I am already 9.5 years into this whole mom thing and some days I still feel like I'm playing house. Dressing up little people, feeding them, pretending to impart some type of adult and lifelong wisdom they will no doubt quote when they are older as they remember me fondly as calm and collected all the time.
Ok, I barely got through the last half of that sentence, but still.
Am I the only one? I often wonder when I'll truly feel like an adult and with each milestone, I find myself wondering anew.
Except for this week. This week I knew I nailed this mom thing, this adult jam. Just for one brief, shining moment, I could almost hear the tournament music playing in the background as scenes of the last year and half with my toddler flashed across my mind.
This week, we got a diagnosis. After trips to therapists, meetings with the state agency, setting goals, sensory diets, parenting strategies, countless books, too many emails back and forth with the doctor to count, strict nutritional guidelines...after all these things, I still knew something wasn't right. That he wasn't responding the way he should to all we were doing if there were really no underlying causes. I knew it couldn't just be personality. No one is born miserable, right?
So I kept pushing. I kept looking. I asked questions. I found groups of people who had been through the same type of challenges who had found answers. I suggested possibilities to our amazing pediatrician who was more than willing to dig deep right beside us. I failed, I despaired, I hoped again, I tried again.
And, my friends, I performed the most disgusting ritual I have ever had to do, scooping poop from horrifying diapers into different vials, mixing and mashing them up with a scary little spoon with teeth and, I am not kidding you, putting the whole package in the mail to a distant lab. I am pretty sure the house smelled like a sewer for a solid 24 hours. Well, more than usual, anyway.
That sample was gone a whole month. Another month of inexplicable meltdowns, of anger and rage, of early rising and whining and a child who was clearly unhappy a lot of the time. There are few things harder than watching your child struggle and feeling helpless.
But this week, we got an answer. It may not be causing everything, but there is no doubt it is serious enough to mess with him pretty hard. I am pretty sure no matter what was going on in this little guy's body, he would still be off the charts energetic. I am sure we would still have tantrums and chaos more than I did with my first. He DOES have a "live life to the fullest" kind of personality and I love that about him. But maybe, just maybe, if we can heal up his little body, he can live life to the fullest with more smiles and fewer meltdowns. With more joy and less angst. With less thinking about how his body is uncomfortable and more diving into the fun around him. He is SO good at that.
This week, we won. This week, I felt like a real adult, a mom who fought for her son and succeeded.
Maybe you think it's cruel to rejoice in a diagnosis. But friends, when you have spent more than half your child's life searching for some way to help and someone tells you there IS a way to help now, you feel a tremendous sense of relief. It's not something incurable. It's not even uncomfortable to treat. He won't know the difference in his day until all of a sudden he will. He will feel good instead of crummy. The littlest things might no longer cause 45 minutes of screaming and throwing his body on the floor. Maybe our family will be able to go places. Maybe someday we can introduce some of the taboo foods back in and go to an actual restaurant occasionally or order in a pizza when I'm done with cooking.
We can hope so, at least.
And hope is something of a theme in my life. Through miscarriage, infertility, adoption and now the extreme challenges of a higher-needs child struggling through toddlerhood, God has continued to pour down hope. To give us just enough to try again. To explore, to fail and pick ourselves back up.
So, here's to the next phase of hope, one filled with treatments and, dare I say it, healing.
Showing posts with label Parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenthood. Show all posts
Monday, June 6, 2016
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Fight or Flight
I really love biology. Loved it in high school and loved it again when I took it at UW just a few short years ago. Ideally, I'll end up in a field that deals with it, but right now is not the time to be too discerning about what the future holds.
I've always thought one of the most interesting aspects of animal behavior is the idea of fight or flight. That when presented with some kind of very real threat, we have two choices. We run from it or we do battle.
In parenthood, you kind of have to choose the second.
Before you think I sound crazy and violent, hear me out on this.
Being a parent is the first thing I have ever done that is 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Not that I ever stop being married, of course, but with a rational human adult, one can take breaks. One can ask for space. One can assume one may sleep through the night without the other one waking her up. (Well, sometimes. The early months were dicey as we figured out how to share a bed, but that's another, more comedic story.")
Once you are a parent, that's it. If your kid needs you, nothing else will do. Maybe someone will give you a night off, but you always know there is the possibility of being called home in an emergency. Maybe you'll take a weekend away with your spouse, but you are still parent. Your brain cannot move from that state of being.
So when the battles come, you have to choose fight. You have to stay in it.
Now, biologically speaking, if I were a lesser being this would probably mean punching my toddler in the face after he has just punched me in the face. Meet force with force, right? Thankfully, I have rational logic and compassion to choose a different way to fight. If I didn't, my instinct to protect myself would surely kick in. And I would fight back at a very base level. A level that would not be in my children's (or my) best interest.
But, friends. It's hard. Take someone like myself who can be easily angered and add sleep deprivation and hunger to the mix, then when my 2 year old wallops me, I really, really have to work hard not to react. Not to lash out. Not to yell or freak out. Not to put him in time out and run to google and job search immediately so I can end this stay-at-home thing asap. Not to make the whole day about the one (or ten, as the day may be) incident. Everything feels more dramatic when I am hungry and tired.
This week, as I've been preparing myself to be alone for a few weeks with the little people (with some help coming a few days here and there, lest I mislead you), I have had to work hard to not fear. To emotionally plan ahead for the witching hour and how I will handle it on my own when the baby is crying and the toddler is melting down and throwing food and my 9 year old needs someone to read his spelling words to him to practice and the dog is barking at the neighbors at the hour of the day when my energy is the lowest.
I am preparing for battle.
But, I've really wanted to prepare differently than I might have a week ago. Prepare with hope, with intention, with a "WE CAN DO THIS" attitude.
And to get there, I have got to get past this perpetual feeling of anger. Anger at my life not looking like what I imagined. Anger that I am not working and not in school. Anger at being covered in bruises. Anger at being far from family and my closest friends during this challenging season.
I came across a quote this week in a rare moment of quiet reading about how Christians should approach that which feels like it's choking us of life.
"We should run to the cross. To death. So lay down your hopes. Lay down your future. Lay down your petty annoyances. Lay down your desire to be recognized. Lay down your fussiness at your children. Lay down your perfectly clean house. Lay down your grievances about the life you are living. Lay down the imaginary life you could have by yourself. Lay them all down...Stop clinging to yourself and cling to the cross. There is more joy and more life and more laughter on the other side of death than you can possibly carry alone." (From "Mom Enough")
Ouch. And phew.
Seriously, it hurt to read it but at the same time, it was like the breath went out of me.
Clinging to myself is not the way to do battle. The only way is to enter into the battle that God himself already won.
So, as the preparations continue, as I ready our family to handle being without superdad for a few weeks, I am finding glimmers of hope, small shreds of strength, quotes that are being put on index cards and placed around the house. Any little thing that will remind me that IT WILL BE OK. And maybe more than that, IT MAY BE GOOD.
Fight or flight?
I choose fight. But I choose to fight differently.
I've always thought one of the most interesting aspects of animal behavior is the idea of fight or flight. That when presented with some kind of very real threat, we have two choices. We run from it or we do battle.
In parenthood, you kind of have to choose the second.
Before you think I sound crazy and violent, hear me out on this.
Being a parent is the first thing I have ever done that is 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Not that I ever stop being married, of course, but with a rational human adult, one can take breaks. One can ask for space. One can assume one may sleep through the night without the other one waking her up. (Well, sometimes. The early months were dicey as we figured out how to share a bed, but that's another, more comedic story.")
Once you are a parent, that's it. If your kid needs you, nothing else will do. Maybe someone will give you a night off, but you always know there is the possibility of being called home in an emergency. Maybe you'll take a weekend away with your spouse, but you are still parent. Your brain cannot move from that state of being.
So when the battles come, you have to choose fight. You have to stay in it.
Now, biologically speaking, if I were a lesser being this would probably mean punching my toddler in the face after he has just punched me in the face. Meet force with force, right? Thankfully, I have rational logic and compassion to choose a different way to fight. If I didn't, my instinct to protect myself would surely kick in. And I would fight back at a very base level. A level that would not be in my children's (or my) best interest.
But, friends. It's hard. Take someone like myself who can be easily angered and add sleep deprivation and hunger to the mix, then when my 2 year old wallops me, I really, really have to work hard not to react. Not to lash out. Not to yell or freak out. Not to put him in time out and run to google and job search immediately so I can end this stay-at-home thing asap. Not to make the whole day about the one (or ten, as the day may be) incident. Everything feels more dramatic when I am hungry and tired.
This week, as I've been preparing myself to be alone for a few weeks with the little people (with some help coming a few days here and there, lest I mislead you), I have had to work hard to not fear. To emotionally plan ahead for the witching hour and how I will handle it on my own when the baby is crying and the toddler is melting down and throwing food and my 9 year old needs someone to read his spelling words to him to practice and the dog is barking at the neighbors at the hour of the day when my energy is the lowest.
I am preparing for battle.
But, I've really wanted to prepare differently than I might have a week ago. Prepare with hope, with intention, with a "WE CAN DO THIS" attitude.
And to get there, I have got to get past this perpetual feeling of anger. Anger at my life not looking like what I imagined. Anger that I am not working and not in school. Anger at being covered in bruises. Anger at being far from family and my closest friends during this challenging season.
I came across a quote this week in a rare moment of quiet reading about how Christians should approach that which feels like it's choking us of life.
"We should run to the cross. To death. So lay down your hopes. Lay down your future. Lay down your petty annoyances. Lay down your desire to be recognized. Lay down your fussiness at your children. Lay down your perfectly clean house. Lay down your grievances about the life you are living. Lay down the imaginary life you could have by yourself. Lay them all down...Stop clinging to yourself and cling to the cross. There is more joy and more life and more laughter on the other side of death than you can possibly carry alone." (From "Mom Enough")
Ouch. And phew.
Seriously, it hurt to read it but at the same time, it was like the breath went out of me.
Clinging to myself is not the way to do battle. The only way is to enter into the battle that God himself already won.
So, as the preparations continue, as I ready our family to handle being without superdad for a few weeks, I am finding glimmers of hope, small shreds of strength, quotes that are being put on index cards and placed around the house. Any little thing that will remind me that IT WILL BE OK. And maybe more than that, IT MAY BE GOOD.
Fight or flight?
I choose fight. But I choose to fight differently.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Partner
Today I woke up, left the house and went to a coffee shop. I had breakfast and drank hot coffee. I read a book and journaled and sat and breathed.
I ran some errands. No little kid in a cart with an infant strapped to my chest, no praying that no meltdown would occur, no hasty exit for the car, no car seat wrestling matches, no hungry infant on the drive home wailing for milk as the toddler contorts his body in such a way as to physically torture the 8-year-old smushed into the middle seat next to him.
Quiet.
A haircut, a few hours on a lounge chair at the pool with a book, a catnap in the sun. Singing at the top of my lungs in the car. (Oh wait, I do that anyway.)
And a walk back into my home right before bedtime to the toddler shrieking "mama, mama" with delight, with a sleepy baby's sleepy smile, with a child asking me how my day was, was it restful, was it good. With a kiss from my husband, smiling and glad to see me.
This, my friends, was my Mother's Day gift. The gift of a day. Not to get away from my kids, although practically that is what I did, but a day to reset, a day to breathe in and out, a day to be reminded that while life is challenging and loud and chaotic right now, that while I am exhausted and showers are a luxury seldom enjoyed, that life is good. That while my hands are "full" as so many strangers like to remind me when we venture into public, that I spent many years with them half empty and this is better.
And the best thing about today?
I didn't call my husband. I texted him to let him know how I was doing (since we both know I struggle to relax, to enjoy and I wanted to reassure him that my day was going well) but I didn't check in.
I don't have to.
He is not the babysitter. He is not childcare. He is their dad. Fully capable. Fully in control, as much as any of us parents are. He knows his sons, knows what they need, their quirks, their personalities, their favorite foods, the exact way you have to do nap time or the right way to phrase a question to the toddler. He knows it all.
I didn't have to leave a long list or a schedule. I didn't leave food in the fridge. I just washed my face, put my shoes on and left the house.
A true partner is no joke, my friends.
To be with a man who understands how powerful is his role as father is amazing.
To be with a man who doesn't think he is doing me some kind of favor that needs to be repaid when he takes over the kids is no small thing.
To be with a man who I can trust knows us, really knows us, to be fully aware and without any doubts that he is for me, for them, for our family? That is beauty.
To be married to my best friend and to come home and see the baby resting on his shoulder as the toddler runs circles around him, to have him turn and smile and show me that this, this chance to spend a whole day alone with his boys, is a joy to him, a gift, really.
Well, there are no words.
Marriage and parenthood are the hardest things I have ever done. To be able to do them with someone who is a true partner - well, I imagine I couldn't possibly do it any other way.
Tomorrow the day will be crazy, as it always is. Really, crazy is our new normal. But I'm grateful that I had the chance to breathe, to remember, to sit, to think (and not think!). And I am grateful to this man who knows how much I needed that, who loves his sons with a fierceness I didn't know possible and who always, always, makes me feel like we can do this thing called life. And do it well.
I ran some errands. No little kid in a cart with an infant strapped to my chest, no praying that no meltdown would occur, no hasty exit for the car, no car seat wrestling matches, no hungry infant on the drive home wailing for milk as the toddler contorts his body in such a way as to physically torture the 8-year-old smushed into the middle seat next to him.
Quiet.
A haircut, a few hours on a lounge chair at the pool with a book, a catnap in the sun. Singing at the top of my lungs in the car. (Oh wait, I do that anyway.)
And a walk back into my home right before bedtime to the toddler shrieking "mama, mama" with delight, with a sleepy baby's sleepy smile, with a child asking me how my day was, was it restful, was it good. With a kiss from my husband, smiling and glad to see me.
This, my friends, was my Mother's Day gift. The gift of a day. Not to get away from my kids, although practically that is what I did, but a day to reset, a day to breathe in and out, a day to be reminded that while life is challenging and loud and chaotic right now, that while I am exhausted and showers are a luxury seldom enjoyed, that life is good. That while my hands are "full" as so many strangers like to remind me when we venture into public, that I spent many years with them half empty and this is better.
And the best thing about today?
I didn't call my husband. I texted him to let him know how I was doing (since we both know I struggle to relax, to enjoy and I wanted to reassure him that my day was going well) but I didn't check in.
I don't have to.
He is not the babysitter. He is not childcare. He is their dad. Fully capable. Fully in control, as much as any of us parents are. He knows his sons, knows what they need, their quirks, their personalities, their favorite foods, the exact way you have to do nap time or the right way to phrase a question to the toddler. He knows it all.
I didn't have to leave a long list or a schedule. I didn't leave food in the fridge. I just washed my face, put my shoes on and left the house.
A true partner is no joke, my friends.
To be with a man who understands how powerful is his role as father is amazing.
To be with a man who doesn't think he is doing me some kind of favor that needs to be repaid when he takes over the kids is no small thing.
To be with a man who I can trust knows us, really knows us, to be fully aware and without any doubts that he is for me, for them, for our family? That is beauty.
To be married to my best friend and to come home and see the baby resting on his shoulder as the toddler runs circles around him, to have him turn and smile and show me that this, this chance to spend a whole day alone with his boys, is a joy to him, a gift, really.
Well, there are no words.
Marriage and parenthood are the hardest things I have ever done. To be able to do them with someone who is a true partner - well, I imagine I couldn't possibly do it any other way.
Tomorrow the day will be crazy, as it always is. Really, crazy is our new normal. But I'm grateful that I had the chance to breathe, to remember, to sit, to think (and not think!). And I am grateful to this man who knows how much I needed that, who loves his sons with a fierceness I didn't know possible and who always, always, makes me feel like we can do this thing called life. And do it well.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Lonely Guy Checks In
It's funny what being embarrassingly honest can get you these days.
And by "funny," I mean "awesome."
Just last week I posted about being lonely, about how this phase of life, of being a stay-at-home parent, of rising each day and knowing that my primary companion for the day is more likely to pee on me than give me a good conversation, is a lonely place. And it was easy before I posted it to feel like that loneliness was something I was suffering, well, alone. That all the other parents out there were happily trucking along with some dear companions, sipping coffee and laughing at their children's tantrums together.
Myriads of responses later, however, the truth became apparent. This is a tough and lonely gig, people. For those of us, particularly, who may have had a job or career we loved or who never imagined staying at home past maternity leave, this may be the hardest and most isolating experience of our lives so far. (Let's leave middle school out of the reckoning for that title, shall we?)
Within minutes of posting, I saw other parents admit to being in the same place. Not only feeling lonely, but yearning for deep friendship, for the type of friendship that is comfortable, that requires no preparation beforehand. No personal grooming or domestic tidying. No kid in the perfect and sweet mood. And the funny thing is- I think we often think other people need us to put on that show that happens at the beginning of friendships. The small talk, the clean house, the perfect snacks and the deodorant. But really? I think very few of us actually care about that stuff, particuarly if not worrying about it makes it much easier for real relationship, honest interaction and easy camaraderie to be found.
So why do we make it so hard on ourselves? Why do we think we need to play a certain game here that, if we're honest, is just too exhausting to play?
I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that my week turned out very differently than I had imagined it would when I pressed the "publish" button on that post. Lovely texts and sweet messages and encouraging verses and invitations to hang out poured forth. I had a wonderful dinner with a newer friend and a fantastic night going deeper with some women I've known for a year now but still don't know as well as I'd like. I had a morning with two newer friends from church where our kids played long enough for us to actually say more than one sentence in a row a few times. I felt surrounded on Sunday by wonderful community as we baptized our sweet little man. Miracles do happen, friends.
Did I have that "person" come magically out of the blue? Of course not. That takes work, it takes patience, it takes putting myself out there- work I am trying to do. I did strike up two conversations with strangers at the library and the Y and get far enough to exchange names. I did laugh with new friends. I did feel like something could possibly change.
Bottom line, I hoped.
Hope is a pretty powerful thing.
Nate's tantrums didn't stop at the end of the week. It didn't get any easier on that front. But the thought of those texts, those calls, those invitations...well, it made the tantrums a little easier to bear. And the laughter I experienced at night with those new friends? Well, laughter is powerful, too. And its remnants can last long enough to get me through some of those tough mornings that follow.
So to those of you who joined in the conversation in honest and painful solidarity, I feel your pain and pray for hopeful moments for you this week even as I hope for more of my own. To those who texted or called or just made it clear that I can text or call you if I need to, thank you for reaching out to "lonely guy." To those with whom I laughed and talked, thank you for giving me what I needed to make it through the week feeling like I wasn't alone in this. To those I overlooked because of my own shyness or pain or isolation, I apologize and pray that my eyes would be clearer this coming week and that I would remember strongly that most of us really do yearn for something real and good and deep and are waiting for someone to extend the invitation.
Friends, let's be people this week who see those around us, who long to extend God's love and our friendship to them and who are open to what kind of laughter and magic might happen as a result.
And by "funny," I mean "awesome."
Just last week I posted about being lonely, about how this phase of life, of being a stay-at-home parent, of rising each day and knowing that my primary companion for the day is more likely to pee on me than give me a good conversation, is a lonely place. And it was easy before I posted it to feel like that loneliness was something I was suffering, well, alone. That all the other parents out there were happily trucking along with some dear companions, sipping coffee and laughing at their children's tantrums together.
Myriads of responses later, however, the truth became apparent. This is a tough and lonely gig, people. For those of us, particularly, who may have had a job or career we loved or who never imagined staying at home past maternity leave, this may be the hardest and most isolating experience of our lives so far. (Let's leave middle school out of the reckoning for that title, shall we?)
Within minutes of posting, I saw other parents admit to being in the same place. Not only feeling lonely, but yearning for deep friendship, for the type of friendship that is comfortable, that requires no preparation beforehand. No personal grooming or domestic tidying. No kid in the perfect and sweet mood. And the funny thing is- I think we often think other people need us to put on that show that happens at the beginning of friendships. The small talk, the clean house, the perfect snacks and the deodorant. But really? I think very few of us actually care about that stuff, particuarly if not worrying about it makes it much easier for real relationship, honest interaction and easy camaraderie to be found.
So why do we make it so hard on ourselves? Why do we think we need to play a certain game here that, if we're honest, is just too exhausting to play?
I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that my week turned out very differently than I had imagined it would when I pressed the "publish" button on that post. Lovely texts and sweet messages and encouraging verses and invitations to hang out poured forth. I had a wonderful dinner with a newer friend and a fantastic night going deeper with some women I've known for a year now but still don't know as well as I'd like. I had a morning with two newer friends from church where our kids played long enough for us to actually say more than one sentence in a row a few times. I felt surrounded on Sunday by wonderful community as we baptized our sweet little man. Miracles do happen, friends.
Did I have that "person" come magically out of the blue? Of course not. That takes work, it takes patience, it takes putting myself out there- work I am trying to do. I did strike up two conversations with strangers at the library and the Y and get far enough to exchange names. I did laugh with new friends. I did feel like something could possibly change.
Bottom line, I hoped.
Hope is a pretty powerful thing.
Nate's tantrums didn't stop at the end of the week. It didn't get any easier on that front. But the thought of those texts, those calls, those invitations...well, it made the tantrums a little easier to bear. And the laughter I experienced at night with those new friends? Well, laughter is powerful, too. And its remnants can last long enough to get me through some of those tough mornings that follow.
So to those of you who joined in the conversation in honest and painful solidarity, I feel your pain and pray for hopeful moments for you this week even as I hope for more of my own. To those who texted or called or just made it clear that I can text or call you if I need to, thank you for reaching out to "lonely guy." To those with whom I laughed and talked, thank you for giving me what I needed to make it through the week feeling like I wasn't alone in this. To those I overlooked because of my own shyness or pain or isolation, I apologize and pray that my eyes would be clearer this coming week and that I would remember strongly that most of us really do yearn for something real and good and deep and are waiting for someone to extend the invitation.
Friends, let's be people this week who see those around us, who long to extend God's love and our friendship to them and who are open to what kind of laughter and magic might happen as a result.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
I Am Lonely Guy
Our church has been going through a series about truly seeing what's around us. Opening our eyes, calming our schedules and being willing to really look. During this time, two men have been performing a skit called "Lonely Guy." Each week these two guys meet again onstage- really, crash into each other- and have an awkward interaction. They are both wearing sandwich boards- one that says "busy" and one that says "lonely." Predictably, the busy guy fumbles with his phone, mumbles something half-hearted in response to being reminded again that the lonely guy works at his grocery store and then goes on his way with the lonely guy staring after him. It all resolves when God intervenes and the busy guy truly SEES the lonely guy and they start to interact.
The first few weeks I laughed at this skit. I resonated with the busy guy- chasing my toddler around, too tired and frustrated to really see any opportunities around me and the men had done a good job keeping the feel of the skit light and humorous, even with its deeper message.
The final week, though? Something shifted. And I saw in the lonely guy the reality of my own life.
Just this morning I took my son to something called Wiggle Room. Held in our community center, it's a place for parents to bring their young kids to get out of the cold, let them play with different toys (and presumably, different friends) and just run around and get the cabin fever out. N and I have been trying to come every week since it started and have invited friends to come along. We had a few show up the first week but since then we've been on our own. Like we are most days.
Today I followed my son around and watched a lot of parents talking to each other. Mostly moms, a few dads and an occasional grandma. Their kids swirled around them, mostly playing well enough for them to have conversations with the semi-regular need to intervene in some kind of sharing debacle. I smiled at these groups of people. I tried to strike up some conversations with strangers. And it didn't really work. No one really talked back. I just felt alone.
As I leaned against the wall watching my ginormous toddler step on a kid to get to a toy, I felt alone.
As I chased him around, trying to keep him from knocking down other kids painstakingly built towers, I felt alone.
As I gazed longingly at people who clearly felt known and comfortable with the people around them, I felt alone.
I am lonely guy.
Bringing home a newborn baby in the midst of the coldest winter in recent years combined with hating to drive in snow, switching churches just before he came home and being a first-time SAHM was a tough combination last year. And when I reached the summer, desperate for human interaction, I realized that I had been dangerously sad. Tired. Alone. Dealing with post-adoption blues. Frustrated that this huge life-changing event on which we had waited for 5 years took place far away from our family and close friends. I spent the summer soaking in the amazing weather, trying to get closer to people I had met, hanging out with neighbors, treasuring time with my oldest during his vacation time. And I was determined that when winter came again, I would have a person.
You know who I mean.
THAT friend. The one you can call up last minute and who knows that all you need is company and coffee. Your house doesn't have to be clean and you don't need healthy snacks in your fridge. You don't have to have showered, which would be particularly helpful during this stage when my toddler thinks my shower time equals an opportunity for him to attempt to dive head first into the tub and crack his head open. The one who won't care if your kid throws his 5th tantrum of the afternoon because she loves him, too, and knows you are doing what you can to keep calm and make it through the toddler phase alive. That friend.
As fall flew into the busyness of the Christmas season, I felt full. I was seeing friends sometimes, N and I were managing to get out of the house when the kids weren't sick and the joy of the holidays and visiting family loomed. I didn't really notice that I still didn't have that person.
But now? In the throes of deepest winter? I've got some friends. I really do. Lovely people. Friendly, inviting, welcoming. Most of them, like me, are pretty overwhelmed by the chaos of just getting their toddler from one end of the day to the next. And I enjoy my time with them. I do. I wish we knew each other better.
But I don't have that person. The one that makes life just feel easier. The one who knows me. Who knows that staying home is the hardest thing I've ever done. Who knows that sleep deprivation turns me into a maniacal human. Who knows that crying makes me uncomfortable and that I can't eat sugar. And BOY did I want to eat me some cookies after Wiggle Room today.
So, while I am going to continue to keep my eyes open and look for opportunities to SEE and love on people and try to get to know some of the people I already know better, I am also going to pray that someone, maybe "busy guy", will be keeping his eyes open for me, too. And that when I try to strike up that random and somewhat painful conversation at the next Wiggle Room, someone will see me, too.
And maybe, just maybe, by next winter I will not be lonely guy.
The first few weeks I laughed at this skit. I resonated with the busy guy- chasing my toddler around, too tired and frustrated to really see any opportunities around me and the men had done a good job keeping the feel of the skit light and humorous, even with its deeper message.
The final week, though? Something shifted. And I saw in the lonely guy the reality of my own life.
Just this morning I took my son to something called Wiggle Room. Held in our community center, it's a place for parents to bring their young kids to get out of the cold, let them play with different toys (and presumably, different friends) and just run around and get the cabin fever out. N and I have been trying to come every week since it started and have invited friends to come along. We had a few show up the first week but since then we've been on our own. Like we are most days.
Today I followed my son around and watched a lot of parents talking to each other. Mostly moms, a few dads and an occasional grandma. Their kids swirled around them, mostly playing well enough for them to have conversations with the semi-regular need to intervene in some kind of sharing debacle. I smiled at these groups of people. I tried to strike up some conversations with strangers. And it didn't really work. No one really talked back. I just felt alone.
As I leaned against the wall watching my ginormous toddler step on a kid to get to a toy, I felt alone.
As I chased him around, trying to keep him from knocking down other kids painstakingly built towers, I felt alone.
As I gazed longingly at people who clearly felt known and comfortable with the people around them, I felt alone.
I am lonely guy.
Bringing home a newborn baby in the midst of the coldest winter in recent years combined with hating to drive in snow, switching churches just before he came home and being a first-time SAHM was a tough combination last year. And when I reached the summer, desperate for human interaction, I realized that I had been dangerously sad. Tired. Alone. Dealing with post-adoption blues. Frustrated that this huge life-changing event on which we had waited for 5 years took place far away from our family and close friends. I spent the summer soaking in the amazing weather, trying to get closer to people I had met, hanging out with neighbors, treasuring time with my oldest during his vacation time. And I was determined that when winter came again, I would have a person.
You know who I mean.
THAT friend. The one you can call up last minute and who knows that all you need is company and coffee. Your house doesn't have to be clean and you don't need healthy snacks in your fridge. You don't have to have showered, which would be particularly helpful during this stage when my toddler thinks my shower time equals an opportunity for him to attempt to dive head first into the tub and crack his head open. The one who won't care if your kid throws his 5th tantrum of the afternoon because she loves him, too, and knows you are doing what you can to keep calm and make it through the toddler phase alive. That friend.
As fall flew into the busyness of the Christmas season, I felt full. I was seeing friends sometimes, N and I were managing to get out of the house when the kids weren't sick and the joy of the holidays and visiting family loomed. I didn't really notice that I still didn't have that person.
But now? In the throes of deepest winter? I've got some friends. I really do. Lovely people. Friendly, inviting, welcoming. Most of them, like me, are pretty overwhelmed by the chaos of just getting their toddler from one end of the day to the next. And I enjoy my time with them. I do. I wish we knew each other better.
But I don't have that person. The one that makes life just feel easier. The one who knows me. Who knows that staying home is the hardest thing I've ever done. Who knows that sleep deprivation turns me into a maniacal human. Who knows that crying makes me uncomfortable and that I can't eat sugar. And BOY did I want to eat me some cookies after Wiggle Room today.
So, while I am going to continue to keep my eyes open and look for opportunities to SEE and love on people and try to get to know some of the people I already know better, I am also going to pray that someone, maybe "busy guy", will be keeping his eyes open for me, too. And that when I try to strike up that random and somewhat painful conversation at the next Wiggle Room, someone will see me, too.
And maybe, just maybe, by next winter I will not be lonely guy.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
On Those Days
On those days when your throat aches and your nose drips and you know that the best thing for you would be to drink fluids and rest, you do your best to remember to drink at least one cup of water and soldier on because your littlest one is also sick and needs you even more than usual. On those days you trust in the higher One to take care of you because you can't take care of yourself.
On those days when you are so isolated by this life change that you scroll facebook frantically searching for that feeling of connectedness, of intimacy, you try to be alright with the fact that it is only the next best thing. On those days you hope that the rain will stop and the temperatures will rise and you will again emerge into the land of people and friendships and sunshine.
On those days when you go to change a full and fragrant diaper and in the midst of changing it your child decides it is time once again to poop, and you find yourself and the changing table covered, you take a (metaphorically, of course, because let's be honest) deep breath, wipe your hands off, change the diaper again, strip the changing table and remember that this phase, too, shall pass. On those days you remember that some day you will no longer be someone else's tissue and toilet and you can begin to wear more than sweats again.
On those days when your baby only takes 3 pathetic naps, 40 minutes, 30 minutes and 20 minutes long, you drink in your coffee and the hard-earned smiles from his snuffly, pouty little face. On those days, you remember that he is likely more miserable than you and you choose compassion.
On those days when you get a phone call from the doctor and there isn't good news, you avoid going on WebMD and you wait for the next appointment and choose to take this day by day. On those days you hope and trust that there will be no "worst case scenarios" and you keep doing the everyday survival stuff in the meantime and hope for the best.
On those days when you fleetingly recall that just months ago you had margin and energy and time to yourself and creativity for your seven-year-old and then feel overwhelmed by how much has changed, you remember that you wanted this. That you prayed for this and hoped for this and still want this. On those days, you choose to remember the forest through the trees.
On those days when you crave solitude with God but know that that is impossible due to this little person attached to you all day long, you remember that God is not distant in your chaos. On those days you pay extra attention to the words you sing to your baby to put him to sleep, soaking in the truths of them and knowing that God is not just worshiped in the singing of them but in the rocking to sleep of that baby, too.
On those days when you feel irritable and hungry and oh-so-tired of constantly being touched, when your introvert self cries out for retreat and then immediately recoils in guilt, you cling to the generous and honest words of an email sent to you the day after your son came home:
"If you find yourself struggling, exhausted, assaulted by doubts or fears, I would find that entirely normal given the incredible amount of emotion of the past years and then the sort-of-suddenness of this gift. Hell, even when we carry babies for 9 months and have a good sense of their due dates, we can be surprised by the reality that is mommying a young baby, and the way it changes things-- and yet, of course, we wouldn't change a thing. It can just be hard at first, a big change, a big emotional swing. Not to worry. Just do the next thing. Make breakfast, feed the baby, take a nap, change a diaper, make lunch, keep going."
On those days, you remember those words and you choose grace over condemnation. Choose joy over despair. Choose "now" over "then" or "next". Choose gratefulness over frustration. Choose dirty sweats and thrice reheated cups of coffee and elusive showers and bulb syringe nose battles and twenty rounds of "The Wheels on the Bus".
On those days you choose life. Right now, just as it is. And you choose it knowing that it's ok that this is the hardest thing you've ever done, that you are not alone and that in that reality you are given the choice to look for the small and beautiful miracles in each of these hard days or to just see the hard in the hard days.
On those days you choose to find the beauty and the miracles.
On those days when you are so isolated by this life change that you scroll facebook frantically searching for that feeling of connectedness, of intimacy, you try to be alright with the fact that it is only the next best thing. On those days you hope that the rain will stop and the temperatures will rise and you will again emerge into the land of people and friendships and sunshine.
On those days when you go to change a full and fragrant diaper and in the midst of changing it your child decides it is time once again to poop, and you find yourself and the changing table covered, you take a (metaphorically, of course, because let's be honest) deep breath, wipe your hands off, change the diaper again, strip the changing table and remember that this phase, too, shall pass. On those days you remember that some day you will no longer be someone else's tissue and toilet and you can begin to wear more than sweats again.
On those days when your baby only takes 3 pathetic naps, 40 minutes, 30 minutes and 20 minutes long, you drink in your coffee and the hard-earned smiles from his snuffly, pouty little face. On those days, you remember that he is likely more miserable than you and you choose compassion.
On those days when you get a phone call from the doctor and there isn't good news, you avoid going on WebMD and you wait for the next appointment and choose to take this day by day. On those days you hope and trust that there will be no "worst case scenarios" and you keep doing the everyday survival stuff in the meantime and hope for the best.
On those days when you fleetingly recall that just months ago you had margin and energy and time to yourself and creativity for your seven-year-old and then feel overwhelmed by how much has changed, you remember that you wanted this. That you prayed for this and hoped for this and still want this. On those days, you choose to remember the forest through the trees.
On those days when you crave solitude with God but know that that is impossible due to this little person attached to you all day long, you remember that God is not distant in your chaos. On those days you pay extra attention to the words you sing to your baby to put him to sleep, soaking in the truths of them and knowing that God is not just worshiped in the singing of them but in the rocking to sleep of that baby, too.
On those days when you feel irritable and hungry and oh-so-tired of constantly being touched, when your introvert self cries out for retreat and then immediately recoils in guilt, you cling to the generous and honest words of an email sent to you the day after your son came home:
"If you find yourself struggling, exhausted, assaulted by doubts or fears, I would find that entirely normal given the incredible amount of emotion of the past years and then the sort-of-suddenness of this gift. Hell, even when we carry babies for 9 months and have a good sense of their due dates, we can be surprised by the reality that is mommying a young baby, and the way it changes things-- and yet, of course, we wouldn't change a thing. It can just be hard at first, a big change, a big emotional swing. Not to worry. Just do the next thing. Make breakfast, feed the baby, take a nap, change a diaper, make lunch, keep going."
On those days, you remember those words and you choose grace over condemnation. Choose joy over despair. Choose "now" over "then" or "next". Choose gratefulness over frustration. Choose dirty sweats and thrice reheated cups of coffee and elusive showers and bulb syringe nose battles and twenty rounds of "The Wheels on the Bus".
On those days you choose life. Right now, just as it is. And you choose it knowing that it's ok that this is the hardest thing you've ever done, that you are not alone and that in that reality you are given the choice to look for the small and beautiful miracles in each of these hard days or to just see the hard in the hard days.
On those days you choose to find the beauty and the miracles.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
The "Kids and Race" Conversation
A few weeks ago I shared about why I feel it's so important, really crucial, to choose to intentionally educate our children about ethnicity and culture. A number of people responded really enthusiastically in agreement but wondered where exactly to start. I am by no means an expert, but here is a list of what I have done and am continuing to do for my own individual growth and understanding as well as in learning to educate my family.
(1) Start with yourself. If you are uncomfortable talking about ethnicity and race, you won't get anywhere with your child. Seek to understand your own background, your own culture. Read books about stories different from your own. Watch movies that teach you about different ways of life. And this may be the most obvious thing in the world, but ask yourself "Does my immediate world only look like me?" What ethnicities are represented in your church? Do you have close friends who are people of color, the kind of friends with whom hard conversations can happen and the friendship will actually deepen? Who are your neighbors? What does your child's school look like? His teachers and principal? Her doctors and dentists? His friends? Sports teams and clubs? You may need to make intentional choices to have more diverse surroundings in your life.
(2) Learn to listen. As a white person, some of my biggest hurdles were in learning to hear and believe what my friends were telling me. I wanted to solve it, deny it, wallow in grief about it, but I had to stop reacting and just listen. Just sit with them in it. I had to learn their stories, see which experiences had contributed to who they were to even begin to come to grips with my own voice in this great conversation. Be quick to listen and slow to defend.
(3) Embrace your child's observations. Your children may notice differences in skin color or hair texture or how someone talks. Rather than shushing them and telling them we are "all the same" or it's wrong to notice those things, ask them questions. Well, what color is his skin? What color is your skin? What does this hair feel like? Do you know that there are places where people speak languages other than English? Do yo know that you speak English? What countries can we find on the map? Do you know that your ancestors didn't grow up here and came from other countries like these? Kids love questions, they love trying to answer them and they will ask you 100 more for each one you answer.
(4) Intentionally grow your library. If you are like me, your child's library is full of favorite books you owned as a child, of gifts you've been given by others and by the occasional book your child has actually picked our him or herself. What would it look like if you asked friends of yours with different backgrounds what some of their favorite books were in childhood? Or scoured the internet for lists of books with protagonists that look different from your child or you? Check out some of those books from the library, find your favorites and put them on birthday and Christmas lists. Your child's library should be a picture of the fullness of the ethnic story.
(5) Find ways to celebrate and explore culture. Many of us live in or near cities that are actively promoting cultural conversation. Print out your city's annual civic calendar. Is there an Irish festival coming up? Go ahead and check it out and enjoy the dancing and soda bread. What about a Chinese New Year celebration? Or an African Arts Festival? Vary up your family activities - these types of activities will only increase your child's exposure and give them more opportunities to ask good questions and experience, quite frankly, a lot of fun and food they might not otherwise have had.
(6) Have international nights at home. Wouldn't it be a neat thing to choose one night a week or a month and have an international night? Pick a country and find it on the map, have your children do some coloring or decorating in the colors of its flag, make a meal from that locale, learn to say "hello", "goodbye" and "I love you" in that language. Invite some friends to do this with you- maybe even take turns hosting this with a bunch of families. Geography, culture and good food all in one. Easy win.
(7) Don't just go with America's race conversation timeline. Our education system has relegated the appreciation of certain backgrounds to specific months of the year. If we only celebrate those backgrounds during that month, though, what does that teach our children? That white is normal and everyone else gets one month of thought. Don't just wait until February to talk about black history. Learn enough about it that it becomes a part of American History in your household. Read books like "Heart and Soul" by Kadir Nelson so your kids begin to understand the bigger story. Don't just talk about Native Americans at Thanksgiving and please do not play into the legends our country has built around it, the ways we've whitewashed a great injustice. Learn the real stories of Columbus and the early explorers. Dig deeper and teach truth in age-appropriate ways. Your kids can handle it and will thank you later for your honesty.
(8) Open up your experience of God. I grew up in a middle class, white, northeastern town. Most of the people in my church had Italian or Irish backgrounds and had been raised in Catholic households. As such, I had a specific experience of God molded in that context - one that concentrated on love and holiness. By leaving the north and going to Virginia, I saw a different view of God and how to approach him, one that centered more on grace. When I began going to Gospel Choir concerts and then joined an inner city church and was trained as a worship leader, I saw yet again a different view of God and what it looked like to worship him, one that emphasized his love of freedom and deliverance. All these experiences have deepened and broadened my understanding of who He is and the story he tells. If I only ever worship where I am initially comfortable, I am not just closing myself off to learning more about others but I'm honestly telling God I don't need to know as much about him. That may sound harsh, but I believe it to be true. Teach your children songs that praise him in non-English languages, help them learn to enjoy music written by his people that may not be playing on your local Christian station or be on CCLI's top 10 list that week. I promise you, you'll thank me for it.
(9) Teach your kids to listen. This will flow out of our own good listening. I don't know about you, but I want to raise children who like the sound of other's voices. Who want to ask good questions and then quiet down and listen to the answers rather than children who will compete with others for who can tell the best story about themselves, who are staying quiet through an answer only to formulate their own story in response. Our American tendency is to one-up each other, to love the sound of our own voice and trumpet it freely. I am guilty of this myself. But what would it look like to raise people who cared about other people, who legitimately wanted to know each other's stories and celebrate them, mourn with them, encourage them? Wouldn't that set them up much better to believe the injustice they hear about and be allies in overcoming it?
(10) Give yourself and others grace. There is no one right way to talk about all this. You will fail. You won't have answers. You may even teach your kid the wrong terminology and you will find yourself embarrassed along the way. Your may even unintentionally offend someone. It's ok. Ask for forgiveness, find out how you could have done it differently and then keep going. The important thing is to give it a try. Get to know yourself, your family, your background. Get to know your neighborhood, your schools and places of worship. Get to know your child and his or her unique ways of approaching the world and help them learn how to have these conversations. Never be afraid to ask questions. Look for conversation opportunities in your kids experiences. Make sure your kids know that it is safe to ask you any questions they may have. Be patient with yourself and take your time. You can't educate your child in a single conversation. Don't spent a week reading every book you can get your hands on and tire yourself out. Just slowly, intentionally and honestly weave this as an important conversation into your family's life. As with anything, the more something is just a part of your everyday language, the more the people around you (including your children) believe it to be an integral value in your life.
Here is a list of resources that have helped (or are helping me right now!) along the way. They are by no means exhaustive and I encourage you to follow the links in the articles provided within them and continue to explore. Some of them relate to faith and race and others are more general. I find new things to read all the time. If you have resources to suggest, PLEASE share them in the comments! I would greatly appreciate it.
BOOKS
Almond Cookies and Dragon Well Tea by Chin-Lee
Black is Brown is Tan by Adoff
(1) Start with yourself. If you are uncomfortable talking about ethnicity and race, you won't get anywhere with your child. Seek to understand your own background, your own culture. Read books about stories different from your own. Watch movies that teach you about different ways of life. And this may be the most obvious thing in the world, but ask yourself "Does my immediate world only look like me?" What ethnicities are represented in your church? Do you have close friends who are people of color, the kind of friends with whom hard conversations can happen and the friendship will actually deepen? Who are your neighbors? What does your child's school look like? His teachers and principal? Her doctors and dentists? His friends? Sports teams and clubs? You may need to make intentional choices to have more diverse surroundings in your life.
(2) Learn to listen. As a white person, some of my biggest hurdles were in learning to hear and believe what my friends were telling me. I wanted to solve it, deny it, wallow in grief about it, but I had to stop reacting and just listen. Just sit with them in it. I had to learn their stories, see which experiences had contributed to who they were to even begin to come to grips with my own voice in this great conversation. Be quick to listen and slow to defend.
(3) Embrace your child's observations. Your children may notice differences in skin color or hair texture or how someone talks. Rather than shushing them and telling them we are "all the same" or it's wrong to notice those things, ask them questions. Well, what color is his skin? What color is your skin? What does this hair feel like? Do you know that there are places where people speak languages other than English? Do yo know that you speak English? What countries can we find on the map? Do you know that your ancestors didn't grow up here and came from other countries like these? Kids love questions, they love trying to answer them and they will ask you 100 more for each one you answer.
(4) Intentionally grow your library. If you are like me, your child's library is full of favorite books you owned as a child, of gifts you've been given by others and by the occasional book your child has actually picked our him or herself. What would it look like if you asked friends of yours with different backgrounds what some of their favorite books were in childhood? Or scoured the internet for lists of books with protagonists that look different from your child or you? Check out some of those books from the library, find your favorites and put them on birthday and Christmas lists. Your child's library should be a picture of the fullness of the ethnic story.
(5) Find ways to celebrate and explore culture. Many of us live in or near cities that are actively promoting cultural conversation. Print out your city's annual civic calendar. Is there an Irish festival coming up? Go ahead and check it out and enjoy the dancing and soda bread. What about a Chinese New Year celebration? Or an African Arts Festival? Vary up your family activities - these types of activities will only increase your child's exposure and give them more opportunities to ask good questions and experience, quite frankly, a lot of fun and food they might not otherwise have had.
(6) Have international nights at home. Wouldn't it be a neat thing to choose one night a week or a month and have an international night? Pick a country and find it on the map, have your children do some coloring or decorating in the colors of its flag, make a meal from that locale, learn to say "hello", "goodbye" and "I love you" in that language. Invite some friends to do this with you- maybe even take turns hosting this with a bunch of families. Geography, culture and good food all in one. Easy win.
(7) Don't just go with America's race conversation timeline. Our education system has relegated the appreciation of certain backgrounds to specific months of the year. If we only celebrate those backgrounds during that month, though, what does that teach our children? That white is normal and everyone else gets one month of thought. Don't just wait until February to talk about black history. Learn enough about it that it becomes a part of American History in your household. Read books like "Heart and Soul" by Kadir Nelson so your kids begin to understand the bigger story. Don't just talk about Native Americans at Thanksgiving and please do not play into the legends our country has built around it, the ways we've whitewashed a great injustice. Learn the real stories of Columbus and the early explorers. Dig deeper and teach truth in age-appropriate ways. Your kids can handle it and will thank you later for your honesty.
(8) Open up your experience of God. I grew up in a middle class, white, northeastern town. Most of the people in my church had Italian or Irish backgrounds and had been raised in Catholic households. As such, I had a specific experience of God molded in that context - one that concentrated on love and holiness. By leaving the north and going to Virginia, I saw a different view of God and how to approach him, one that centered more on grace. When I began going to Gospel Choir concerts and then joined an inner city church and was trained as a worship leader, I saw yet again a different view of God and what it looked like to worship him, one that emphasized his love of freedom and deliverance. All these experiences have deepened and broadened my understanding of who He is and the story he tells. If I only ever worship where I am initially comfortable, I am not just closing myself off to learning more about others but I'm honestly telling God I don't need to know as much about him. That may sound harsh, but I believe it to be true. Teach your children songs that praise him in non-English languages, help them learn to enjoy music written by his people that may not be playing on your local Christian station or be on CCLI's top 10 list that week. I promise you, you'll thank me for it.
(9) Teach your kids to listen. This will flow out of our own good listening. I don't know about you, but I want to raise children who like the sound of other's voices. Who want to ask good questions and then quiet down and listen to the answers rather than children who will compete with others for who can tell the best story about themselves, who are staying quiet through an answer only to formulate their own story in response. Our American tendency is to one-up each other, to love the sound of our own voice and trumpet it freely. I am guilty of this myself. But what would it look like to raise people who cared about other people, who legitimately wanted to know each other's stories and celebrate them, mourn with them, encourage them? Wouldn't that set them up much better to believe the injustice they hear about and be allies in overcoming it?
(10) Give yourself and others grace. There is no one right way to talk about all this. You will fail. You won't have answers. You may even teach your kid the wrong terminology and you will find yourself embarrassed along the way. Your may even unintentionally offend someone. It's ok. Ask for forgiveness, find out how you could have done it differently and then keep going. The important thing is to give it a try. Get to know yourself, your family, your background. Get to know your neighborhood, your schools and places of worship. Get to know your child and his or her unique ways of approaching the world and help them learn how to have these conversations. Never be afraid to ask questions. Look for conversation opportunities in your kids experiences. Make sure your kids know that it is safe to ask you any questions they may have. Be patient with yourself and take your time. You can't educate your child in a single conversation. Don't spent a week reading every book you can get your hands on and tire yourself out. Just slowly, intentionally and honestly weave this as an important conversation into your family's life. As with anything, the more something is just a part of your everyday language, the more the people around you (including your children) believe it to be an integral value in your life.
Here is a list of resources that have helped (or are helping me right now!) along the way. They are by no means exhaustive and I encourage you to follow the links in the articles provided within them and continue to explore. Some of them relate to faith and race and others are more general. I find new things to read all the time. If you have resources to suggest, PLEASE share them in the comments! I would greatly appreciate it.
Understanding
the Issue Yourself
ARTICLES
BOOKS
"Being White: Finding Our Place in a Multiethnic World" by Harris and Schaupp
- If you are white, I suggest reading this book to help you understand your own ethnic background and culture. White people so often just default to thinking we are "normal Americans" and everyone else has a special culture. It's so crucial that we don't do that.
Nurture Shock by Bronson and Merriman
The Myth of the Model Minority by Chou and Feagin
Black Man's Religion by Usry and Keener
One Church, Many Tribes by Twiss
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Brown
Bridges of Reconciliation: It's All About Grace by Farrant and Farrant
Following Jesus Without Dishonoring Your Parents by Yep, Jao, Tokunaga, Cha and Cho Van Riesen
Divided by Faith:Evangelical Religion and the Problem of Race in America by Emerson and Smith
The Myth of the Model Minority by Chou and Feagin
Black Man's Religion by Usry and Keener
One Church, Many Tribes by Twiss
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Brown
Bridges of Reconciliation: It's All About Grace by Farrant and Farrant
Following Jesus Without Dishonoring Your Parents by Yep, Jao, Tokunaga, Cha and Cho Van Riesen
Divided by Faith:Evangelical Religion and the Problem of Race in America by Emerson and Smith
Talking to
your Children About Race
ARTICLES
Children’s
Books - Some of these intentionally talk about race and others are just good books that depict diverse characters and honor the values of learning and cultural celebration. I have read a lot of them and am currently reading the others!
Preschool
The Colors of Us by Karen Katz
The Skin You Live In by Michael Tyler
A Rainbow of Friends by PK Hallinan
We’re Different, We’re the Same by Sesame Street
God's Dream by Tutu and Abrams
Chocolate Me by Taye Diggs
Whoever You Are by Mem Fox
Chocolate Me by Taye Diggs
Whoever You Are by Mem Fox
Grade School
The Story of Ruby Bridges by Coles
National Geographic Kids: Martin Luther King, Jr.
We March by Shane W. Evans
Dave the Potter by Hill and Collier
Heart and Soul by Kadir Nelson
Under the Same Sun by Sharon Robinson
Henry Aaron's Dream by Matt Tavares
I am Rosa Parks by Rosa Parks and Jim HaskinsUnder the Same Sun by Sharon Robinson
Henry Aaron's Dream by Matt Tavares
Almond Cookies and Dragon Well Tea by Chin-Lee
Black is Brown is Tan by Adoff
Thursday, February 6, 2014
These Ordinary Days
They say those first days home with a new baby are a blur. Certainly, I have trouble remembering Josh's early days. All I know is I had never been that tired and that achy in my life. Labor recovery and a tailbone injury added to sleep deprivation and a fussy baby is not a good recipe for the making of good long-term memories.
This time around, though, things are a little different. This little guy has already done the super newborn sleep crazy thing. He has already done the eating every two hours and the unable-to-be-put-down-ever phase. Before he came home, he was sleeping 6 hours a night in a row. We had really hoped that would stick but apparently uprooting a baby who has bonded with one family causes some interruptions in that type of progress. We're ok with that- if we need to hold him a little more, reassure a little more often, it's worth it. He will eventually be as comfortable here as he ever was there. More so.
But this whole newborn in the house without labor recovery thing? Hello, perk, nice to meet you! Having not been sleep deprived for months leading up to this, having not done the most aerobic workout a person can do leading up to this, not getting used to nursing and all the pain and soreness that comes with that- all these things are pretty golden, I'm not gonna lie.
But the reality of this child actually being home?
It's really quite surreal. When you wish for something long enough, envision hard enough, wait painfully enough, you can never quite imagine what it will actually feel like for that deferred dream to come true. To walk around a corner and see a little baby in your husband's arms and think, oh right, he's here. Forever. We're not babysitting again, we're not practicing on someone, we're not visiting. He is home.
And with the home comes all the normal. The sleep deprivation, the learning of routines, the sore arms from holding a 16 pound baby all the time. The excitement of packages and flowers and meals arriving by delivery and tons of texts and emails and phone calls and rejoicing. The constant laundry and smelly diapers and ordinary days of crying and sleeping and tummy time and spit up. The older brother getting used to sharing parent time with the younger one.
Because that's the thing- the extraordinary moment of the bringing home is quickly moving into ordinary days of new life. And it's not a bad ordinary- it's an ordinary we've wanted for a long time. And if I'm a little loopier, a little more forgetful, if I need grace to remember to reorient my idea of productivity, if I struggle to form normal sentences after talking to only a newborn all day and accidentally ask my 7-year-old if I changed his diaper yet, this is the new normal. The new ordinary here.
And you know what? It's hard and tiring and frustrating and all the other challenging things that life with a new baby are. It's tense conversations between two married and exhausted people, it's short tempers all around and a dog who is not adjusting well to moving even further down the totem pole. It's being trapped inside due to an abnormally frigid winter and slowly going stir crazy.
But the new ordinary is also pretty spectacularly good. It's smiles and coos and laughter and reading and brothers bonding. It's gratefulness and sweetness and treasuring of new memories being made. It's venturing out occasionally with the ergo and slowly meandering through target just to get out of the house and answering questions from random people about who is this little guy strapped to my chest.
It's hard, it's good and it's slowly feeling like reality.
It's life.
This time around, though, things are a little different. This little guy has already done the super newborn sleep crazy thing. He has already done the eating every two hours and the unable-to-be-put-down-ever phase. Before he came home, he was sleeping 6 hours a night in a row. We had really hoped that would stick but apparently uprooting a baby who has bonded with one family causes some interruptions in that type of progress. We're ok with that- if we need to hold him a little more, reassure a little more often, it's worth it. He will eventually be as comfortable here as he ever was there. More so.
But this whole newborn in the house without labor recovery thing? Hello, perk, nice to meet you! Having not been sleep deprived for months leading up to this, having not done the most aerobic workout a person can do leading up to this, not getting used to nursing and all the pain and soreness that comes with that- all these things are pretty golden, I'm not gonna lie.
But the reality of this child actually being home?
It's really quite surreal. When you wish for something long enough, envision hard enough, wait painfully enough, you can never quite imagine what it will actually feel like for that deferred dream to come true. To walk around a corner and see a little baby in your husband's arms and think, oh right, he's here. Forever. We're not babysitting again, we're not practicing on someone, we're not visiting. He is home.
And with the home comes all the normal. The sleep deprivation, the learning of routines, the sore arms from holding a 16 pound baby all the time. The excitement of packages and flowers and meals arriving by delivery and tons of texts and emails and phone calls and rejoicing. The constant laundry and smelly diapers and ordinary days of crying and sleeping and tummy time and spit up. The older brother getting used to sharing parent time with the younger one.Because that's the thing- the extraordinary moment of the bringing home is quickly moving into ordinary days of new life. And it's not a bad ordinary- it's an ordinary we've wanted for a long time. And if I'm a little loopier, a little more forgetful, if I need grace to remember to reorient my idea of productivity, if I struggle to form normal sentences after talking to only a newborn all day and accidentally ask my 7-year-old if I changed his diaper yet, this is the new normal. The new ordinary here.
And you know what? It's hard and tiring and frustrating and all the other challenging things that life with a new baby are. It's tense conversations between two married and exhausted people, it's short tempers all around and a dog who is not adjusting well to moving even further down the totem pole. It's being trapped inside due to an abnormally frigid winter and slowly going stir crazy.
But the new ordinary is also pretty spectacularly good. It's smiles and coos and laughter and reading and brothers bonding. It's gratefulness and sweetness and treasuring of new memories being made. It's venturing out occasionally with the ergo and slowly meandering through target just to get out of the house and answering questions from random people about who is this little guy strapped to my chest.
It's hard, it's good and it's slowly feeling like reality.
It's life.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Final Preparations
You dream about what this will feel like. The first time around, when we had 8 months to think about it, we took our time. We registered, we attended the parties that our amazing friends threw for us, we installed the car seat. We looked forward to the day when we could pack that bag for the hospital. And we always did it with a sense of "when", never if. Possibly that was naive- there was no guarantee that Josh would be born healthy and come home with us. But this has felt different from the start. And 27 days of praying, hoping and preparing feels a lot different from 8 months.
Some would probably say, "but haven't you had five years?" The short answer? Yes. Yes, we have. But you hold yourself back a little. We had moments where we dove in, where we got a nursery ready, where I even washed clothes with the possibility of a little one coming home, only to see another dream fall, another disappointment happen. And the longer you wait, the more disappointments you feel, the more you move on. You just do life. No one in the grocery store asks when you are due. There are no parties to celebrate the impending arrival. It's just a quiet waiting. You aren't really doing any preparing because it's just too hard.
But finally. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day. The day when we bring him home. After 6 visits, countless prayers, the assembling of a nursery (including homemade artwork) in under a week, the frantic ordering of a carseat (which is actually two days late due to UPS's freakout over the polar vortex) and the bottles he is already used to, it's here.
And today? Today I am doing what I always had trouble picturing. I am setting up the bassinet next to our bed. I am packing the diaper bag for the trip home. I am opening the box of diapers and filling up the basket on the changing table. I am peeling back the foil on the formula and pouring it into the dispenser in case he gets hungry on the drive home. I am charging the camera batteries. I am doing more than dreaming. I am preparing.
And while I rush around doing all the last-minutes, I keep pausing. Drinking in the quiet of the house. Thinking about these final hours as a family of three. Reading for pure pleasure because I have the time and the space. Asking God to fill me with patience and selflessness and energy- three things I know I will need with a newborn in the house.
A newborn in the house. After five years of hoping, dreaming and praying.
We are ready, little man. Come on home.
Some would probably say, "but haven't you had five years?" The short answer? Yes. Yes, we have. But you hold yourself back a little. We had moments where we dove in, where we got a nursery ready, where I even washed clothes with the possibility of a little one coming home, only to see another dream fall, another disappointment happen. And the longer you wait, the more disappointments you feel, the more you move on. You just do life. No one in the grocery store asks when you are due. There are no parties to celebrate the impending arrival. It's just a quiet waiting. You aren't really doing any preparing because it's just too hard.
But finally. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day. The day when we bring him home. After 6 visits, countless prayers, the assembling of a nursery (including homemade artwork) in under a week, the frantic ordering of a carseat (which is actually two days late due to UPS's freakout over the polar vortex) and the bottles he is already used to, it's here.
And today? Today I am doing what I always had trouble picturing. I am setting up the bassinet next to our bed. I am packing the diaper bag for the trip home. I am opening the box of diapers and filling up the basket on the changing table. I am peeling back the foil on the formula and pouring it into the dispenser in case he gets hungry on the drive home. I am charging the camera batteries. I am doing more than dreaming. I am preparing.
And while I rush around doing all the last-minutes, I keep pausing. Drinking in the quiet of the house. Thinking about these final hours as a family of three. Reading for pure pleasure because I have the time and the space. Asking God to fill me with patience and selflessness and energy- three things I know I will need with a newborn in the house.
A newborn in the house. After five years of hoping, dreaming and praying.
We are ready, little man. Come on home.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Deep Breaths
Part of me made myself believe the paternity test would be positive. That this whole thing would stop in its tracks. Part of me prepared for the worst.
But not all of me. God has been doing a long, good work of hope in me. Even as we waited in those final hours willing the phone to ring, my heart alternated between pounding and peace. It was not all panic, it was not all worry.
And then the phone rang. My heart leaped into my throat. Here we go. I will know by the tone of voice, before my case worker even says a word. I will know.
Me: Hello?
CW: Carolyn? (brightness and cheer in her voice, hope warms!)
Me: So? (who needs the formalities of small talk when you are waiting on a call like this)
CW: I have good news. Really good news.
Me: (Tears. Again. Seriously, who knew the fruition of this wait would involve so many?)
We spoke for a few more minutes. And these minutes had the air of the definitive. The birth mother is holding strong on her decision and this possible birth father is out of the picture now. We will see you Thursday at this time and this place. Bring your diaper bag. You'll have to sign forms. Then it's time. Time for him to go home.
I hang up the phone and take a deep breath. This blip, this complication was nothing more than that. It's over. And it's time to unpress "pause" and finish getting ready. Here we go.
Daring to hope, daring to dream that the wait is almost over.
But not all of me. God has been doing a long, good work of hope in me. Even as we waited in those final hours willing the phone to ring, my heart alternated between pounding and peace. It was not all panic, it was not all worry.
And then the phone rang. My heart leaped into my throat. Here we go. I will know by the tone of voice, before my case worker even says a word. I will know.
Me: Hello?
CW: Carolyn? (brightness and cheer in her voice, hope warms!)
Me: So? (who needs the formalities of small talk when you are waiting on a call like this)
CW: I have good news. Really good news.
Me: (Tears. Again. Seriously, who knew the fruition of this wait would involve so many?)
We spoke for a few more minutes. And these minutes had the air of the definitive. The birth mother is holding strong on her decision and this possible birth father is out of the picture now. We will see you Thursday at this time and this place. Bring your diaper bag. You'll have to sign forms. Then it's time. Time for him to go home.
I hang up the phone and take a deep breath. This blip, this complication was nothing more than that. It's over. And it's time to unpress "pause" and finish getting ready. Here we go.
Daring to hope, daring to dream that the wait is almost over.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Two Days
It's only two days, right? Two more days to finish out what we hope has been a productive waiting. Two more days until we know for sure and get to bring him home. But before the two days can really mean something, we need a test back. A life-changing, possibly adoption-interrupting test.
Last Thursday, we were at the one-week mark. The time when it's serious. When we're almost there. I hadn't even processed too much in the week before that because I was so busy with all the physicalities of the preparations after Christmas clean-up. You need the car seat, the bassinet sheets should be washed and ready. The bottles sterilized and the right formula ready to go in the cabinet. The time to think about his coming-home outfit and what we want the moment when we sign the papers to look like. The home stretch.
Instead, we got a phone call. A complication. A potential birth parent who had come out of the woodwork and wanted to petition for custody. My first reaction? Panic. My second reaction? An attempt at unselfishness. If this is really a parent who wants to parent and could give this little boy a good home, who am I to pray for a different outcome? Who am I to ask God to stop this petition in its tracks and give us this little boy when he could live with a birth parent? My third reaction? No. This man hasn't earned the right to be this boy's father and in fact, from what we know of him, he maybe has earned the right to be in jail. He has bee the opposite of "father" in this scenario and has been an agent of fear in this birth mother's life. The last thing she wants is for this man to be given this boy. Why should he get to be the dad just because he shares blood? No. This cannot happen.
So for 6 days we have been waiting. Again. Waiting on a paternity test that could make or break this adoption. Being reminded again that our connection to this little boy is legally tenuous. It doesn't matter that we've prepared, that we've spent hours visiting him and hugging him and feeding him and changing his diaper and thinking up names and falling in love. None of it matters to the courts. DNA is all that matters to them. And to me, that is beyond unbelievable in a world where blood has shown again and again not to be the determining factor in insuring a happy household. Only love can do that.
So, I wait today for the phone to ring. I long to hear the words "he is not the father" on the other end of the line. I know the case workers, birth mother and foster mother are all longing for the same results. We are not alone in this waiting, this desire to see this boy come home with us. And if it doesn't go our way, the way I personally think is best for this little boy, then I will still not be alone. That is what helps me through this kind of unknown.
When the phone rings, I will answer with hope. It's the only way I can.
Last Thursday, we were at the one-week mark. The time when it's serious. When we're almost there. I hadn't even processed too much in the week before that because I was so busy with all the physicalities of the preparations after Christmas clean-up. You need the car seat, the bassinet sheets should be washed and ready. The bottles sterilized and the right formula ready to go in the cabinet. The time to think about his coming-home outfit and what we want the moment when we sign the papers to look like. The home stretch.
Instead, we got a phone call. A complication. A potential birth parent who had come out of the woodwork and wanted to petition for custody. My first reaction? Panic. My second reaction? An attempt at unselfishness. If this is really a parent who wants to parent and could give this little boy a good home, who am I to pray for a different outcome? Who am I to ask God to stop this petition in its tracks and give us this little boy when he could live with a birth parent? My third reaction? No. This man hasn't earned the right to be this boy's father and in fact, from what we know of him, he maybe has earned the right to be in jail. He has bee the opposite of "father" in this scenario and has been an agent of fear in this birth mother's life. The last thing she wants is for this man to be given this boy. Why should he get to be the dad just because he shares blood? No. This cannot happen.
So for 6 days we have been waiting. Again. Waiting on a paternity test that could make or break this adoption. Being reminded again that our connection to this little boy is legally tenuous. It doesn't matter that we've prepared, that we've spent hours visiting him and hugging him and feeding him and changing his diaper and thinking up names and falling in love. None of it matters to the courts. DNA is all that matters to them. And to me, that is beyond unbelievable in a world where blood has shown again and again not to be the determining factor in insuring a happy household. Only love can do that.
So, I wait today for the phone to ring. I long to hear the words "he is not the father" on the other end of the line. I know the case workers, birth mother and foster mother are all longing for the same results. We are not alone in this waiting, this desire to see this boy come home with us. And if it doesn't go our way, the way I personally think is best for this little boy, then I will still not be alone. That is what helps me through this kind of unknown.
When the phone rings, I will answer with hope. It's the only way I can.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Missing the Milestones, But...
It's Christmas Day. We woke up here, read the Christmas story, put our final ornament on the Jesse Tree. We went downstairs and exclaimed over presents and tried things on and and played and laughed. We ate our traditional monkey bread and put together legos and spent an hour sledding in the snow. It was a good Christmas.
But.
You weren't here yet. You are at your foster parents home. You were a part of their traditions. You won't remember today, of course. It won't matter in the long run to you that your big brother dressed up like Darth Vader and stomped around the house while Dad played his theme song on the piano. Or the fact that the guinea girls got a new fun cage to play in with all sorts of toys and have been hopping around happily for hours. You probably couldn't have smiled about it yet.
The thing is, though, it's your first Christmas and you aren't home. You learned to smile this week and we haven't seen it yet. You are in someone else's arms on this most important of days.
But you know what? It's ok.
Yes, I am missing some milestones. I am. But, I can be thankful that your foster mom sends me updates and is good at keeping a camera on hand. I can take comfort in the fact that she loves Jesus, too, and that your Christmas felt like the right kind of Christmas. I can keep counting down the days (15!) until this uncertainty is over and you will be home with us and I won't miss the big moments like rolling over and sitting up and first steps and teeth. (Actually, I wouldn't mind missing the whole teething thing, to be honest. If you want to go ahead and get that over with now, feel free.)
The grand scheme of it is this. The wait is really almost over. These final weeks are nothing compared to the long road we've already traveled. If I miss a smile or two, I know there are thousands in my future. If I miss a feeding or a pediatrician's appointment, I can rest assured that this side of home you will experience so many more than you have up until now. If I am not the one to comfort you now or the one with whom you've bonded, some day I will be that person to you. I WILL be mama. And so, I can do this. I can wait two more weeks. I can look at your pictures as often as I like. I can pray for you and for your birth parents and for me and Dad and Josh as we ready ourselves for this new stage of family.
And next year, on this day, I can celebrate your second Christmas with you, my son. What a good and beautiful day that will be.
But.
You weren't here yet. You are at your foster parents home. You were a part of their traditions. You won't remember today, of course. It won't matter in the long run to you that your big brother dressed up like Darth Vader and stomped around the house while Dad played his theme song on the piano. Or the fact that the guinea girls got a new fun cage to play in with all sorts of toys and have been hopping around happily for hours. You probably couldn't have smiled about it yet.
The thing is, though, it's your first Christmas and you aren't home. You learned to smile this week and we haven't seen it yet. You are in someone else's arms on this most important of days.
But you know what? It's ok.
Yes, I am missing some milestones. I am. But, I can be thankful that your foster mom sends me updates and is good at keeping a camera on hand. I can take comfort in the fact that she loves Jesus, too, and that your Christmas felt like the right kind of Christmas. I can keep counting down the days (15!) until this uncertainty is over and you will be home with us and I won't miss the big moments like rolling over and sitting up and first steps and teeth. (Actually, I wouldn't mind missing the whole teething thing, to be honest. If you want to go ahead and get that over with now, feel free.)
The grand scheme of it is this. The wait is really almost over. These final weeks are nothing compared to the long road we've already traveled. If I miss a smile or two, I know there are thousands in my future. If I miss a feeding or a pediatrician's appointment, I can rest assured that this side of home you will experience so many more than you have up until now. If I am not the one to comfort you now or the one with whom you've bonded, some day I will be that person to you. I WILL be mama. And so, I can do this. I can wait two more weeks. I can look at your pictures as often as I like. I can pray for you and for your birth parents and for me and Dad and Josh as we ready ourselves for this new stage of family.
And next year, on this day, I can celebrate your second Christmas with you, my son. What a good and beautiful day that will be.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
On the Day We Met
It started out like any ordinary day. It was a Saturday, so we all got to sleep a little later. Josh was up before anyone. I could hear him singing to himself in his room and wondered what he was thinking. He would get to meet you, his baby brother today.
I padded out of the bedroom and grabbed a cup of coffee. Headed downstairs to do my advent reading and just soak in the quiet. As I read and thought and prayed, I watched the snow falling for the fourth time this week. It's been a cold December. Refreshing, though. Full of sunshine and hope. Which is different from a lot of previous Decembers.
A quick breakfast and some chores and then Dad took Josh to a birthday party. I ran around the house, packing the camera and a few gifts for you, trying to wish away the minutes until we'd see you in person. Busyness is a gift in those moments.
Then we are picking Josh up from his party and all on our way. Driving in the snow, answering questions from the backseat. Can we feed him? Will I be able to hold him? Do you think he'll like my finger puppet? When will his birth mommy decide for sure if we can have him? One excited 7-year-old.
When we drive up, there is a woman, your foster mom, standing in the doorway. I see a bundle of something pressed into her shoulder and realize it's you greeting us at the door. You are so tiny. I knew you would be but man, you are. I want to reach out and grab you but I don't know the etiquette here. You might be ours but not yet. You are legally this foster mother's for now and we have to be cautious.
We come in, leave our snowy boots at the door. Act calm, as though this isn't the craziest thing we've ever done. Just drive up to a house, walk in and meet our child. You know, no big deal. She asks who wants to hold you first and I want to say "me", I want to shout it, but I know I should let the boys go first. Dad jumps in though and points to me with a big smile. He knows my heart. He knows I need to hold you. He knows I need to feel the life in this little child for whom we've prayed and waited and hoped and dreamed and, yes, sometimes despaired of ever coming.
I don't cry. Of course I don't, there are people in the room I don't know until today. I've cried a lot over the past few days so I don't need to anyway. I just gaze at you. I soak you in. I hope against hope that nothing will fall through, that in 30 short days you will be sitting in my arms in our home, wearing the clothes I've bought you, no foster mom in sight. I pass you to my son who has been praying for this moment from when he first learned to pray. "Oh, he's so sweet, mommy." Yes, son, he is. You are. So sweet, so small, so precious.
You go to Daddy and I remember that feeling I used to get watching him hold Josh. This overwhelming feeling a woman gets when she knows her son has the best dad in the world. And I know you will be blessed beyond measure by this wonderful man who holds you in his arms, overwhelmed, confused, unsure what the right reactions are on this day. You look so small but so safe and so, well, right there.
The hours pass quickly and we have to hand you back. You are unaware that you've just met your parents, that you've tasted your forever family. You don't really know much besides eating and sleeping right now but I know you will know us soon. Soon, we will be all you know, we will be your world. And only three days ago we didn't know you existed. Now we do.
On the day we met, dear son, I knew my life was changed.
I padded out of the bedroom and grabbed a cup of coffee. Headed downstairs to do my advent reading and just soak in the quiet. As I read and thought and prayed, I watched the snow falling for the fourth time this week. It's been a cold December. Refreshing, though. Full of sunshine and hope. Which is different from a lot of previous Decembers.
A quick breakfast and some chores and then Dad took Josh to a birthday party. I ran around the house, packing the camera and a few gifts for you, trying to wish away the minutes until we'd see you in person. Busyness is a gift in those moments.
Then we are picking Josh up from his party and all on our way. Driving in the snow, answering questions from the backseat. Can we feed him? Will I be able to hold him? Do you think he'll like my finger puppet? When will his birth mommy decide for sure if we can have him? One excited 7-year-old.
When we drive up, there is a woman, your foster mom, standing in the doorway. I see a bundle of something pressed into her shoulder and realize it's you greeting us at the door. You are so tiny. I knew you would be but man, you are. I want to reach out and grab you but I don't know the etiquette here. You might be ours but not yet. You are legally this foster mother's for now and we have to be cautious.
We come in, leave our snowy boots at the door. Act calm, as though this isn't the craziest thing we've ever done. Just drive up to a house, walk in and meet our child. You know, no big deal. She asks who wants to hold you first and I want to say "me", I want to shout it, but I know I should let the boys go first. Dad jumps in though and points to me with a big smile. He knows my heart. He knows I need to hold you. He knows I need to feel the life in this little child for whom we've prayed and waited and hoped and dreamed and, yes, sometimes despaired of ever coming.
I don't cry. Of course I don't, there are people in the room I don't know until today. I've cried a lot over the past few days so I don't need to anyway. I just gaze at you. I soak you in. I hope against hope that nothing will fall through, that in 30 short days you will be sitting in my arms in our home, wearing the clothes I've bought you, no foster mom in sight. I pass you to my son who has been praying for this moment from when he first learned to pray. "Oh, he's so sweet, mommy." Yes, son, he is. You are. So sweet, so small, so precious.
You go to Daddy and I remember that feeling I used to get watching him hold Josh. This overwhelming feeling a woman gets when she knows her son has the best dad in the world. And I know you will be blessed beyond measure by this wonderful man who holds you in his arms, overwhelmed, confused, unsure what the right reactions are on this day. You look so small but so safe and so, well, right there.
The hours pass quickly and we have to hand you back. You are unaware that you've just met your parents, that you've tasted your forever family. You don't really know much besides eating and sleeping right now but I know you will know us soon. Soon, we will be all you know, we will be your world. And only three days ago we didn't know you existed. Now we do.
On the day we met, dear son, I knew my life was changed.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Five Little Words
"How far along were you?" You get this question a lot when you have a miscarriage. It's usually the first thing someone will ask and I don't think it's asked with any hurtful intentions. But last January, when I was going through a long and drawn out miscarriage, with ups and downs, positive days where hope prevailed interspersed with blood tests and ultrasounds, mood swings and private pain that ultimately ended in the death of our unborn child, those five little words ended up changing the course of my life. You see, for some reason, I interpreted that question to mean that if I wasn't "far enough along" in someone's eyes, then my pain shouldn't be as real. That the shorter the pregnancy, the less I should have felt its loss. In the grand scheme of how long a pregnancy is, we weren't very far along. We hadn't really told anyone. But here was this little life inside me, with a potential birthday looming and all the preparations and joys of expecting and waiting for him or her were already very prevalent in my mind. And that life was cut short. I never got to meet my second child. And for some reason, I felt like I wasn't allowed to dwell on it, that I needed to just put my chin up and keep going. So that's what I tried to do.
18 months have gone by since that final blood test that confirmed that everything was finished. Every day I think about those words that different people spoke to me, I know, out of care for me, just wanting to know my story. But even now, I still feel angry with myself when I experience pain over this. Even now, I still don't feel like I ever let myself grieve, like I never had the right to really be upset about it. I'm still waiting to experience a whole day where thoughts about that child don't enter my mind. And each month that goes by where there's not that promise of another child is just one more painful reminder of that loss and the fact that I never really dealt with it.
I've never been the most open person, never particularly great at letting people love me. This blog has been one big lesson for me in openness, in taking risks relationally, albeit through the written word. Since the first day I started blogging, I've wondered if I'd ever feel freed up enough to post a blog on this topic. It's felt way too risky, felt like something I wasn't allowed to share, something I should be "over." But the bottom line is, I'm not. I didn't grieve well when I should have and so all these months later, I'm still unsure how I feel about the whole thing. I still don't have closure. I barely even shared the experience with people I knew loved me and probably would've let me cry had I let them love me.
The bigger question that I've been pondering, though, is why I interpreted that one question so destructively. Why I took gentle questioning for accusatory denial. "Get over this quick, you weren't far along! It's not a big deal!" No one actually said those things to me and yet that was what my mind heard. It heard not love and care for me but scarcity, disdain and impatience. Maybe that's what I feel for myself when I experience something I'd put in the category of "drama." I've always been vastly impatient with the dramatic, which is one reason I can't watch even 30 seconds of reality tv before becoming either overwhelmingly angry or having the almost irresistible urge to live somewhere where television doesn't exist. I disdain it, I get frustrated with it, I revere rationality and even-headedness. I don't want to get worked up about much, to dwell on pain or anger, to really feel much of anything if you really get down to it.
So what do I do? Where do you go when you were supposed to talk through something almost two years ago but that still feels like fresh pain? And how do you do it when the last thing you want to do is actually do it? When you still feel like you shouldn't be feeling what you're feeling.
I have no answers tonight, just questions. Five little words that have left me with gaping holes in how I understand healing. One question that has come back to me each and every day for months on end. The only thing that has been sure as I've continually returned to this is that I am not alone. There were times in this last year where I wondered where God really was, why things like this happen and why I was so unprepared to deal with it. The only answer I've really gotten in the midst of it all is that He is with me. No deeply theological and profoundly comforting statements on suffering, no answers to the why. Just a very gentle reminder that I am loved deeply by Him.
For now, I will have to let that be enough.
18 months have gone by since that final blood test that confirmed that everything was finished. Every day I think about those words that different people spoke to me, I know, out of care for me, just wanting to know my story. But even now, I still feel angry with myself when I experience pain over this. Even now, I still don't feel like I ever let myself grieve, like I never had the right to really be upset about it. I'm still waiting to experience a whole day where thoughts about that child don't enter my mind. And each month that goes by where there's not that promise of another child is just one more painful reminder of that loss and the fact that I never really dealt with it.
I've never been the most open person, never particularly great at letting people love me. This blog has been one big lesson for me in openness, in taking risks relationally, albeit through the written word. Since the first day I started blogging, I've wondered if I'd ever feel freed up enough to post a blog on this topic. It's felt way too risky, felt like something I wasn't allowed to share, something I should be "over." But the bottom line is, I'm not. I didn't grieve well when I should have and so all these months later, I'm still unsure how I feel about the whole thing. I still don't have closure. I barely even shared the experience with people I knew loved me and probably would've let me cry had I let them love me.
The bigger question that I've been pondering, though, is why I interpreted that one question so destructively. Why I took gentle questioning for accusatory denial. "Get over this quick, you weren't far along! It's not a big deal!" No one actually said those things to me and yet that was what my mind heard. It heard not love and care for me but scarcity, disdain and impatience. Maybe that's what I feel for myself when I experience something I'd put in the category of "drama." I've always been vastly impatient with the dramatic, which is one reason I can't watch even 30 seconds of reality tv before becoming either overwhelmingly angry or having the almost irresistible urge to live somewhere where television doesn't exist. I disdain it, I get frustrated with it, I revere rationality and even-headedness. I don't want to get worked up about much, to dwell on pain or anger, to really feel much of anything if you really get down to it.
So what do I do? Where do you go when you were supposed to talk through something almost two years ago but that still feels like fresh pain? And how do you do it when the last thing you want to do is actually do it? When you still feel like you shouldn't be feeling what you're feeling.
I have no answers tonight, just questions. Five little words that have left me with gaping holes in how I understand healing. One question that has come back to me each and every day for months on end. The only thing that has been sure as I've continually returned to this is that I am not alone. There were times in this last year where I wondered where God really was, why things like this happen and why I was so unprepared to deal with it. The only answer I've really gotten in the midst of it all is that He is with me. No deeply theological and profoundly comforting statements on suffering, no answers to the why. Just a very gentle reminder that I am loved deeply by Him.
For now, I will have to let that be enough.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Mommy Come Home
When my son was first learning to put words into sentences, he very quickly learned a sentence that would cut me to the quick - "Mommy, come home!" Usually, I'd hear this over the phone when I was at work calling to say goodnight or on a trip somewhere. Sometimes it was even en route to coming home, but no matter what circumstances I was in, my heart broke a little. I began to question again, "Should I be working? Am I harming my child be being away from home? Is it selfish to be a working mom? Am I just a terrible parent?" All these insecurities would flow out and I'd instantly remember every single thing I'd done wrong in my parenting that week. Every selfish thought, every moment of impatience, every time I wasn't fully present with him even when I was home because of all the other things in life that were pressing down upon me to be accomplished.
Now my son can put much bigger sentences together and, in fact, talks a lot more than I do. He could probably put together a much more guilt-inducing plea if he wanted to but as he's grown in his verbal abilities, so has he grown in his understanding. I still don't think he likes it when I leave the house for any reason, but I can at least attempt to explain where I'm going. I can try to tell him why it's good for him to go to school and why I won't go with him, but still there's sometimes that look of betrayal and instantly again I hear his 18 month old voice in my head-"Mommy come home"- and I wonder if anything I'm doing is right.
As I wander through this sabbatical, one of the things I'm trying to let God deal with me on is my fear of motherhood. For a long time I didn't want to get married, to have kids, to settle down. I was not one of those girls who planned out my wedding at the age of 10 and knew exactly what dress I'd wear and what song I'd dance to with my dad. I wasn't really interested and didn't think I'd be missing much if I didn't have kids. I think sometimes because of all those years of indifference I now deal with insecurity thinking that since I didn't want this enough I'm probably not unselfish enough to do it well. I also let my mind wander into a place that thinks that since I'm not so good at this, maybe that's why God is witholding a second child from us. I know that's not how God works, but the lie creeps in. If I were a better mom, if I didn't work, if my son hadn't spent months asking me to come home...and I begin to wonder what I can do to manipulate God into letting me get pregnant. Messed up, right?
It all comes back to fear. Fear of failure, fear of not measuring up to...something, although what that something is still feels elusive. Fear that I'll royally screw up this precious life I've been given to raise and make decisions now that I'll regret when he's older. Yes, I've realized that some of the biggest craters in my battlefield have been caused by fear and that they can be so deep that I don't even know how to begin to pull myself out once the shelling has stopped. Though I often don't believe it, I'm thankful that God is a God who says not to fear and that He is trustworthy. That he reaches down from the edge of that crater and offers His hand as a stronghold. I'm hoping that as I slowly climb up He'll erase those insecurities and replace them with a confidence that can only come from being secure in Him. That I'll figure out who I am as a mom, without the use of any social measuring systems, without the comparison game, and learn to take this motherhood thing one day at a time.
Now my son can put much bigger sentences together and, in fact, talks a lot more than I do. He could probably put together a much more guilt-inducing plea if he wanted to but as he's grown in his verbal abilities, so has he grown in his understanding. I still don't think he likes it when I leave the house for any reason, but I can at least attempt to explain where I'm going. I can try to tell him why it's good for him to go to school and why I won't go with him, but still there's sometimes that look of betrayal and instantly again I hear his 18 month old voice in my head-"Mommy come home"- and I wonder if anything I'm doing is right.
As I wander through this sabbatical, one of the things I'm trying to let God deal with me on is my fear of motherhood. For a long time I didn't want to get married, to have kids, to settle down. I was not one of those girls who planned out my wedding at the age of 10 and knew exactly what dress I'd wear and what song I'd dance to with my dad. I wasn't really interested and didn't think I'd be missing much if I didn't have kids. I think sometimes because of all those years of indifference I now deal with insecurity thinking that since I didn't want this enough I'm probably not unselfish enough to do it well. I also let my mind wander into a place that thinks that since I'm not so good at this, maybe that's why God is witholding a second child from us. I know that's not how God works, but the lie creeps in. If I were a better mom, if I didn't work, if my son hadn't spent months asking me to come home...and I begin to wonder what I can do to manipulate God into letting me get pregnant. Messed up, right?
It all comes back to fear. Fear of failure, fear of not measuring up to...something, although what that something is still feels elusive. Fear that I'll royally screw up this precious life I've been given to raise and make decisions now that I'll regret when he's older. Yes, I've realized that some of the biggest craters in my battlefield have been caused by fear and that they can be so deep that I don't even know how to begin to pull myself out once the shelling has stopped. Though I often don't believe it, I'm thankful that God is a God who says not to fear and that He is trustworthy. That he reaches down from the edge of that crater and offers His hand as a stronghold. I'm hoping that as I slowly climb up He'll erase those insecurities and replace them with a confidence that can only come from being secure in Him. That I'll figure out who I am as a mom, without the use of any social measuring systems, without the comparison game, and learn to take this motherhood thing one day at a time.
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