Projecty

I came to the distinct realization this week that one of the ways I seek to exert control in my life in response to the complete lack of control in our baby situation is by making up projects. I look at a room, a perfectly lovely and complete room, and in my head think "Now what can I possibly do to cause a huge mess, inconvenience my husband and make it possible for me to make roughly 217 trips to Lowes all in the same day?"  Ok, I don't REALLY think that. But I might as well because from the first moment I get that little "projecty" glimmer, life becomes chaos.

Now, you might think this post is an attempt to psychoanalyze my obsession with having some semblance of control in my life but I'm pretty sure I already know about those issues and have tackled them before. Clearly, I have not tackled them well enough, but let's leave that for another post. No, today, all I am going to do is join the bandwagon of the DIY blogs and satisfy my need to feel like I finished one of these crazy ideas.

Guest bath when we bought the house.

Cue sister-in-law. She was nice enough to come down for a visit last week, fully knowing that she'd be put to work. When we moved into our home there were a few rooms that made me want to cry. Our guest bath was one of them. Brown walls, brown ceiling, brown linoleum, no windows. Really? In which decade was having a cave for a bathroom considered restful?  A few years ago I broke down and painted the ceiling in one frenzied afternoon of NEEDING that room to not feel like it was full of dementors upon entering. 

Well, hello wallpaper and horrid lights.

Then, last week, we tackled the walls. And, in an effort to change the lighting, we switched a fixture from our tiny downstairs bathroom in for a lovely 80's track lighting system that needed to find a new home in my garage. Permanently.  Then, as if that wasn't enough, I just HAD to do something about the mirror. You know those old mirrors? The kind that take up the whole wall, have no molding or edges and basically scream "Hey, I have no style! Aren't you glad I take up the whole room?!"  So, I scoured the DIY sites and found a way to switch out our mirror downstairs, provide a little molding and spruce up the scene. We encountered the deep joy of removing the mirror only to find a wall of wallpaper but it was strangely satisfying to complete the extra task of ripping that flowered yuckiness off the walls.  And I daresay my husband enjoyed the chance to use his huge saw to cut the moldings for me!

The finished product.

Now,  the brown linoleum is still there, hopefully to be switched out soon. But, I'm feeling distinctly satisfied with my little frenzy of control and have now spent whole minutes just standing in there, gazing around, breathing in the calm.  It's amazing what a coat of paint, lots of glue, a little molding and a little imagination and switching around can do!  Now, if only I could fix my need to have these little frenzied fits of "projecty", all would really be well.

Unbroken

It's not every day that you read a book that changes your life. The first book I remember having had this particular impact is The Upstairs Room by Johanna Reiss.  It was the book that introduced me to the story of the holocaust and it was probably the first book I ever read that really showed me that life was not fair, that suffering and pain do exist in great quantities and that hope is powerful.  I probably read it 100 times growing up and it was a strong force in the development of my love of WWII history and my own personal commitment to "never forget."

So, it was with great anticipation that I finally picked up the book Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand one short week ago.  I'd heard from a number of sources that this was a must read and having learned it was connected to WWII only made it more enticing.  Within 3 pages I was hooked.  Here was a story you could just tell would be life-changing.

I'm not going to put any spoilers here but suffice it to say that with each turn of the page the story got more unbelievable. Just when I thought I had seen the limits of what a human could endure, I'd remember that there were still 200 pages to go in the book and surely the story was not finished.  It touched the sport lover in me as well as that huge part of myself who is moved by all things war. It reminded me anew of the terror that humans can wreak on each other as well as the enormous capacity we are given to forgive through the power of God.  It made me laugh and cry and imagine anew what life must've been like for my own grandfather who fought in the European theater.  It pointed me, yet again, to the only One who can offer us new creation, who can take mourning and turn it into dancing, who can turn our weeping into joy, who can truly change us, heal us, give us hope. 

In short, it changed my life.  Not just because it was well written or because it's a compelling story, of which both are true.  But because when you read the story of Louis Zamperini, you can feel God at work.  And in a world with lots of awful and discouraging stories, it's a good thing to be reminded that we are not alone, that hope is still powerful, that perseverance is not pointless and that God is always hard at work in the act of redemption.

Side By Side

I still remember my first date: the eighth grade dinner dance. To this day I can confidently say that the arranging of said date is the most awkward phone conversation of which I have ever been a part. And I'm awkward on the phone, so that's saying a lot.  That poor boy never knew what was coming when he picked up the phone, right? 45 seconds of excruciating "ums" and "so" all so we could get dressed up in early 90's fashion and then be awkward for 3 hours together.  I cannot even remember if we actually talked during the course of the date. We certainly didn't get a picture together. Oh, middle school.

Dating culture was in a major transition as I was growing up.  People were still "asking people out" and you usually knew when two people were a couple, at least in my friend circles. Phrases like "hanging out" and "talking" and "seeing each other" were starting to creep in but mostly people were girlfriend and boyfriend or they weren't.  Texting didn't exist, nor did email when I first started dating, so you really had to arrange things voice to voice.  Much harder, maybe, but much clearer.  Someone took a risk, an obvious one, and someone else either shot them down or went for it. None of this "months-go-by-and-we-hang-out-and-can-you-look-at-what-she/he-wrote-on-my-wall-and-interpret-it-for-me" junk.  I do not envy younger people.

Here's the thing though. From the time of that first date until about six months into dating Reed, I was pretty uncertain about marriage.  And, yes, I do realize the inherent inconsistency of dating people when you have no intention of ever getting married.  I was so uncertain, though, that I even wrote a song in high school that involved me moving to Africa without a husband or children and living there forever with my dog.  (It is to my everlasting horror that my best friends in high school memorized and then revived this song for our rehearsal dinner 10 years later.  I have yet to repay them, but it's coming. Oh, it's coming.)  Song aside, I looked at marriage as a major loss of freedom.  A place where a man would try to rule me or wherein we'd be excited at first and then miserable for 50 years and our kids would know it. Why would I choose what I thought was certain misery, two messed up humans trying to keep a promise inherently impossible to keep?  

Yet, there was a moment when I was dating Reed when I thought, "Hey, I could marry THIS guy." No specific epiphany about marriage in general, no hidden book somewhere that had planned out my cake, bridal gown and which song I would eventually dance to, just a small, quiet moment of choosing him.  Choosing this man to commit to, to love each day, 'til death do us part.  And choosing it in the face of overwhelming odds against its success, because, let's face it, we all come into this thing with a lot of baggage and having the baggage of not even being so certain that marriage is a great thing is like bringing that oversized, misshapen bag that the airline check-in counter person just looks at, shakes his head and then starts covering with mysterious stickers.

But the thing is, success is not about luck. It's not about finding that "soulmate" or "the one" with whom we'll make it all the way, it's about that choice again and again to turn towards him in the morning, to choose honesty over manipulation, to work at what's off between us, to dream together for our future and then wait expectantly side by side, to not isolate ourselves from each other when we face disappointments, to invite others into our life who can ask us good questions about our marriage, to cause our son to giggle when we linger over a kiss in front of him (I assume this will turn to embarrassment in a few short years, but so far he thinks it's fun), to unpack those huge bags a little more as each year passes and God molds us individually more into his image and, hopefully, molds our marriage into one that reflects his love to people around us.

Today we celebrate nine years of marriage. The reason we can truly celebrate is not just because we are still together or because everything has been perfect or because he is a great husband to me(which he is). We can celebrate because we've put our ultimate trust not in each other for fulfillment but in God to fulfill us. We know we can't be each others everything, that we were never meant to be.  But we have lived out each day of these nine years in commitment to each other and whether those days have been easy or hard, good or bad, disappointing or exhilarating, they have been lived out together.  And because we are trusting in God and not each other to be perfect in this, we can also trust in "til death do us part" knowing that it is never in our own power or ability to see those words come true, but in the daily grace we are given by a God who has rescued us, changed us, loved us and taught us how to love one another sacrificially.

Here's to nine years, my love!  May God keep us ever focused on Him so we can freely love, serve, respect and challenge each other and do it all in the midst of tears, passion, laughter and, most importantly, side by side.

The Art of Play

For several years now my son has been nursing a desire to grow up and be a mathematician.  When I ask him what he thinks mathematicians actually do he says that it has something to do with numbers and that he gets to work with his dad.  Ah.  The dream makes sense.

But just a few weeks ago, when he woke up at night and needed a drink he poked his head into the kitchen. There was his dad, hard at work on his computer, like he very often is just after bedtime.  Apparently this trend has not been overlooked by the child and so he asked my husband, "Dad, will I still get play when I grow up? Maybe I'll do what Mom does instead of work with you."

I could have been insulted at his insinuation that I do not work much, but the kid had just seen me "working" all day by singing onstage and working with electric guitarists and drummers. (His personal heroes.) So.  

His might seem like a cute, innocuous question. But from the moment my child wakes up in the morning until roughly 10 minutes after he goes to bed every night, every waking move of his day revolves around the possibility of play.

Morning Situation (Usually around 6:45 am. He did NOT get this from me.)
Josh: "Dad, wake up, it's time for legos!"
Reed: (unintelligible mumbling)
Josh: "Come on, we have to PLAY before school!"  (Because preschool is so strenuous with all that counting to 10 and learning to stand in line.)

Lunch Situation (Usually driving home from preschool)
Josh: "Mom, can we play before lunch?"
Me: "Let's eat first and then play before rest time."
Josh: Silent treatment. Disappointment. Probably internal rage that will come out as a teenager.

Afternoon Situation (Right after "rest" time which has consisted of a 1/2 hour of actual rest (read, sitting on bed staring at toys) and 1 hour of playing with said toys)
Josh: "Is it time to play? How long can we play before dinner? Will we have time to play after dinner? How much time can we play?"
Me: Head explodes.

So, you see, my child's entire life is oriented around the art of play.  The idea that he might one day grow up and be unable to play every waking moment of the day led to that panicked late night question.  Now, I know it's possible he'll grow up to be a Lego engineer and play until he's 90, but more than likely a lot of his life will begin to revolve around work. I assume his desires will change at least a little before it comes time for him to choose a major, although given the current state of education I wouldn't be shocked if Legos were a major by 2025 when he starts college.

The more interesting point to his question is that I think play gets a strange rep after a certain age. People like to rage against adult adolescents, those people who never grew up, who play video games and avoid responsibility and act like they are 3, but have a lot of fun while at it.  The polar opposite gets the rep of sellout, of people who have given up on fun and taken on all the responsibility life has thrown at them and they just trudge out of bed every day, have that cup of coffee, go to work, raise their kids and forget they had dreams of their own, right?  But what's the in-between?  Do we, as adults, get to have FUN apart from our kids? Apart from Disney and parks and building sand cars for hours at the beach for a car-obsessed preschooler? Is it OK to play?

Sure, a lot of us have hobbies. I love a good jog or working in my garden. I adore a captivating book.  But how often do I play? A few months ago I went out to dinner with a group of women I'm really coming to love. I've know them for about a year now and this was the first time we've all just gone out, left our kids behind and had a fun night. When dinner was over, we found ourselves lingering. Did we really HAVE to go home? The kids were already asleep, right?  So we went to a dessert place and told crazy stories about the worst dates we'd ever been on while gorging on desserts.  Or at least, in my case, on coffee.  (Incidentally, this is a great party question. I'm still chuckling over some of the train wrecks.) 

The thing was we had fun. We laughed, we had conversations that had nothing to do with our children, we played.  And then we talked about why we need to do it more often. Why it's so important for our souls in this stage of life, with work and responsibilities, with being wives and moms and owning houses and being on adoption waiting lists and dealing with aging parents, why it's SO important to play.  To delight in the beauty of life, the gifts of growing friendship with each other.  And I know that sounds cheesy, but sometimes cheesy is just right. It's so easy to get too busy to enjoy life.

So the answer, my darling son, to your question is "Yes, adults do play.  We just have to want it enough to make it happen. And we have to choose to have margin in our lives so it's possible."

So, I shall host a movie night, full of margaritas and Girls Just Want To Have Fun and I will wish once again, like I did when I first saw that movie as a kid, that I could be on Dance TV and be friends with Helen Hunt.  I may (read, will) even get up off the couch and dance along because, let's face it, I probably still have half the dances memorized.  I will ask my friends, much like my son, when we can play next and I will ask it until we make it a habit.

I will learn again to delight in each moment of the day and cherish those chances to laugh and play, to be thankful for the family and friends I have been given as playmates, not at the expense of my responsibilities or roles in adult life, but in complement to them.  

Mud Pies, BFF's and Kindergarten Chaos

The life of a five-year-old is a busy one, indeed. In the past week my son has had three playdates, soccer practice, a soccer game, one playgroup, a sunday school class, helped babysit a 6-month old, had a dinner with our adoption group, attended 5 mornings of school, played countless hours of legos, owl hunting and mud-pie making, read 8 Magic Treehouse books and took approximately 4,000 baths.  Or he should've had 4,000 baths. We're sometimes not so good at that around here.

In the same span of time he has been on the losing end of 4 lotteries for kindergarten.  While his friends are all talking about where they are going next year (think the last few months of HS and college where that's ALL people ask you about) he has nothing to say. He keeps asking us where he's going to kindergarten and we have to give him that most unsatisfying of parental answers: "We don't know, kid."

The thing is, I've always been a public school girl.  I thrived, I got into a good college, I didn't make horrendously awful choices in my life.  I hadn't even heard of home school until I moved to the south.  I thought there were two choices growing up; Catholic school or Mahopac High School. That's it.  And then we moved to Durham.  The town where school choice is a taunting illusion. We applied to five lotteries to get our kid into a decent school that wouldn't suck out his soul. We're 288 on the wait list for one, 22 on another and not even on the wait list for a third charter. Of the two mainstream public ones we applied to, they don't do wait lists. So, it's just a no. And so our choice is to send him to a public school in our neighborhood that assigns an HOUR of homework a night after 7 hours of straight academic instruction with only a 1/2 hour of recess and does frequent evaluative testing (which they admit stresses out the kids), pay for a private kindergarten or home school.

Here's the deal. I love that my child loves to get muddy. I think it's great that we spent an hour making mud pies this afternoon and that I had to wash every piece of clothing he had on and hose him off as well. I love that he has a smile on his face because school has been fun and that he's made some great BFF's (he calls most of his friends best friends) at school, church and our neighborhood because they've had so much time to play together.  I love that he's bonded with some kids over legos others through his soccer team and still others over Cars cars. (Moms of young boys, you know what I mean there.)  I love that lunch takes an hour when his friend Damian comes over because they can't stop giggling long enough to chew their food.  And the idea of sending my five-year-old, so full of life, of energy, of joy, of spirit, of creativity to a place that is going to make him sit still from 8:30 until 3:30 every day with virtually no chance to play and then send him home with an hour of homework to keep him sitting down just tears me to bits.

 It's too soon.

Too soon to be strapped to a desk, too soon to be told that his academic life should define him, too soon to stop making mud pies and building cardboard houses for his Curious George.  Too soon to be so overwhelmed by academics that he doesn't have time for friends.  Hopefully, academics will never cause any of those things but certainly we cannot start this battle of priorities in Kindergarten.

We don't yet know what's going to happen.  We might still get into one of the charters, although it's unlikely. We might get into the private school, where we are also wait-listed. We might choose home school, a choice that I never dreamed this would come to.  One thing I do know is that kindergarten has changed since I went.  And I'm not ready for my five-year-old to be treated like a 10 year old just because he's in kindergarten.

I want another year of giggles and mud and legos and cars. I want my kid to stay a kid for at least a little while longer.      

When, If and Done

Every time I walk in my closet, I see it. A clear box. Full of maternity clothes.  And for the first few years after Josh was born I would occasionally wonder, in that sleep-deprived and panicky new motherhood way, when I'd get to wear them again ("but please, God, not too soon!).  When I got pregnant in 2008, I pulled them out, gave them a good wash and hung them up, ready for the moment when I'd move from squeezing into normal clothes and back into their comfort, their sweet promise of new life to come.  

After the loss of that baby, I quietly packed them up again and put them away, certain it was only a matter of time before I'd pull them out. And pull them out I did, to loan them to pregnant friends. ALL THE TIME.  Don't get me wrong, I was happy to do this. Happy to help out friends who needed them. But they were mine. For my babies.  And every time I gave them away I always made it clear I needed them back when they were done.  Because my pregnancy was next. It was "when".

At some point thinking about that box moved from "when" to "if".  I kept them on hand for if I ever needed them.  It felt like the right spiritually mature word to use at the time. After all, didn't I go through counseling to deal with the miscarriage, even if it was a year and a half late? Didn't I talk through my infertility and get to a point where I was ok with not getting pregnant again, excited about the adoption route?  I could leave that word "when" behind, no problem.  But, so as to not rule out God's possibility of miracles, I kept that box. I held strong to the "if." Who was I to decide that God was beyond performing a miracle? And if He wasn't beyond that, I wasn't through waiting.

At some point though, "if" has become a poisonous word. It has given me permission to be selfish, to hold on to these clothes that could benefit someone who really needs them.  To always, every month, even though I promise myself I won't anymore, get my hopes up.   To be consumed by the possibility of a miracle, even though we are already waiting on a beautiful miracle to come through another avenue.  To buy into the ugly lie that if I would just get pregnant, it would be a better end to our story than adoption on its own.

So, it's time.  This morning, I marched into my closet.  For the last three and a half years of my life, I have looked at this box.  I have picked out my clothes for the day, glanced at the "if" box and went on my way.  No more. Today, the box becomes the "done" box.  There is now an empty corner in our closet.  Whether we get pregnant is a non-issue at this point.  Moving the box from "if" to "done" is my ebenezer, a stop on my journey to say God is God and enough is enough. I plant it in the "done" to say that I trust Him. Whatever happens. I don't trust in a box of clothes. I trust in a God who loves me, who is for my good, who has bigger and better things for me and my life than an "if" box in my corner.

When the Ugly Shines

People have been asking me how the waiting is going for our adoption. Given the three years of waiting we've already done in preparation for more waiting, I'd say we're pros. Seriously, if there is one positive thing that infertility teaches you it's how to wait. 

So, here we are, two full months on the waiting list. Our agency hasn't contacted us, other than to send us an occasional article on openness or transracial adoption or the tax credit.  And I've been trucking along quite happily. Sure, there are those moments when I wonder how long this will take and what our story will end up being but for the most part, I've felt very calm about the whole thing.  No one has chosen us yet and that's ok.

Enter last week.  For the first time in this process, I found myself in a conversation with someone who knew of a couple of teenagers who were in a tough situation.  And when I say tough, think of as many rough scenarios that you can think of for a teenager to have to deal with and one or both of these kids were facing several of them.  Unexpected pregnancy, rough family situation, etc.  And as I was listening to their situation, the ugly came out.  Sure, I had a moment of concern for them. Sure, I felt sorry for the situation these kids were in, upset with the state of brokenness in the world that had left them this vulnerable.  But it was fleeting. And then it was all about me.  What about this expected baby? Does he need a home?  Wouldn't we be the perfect parents? Don't we deserve to give this kid a good life? After all, those kids can't raise him well. UGLY.  Ugly because this was pure selfishness coursing through me.  Greed, even.  I could almost understand the stories you hear about desperate wannabe parents who deal on the black market.  The feeling of helplessness in growing your own family can cause your brain to do crazy things.

So, I had to back off and ask for some help for my crazy brain. I had to ask Jesus to help me see these kids in his eyes, kids in need of His love and His redemption and His hope in their situation.  Kids who, for all I know, might make good parents.  I do know it's not my place to judge their capability and greedily lust after their child for my own.  That much is certain.

Is it ok to think about this as a possibility? Sure. Do I have any power in the situation? No.  What I'm committing to is praying. Praying for these two kids and for that baby. Praying that God would overwhelm them with his love during this time of decision and guide them in the way they should go, whether or not it will ever have anything to do with us or any other adoptive parents.  Praying for the health of that beautiful and unexpected child, knowing that God loves him and pursues him more than I ever could as his parent.  

This is the only way to surrender the greed and the selfishness, the ugly.  Otherwise, if I give in to their temptation, I will end up down the road of "I deserve" which is always a dangerous place to be.