letters

Fair Warning

November 15, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

Dear Wasps,

This is your last warning, and our call to arms.

No more shall I grab one of the size 13s from Prince Charming’s stash and smash you despite bringing down the drapes.

Never again shall I bring a mug of blueberry tea to my lips in the bathroom, only to dump most of it over my(just showered)self as you dive bomb me and hide behind the vanity.

Under no circumstances shall continue the workout of ducking while simultaneously closing the microwave, grabbing something flat, and praying that you’re crunching flat as I slam it down, all the while singing and laughing so the kids don’t start screaming too.

There shall be no more stifled screams, ranting emails, tempered tweets.

I’m finished with the ducking, the pouncing, the rationalization of you as a fellow creation of God.

The end is NOW for nighmarish wasp nest considerations, movie references, tolerance training.

Though we welcome you and your bug-killing talents in the barns, in the sheds, in the trees, and, really, anywhere outside, we can no longer count you as a house guest.

You might think I call him Prince Charming for a reason (and you’re right) but to you can call him General Assassination. I’ve sent him the message, and the strategy is being plotted and planned as I type.

Your days here are numbered, and the number is very, very, VERY small.

Goodbye, wasps.

I won’t miss you.

– Sarah

Filed Under: Farm Life, letters

At One Year

October 16, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

Dear Meredith,

You’ve gone from being “Merdiff” to Yue-yue to Yueie to Noonie and Deet-deet. I have no idea where your sister comes up with these nicknames…but they fit. Somehow, the radiance of your smile, lighting up the family so easily, is captured in your sister screeching “Nooooonieeeeee” as she runs into your room in the morning. I suspect you two know more about these things than I do.

I’m a big fan of siblings – your father has five of them and I have four – but I had no idea how much FUN you would bring to our role as parents (or, really, how much work!). But then, I’m not the sort of person who would have a clue…babies aren’t really something I had every planned on, and the thought of babies still sends a little shiver down my spine (though I’m much more amenable to them, having held my own).

You’re still contained by my arms, and I’m still your preferred comfort in times of pain. You’re not walking…yet. It won’t be long though – you’re starting to let go and stand there, looking up at me with that smile full of teeth.

It’s going fast, my little blonde baby, but not too fast…if you grew slower, I fear my patience wouldn’t take it. I’m trying to savor it, cherish it, capture it. I’m trying to remember the weight of your head nestled on my shoulder as it’s happening now, so that someday, when you run ahead of me, trusting me to keep up, I can recall it.

A year ago, I was holding you for the first time, amazed again at how much God loves me. I gazed down at you, and the pain of delivery, the discomfort of pregnancy, the inconveniences that are an inevitable part of motherhood – it was all as nothing. All that mattered was the small fingers wrapped around me, the bundled life God entrusted to me.

You are so very different from your sister, and yet…and yet you are so very similar. I watch the two of you and it’s possible to let go of so much of the small petty parts of who I am. I listen to you squeal in delight or shriek because of an infraction, and I wonder how wide I can smile in the coming years, watching you; I wonder how big the pool of tears will be, how deep my heart will grow.

It’s been a wonderful year, my little one. I’ve looked back over the year in pictures, and I’ve been reminded of how much I love your father. I have one picture where he’s on the couch, holding you, with Babby snuggled up, and he’s gazing down. The camera captured his look perfectly – it’s the look he gives you daily, on returning from work or seeing you first thing in the morning or, really, at any point when you call out to him.

I love you, my sweet baby, even though you’re not really a baby anymore.

With love,
Your mother

Filed Under: family, letters

Difficult People

August 19, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

Dear Daughters,

There’s no escaping it – at some point, you have to deal with Difficult People. Janie might not have any trouble with them, and Louisa may find them a joy, but for YOU they will be the very definition of trial and tribulation.

Maybe it’s a personality conflict, or a difference of opinion, or one strong-willed mind against another. Perhaps you’ll discover them within your own family, and you might find yourself smarting from the wounds they inflict, knowingly or not.

They could be in your workplace or right next door. They may pop up in those you thought were bosom buddies. For that matter, you might even recognize a tendency in YOURSELF to BE one every once in a while!

In my years, I’ve come across a number of Difficult People. (Some will no doubt tell you many stories of my exploits AS one.) Most recently, as I’ve muddled through a gray haze of confusion and anger, I realized something that I’m sharing here so that, once you’ve forgotten that I don’t know anything, it may help you one day.

Consider for a moment the Difficulty these people are causing you. Hold it up to your Heavenly Father’s eye level. Then sit down at his feet and let HIM worry about it. (I find it helpful to do this in front of a crucifix, where I’m reminded of what he went through for ALL of us.)

I know it’s not easy, my sweet, but praying for these Difficult People – spawn of Satan though you may feel them to be at the present – will free you. God has bigger shoulders than you, and gentle hands. Let him bear your Difficult People problems while he holds you as you calm down.

It’s not a roll-your-eyes-kumbaya moment, either. Just try praying for them and see if it doesn’t help. You may never know how much those Difficult People NEEDED you to do that!

Love,
Your mother

Filed Under: letters

Twinker, Twinker

June 7, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard 1 Comment

Dear Babs,

Someday you’ll understand, I hope, my amazement and wonder as I say, sometimes out loud, “You’re getting so BIG!” Someday, you might appreciate the nostalgia – and relief – that are behind my exclamations. Someday you could even say it yourself, about some young child in your life.

Was it only last year that you were just getting the grasp of talking? Is this really our fourth summer with you and your smile, you and your energy, you and your joy for life? Has the time really flown, or has it gone slowly? (I guess that depends whether we’re talking about the middle-of-the-night or the daytime adventures.)

It just doesn’t seem like that long ago that you could be contained in the circle of my arms, much as your sister is now. I remember you at her age, though I’ve been baffled at just how much I HAVE forgotten. I look back at the pictures of you and I put your little sundresses on her, and I can’t help but smile, just as she smiles when you look at her.

Babs, you are such a treasure, though I feel like my focus has been the baby. How did I do it with you, without a big sister to entertain and help and delight – both me and the baby? You add so much to the experience of having a baby in the house, with your enthusiasm for her, your energy for making her laugh, your ideas for ways to play with her. I cannot fathom where you come up with your nicknames for her – she started as “Mariss” and “You-you” and then evolved to “Youie” and now “Noonie” and “Chubbers” and “Maraliss.” You still mention how the baby came out of my tummy to see you, and, my darling, you are so right. I hold her and feed her and care for her, but YOU are the one she came out to see. I don’t blame her at all!

At the end of April, we sat by the burn pile in the back pasture, sparks and stars, and we made a memory on the tailgate of the truck. We were on the back side of our property, surrounded by pasture and sky, with the campfire smell around us.

You wanted to sing “Twinker Twinker Little Star” when you noticed the night sky. Your father and I wanted to freeze time, save the moment, cherish the wonder, thank God for the gift of YOU in our lives.

After we sang “Twinker Twinker” a few times, we told Ghost Bunny stories. Your dad and I will be using the phrase “Ghost Bunny” for years, I’m sure, to remind ourselves of your small face, upturned to ours in the firelight, full of all of my favorite Babs things – wonder and enthusiasm and energy and contentment. I remember how you leaned against him, and how you so often fit yourself to him, whether it’s the crook of his arm or the nest of his lap. When you were a baby, I called him the Daddy Recliner, for the way he just made himself your chair, and it’s never stopped.

There are plenty of times – and more to come, I’m sure – that you push me to the limit of my endurance and the far ends of my patience. But, my dear Babs, my three-year-old princess-scientist-artist, you also teach me how to let go of myself, how to forgive completely, and how to prioritize.

Your sister is making milestones, and she’s top-of-mind so often right now. And you are right there beside her, helping her and making your own milestones!

With love,
Your mother

Filed Under: family, letters, Motherhood

To Mother Mary on Mother’s Day

May 11, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

Dear Mother Mary,

My first thought, on Mother’s Day, is of my husband. That seems odd, I suppose, but you understand it, don’t you? I think you and he have a special bond. He doesn’t talk about it much, but I see it there. I see it in the way he makes sure that I can go spend time with your Son. I see it in patience he exhibits with his own mother. I see it in the love he gives so freely, so unconditionally.

When I think of my husband, dear Mother Mary, I think of you.

You must have had your eye on me for a while. I don’t know how else to explain the many mother-figures I’ve had – and needed – in my life. Long before I was Catholic and started acknowledging your role in my life, you were there, doing what mothers quietly do behind the scenes, setting the stage for your Son even as your wayward daughter ignored everything you said and nearly everyone you sent.

But this one guy…I couldn’t ignore him.

You see, he looked at me that way. You know what I mean, don’t you? It wasn’t like he was trying to undress me; it was like he cared, like he was really listening, like he enjoyed my company.

This guy, Mary, took me to some pretty incredible places. One of them was a little church in a tiny little town, where I remember smelling Easter lilies and seeing sun stream in through the stained glass. That was also the little church where I first felt you hugging me.

You sure hug hard for someone I can’t see!

That Mass on Mother’s Day those many years ago, Padre was preaching about mothers, about the role they play, about their importance, and – of course – about you. In the way that only priests can, he touched my heart. And I started sobbing uncontrollably.

I had to leave.

I perched on the steep narrow staircase to the choir loft and sobbed. When Mass ended and Father processed out, he asked if I was OK. You can’t blame him for seeming a little worried. I was, after all Miss Know-it-all-rational-answers-for-everything. Or maybe he wasn’t worried. Maybe in his 30 years of priestly life he had seen that sort of thing before.

That was only the beginning (or the middle?). Once I acknowledged the joy of Christianity and Catholicism, you became the backdrop.

Don’t confuse my devotion for worship, though (not that you would). You are a hero of mine, that’s true, but everything you point me to leads me back to your Son. As I’ve called out for help, you respond, and you take me to the Cross, to that stable, to the Mount of Olives.

Mary, you have been the one who has shown me how a mother loves. As you’ve leaned me up against Jesus in my weak times, you’ve showered prayers all around me. As you’ve smiled down at my little victories, you’ve reminded me to thank the One who made my life possible. As you’ve shared my agonies, you’ve prompted me to pour out my heart to my Father.

It was never my intention to be a mother, Mary. Remember that? We can smile together over tea about that someday.

Now that I am a mother – and happily, I might add – I can’t think of better company to be in than yours. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thanks for being the example I can always follow, and the one who unfailingly leads me back to the Truth.

Love (and baby drool),
Sarah

Filed Under: Inspired by the Virgin Mary, letters, Motherhood

To My Husband, Again, on Mother’s Day

May 11, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

This is a repost of what I wrote Prince Charming last year. And it’s all still true.

Some things can’t be said better, though they get better with time.

***

Dearest Husband,

On Mother’s Day, I always think of you. We haven’t celebrated it very much yet – only twice – but I feel like it is our day, the day we made possible. Actually, I think of it as the day you and God conspired to make me the center of. This Mother’s Day, as our daughter runs and jumps and plays, and as our unborn baby grows within me, I can’t help but think about how I was never going to have children at all. That time seems so far away, and yet there is a part of me that remembers so well where my mind and heart were. There is a part of me that has tucked away the pain and the anger I was growing – tucked it away into a glass exhibit case, so that I may come back to it and see how far God has brought me. I look at this exhibit, which includes many things from my past, whenever I’m questioning what I’m “doing” with my life, whenever I have doubts about where I’m “going” in my life, whenever I wonder if I can do this thing.

Motherhood is a gift God gave me through you, dear husband. After I decided, with your gentle love, that perhaps I could be a mother, I thought for sure that I wouldn’t be able to be a mother – whether that would mean fertility problems or other challenges, I wasn’t sure, but I was convinced in my heart of the impossibility. Surely I was not worthy to join the ranks of mothers. Mothers, after all, are good people, people you hold up to the light and admire, the way you do a diamond. Mothers are amazing and resilient and nurturing.

How could I be any of these things?

In the last three years, God has led me, and you have held me, as I have found the answers. I’m no hero, and I’m none of the wonderful things I attribute to others (at least, not in my own eyes or from my vantage point in the wreckage of my own head), but I’m doing it. I’m a mother, thanks to the grace of God and the love of my husband.

Thank you, dear husband, for joining me on this journey, for encouraging me to stay strong, for bringing the miracle of life so intimately into my own.

With love,

Sarah

Filed Under: letters, Motherhood

As We Enter Your First Spring

April 24, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

Dear Noonie,

There will come a day when I probably won’t get away with calling you “Noonie.” Thankfully, it won’t be too soon. It’s such a dear nickname, though I can’t take credit for it. Your sister, the Official Nicknaming Authority of our house, dubbed you “Noonie” based on…well, we don’t rightly know. But we have picked it up and we use it just as surely as she does. You are our “Noonie.”

You’re in the other room cooing and playing (probably with your feet) as I write this. Though you still get up in the middle of the night, I find myself cherishing the short time we have left together in the still of those quiet hours. You have grown so much, so fast! I know that is the way of babies, and I capture it as best I can with pictures and words and memories burned into my mind.

This is your first spring, and as the days lengthen and I dress you in the little outfits I once put on your older sister, smiling as I note subtle signs of wear and sometimes tiny hard-water stains, I wonder just how amazing it is through your eyes. We take you outside, slathered with sunscreen and clad in that denim hat that I was shoving on your sister’s head long after she had pretty much outgrown it, and you laugh and smile – you express so openly just exactly what I feel this time of year.

What kind of delight do you feel when your sister brings you an entire fistful of yellow tulips? What kind of amusement does your baby mind register when I dive in to keep Babby from actually giving them to you (because, my dear Noonie, right now EVERYTHING goes in your mouth, and I haven’t quite let go of my inhibitions about those flowers in your digestive tract)? What kind of joy do you feel in your toes when we swing you, and swing you, and swing you?

How does the fresh air feel on your face, little Noonie? And the birds – do you hear them calling to each other from the trees and see them swooping from the barn? How does the grass feel when I put you down in it?

We have the whole summer ahead of us, Noonie, and I’m excited. I haven’t tired of you yet (not that I thought I would), and I find that I do not, in fact, EXPECT any of the miraculous “firsts” that you pull out, even though I have been through them once before. It was a different season and a different child before. You are so totally your own person, so completely unique, so wonderfully YOU. There is no expecting the smiles and giggles; there is no enough of the wonder and discovery; there is no ceasing in my thanking God for the gift of you in our family.

With love,
Your mother