, we don’t hear cries of offense. We see love and compassion. 

And then the religious folk show up. I’m not sure there’s a better way to foreshadow a sermon or a teaching by Jesus than to have a Pharisee arrive. Jesus gets ticked off more often by those who study the scrolls and those who spent day-in and day-out with him, than by any character of poor moral development. 

It wasn’t the “immoral” or the folks on the outside of faith who need to take responsibility for the events of the Cross. It’s the religious. The sin of immorality didn’t send God to the grave – the sin of pride and idolatry did. Jesus was marched away by Roman soldiers because when God showed up on earth, we were too busy comparing notes on Leviticus to understand Who stood right in front of us. 

The religious had no idea who they were talking to. And because God Himself didn’t line up with what they believed about God, we had to shut him down*. 

We traded a known murderer for the life of God Himself because He didn’t match up with the picture we had drawn. And we took offense. 

It’s a dark day for us religious folk. It’s a time we must deal with the consequence of trying to know God outside of what God has made known. It’s a day we deal with our pride, our arrogance, our faith in our own self-sufficiency over faith in the character of God, known through the action of God. 

Today is not a day to defend God’s law or image. It’s a day to remember that He took the place of defending ours. Even when we were wrong. Even when we screwed it all up. Even when we were so arrogent to think that we knew the answers. Even when we were too busy defending “God’s honor” to sit and talk with God Himself. Even when we asked for execution orders and watched Him suffer. 

And yet, God still forgave our offenses. 

Not [just] theirs. Ours. 

Mine.