Blog - emily p. freeman -

so much for dancing like nobody’s watching.

Dance camp.

The girls have been looking forward to it for a week or so and to be honest, I have as well…pink images in my head of them twirling in tutus side by side. Monday went surprisingly well. By “well” I mean they went. They did the craft. They ate the snack. They didn’t cry.

The teacher told me there was a glitch on Tuesday, with an incident in the middle of class where one twin didn’t want to let go of her sisters’ hand, so by Wednesday morning, I got the “I don’t want to wear a tutu” speech. When I asked her what she would like to do, she said nothing, only made a motion with her hands, as if holding an imaginary baseball bat. So that left little miss thing on her own, to navigate through the rest of the week, sister-less.

It didn’t phase her much. She came down the stairs every morning this week, tutu in hand. Aside from the multiple hugs and kisses she asked for before I dropped her off each morning, she willingly walked into her class and remained there without tears.

One thing she hasn’t done all week, however, is actually dance. She simply stood in class (or sat, at times), interested but disengaged. I found myself to be slightly irritated by this. What’s the big deal? Why won’t she just have fun and be a kid? Why so serious? I wondered how the recital would go at the end of the week with parents watching. I fully expected her to find us in the audience and walk directly to us, refusing to remain in the spotlight. I was prepared for that.

Instead, she simply did that which she had done all week. She stood there. I think in some way, she believed she was performing, showing us what she has been doing at dance camp. But while watching her stand there in the midst of twirling girls in tutus, I found myself to be overcome with compassion for this small brunette, standing with purpose, focused intently on those dancing around her, determined to be there in the midst of the dancers but just as determined not to dance. I know how much she truly enjoys being there. I know how much she loves to dance. What I don’t understand is what causes one girl to dance while the other stands motionless, paralyzed with uncertainty?

The mommy in me dismisses her behavior as shyness or maybe even stubbornness. But watching her today, I think I saw her. Really saw her. Not as my daughter, but as a person. A girl. And I could relate with her. In fact, I saw myself in her. And I felt the feelings with her…of wanting to be a part of something, maybe even thinking I am a part. But of not fully experiencing the fullness of the dance because of fear or anxiety or expectations. But I saw her courage to continue to stand in the midst of her fear.

And for different reasons than I thought I would be, I was proud.

looking for a princess in a yellow dress

I love movies. Whether its a new release in the theater or an old favorite on DVD, I enjoy a good movie. It should come as no surprise, then, that I have been wanting to have a movie night with our girls for quite some time now. And I don’t mean Dora or Calliou or any other show that comes on Nickelodeon or PBS. I mean a real movie.

So far, not so good.

It all began last Friday night when I was trying to think of a movie we could watch together that wouldn’t be too scary, but would last longer than 15 minutes. The Little Mermaid? No, the octopus lady is too big and has slanty eyebrows. (They know slanty eyebrows=mean). Besides, my girls are skittish during the 30 minute Ariel cartoon that comes on TV. The Lion King? No way. Lion daddy dies. Mean hyenas. Snow White? Sketch old lady in a hooded cape. Bambi? Yeah, you get my point.

I finally settled on Beauty and the Beast. I figured that, though the beast is scary, maybe the fact that he ends up being good in the end would make up for it. So I headed to Blockbuster, twins in tow, to pick out the movie to watch that very night. We walked straight to the Kids/Family aisle…the girls immediately began to talk at once. “Mommy! Let’s buy this one! No, this one!” (as one of them dropped Dora in France for Dora at the Beach). Have I mentioned I want to watch a m-o-v-i-e? Have I mentioned we have 893 Dora’s on DVD at our house?

I ignored their requests and continued to search for the “b”s…only to discover that Beauty and the Beast was not on the shelf. It wasn’t just checked out either. Out of stock, the lady told me. So as we drove home that night (with Miss Spider and Strawberry Shortcake), I became determined to find this movie to watch with my girls. I checked Target, Wal-Mart, even online. It began to be clear to me that ole’ Disney has pulled a fast one and locked the vault on the sale of this movie.

But even Disney can’t control eBay.

That’s right. I got it on eBay for pretty much the price I’d pay for it in the store. But its coming from Malaysia.

I really hope its in English. I’ll keep you posted.

Good Mom vs. Me

Ever feel like a really bad mom? I’m not talking jail time or anything. Just that feeling like there is a Good Mom somewhere out there who would never do or be what I do…or am.

Good Mom makes breakfast and smiles a lot. Good Mom always remembers to notice, compliment, and encourage. She is fun and funny. She plays polly pockets with pleasure and even makes suggestions for pretend scenarios to make the play go longer. Her patience is limitless and she never raises her voice. She wakes up early every morning and spends time with Jesus. She is consistent and kind. She makes cookies from scratch. She plays outside even when its really hot. She builds forts with blankets in the living room. Her house is always clean, her produce is always fresh and she has a garden with flowers and vegetables. She can sing. She makes puppets out of socks. Her kids never watch tv because they are totally satisfied to listen to the riveting, captivating stories that their Good Mom makes up. Every night.

Full disclosure time. I haven’t worn underwear in 2 days. Not because I just like to not wear underwear but because I haven’t any that are clean. I haven’t worn matching socks in 3 years. I pulled out 9 individual socks from my drawer the other day. Nine. All different. My one year old is in danger of being kicked out of the nursery at church. He bites. One of my 3 year olds has a really bad habit of talking back. A lot. Neither of my girls will let daddy help them brush their teeth without throwing a fit. It HAS to be mommy. I have had the same butter knife in my dishwasher for 2 weeks. Some unidentifiable food is stuck to one side. It’s just too much to wash it by hand. My car has ants. Too many Chick-fil-a french fries.

I am distracted, discouraged, and maybe a bit lonely. I am in desperate need…mainly for patience…a patience that seems just out of my grasp, impossible to acheive. All things I don’t like to admit, especially on a forum like this. And so I sat tonight. With an intention to just “be still and know that He is God”. I opened my Beth Moore bible study book (the study that I quit 2 weeks ago because I couldn’t finish a weeks worth of study in a week and I didn’t have a sitter for my kids anyway.) And there it was, 1 Timothy 1:16. And this is what He said to me:

Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners. I’m proof…of someone who could never have made it apart from sheer mercy. And now he shows me off–evidence of his endless patience–to those who are right on the edge of trusting him forever.

My children are “right on the edge of trusting him forever”. And by His Holy Spirit, He wants to display His unlimited, endless patience in me as an example for them. I don’t know how He does it. But I do know this–that maybe instead of trying to be more like Good Mom, I could begin to let Jesus be Jesus in me.

Meanwhile, I’m going to find some clean underwear.

March up to the gate and bid it open.

My favorite movie as a girl was The Wizard of Oz. One of the networks always aired it on a Friday night in the fall. So every Saturday towards the end of the summer, I would find the TV guide section of the newspaper and check the listings for Friday night. We had no VCR, no blockbuster, no netflix. If I missed it, that was it for a whole year. Missing it was not an option.

I remember the night before the movie came on, my knees would ache and I couldn’t sleep for all the excitement. I loved the music, especially the quick, high-pitched chorus that played when they first glimpsed the Emerald City right after the snow wakes them up in the poppy field….You’re out of the woods, You’re out of the dark, You’re out of the night! Step into the sun, step into the light!

I idolized Dorothy…her dark, swiss cake roll ponytails that changed lengths drastically from scene to scene; she was patient, loving and kind; her voice, her dress, her dog. She was beautiful and perfect.

I’ve thought about this movie a lot as I have grown up. The Scarecrow wanted a brain, the Tin Man, a heart. The Lion longed for courage and all Dorothy wanted was to find a way home. They followed yellow brick roads, ran from flying monkeys and even risked their lives to get the broomstick of the Wicked Witch just like the Wizard asked them to…who really was no Wizard at all. They did it all because they longed for something they did not have. In the end, though, we learn along with them that they had it all along, they just didn’t know it.

After all, the Scarecrow was often the one to devise all the plans, the Tin Man rusted from crying real, heartfelt tears and the Lion found the courage to save Dorothy all before they even met the Wizard. Dorothy was the most obvious of all. She couldn’t take a step without being aware of those shiny, ruby slippers. Still, when she finally sees Glenda, she cries out for help and is told she’s always had the power to go back to Kansas. The slippers she had had all along were the very means by which she would make her way home.

But she didn’t know it.

I can relate. As a believer, sometimes I find myself living a defeated, burden-filled life, unaware of the victory I already have in Christ.

His divine power has granted to us everything pertaining to LIFE and godliness, through the true knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness.
1 Peter 1:3

a story bigger than mine

Another memory.

I am in 9th grade English class and we are reading The Glass Menagerie. I’ve just been assigned to read the part of Laura Wingfield. I always hated reading plays out loud in the cold, fluorescent classroom. It was all so…unnatural. I always ended up reading the descriptive stuff in the brackets on accident. I don’t know which I hated more: when there were too many characters and everyone had to double up on parts (you get to be the bagboy, girl with the basket and man #2) or when there weren’t enough characters to go around and you didn’t get a part at all and just had to listen to the monotone.

I much preferred reading plays alone, in my own head, so I not only could imagine the scenes playing out like a movie but I got to be every character. You know how it is in the classroom: you are assigned the part of Laura Wingfield so instead of listening to the story and following along as the action plays out, you find yourself skipping ahead, marking all of Laura’s lines, sure that you can clearly pronounce all the words in the script so as not to make a fool of yourself…until you become aware of the long pause that has settled in on the classroom and someone mercifully whispers “Hey, aren’t you Laura? Go!” And you’ve kind of missed it, the very thing you’ve been preparing for, however small.

Sometimes I feel that way in life. I can get so focused on my part, my role, my purpose, my story, that I miss the bigger story. The bigger story that isn’t just the bigger story, but it is THE ONLY STORY. Because “It isn’t a flood, it’s not a tornado, Mother. I’m just not popular like you were in Blue Mountain” makes no sense if you say it out of the context of the whole play. Yeah, I had a moment with the attention on me…but so what? That isn’t a story, it’s only a part…a fragmant of a story. To me, my story only makes sense in the context of a story that is bigger than mine.

God has a story He is writing and He has saved a part just for me! There are days when I falsely believe I would rather BE the story than just play a part, but I think there is relief in realizing that we get to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. And as I trust Him to live in and through me, there is no concern as to whether I will be able to pronounce all the words.

learning from a memory

I‘m 16. Just got my braces off. Its the summer of 1993.

I’m driving in my parents’ black, Chevy Spectrum (the extra car)…complete with no a/c (or heat). I swear that car was made of plastic. Cheap, thin plastic…like a Barbie car without the stickers. But one thing it definitely did have was a working tape player. And when you’re 16 with straight teeth, that’s all you need.

I remember driving with my window (manually) rolled (halfway) down (if you rolled it all the way, the door would fly open) along the winding, two lane back roads in Columbia, South Carolina. I can still hear the bagpipe and the strange, haunting, off-beat sound of Peter Gabriel’s Come Talk To Me mixing with the wind that pushed its way heavy past me, through my window and out the other side.

That memory came to my mind today as I drove my kids to chic-fil-a in my Honda Pilot. I rolled my window down for a breeze before the a/c kicked in and one of my girls called out to me, “Mommy, turn the music on…” How does she know that a window down on a summer day means music? I guess I’ve taught her that, without trying, of course.

It makes me wonder what else I’m teaching them without trying…

one of a thousand lives

Lately I have realized that the time had come to sort through and get rid of some of the girls clothes from when they were born. I have gotten rid of a lot already, but the stuff from their first year has been sitting in plastic storage boxes in the attic. Knowing I couldn’t part with all of it, I told myself to just keep those things that held meaning or special memories. I was surprised to discover which items that turned out to be.

Having twin girls will bring outfits out of the woodwork. I was given more matching dresses, jackets, and cute-never-worn hats than I know what to do with. All so small, so detailed, so matching. But it wasn’t the baby Gap outfits that are hard to let go of. It was only when I opened the box labled “6-12 months pjs and onesies” that my eyes welled up and I had to pause and remember. What is it about those worn out, pink, kitty cat jammies with a stain on the sleeve that so swiftly bring tears?

It was like those jammies hold something within them. The babies are growing up, but the jammies are still there, small and faded, as if worn only last night. The jammies represent so much…clean, wet hair after a bath; snuggle time with milk and mommy; sweet dream wishes and baby blankets.

I don’t know what it is about the jammies. But I have to keep them, at least for now. Nobody else would want them anyway. But I look at them, folded away in a plastic bin, and realize we live a thousand lives in one lifetime…and one of those lives has already passed me by. While I lived it, I could hardly wait for it to pass; the sleepless nights, the feedings, the culture shock of firstime motherhood…the first year of having twins. Now that it’s over, I can never get it back.

But I can keep the jammies.

i’d rather be sleeping.

So awake. So very awake. Looking around my dark room, bored. Never be bored at 11:35 pm. Be ASLEEP.

I think it’s the Rocky Road ice cream that I ate at 9pm that is causing me trouble. My sister thinks it’s wrong to have chunks of nuts in ice cream. It’s like, an interruption. Tell me about it.

I’m not normally awake now. At least not now that we have passed the newborn stage with our baby and entered into the big baby stage (what do you call the “bigger than a newborn, not yet a toddler” person?)

I looked at the clock at 11:22 and decided that if at 11:32 I was still awake, I would get up and do something. The following is a loose outline of my thoughts during that time.:

I like The Man’s new office. He needs to take a coffeemaker there. To make his own coffee. If I had a job and an office, I would be sure to take a coffeemaker into the office with me to make my own coffee in the mornings. What a great idea that is! But can you do that? It seems like maybe you can’t, like its a fire hazard. What? You’re so stupid, if you can have a coffeemaker in the breakroom, then you can have one in your own office. I worked in an office once. Nobody brought their own coffeemaker. Why not? I would! But wait, I didn’t. But I would now. And leave creamer in the fridge. Maybe I would just make coffee in the breakroom. A full pot? Everyone could just drink it. A half pot? What if I had to pee and came back and it was gone? I could just make a lot every morning and wait until it brews and take the first cup, who cares if others drink it? But then, I would become the coffeemaker. Not the coffeemaker. The Coffee Maker. The one who makes the coffee. How do you spell “coffeemaker”? Maybe I should call it a “coffeepot”. What time is it?

Only 11:29. I’m getting up anyway.

i’m not a baby, i’m a big girl…night, night

I’ve been worried about it for over a year now. I’ve read segments in several books on ideas about how to do it. I’ve had endless conversations with my mommy friends about their experiences. I’ve talked with professionals.

I’ve even prayed about it.

And then last night, just before I was ready to tuck her in and say goodnight she very clearly and precisely said “Mommy, I don’t want to use my paci anymore. It has hair on it.”

Seeing as how we’ve had false starts in the past, my response was not the gushing of “What a big girl you are!!” followed by an immediate trip to the trashcan that you might expect. Besides, where was the screaming and gnashing of teeth that I’ve heard tell about? Where were the tricks? The “lets tie paci to a balloon string for the babies in the sky”? The paci fairy? The sleepless nights? The bribes and promises of rewards to come?

Instead, I looked at her with raised eyebrows and said, “Well, are you sure?” And she responded that yes, she was sure…and she took her lovey that I handed to her and happily sent me away, paci in hand, dumbfounded.

That was last night. And today, with a little bit of prodding and a lot of cuddling, her sister decided to do the same thing. Tearful yet determined. I can relate.

Because I am finding myself to be strangely tearful over the decision my girls have made. As freeing as it is for me, I just wonder how can these little girls be old enough to make a decision like this? To me, it’s just a paci. But to them, its a friend. A comfort. A companion in the night. Where is the motivation to give that up (besides the polly pocket cars I got them at Target)?

And just like that, this day that marks our sixth year of marriage and the anniversary of my Grandpa’s death has also become the day that our twin girls grow up a little bit more…and teach their mommy a thing or two about letting go.