Yes, he even cooks.

Is there is nothing my husband will not do? Seriously.

Last month after working increasingly long hours downtown, he began running home from the metro station each night instead of taking the bus. Impressive enough – but this is summertime in D.C. We’re talking 90 degree heat plus humidity, and the run is uphill the whole way.

He does this just about nightly. And each night, after cresting the final hill of his run, he is ambushed by the 3-year old and the toddler, both of whom are in thick of their “witching hour” -- the time of day most fraught with whining and tantrums. “Pick me up, daddy!” “Daddy, read me a book!” “Dady, Waaaa,” (the baby). And remarkably, inexplicably… he does. He picks up the crying baby, he reads a story (or three), he walks to a park, and he changes several diapers. “I missed you guys,” he says.

And now on the weekends there is this:

“It's arugula with roasted beets and Gorgonzola,” he says, as we sit down to dinner. Or:

“It's wasabi hamburgers.” Or:
“Swiss-chard wrapped salmon with orange-chipotle salsa.”

Excuse me? My taste buds throw a party when he decides to cook. Who knew that I loved beets?! What a fantastic revelation!

Last night it was Mexican corn timbales with some kind of creamy sauce and a hint of thyme and my goodness it was good. It turns out that not I not only married the handsome runner of my childhood dreams, I also married a patient, sacrificial father; a devoted husband….

…and a Michelin 3-star chef ("exceptional cuisine worth a special journey").

Bon appetit.

the Measure of Success

The last week the D.C. metro area was hot – like triple digit hot – with a thick, sticky humidity. As a result we were quarantined inside for days on end, and it started to wear on everybody, myself included. My toddler walked up and the hallways, swinging his arms, looking for something – anything, to pick up and play with, only to set it (or throw it) down after a few minutes. We did the art -- finger painting, watercolors, crayons, markers. We got creative – “shape hunts” in the house, homemade aquariums out of paper plates and saran wrap, stuffed animal parades, tea parties, sugar cookies that looked like little watermelons. But the cabin fever really began to set in. On Friday with about two hours before daddy came home we took a five minute trip to the grocery store…just to get out of the house and let the children roam. I felt like I was spending most of my day saying, “No, thank you!” “Put that down!” “Are you okay?” And: “Oh dear, what was that noise?”

So as I sat on the couch last Friday nursing the baby and watching the two toddlers unload the bookshelves for the millionth time, I found myself wondering if the day was a success. And in fact, were any of these days a success?

In the working world, there was a certain degree of satisfaction in creating something – a document, a database, briefing slides; or in fulfilling a task – interviewing agency officials, briefing staffers, leading or participating in team meetings. Most days there was tangible evidence that I was moving forward toward achieving a larger goal. But what was the evidence of a job well done about as I stay at home? Did I have a goal for the day? Most days, in between thinking up activities for the kids, I am frantically running from one room to the next, trying to sweep, mop, do laundry, vacuum, cook – anything to feel like I’m on top of the mess. My husband will come home from the day, and if the house is mostly assembled, the children are still alive, and there is some semblance of meal... I suppose this equals a job well done.

But once again my 3-year old reminded me what I had been missing. The other night she was counting the number of paper hearts that the children receive every time they demonstrate an act of love to one another. This is our way of making tangible our verse of the month – “love one another,” from the Gospel of John. When my daughter counted her hearts, she had eight– the most she had ever received. She looked very proud. “Wow, Mommy," she said, her eyes big. "I really loved today!”

And so, spoken from the mouths of babes, I find one definition of a successful day.

The laundry is nice, but did I lay myself down? Did I give of myself with a joyful heart? Was I patient, kind, and forgiving? And oh dear -- shouldn’t this standard always be the measure of my daily “success,” wherever I am – the workplace or the home?

God must give us children so that they can be three and so full of wisdom.

The Stillness of Growth

Staying home full time for the last three weeks has provided an excellent opportunity for me to better understand the areas I am most in need of improvement. For example, this week has revealed that I kill plants. No matter how hard I try, it seems I cannot apply the appropriate proportions of water, sun, and soil long enough to move from seedling to flower or to sustain a flower already in bloom. This is especially distressing because my husband comes from a long family line of farmers – people who make things grow for a living. And yet here I am, unable for the life of me to keep a single zucchini plant alive. It’s not for lack of interest -- if I could only will it to happen, I would have beautiful flowering vines on my deck, hanging blossoms on my front porch, and a garden full of fresh produce – from which I would feed my family from a hand-made apron in a kitchen that would consistently smell like fresh homemade bread. This is the vision of my domesticated self. Instead, I lose one blossom after another, and with them my dreams of home-made salsa and fresh basil pesto.

My husband likes to remind me that to keep a plant alive I have to water it… and not just once but every day. Ah. And sometimes what it needs is not more water or more sun, but shade. And not all plants can use the same fertilizer or the same soil….Goodness, I think. It all starts to become very complicated. But here is the key: Do I want to try?

Apparently I have not wanted to try enough, and herein the weakness is revealed. I love the idea of many things – but the follow through is often lacking. True confessions: my “homemade stocking” for my now-three-year-old daughter’s first Christmas still has a snowman with only half a head. And despite the money I spent on oil paints to create homemade art for our walls – we still have only one tiny landscape that I hide tucked away in the bookshelf. But my failure at the art of gardening has been particularly hard. What is it that I lack? Perhaps the ability to be still, to be patient, to continue to persevere day in and day out even as I wait for something so small like a seed to finally take root…and grow.

The Gospel reading last week was about Mary and Martha. Mary “chose what was better:” she sat at Jesus’ feet while Martha was busy with many things. Our parish priest reminded us that, like Mary, we too need to sit at Jesus’ feet; we too need to be still. Are we too busy to pray? Then, he said, we are too busy. And like watering a plant, it is so easy to put off something like being still for another 5 minutes because I have so much to do, until each 5 minutes turns into an hour, and then an afternoon, and then another day...until I wonder, why does my spiritual well feel dry? My relationship with Jesus is not formulaic. I cannot repeat a mealtime and bedtime prayer and expect to flourish. Sometimes what I need is fertilizer – soaking in His presence. Sometimes what I need is the water from the Holy Spirit. Sometimes I need the Word of Life. What this takes is time.

Today I am going to take the kids to a local garden, a "gardener's delight with 20 different themed gardens." No, I'm not going to wallow in self-pity at the garden I will never have, and I'm going to resist my typical burst of short-lived enthusiasm to take on a new project. Instead, perhaps today I will just listen. Maybe I'll bring my Bible and share a passage with the kids. I'll try to be still. Perhaps today, as I sit in the stillness surrounded by quietly growing seeds (and my not-so-quiet, but still-growing children), I will begin to learn a lesson. I might not see immediate results, but in time, these seeds will grow.

UPDATE:
We didn't make it to the gardens yesterday. The near-100-degree temperature with near 100-percent humidity came with public warnings to keep infants and the elderly indoors. This was enough to deter us from any outside excursions. The best-laid plans.... However, I did find some quiet time: between laundry loads and during naps, I hunkered down in the cool, dark basement. I closed my eyes to block out the visible chaos, and, for at least 15 minutes in the silence, I listened.
Baby steps.

And baby makes...

Five!
That's two adults, three kids -- and no, not a typo. When we learned last year that we would be welcoming another baby, it was a joyful -- although intangible -- event. Really? We were going to be a family of 5 with three kids just about under the age of 3? I felt like looking around me -- surely, Lord, you saved this task for someone far holier than me....

The two lines, the positive doctors tests, and my growing queasiness confirmed the new life, but I just couldn't imagine our young family expanding. I watched my two kids growing -- their days full of laughing, playing, bargaining, and spending respectively longer times in time out, and I would wonder -- where in this situation will the baby be? He was very present in my ever-expanding belly, but even in the days, hours, and minutes leading up to his birth, we were still amazed to think -- what will he look like? How big will he be? Which of his older two siblings will he most resemble? He was alive, with kicks, a heartbeat (like a gallop, according to the nurses), -- but still invisible. And from the beeping on the hospital monitor, to the waiting in the labor and delivery room for the contractions to grow closer together... it seemed that all we would do regarding this baby was wait, wait, and wait. And wonder.

And then -- in a matter of seconds, he came. And in that instant, just like with his sister and brother, I coudn't imagine life without out him.

Welcome Caleb Xavier, we're so, so blessed you're here....

False Peak or Summit?

When I was about 10 years old, I climbed my first Colorado 14,000-foot mountain ("14er"). It should have been easy, by Colorado standards, -- it was a straightforward follow-the-trail-to-the top with one foot in front of the other and you can't go wrong type of climb. But even then my youthful eyes wandered from the trail. It seemed so monotonous, so predictable. And it was taking forever. My friend and I eyed the summit. Only a short set of boulders and small rocks ("scree") appeared to separate us from our goal, so, despite protestations from my father, who trailed some yards behind, we decided to climb straight up. Forget that meandering trail. It would take HOURS that way.

The louder my dad yelled, the quicker we scrambled over the rocks. Giddy with the anticipation of reaching the goal and triumphant with our superior navigation, we climbed on. If we had looked back, which we didn't, we would have seen that my dad had also veered from the trail and was scrambling up the rocks not far behind. What we didn't realize, as many experienced climbers know, was that we were crawling toward a "false summit" -- a peak that hides the real top from view. We began to hear my father's voice, carried by the wind: "false peak girls, it's a false peak! Turn around." Determined, we ignored him and climbed faster over the loose scree and gravel, our feet slipping from time to time but our pride too swollen to admit our wrong.

Naturally, the glory ended when we reached our "top." Not only had we crested a false peak, but we had also veered about a mile away from the trail, and the true summit looked even farther away, almost unobtainable. My dad, ever-loving and patient with his strong-willed daughter, caught up and explained the error of our ways. We would have to backtrack -- all the way down, and start again on the meandering, switch-back trail below. It was a blow, but we did it. And four hours later, we reached the real top.

Sometimes I find I still handle my life journey the same way. I want the summit, and I want it now. I am willing to embrace the harder road, because it will get me there quickly, right? Maybe. But not all the time. I'm learning that sometimes the path that God has laid before me is the long one -- the day-in, day-out, one-in-foot-in-front-of-the-other kind of road. And I've noticed that when I try to veer away on my own shortcut, even if my "summit" appears to be a God-centered goal, I am gently lead back down the way I came. Start again, God seems to say.

And so, at the start of 2010, I find I'm back at 11,000 feet, just above timberline. My day is filled from sun-up to sun-down with diapers, sippy cups, bottles, toys, full-time career, car-ride negotiations, dinner "discussions," bedtime rituals, and more diapers... and I'm looking to find that path again. My summit is out there, in the distance, but at the moment I know I must focus on the day-to-day. Have I spent time in prayer for my family, for my neighborhood, for my city, my nation, or do I just talk about how I want things to change? Have I turned to Scripture every day to let the Word light my path, or do I count on myself to guide my way?

I'm not a natural at consistency. I initially like the challenge of a path, but then my eyes wander -- what's over THERE? So I hope to use this blog to chronicle (and keep me accountable) the joyful journey of our day-to-day. We'll reach a summit of some kind, eventually. But I suspect that on the level road -- the true adventure awaits.