Ladybugs Give the Best Parenting Advice

“Roots down. Down into the belly of mother earth.” Brows drawn low. Mouth folded into a perfect prune of indignation. I long to push aside her tangled hair and smooth those deep grooves in her her forehead, but I don’t dare. Those lines etch my own face. It’s agony to see them taking shape on a six year-old.

“Again,” I say, stunned by the calm in my voice. “Again. We do roots down. And we reach into the belly of the earth where all the quiet energy is.”

It seems to take several lifetimes to get her to rise and plant her feet into bathroom tiles.

(This is why I do all this healing training. This is what all that damn meditation is for. This time, I swear to myself, I will not lose my shit.)

“Now, branches up.” At this point, little sister has joined the fun. At least someone is reaching their arms to the sky with me! “Come on, big girl. Reach up to the stars and ask the angels to help you.”

We get there. It happens. She reaches up her arms and she’s almost ready to smile.

It’s time to find all the love in her acorn heart when…

I’m not even sure what happened next. This was only yesterday, and I all remember was a second flash flood of tears washed away our carefully planted tree. It doesn’t matter. The Moira tree was back on the floor and I was wondering if it was ethical to give her a blanket and let her cry herself to sleep curled up next to the bathtub.

But then I remembered what all this spiritual practice is really for. It’s for helping you spot miracles when you’re ready to spit nails.

A ladybug. A ladybug on the sole of my slipper.

Through her tears, Moira noticed it. She smiled at the sweet summer spirit that was taking refuge with us through the long winter.

Legend has it that ladybugs were sent by Mother Mary to save the fields from plagues of aphids. At our house, ladybugs are sent by my mother who passed in 2010.

For at least a few moments every day, I mourn that I don't have a mom to help me figure out how to mother. The grace comes in the moments when I see how wrong I am. Helping my daughter navigate all those big feelings... it's not all up to me. There is literally support coming out of the woodwork.

It's an Epiphany, Baby, #365StrongStories 6

The story has it that on this Twelfth Night of Christmas a trio of wisemen reached the end of their starlit path and offered gifts to a baby with a great big destiny.

Of course, back then, the only one who was counting Christ’s days was the young woman who marvelled that it had been twelve days since she looked into her little boy’s eyes for the very first time.

This is the Feast of the Epiphany. For those of us who will not celebrate with a mass or observe any of the Christian customs wrapped up in this visit from the Magi, it can simply be a day of revelation.

What have the first six days of the year revealed? What’s become clear now that the gifts have been given, the calories consumed, the credit card statements received?

I’m looking back to the myth for inspiration and counting to twelve with Mary. I am recovering the wonder of holding a twelve day old baby when every sigh was a message from the divine. I’m reclaiming the stillness you experience when you witness a new life unfolding.

And, because it's a day to receive gifts, I'm politely asking the universe to remind me of all the bliss of cradling a newborn without any of the sleeplessness or the spit up!

Stories Come Before the Sunrise, #365StrongStories 5

Before my eyes were open and before the sun made it over the horizon, it was time to discuss when my six-year-old’s doll had been born. “I think that Margaret’s birthday is in May.”

Clearly, this had us thinking about the calendar.

“Mama, why do we celebrate the fourth of July?”

Brief description of Revolutionary War. Disambiguation: no, the Pilgrims didn’t fight.

“Did they wear armor in that war?”

Discussion of wigs as seen in most recent Magic Tree House book.

Interspersed throughout the Q & A period in which I mumbled and Moira mused, Mairead began her own interrogation.

“Mama! Hello!”

Hi.

“Milkies?”

No.

“All gone?”

Yes.

She accepts this and knocks me in the face with her water bottle. Really, she is being quite reasonable for a 23-month-old. I’m able to yank my shirt down and tickle her ‘til she giggles. It beats the screaming.

Everything beats the screaming.

But Mairead is persistent. “Hungry?”

We are on the precipice of the hysterical screaming danger zone.

“Eggies?”

I assume you hear the plaintive desperation in the toddler’s voice.

Finally, I  clamor through the tangle of sheets and dolls and little girl limbs to reach for the phone. Must be sure it’s dawn and not my neighbor’s ever-present flood lights casting a cold glow to the curtains.

“Clock. Time. Eighteen. Ladybug?”

This is Mairead’s first of 187 attempts to steal my phone and find the app about bugs.

I stumble out of bed as the whining begins. I am going to the bathroom before I answer another damn question or scare up a single morsel of food. They resent my selfishness.

But there’s magic in this morning. There is hope in the air. A sliver of silver hangs in the steel blue sky.

“Lady moon! Quick, everyone out of bed!”

And they listen. They’re as excited as they’d be if they spotted Santa’s sleigh.

Clearly I’m doing something right in spite of it all. 

There are stories being made before the sun is up and before your eyes are open. Can you see them?

The Plenty of the Marketplace, #365StrongStories 4

The sound of chimes and the hum of several languages fill the perfumed air. She breathes deeply and her senses dance with the warmth of vanilla and the tang of lemon balm. With a sure hand, she strokes the luxurious fabrics the weaver has set before her - fine wool, brocade shot with silver, and silk like angel wings. It’s a fine morning to browse the marketplace, greeting the merchants and sampling the delicacies in the food stalls. She is planning a gathering. Their friends will enjoy her rich hospitality, but they’re really there for the company and the after-dinner entertainment. As the finest storyteller in the city, her guests will forget the sweet wine and the perfectly spiced dishes when they lose themselves in the tale of the ill-fated lovers who may - or may not - escape the jealous duke and his sorceress companion.

These days, she has a satisfying purse of gold nestled in the folds of her skirts. The vendors in this marketplace have done well and so they have supported her husband, the master glassblower who makes vials for their potions and windows for their homes. And it’s not just his money she’s spending. Now that she is a celebrated teller of tales, she’s being paid handsomely to amuse and enchant at the wealthiest households in the region.

Everyone in the square seems to glow with the contentment of enough and even the glow of plenty. There is news of strife and famine abroad, and she knows she’d see hollow faces if she entered the shadowy alleyways. She’ll leave an offering with the priestesses at the temple - she trusts them to put the coins in the hands of those who need it. Next week she will stay a while and offer the needy her stories. For surely, a person needs a good story as much as he or she needs bread.

But today, There is enough in this little world of theirs to sustain every creative source and to leave some extra besides for those who haven’t yet found their way into the collective bounty of the marketplace.

Sunday Morning Supposed To's, #365StrongStories 3

Someone is sitting on my journal, so I'm writing this in my head. The babysitters are doing everything they can to amuse my daughter with their sweetly inappropriate ironies, but she's not having it. It's a great honor to be someone's safest place, but when I'm supposed to be someplace else, it's like being conscripted into impersonating a piece of furniture.

My lap, my journal, and I long to be alone together on the lumpy floral couch halfway between the nursery and the Sunday School classroom.

But wait... I've left that solitary existence behind.

I'm a wife and a mother, of course, so it's hard to even be solitary in the shower. But now we're thinking of joining a congregation - something I never thought I'd do - it's absurd to think I'd find time to myself in the midst of a Sunday morning community.

I'd left the church that claimed me from birth and wandered happily in the land of the faithfully unaffiliated. Moving now with this Unitarian Universalist Fellowship isn't the path to the gods I was supposed to take either.