I was talking to Waffle on the phone as she drove down to pick me up one afternoon for an evening of our particular brand of introverted mayhem and descended the stairs into the kitchen. I heard the tell-tale bang of one of my cookie sheets cooling.
"What's going on?" Foil lined the cookie sheet, which held...tiny conversation hearts?
Youngest gave me a stare that was slightly mutinous. "I baked them."
"What did they do?" Waffle chirped in my ear.
"She baked conversation hearts."
"What?!"
I studied Youngest and momentarily tuned Waffle out. "An experiment?"
Youngest nodded slowly.
I bobbed my head.
"She really baked them?"
"I don't think we should bake any more." I tried for a conspiratorial tone as I addressed Youngest. "At most they're going to just get hot. And hard."
Relieved to not be in trouble, Youngest smiled.
Experimental fare.
"Can you turn off the oven?"
Youngest moved to shut off the appliance while I went upstairs again. Standing in my bedroom with the door closed, I whispered, "She baked conversation hearts!"
"You can keep saying it like that, but it doesn't make it any less true," Waffle laughed.
I could no longer keep in the giggles. "She baked conversation hearts!"
"I'm five minutes away, and the static is crazy. I'll be there soon." Waffle hung up, and I went to go collect my stuff.
When I caught up with Waffle in my kitchen several minutes later, I found her contemplating the tray of baked conversation hearts and chewing carefully. "You didn't eat one, did you?"
"Once you get past the shell, you can avoid a trip to the dentist."
"I can't believe you're eating them."
She picked up another. "This one burned. It's got a different ink. It turned almost to glass."
I shook my head. "I'm going to go pack up my computer."
When I returned to the kitchen, I stared at the cookie sheet. "How many of those did you eat?"
Waffle gave me a sheepish look. "Almost all of the orange ones. One of them said turtle dove, but I was trying to read it upside down, and I thought it said something about Trump."
Go ahead, My child.
Why did You call me to this? Give me a womb that didn't work but a heart so big it begged to be filled? Why did You ask me to do the impossible? To mother children who come from such hard places that it makes me want to tantrum with the unfairness of it all? To see them suffer with the horrible scars of caregivers before and not be able to do anything about it? I'm just me. I'm not Superwoman. I'm not really that much of a mom, truth be told. I'm not sure I'm up to the task, and this one's a doozy. Why choose me?
My child, that's more than one question. I see you quirking your eyebrow at Me. I created language, and know very well how to parse it, dear one. [chuckling] Much like you, when your children try to do the same with you. Very well. I will grant that it's several questions along the same vein, and I would never turn back from an open dialogue. Do you remember when the possibility first was brought up of those three little ones coming to you?
Yes, Abba. There was no question that they needed us.
Did you think I didn't see your heart? You already loved them. They were your nieces. There was no question that you would take care of them. They needed you. Your only hesitation was on whether your brother would follow through. And, exactly as you expected, he didn't...but by then the girls were safe with you. You did not hesitate for care for those essentially orphaned. You gave out of the abundance of your heart.
Abba, this still doesn't explain why.
How many times have you told your friends of the fierceness of an adoptive mother's love? You had that in you. I knew you did. You've met and connected with other moms with nothing more than that between you. "How cool is that," you said, when you read a novel—
I knew You were going to bring that up.
[laughs] Do you really think it was an accident you read that book and loved that story, of a couple taking in five children who needed parents? Do you think it was an accident that you loved the stories of the O'Malleys and their intentional family, carved out of foster care? No, My child, it was not. Your heart has always been that huge. I know. I made it.
You're talking in riddles, Abba.
Your big heart has taken quite a beating in the last few weeks, hasn't it? You ache deeply tonight and that's why you come to Me with this line of questions. Your children have hard places that hurt them. In some cases, that hurt them still. Their pain wounds you. Comes with that big heart, I'm afraid. It goes big or it goes home.
But I really suck at being a mom. I'm short-tempered and cross and, quite frankly, I really don't know what I'm doing. I think You might have goofed. That's because you've forgotten to go home, dear one. And I don't goof. You don't suck. See this? You're where you need to be right now. I know how it ravages your soul that the ones you love don't see themselves for who they really are, but dear girl, neither do you. That makes the damage worse. Start here, with Me, and the burdens become easier. They are not yours to hold and carry. The weight is far too much for you. Why do you think you're constantly so weary? Let Me do the work. My shoulders are big enough. The sooner you rest in who you are in Me, loved for who you are, and your value in that, the more confidently you will display that to the daughters you love and model it for them. You were called not because you were perfect, nor because you had mad skillz, nor because you were Superwoman. You were called because you open your heart and your arms and you love, because you didn't say no to opening your heart wider to more love. And when I asked for you to stretch wider, knowing what was to come, you said, "More love." That is what I don't want you to forget. You were called because you know how to love. Yes, I know all too well how opening wide for love can hurt. When it does, your Refuge is here. With Me. I promise you, it is worth it all.
Moooooooons ago, PBS in my area ran a show called Square One Television, which had the surprising effect of making math entertaining. I can still sing the song about tessellations, as well as "Fantastic Number Nine," which I occasionally inflict on my children during multiplication practice. But I digress. My favorite part was the Mathnet segment that always came at the very end of the show ("To Cogitate and To Solve!"), patterned after the old Dragnet series.
All of this is only important to you in that the five-episode run one of one week's Mathnet that dealt with solving the kidnapping of a famous musician with perfect pitch named Steve Stringbean, and the subsequent later delight my father had when I mixed up the names Steve Stringbean and his very-real-life famous-counterpart Bruce Springsteen, the obvious source of Stringbean's name. And that I wished to share this tidbit of memory with you, because it gave me the title for this post, for reasons which I trust are going to become glaringly obvious by the end.
So. Tonight, at the dinner table...
Me: Middle, I recognize that you are a hoolibarian [this is, in fact, her own word], but when you're at my table, you're a person, and you'll use manners. Do not bend your head down almost to your plate and shovel in your food.
Middle [impish grin, knowing she's been caught in a frequent Mother Does Manners infraction]: (hums)
Youngest [apparently confused]: Can we do this? [demonstrates the exact behavior I had called Middle out for, but a lone single bite, as opposed to Middle's usual repeated inhaling of bites]
Me: No! That's the same thing! You make me despair of teaching you proper manners.
Youngest: But it was only one bite.
Me: It's still not polite. [look around] You should be grateful I'm not being picky about having your elbows on the table. [All of us were guilty. I just don't care about elbows that much when they're not sprawling.]
Oldest: When we were at Southern Church Camp, if we got caught with our elbows on the table, we had to sing a romance song to someone!
Middle and Youngest reacted with appropriate disgust.
Oldest: Or you had to run around the shed outside six times, while everybody watched, doing something silly! I never got caught.
Youngest: At Northwestern Church Camp, we didn't have to do anything like that. [NCC is the only place the twins have stayed at camp overnight.]
Oldest [with a wicked grin]: Maybe I should suggest that for Northwestern Church Camp!
I think Youngest actually growled.
Oldest: Mom, have you heard of a song "Can't Hurry Love"?
Me: Yes, I've heard of it.
I rather like it, in fact. I like a lot of music from that era, and I'm particularly fond of The Supremes.
Middle: What about that song Daddy sang for ShaNaNa's wedding? You know, to that guy? Lenny?
Me [drolly]: Your cousin Leonard?
Middle: Yeah, him! "Can't Help Falling in Love." That song. Do you like that song?
Me: Yes, I like that song, too.
Are you wondering where all this is going? Don't worry; the payoff is coming. I was having to keep up with the way the conversation was shifting, so be happy I've slimmed it down here.
Middle: Momma, which song do you like better? "Can't Help Falling in Love" by Elvis Parsley...
I sat there with a beatific smile and held my fork off to the side of my plate, still spearing a bite of spicy honey-glazed chicken.
Me: Elvis Parsley?
All three of the girls were giggling.
Middle: Presley! I guess I was thinking of VeggieTales or something, and so I said Elvis Parsn— Parsl— Parsley! Elvis Presley!
Dinner has been over for an hour, and I am still giggling over Elvis Parsley.
Who is probably a second cousin to Steve Stringbean, if we're honest.
Now, I never did answer Middle's question, which was also taken up by Oldest, as to whether I preferred the Elvis song or the Supremes', but they got so hooked on the Parsing of Presley that they never realized I didn't give them an answer.
But I'll tell you what I told Special Edition when I texted her about Parsley for dinner.
I like both songs. Which I prefer at any given time depends on my personal mood.
Bonus: I'll share my favorite cover of "Can't Help Falling in Love." It has a little special something for everyone.
