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I Wish I Knew I Could Love You

When you were born there were easily 12 nurses and Doctors in the room. Your birth was pretty easy, 1 push. Hilarious because I pushed for about 67 days with your brother. I remember You being born and the OB team quickly plopping you on my chest for a quick few seconds to let me say hello before the neonatologists would assess you at the bedside.

And I’m sorry to say that the very first thing I did was to look eagerly at your face to see if you “looked” like you had Down Syndrome. First because there was still a chance that all of the diagnostics were wrong …… right? For sure in some Facebook group somewhere there was someone whose baby was born completely healthy despite the diagnostics. It could happen to me too, right? Second, because if the inevitable was in fact evitable I just wanted to see how Down Syndrome you looked. Maybe you wouldn’t even look that Down syndrome, you know? Because I was worried that if you looked too Down Syndrome I wouldn’t be able to love you.

You were pretty blue and still pretty goopy in those first few seconds but after the Drs and nurses cleaned you up and gave you some respiratory support I was able to hold you again for about 10 minutes. And guess what? I looked again and turns out you definitely looked like you had Down Syndrome. They whisked you away to the NICU and I wondered what it felt like to have a healthy, non-Down Syndrome baby girl.

A few hours later my nurses took me by wheelchair to see you in the NICU. You had a few tubes and IVs and of course they asked, “Do you want to hold her?”. And I said yes, because that’s what you do, and I held you. And again I scanned your face. And I cried. I was too embarrassed to cry openly because I didn’t want the nurses to know I was sad that you had Down Syndrome. What kind of ugly, cold-hearted, discriminating parent was I? What kind of person would be sad that they didn’t get the child they wanted?

So I fought tears but differently than how I am fighting tears while I write this. The tears I’m fighting now are not because I didn’t get what I wanted but because I didn’t know what I had. What I had was the sweetest, smiliest, love-of-my-life little girl I could have ever dreamt up. What I had was perfection but my eyes were too broken to see.

I wasted those first few weeks and I’m so sad and ashamed because of it. I wish I knew then that I could love you.

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Uneducated and Unwell

I became a Christian when I was around 21 years old. I started attending church when I was 19. I had just come home from living in Scottsdale, AZ for nearly a year while I attended culinary school. During that time in Arizona, my social anxiety kept me from making friends and going out, which led to self-isolation and loneliness, in turn fueling my always lurking depression.

I can look back and give these things names but at the time I had did not have words or awareness let alone diagnoses or treatment plans. I just knew I was sad and lonely.

And fat. Always fat.

I moved home after my Grandma died. She was 92 and the first person I ever really knew to pass away. This gave me a sense of mortality for the first time in my life and I decided it made no sense to live so far from my family. Also, I missed my dog. Completely true. If I were to give percentages to reason for me to quit culinary school and move home, it would be as follows:

20% my grandma dying
20% finding value in family
20% I was running out of money
3,000% I missed my dog

I remember sleeping a lot when I returned home. Like, A LOT alot. I had no job and no college classes. So I slept until noon most days. When I awoke I watched TV. I knew what was on every channel from noon to midnight. That was my schedule.

12pm – 12am: Watch TV
12am – 12pm: Sleep

There were bathroom breaks, an occasional shower and meals but I don’t remember leaving the house. I don’t remember seeing friends. I didn’t go for walks. I stopped responding to the calls and texts from the few friends I had made while out in Arizona.

To this day I can’t remember what got me off the couch other than an intrinsic understanding that how I was living was not ‘normal’ and kind of embarrassing. I had to breakup with the couch. Was it comfortable? Yes. Did it support me through a dark time? Absolutely. But it wasn’t a healthy relationship. We were seeing too much of each other and frankly, I had become way too co-dependent on it.

I enrolled in courses at the community college which would start after the New Year. It was the same New Year that I started my New Year’s Resolution diet.

I was uneducated and unwell.

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I Catfished My Husband – Sort Of

When I met my husband I was real skinny. What he and the rest of the world didn’t know was that I was also real hungry.

Jason and I met when I was 21 or 22, I can’t remember and don’t care enough to figure it out. Maybe I should have just stated early 20’s but it’s too late, the thought process has been typed out. A few bits before we met I started my 10th-ish diet at the age of 19 on New Year’s Day. Yep. A weight loss resolution. I started counting calories, focused on eating fruits and veggies, doing some walking etc etc. I was 191 Lbs.

Always a planner, I tracked out how thin I would be and when if I lost 1 Lb a week. By physician standards, a healthy goal. And it was good. I steadily lost weight and as I did, I increased my exercise and found new interest in nutrition. When I got to 150 Lbs the weight loss started to slow. So I pushed harder. More time on the treadmill, fewer calories. Still I was struggling to lose more weight.

I’m 5’4″ and according to the BMI chart, I was still overweight. So I went harder still and with an unwavering devotion to get my time on the treadmill in, which kept me from engaging in social activities. If you want to achieve, you have to put the time in, right? I found ways to fill my tummy with as few calories as possible. I managed to get down to 145 Lbs but that was barely even a healthy weight. I wanted to get in a ‘safe’ zone since weight can fluctuate, I wanted a cushion of error that was safely within my healthy weight range.

So I started making sure that everyday I was burning as many calories as I was consuming. If I ate 1,200 calories, I had to burn 1,200 calories. I’m a treadmill warrior so that meant 2 hours on the treadmill everyday. And I did that. Everyday.

I got down to 131 Lbs. Which is still only a ‘healthy’ weight for my height, according to the BMI chart. I was never able to get under 131 Lbs. And I would know because I weighed myself around 10 times a day. First thing in the morning, after I went to the bathroom, Before I exercised, after I exercised, after I ate, before bed, if I looked at a brownie, etc etc.

I felt great. I was starving but it felt so good. There was a wonderful high that the hunger would bring. How baggy my clothes felt. How boney my hip bones were. How loud my stomach would gurgle, begging for food.

Since I am old and when Jason and I met, Facebook was just becoming a thing, I didn’t have the luxury of lying about my looks online. I did it in real life.

Catfishing is a term used to describe a situation when someone falsely attracts another person online by creating a fake persona. An example would be if I posted a picture of myself from my early 20’s leading people to believe that is how I currently look (I do not). So I like to joke that I catfished him (I looked like a thin person when I am actually a fat person). However, the hard truth is that it’s not actually funny. It’s called an eating disorder and when Jason and I met I was deep in the throws of my first experience with an extended/long-term episode of binge eating.

There is a lot more to be said on the subject but for today I just wanted to make it official and say that I am a fat person. I am not someone who has let herself go or someone who is lazy or someone who can’t get rid of the the baby weight. No. I am a fat person. I have a fat body. And I am sorry to my fat-self for spending so much of my brainspace and precious time trying to hide it.

Life is here to live now and I deserve to live it now. So do you. Come as you are.

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The Edge of Despair

As I sat in the NICU for the 3rd week with my baby who I thought would be home quickly after birth, I had the pleasure of listening to the family next door being discharged. I have no idea what their baby was “in for” and I have no idea who these people were other than surmising from their conversations that they were likely in their early 30’s with some amount of professional education. I did however know, without a doubt, know that this was their first baby.

I listened all afternoon as they asked every question under the sun about the care of their baby. Good grief. “Do the straps on the car seat look ok?, “How do we bathe her?”, “So I’m feeding her every 3 hours, IS THAT ENOUGH?”, “How do I know when she is full?”, “Can you go through bathing her once more?”, “WILL THE CAT ACCEPT HER?!”. Just a tiny TINY glimpse of the questions asked that day with the exception of the cat. For closure, I am all but positive the cat will never accept that baby. No fault to the baby of course but for the poor assignment of being born to these helicopter bafoons.

I was annoyed and perplexed why you would choose to have a baby if you were so uncertain about your own ability to keep it alive. I was also, wildly bitter that they were so happy. Because I, was not. I was the person who was worse off than them.

There is always someone who has it worse than you. So true.
But comparing our visceral responses to someone else’s difficult situation is like comparing apples and oranges. Such a good point.

Unfortunately for me, in this difficult season I’m finding very little relief from these platitudes.

(In fact, they are kind of pissing me off.)

I sat in my infant daughter’s room reminding myself that there were other parents who had it worse than me in the NICU right then. Scarier circumstances. Less support. Fewer resources.

You can’t compare your emotions to other people’s circumstances; I believe that’s true. But there is also something powerful about perspective that can pull you out of a funk and helpful you feel just a tiny ray of gratitude for what is going right.

So which is it? Are we allowed to feel what we feel or do we need to bid farewell to our beloved pity parties and find perspective?

At this moment. Where I sit right now in my plush purple chair, writing with my college education, in the den of my architecturally acclaimed home, in my white suburban neighborhood, in a country founded on freedom, I can tell you with some delight that the cry of my heart is that THIS ISN’T FAIR and I DON’T LIKE IT. And I do not care who has it worse because I am edging towards such despair that I cannot fathom a world where the hurt in my heart is absent.

Tomorrow I will probably feel bad about it and find immeasurable shame in my privilege. I will remind myself that ‘gratitude is an attitude’ and to ‘pull myself up by my bootstraps’ and to ‘put my big girl pants on’.

So there you have it. The end is the beginning and the beginning is the end.

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XO

Years ago when I started this blog I thought it would be a fun tradition to write Happy Birthday posts to my 3 kids, telling them about what their favorite song was that year. Not only did I take a hiatus from blogging but many years went by that I didn’t know what to write to them because it had been a hard year. Well, I want to get back to it and challenge myself even when I feel like I have nothing noteworthy to say.

Here is what I wrote to Brelynn the year she turned 6 (a mere 5 years ago – yikes!).

On your sixth birthday you have lived with us for 2 years, 4 months and 6 days. On your sixth birthday you are hoping for an umbrella and want sausage and pepperoni pizza for dinner. On your sixth birthday your favorite song is XO, covered by John Mayer (originally by Beyoncé).

Your love is bright as ever,
even in the shadows.
Baby kiss me,
before they turn the lights out.

On your sixth birthday I am worried. Worried that of all the songs we listen to the one you want to hear all the time has a rather large focus on kissing and boys. I am worried not because I think little of your judgment but because I think so much of your bravery, your intelligence and your incredible strength.

My hope for you on your sixth birthday is that your enthusiasm for this song is due to the creative genius of are Beyoncé and John Mayer and NOT because you are longing for love or thinking that love comes from kissing boys.

So let me make it clear: You, my darling, are more than someone who will be loved by a boy. You have more to offer than a kiss. I pray you grow up to know that. So that when you find someone to love and who loves you back you will love them from a place of wholeness. A place of assuredness. A place that says, “Because I love who I AM I can’t stand to NOT love you.”

 “Find the love you seek, by first finding the love within yourself. Learn to rest in that place within you that is your true home.”― Sri Sri Ravi Shankar

When I think of the trials put before you at such a young age and the brave face you have always put on, I think ‘wow’, this is a girl who will one day be a woman staring down giants with great ease. I can’t help but be amazed at how well you are doing in school, how easily you make friends, how sweet you are to younger kids. The thing I want you to know is that none of your successes have anything to do with dad or I. It’s all you, who you are, who you were born to be. Brave. Smart. Strong. Loved. A child of God.

Happy sixth birthday Brelynn.

XO,
Mom

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Kool-Aid

Little girl continues to be full of surprises. We have made it to 34 weeks and passed our latest non-stress test with flying colors. Next week we have what we expect to be our last Fetal Echo and Ultrasound at the Chicago Institute for Fetal Health.

How am I doing? Well…..

I’m sweaty. All the time. I bought special cream deodorant that I can put basically all over my body. And I do. Shout out to Lume for keeping me freshish. Because there is nothing on God’s green earth that could actually keep me fresh at this point.

I’m also sick to my stomach. I have been. SINCE FEBRUARY. Nothing sounds good to eat. AND I LOVE TO EAT. When I do eat, I feel bad after. And guess what? When I puke. I sweat extra.

I’m as short and stout as a teapot. And I swear to God, if you tip me over I’m gonna smack yo momma cuz at this point getting up from being tipped over would be the end of my day. And also, it would make me break a sweat.

In my early 20s I used to laugh at the thought of what I would look like being pregnant. I knew in my head it would not be a cute look on me. I was sure I would look like the Kool-Aid man except with a waddle and in no way refreshing. Turns out. This girl knows her body type because that is exactly what I look like. I’m 34 weeks pregnant and people who don’t see me often can’t even really tell.

So physically, I feel like some blob of a being who is just invisibly existing. I’m too sweaty to wear my hair down and too sweaty to put makeup on and resigned myself to only buying a total of 4 outfits to make it through this summer pregnant. And 3 weeks ago I split a pair of shorts. In front of my 9 year old son who really had the time of his life laughing at my expense.

And then there is my mental health. And since it is late at night and I don’t feel like crying, I’ll stick to the cliff notes.

  1. I’m increasingly anxious about handling “all of this”.
  2. I feel inadequate in pretty much everyway.
  3. I’m lonely
  4. Filled with regret
  5. Wrestling with guilt and shame
  6. I’m angry
  7. Questioning God. Is that even the right way to put it? Struggling with faith? Generally pissed off?
  8. And 100% burnt out parenting. Ha. HAHAHAHA, Isn’t that some shit? HAHAHAHA. Oh the irony. What a joke. But you know, “Gods got this”. Lol. K.
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It’s fine. I’m fine. Definitely cried while typing that list. Damnit.

Public Disclaimer: I hope my general public complaining does not put anyone off from reaching out. Or especially from trying to encourage me. I’ve yet to be offended by anything anyone has said to me in an attempt to comfort. There are no perfect words. Heck, I don’t even know what to say to me. I’m thankful for the check-ins and for everyone letting me (mostly) wear my heart on my sleeve.

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I know too much.

I think the reason I am so scared of having a special needs child is that I already know how lonely it is. And I feel like just as I was clawing my way up out of my pit of doom, God stepped on my fingers and kicked me back down into the pit.

Back to a million therapy appointments. Back to trying to explain what you’re going through to people who literally can’t understand because they’ve never experienced it. Back to apologizing for insane behavior. Back to noticing people staring in the supermarket.

Fun fact: Did you know when you walk through a grocery store with children who are MULTIPLE different colors than you without an adult male in tow, you get some LOOKS.

I know. I need to meet other Down Syndrome families. I know. I’m going to make new connections. I know. This baby is a blessing. I know. There are so many resources.

I know.

But I also know what it’s like to try and confess your struggle and connect with someone and be dismissed. I know what it’s like to not be believed. I know what it’s like to accept public praise for “what you’ve done” while inside you’re fighting the urge to run. To scream. To quit.

I know too much about it. It sucks.

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Another Baby to Love

In my earliest stages of processing this grief the resounding cry that brought me to my knees was, “I just wanted another baby to love.”

When I processed what the rest of my life and my family might look like considering this special needs child I was about to inherit, that singular thought was the culmination of my anger.

To no ones surprise, adopting 3 kids with deep hurts has not been the easiest. It hasn’t been BAD but it has been lots and lots of work. Loving one another has not come easy from any involved parties. Forming healthy attachments with one another has taken intentional and thoughtful steps. Therapists galore. Mounds of books on trauma and love languages and parenting. Late night drinking and ice cream runs.

My point is that is has been non-traditional. If you’ve not adopted I can confidently say that you just don’t know. It is not the same. Again, not BAD but also not for the faint of heart. Forming healthy attachments with adopted kids from foster care flexes different muscles than attaching to neurotypical biological children.

Enter bio kid 1 in March 2020. Man, what a cake walk. Attaching to him was not something I had to evaluate and strategize. Just happened. And because it just happened I was able to enjoy so many maternal moments that I never had before despite already having 3 kids.

I.E. Running to me when I return home. Reaching for me. Insisting on sitting next to me. Listening to me. Being sad when I leave. Allowing me to help with simple tasks. Trusting me. Liking me. It was just easier. And God was I looking forward to having just one more chance at experiencing that kind of undiluted mutual adoration.

So when I was mad and yelling at God, I’d run through all my fears. All the reasons I was so mad He would do this to me. After all I had already been through? Really?!, “I just wanted one more baby to love!”

And then one day it hit me. In one sentence I was admitting that I didn’t think I would or could or wanted to love this baby.

And then I felt shame.

I still do.

I’m still working through it.

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Motherhood Is A Cluster

All winter break my kids were driving me crazy. They were fighting and sassing for what felt like the entire length of Independence Day Resurgence. How can such tiny people have so much sass? I was SO ready for them to go back to school.

Full disclosure: I work from home so the level of annoyance that I felt went beyond simply being annoyed. Nay. This was an annoyance that felt as if several thousand tiny hands were slowly crawling up my body and clawing at my neck. Touching. So much touching. Talking…..so.much.talking.

Moving on.

So why, pray tell, was it so hard for me to send them to school today on their first day back from winter break? Why? Why did I just want to hug my littlest one (in age not size) and make sure he knew I loved him. That I care about him. That he didn’t have to be scared. Why? WHY WAS I SAD?!

Eh-Hem. Motherhood is a cluster. I don’t get it. And frankly, I don’t enjoy the perplexity of emotions that the start and end of winter break can bring to one simple woman who, DEAR GOD, is just trying to live HER BEST LIFE.

Blah. Don’t mind me. I’m just a 31 year old woman who cannot get a handle on what she wants out of life. Ha. Hahahahaha. What a joke.

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Be A Stephanie

I have a personal motto/affirmation I say to myself whenever I am tempted to give in to social anxieties. The motto is simple and to the point: Be a Stephanie.

What on God’s green earth does that mean, you might ask. Well, it’s simple. In a world full of timid interactions and second-guessed moments: Be a Stephanie.

Who on God’s green earth is Stephanie, you might ask. Well it’s an odd story. Stephanie is a girl/woman/lady I meet at a mutual friends bachelorette party. Stephanie was at this party solo.  She knew no one other than the bride and had flown into Chicago from New Jersey just for this party. The spectacular thing about Stephanie is that I had no idea she didn’t know anyone until hours into the party, when I had already decided I liked her.

Stephanie took initiative in starting conversations and was the first to offer help to the hosts at every turn. Conversation with Stephanie wasn’t simply pleasant and definitely wasn’t awkward. Talking to Stephanie was as easy as talking to any good friend.

Stephanie’s view of and appreciation for the company surrounding her was obvious. Even though she didn’t know them, she genuinely seemed to like where she was at that moment. Her heart for the guest of honor was obvious.  Repeatedly stating that she just wanted the bride-to-be to have the absolute best time of her life that night. Stephanie didn’t just say that but she took action to make it happen. Her decisions throughout the night were not based on her own comfort or enjoyment but on the comfort and enjoyment of the bachelorette.

I have never seen Stephanie again since that bachelorette party. I don’t even know her last name to find her on Facebook. But her spirit made an incredible impact on my life in a short 24 hours. Telling my husband about the party on the way home I spoke of Stephanie and I said: I want to be a Stephanie. I want to make other people feel as good and included as Stephanie made me feel.

So there you have it. When I’m in a situation where I’m uncertain of my surroundings. When I’m not sure how to act or who to talk to and find myself questioning each moment rather than enjoying them I remind myself: Be a Stephanie.

Rather than worry if others are seeing you, make others feel seen.

Rather than trying to be the life of the party, make sure others feel heard.

Rather than recoiling after an odd interaction with someone, move on. Let go. Love.

Be a Stephanie.

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Shut It Down and Shut It Up

We all say it.  Every woman I know says, “I hate drama” or “I’m too old for drama” or some other variation.  So then why do we do it?  Why do we get tangled up in gossip even when we have the best intentions at heart?  We all fall victims to ourselves, relishing in the spread of information that was never ours to receive.  Why don’t we stop it when it starts?  Instead we justify and say, “Well I know I’m not going to tell anyone” or “We should pray for this couple”.  Why do we rationalize gossip?

I could give you my opinions.  The same ones you probably share.  We want to feel better about ourselves or we want to feel included, we want to fit in or seem like we are “in the know”.  But when we all have seen and have fallen victims to gossip and the damage it does and the hurt it creates.  Why do we continue?

Let me ask you this tough question: Are you a mean girl?  Am I?  Yes.  Irrevocably, yes.  If we participate in the dirt on someone’s marriage or the elective surgeries of someone in a friend circle, we are mean girls.

Have you ever been caught gossiping?  There is so much shame.  So much shame in knowing I couldn’t stop myself.  So much shame knowing I cared more about hearing what was wrong in someone else’s life than about doing something to build them up.  So much shame knowing that feeling like I was being included was more important than reaching out to the person who was being left out and singled out.

It’s so ugly.  It’s so mean.  We are better than this.   We need to shut it down and shut ourselves up.

P.S. Any information or conversations I have with ANYONE I keep confidential.  Recently, I have experienced a situation where that same courtesy was not given to me.  And it hurt.  I got hurt.

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Finding Joy

It’s been a week since I started this challenge of vulnerability.  My therapist says that I have vulnerability issues.  I laughed when she said that.  I laughed because it was one of those moments when your life is completely shaken by one simple observation.  One simple observation that explains a thousand moments of stress and regret.  I have a hard time being vulnerable.  But then again, who doesn’t?

We are living in front of screens and not people.  We are texting and not talking.  We are listening to podcasts and not to people.  And everything we consume appears perfect.  Perfectly dressed, perfectly posed, perfectly lit, perfectly photo-shopped and perfectly captioned with the perfect #Hashtag.   And I’m guilty.  I’ve tried so hard to keep up.  To fit in online.  To get more likes or comments.

The night my therapist told me I have vulnerability issues I went on a walk.  I decided to listen to a podcast during my walk and absolutely by chance clicked on a podcast conversation between Oprah and Brene Brown.  Just so happens Brene Brown was talking to Oprah about vulnerability.  It was a God moment for me.  How could the conversation with my therapist and my random choice of podcast be a coincidence?  I had something to learn and I could have walked for hours listening to the knowledge of this woman who also struggles with vulnerability.  And here’s what I learned.  Without vulnerability we have no authenticity, no creativity and make it explicitly difficult to ever really truly feel joy.

What does vulnerability have to do with joy you ask?  Well, if I build-up my walls to avoid feeling bad feelings (shame, guilt, fear, disappointment, regret etc.) how do good feelings make it through the walls?  It makes fundamental sense that you can’t isolate out the bad and only feel the good.  If I’m not willing to lean-in to the bad, I can’t lean-in to the good.  And I can admit that I don’t often feel joy.  Because I’m not sure how to lean-in to those moments.

Long-story short it came down practicing creativity creates comfort-ability with vulnerability, which in turn will lead to a more authentic state of self.  That’s where I’m headed.  So I’m writing, using my creativity and putting it out there.  Opening myself up and being vulnerable in the search for true, genuine and pro-longed moments of joy.

 

 

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I Don’t Even Recognize Her

I don’t even recognize her.  She was so full of life and hope.  Nothing could stop her, nothing could slow her down or convince her to change course.  She’d never be defeated; her trust was in the Lord.

Today, her spirit isn’t jaded or weakened but thankful and stronger.  She hasn’t learned the hard way but has learned God’s way.  It’s work.  She’s been disciplined through love; for a greater purpose.  Her story isn’t the result of naivety but of hope.

I remember when she was asked to do the hard thing.  Her confidence.  So self-assured and focused on the goal set before her.

Now she’s living it.  It isn’t a goal or daydream full of whimsy but a reality.  She’s where God called her – the hard place.  Her confidence is not diminished but re-assigned, it’s no longer in her but in Him.  She’s no longer thinking that she is strong enough but that He is strong enough.  She’s seeing firsthand what He can do through a willing heart.  She is tired but wise.  She has been hurt but hasn’t lost.  She has failed and seen redemption.  Today, she is not less but more.  She has failed but hasn’t lost focus.

I don’t even recognize her.  Maybe I don’t want to.  Maybe I’m embarrassed of her.  The young woman I was 10 years ago.  I loved a God I didn’t really know.

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What To Do When The Shower Curtain Falls On Your Head

I didn’t do a great job today.  Everything seemed fine at first, normal Saturday morning at home.  First nice day outside.  In fact, we were playing outside when Jason left to go get a haircut.  During the hour he was gone, the dog got out because Maria was playing with the front door.  {She knows not to play with that door – I’ve told her 6,000 times.  In fact, I had JUST told her not to play with the door.}.  So I ran frazzled down the driveway after the dog wondering if I had a recent enough picture of him on my phone to make flyers with {Also I wondered, has running always been this hard?}.

Got the dog back and was, you know, a little annoyed.  Carmelo of course just HAD to fall off his bike and get an incredibly minor red mark on his knee that prompted him to scream as if I had personally assaulted him.  {Does he not understand that I just chased the dog down the street and have not recovered emotionally OR physically from that?}.

Brelynn was, wait.  What was Brelynn doing?  I didn’t have time to check because Maria walked up to me and said she had to poop.  The problem was that she had her hand holding her rear.  A clear indicator that by “needed to” she meant “I already started to….”.  We rushed inside with the barely caught dog slung under my arm.  I was mad.  Really mad.  This was the 3rd time this week she pooped herself.  She is almost 5 and has been potty-trained since I’ve known her and I know this wasn’t an accident because she looked me clear in the face to tell me she just didn’t want to stop playing.  She willingly decided to poop herself. {What is she, 4?!}  My ability to clearly think was breaking down.  Angrier by the second.  I told her she was putting a pull-up on.  She started to scream in my face {not crying scream – angry scream}.  “Go to your room Maria, just get away from me right now.” I stormed {yes, stormed} past my other 2 kids rolling my eyes and shaking my head walking into the office where I often go to quietly curse.

The remaining 40 minutes was a power struggle of wills between myself and an almost 5-year-old.  Fits of rage from such a tiny body.  40 minutes of trying to be firm about the pull-up but not angry.  Not mean.  40 minutes of having to leave her room because her yelling and hitting were out of control {and so was I}.  When Jason got home she was sleeping.  Wore herself out.  I gave what I could of an exhausted run down of events and excused myself to take a quick shower.

It was a short shower.  Just enough to wash my hair, soap my pits and recklessly swipe a razor across my legs.  I pulled the shower curtain back when it happened.  The tension rod slipped and fell hard on my head.  It was loud.  Jason came rushing in to see me standing in the shower, naked, hurt, flawed and teary eyed.

So what DO you do when the shower curtain falls on your head?  You ugly cry.  Silently.  Into your towel.  And when it stops being quite so ugly and you can finally see through your sadness, you seek the Lord…..and ask him: What the heck?

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Far From Beautiful

I’m not going to tell the story.  It’s not beautiful.

It’s actually been ugly.  Ugly pieces of my heart that I hadn’t even known existed have surfaced since becoming a parent.  And so, it’s hard for me to respond to people’s questions about “our story”.  I guess that’s mostly because I know what they are expecting to hear.  They are expecting for me to tell them a beautiful story. A story that shines a light on the good in the world that so often seems hidden.  A story that reminds them there’s hope and beauty and redemption.  A story that points to all the ways God has rained down glory on our family and the enormous ways we’ve seen God move.  But I don’t have that story.

In fact, when people ask us about our journey, my mind spins into chaotic memories of yelling, crying and anger.  The long season of feeling alone and angry and privately regretting the choice I had made.  The ugly feelings that I tried to reason with as I desperately tried to remember the feelings of certainty I had when God spoke adoption into our lives.  I questioned if I had got the calling wrong.  The experience was traumatic and I am a changed person because of it.  Those memories hurt.  They feel ugly.

The story is far from beautiful.  But it also isn’t over.

I’ve been hearing God whisper to me since the dust has settled; reminding me that my work is important. That although I’ve failed in moments, I haven’t failed in life.  I haven’t sacrificed as gracefully as I had hoped but my sacrifice is still valid.  My favorite theme of the bible isn’t grace alone but the progress grace allows. His grace is sufficient, but for what? Sufficient grace so we can stand still or sufficient grace so we can progress? If God’s blessing to my family came immediately after the adoption papers were signed, what story would we have to tell?  That God is simple?  That we systematically receive when we give? There are no stories like that in the bible. Why did I think my story would be the first?

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You Will Always Get My Christmas Card

Excerpt from Southern Living, “The Etiquette of Taking Someone Off Your Christmas Card List”, October 31, 2023

{“Most people, out of habit, stick to the same ‘holiday card list’ they have used for years and sometimes decades, which is often outdated for one reason or another,” said Diane Gottsman, international etiquette expert, author, and founder of the Protocol School of Texas. “Relationships change, friendships wane, and people (physically and literally) move on.”

If your list hasn’t been updated in several years, it may be time to reexamine it—and perhaps make a few cuts. Read on for the etiquette on how to remove someone from your Christmas card list.}

I’m not here to judge. The cost of Christmas cards can really add up. Price per card, paper quality, foil lined envelopes, postage; I understand.

Some of you don’t do Christmas cards and I understand that too. It’s not your thing and I totally get it.

But it’s my thing. I love to send Christmas cards for many reasons. One being that I’m proud of my family. Not proud in a “keeping up with the joneses” type of way but proud in a “damn, we made it” type of way.

Another reason I love to send Christmas cards is because for many on my list it will be the only point of contact I’ll have with you this year. And if you are on my list then you are someone from my past who impacted me in such a way as to carve yourself onto my heart. Old co-workers who felt like family, friends I laughed with in church 15 years ago, people I hardly know who sent meals and gift cards when my baby was in the hospital, teachers who have selflessly embraced my most difficult child …… just to name a few.

I’ve thought only a few times about reducing my Christmas card list; usually when money has felt especially tight. But I just can’t seem to hit delete without feeling as though I’m in turn deleting the memories. Every name on my list is a person who has provided counsel, friendship, care, love, service, laughter, a place to lean or some combination of those things and I want you to know that …… I can’t delete you.

My Christmas card list is the unexpected reminder each year of how beautiful this world is. How filled with goodness this world is. How good the people of this world are. Even on the darkest of holiday seasons when I don’t even want to try and see the good things, I look at my list and am reminded of how many people have decided to show up for me over the years. And quite frankly, I don’t want to ‘move on’ from you.

If you receive a card from me and feel as though you need to send one back, you don’t. Please don’t trouble yourself. If you don’t send cards and feel guilty when you receive one from me; please don’t. If you are someone who does in fact weed out people from their card list and think I’m shaming you; I’m not.

I send Christmas cards because I want you to know that I still like thinking about you. That I still cherish our quiet, distant and otherwise obsolete friendship.

You will always get my Christmas card.

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The Whole Big Thing

Do the next thing. Take the next step. Everything is manageable in small doses. Get the diagnosis. Learn. Make the appointment. See the doctor. Plan. Another procedure. Talk to the children. Pack your bag. Be polite. Another IV. Don’t cry. Fill out the form. Talk to the teachers. Love. Comfort. Google.

It’s just the next thing. It’s all just the next thing.

I’m so good at doing the next thing. I can do the next thing all day long and not bat an eye. I am so good at the next thing that I forget to think about the whole thing; the whole BIG thing.

The stress. The worry. Lost time with my other kids. Lost memories. Missed events. Skipped traditions. The money that is no longer tucked tightly in our savings. The loneliness. The sadness. The grief. The anger. The challenged faith. The doubts. The new identity. New priorities.

It turns out that sure-footedly taking every next step does not get you closer to reconciling with the ‘whole big thing’.

Sometimes you have no choice to take the steps. In fact, your children are depending on you to take those steps. Keep going, keep moving forward and stay strong. Stay vigilant for their sake.

But when you can, and when it is appropriate you need to sit with the bigness of what you are going through. The reality is that every necessary step has been to simply keep your child alive.

What has it been like to live with the ever constant fear that your child might die? Tell me about the whole big thing.