Earlier this week I stumbled through a video of Chinese orphans answering questions about adoption and what they hoped for in a family, if they ever get one. Later that day, I cried through a homemade video of a dad talking to his three young babies who had just passed away that morning. The internet is awful in a lot of ways, but you know what I've finally realized? It IS good for a little perspective.
We live in an overly dramatic and self-centered culture. One night of watching reality television illustrates only too well the art of overreaction, self-pity, and self-focus that we are being cultivated to understand as the normal, default way of functioning today. Look at my problems. Listen to what so-and-so had the nerve to say to me. It's all about me, after all. Let me be as nasty as I want to be without repercussions.
For years, my knee-jerk reaction to any tendency toward the dramatic was stoicism. Don't tell, even if asked. Smile when it hurts. Be thankful in all things. Never let 'em see you cry or, better yet, don't cry at all. The biggest insult I could have ever received would have been to be termed a "drama queen." Call me nerd, dork, whatever. (And, to be quite honest, many people did.) But as long as I was emotionally in control, I was golden. Responsible. Dependable. Solid.
These last five years have made me seriously doubt the merits of this particular overcompensation. I have delved into the world of counseling, I have used my "feelings" worksheet and attempted to articulate when things have been hard and when they've been good. I have had my own dramatic moments, where it felt too hard to hope anymore or too painful to understand what greater good might have been going on or bigger perspective there was to be gained.
A friend of mine shared a startling statistic: a high percentage of people dealing with infertility are encumbered by the same levels of depression as very ill cancer patients. This seemed crazy to me. I have never had cancer nor even been close to someone who has but have had dear friends lose parents to this horrible disease. I found the comparison terrifying and freeing all at once. Its normal to be sad, even depressed over this at times. This, too, is loss in our lives that needs grieving.
At the same time, that part of me who shies away from the emotional clings to the need for perspective here. Confession time: on my darkest days of frustration I will watch Band of Brothers, Saving Private Ryan or some documentary on human slavery or poverty or adpotion that significantly widens my scope of human suffering. I need to. A friend recently told me she thinks it's fine that I do that but that it's ok to be sad, too. Not to diminish my own pain. And she's right.
The thing is that sadness without perspective tends to lead me, at least, to self-pity. I don't watch those movies or online videos to erase my pain but to remind myself that in the grand scheme of life pain is everywhere. And yes, much of it is far more intolerable or unbelievable than anything I've had to endure in my incredibly privileged life. Keeping perspective helps prevents the sadness form insulating my world, makes my lens to those around me clear so I can see their pain, too, and reminds me that justice is actually an anomaly in today's world. That the forces of evil and brokennness are hungrily at work, snatching away babies, dreams, freedom and hope from people all over the globe. That my story is not singled out in an otherwise perfect world. This may seem obvious. But in a culture that tells me that it's ok to focus on myself all the time, I need this reminder. It enables me to keep on with much more humility, grace and hope than I would otherwise muster on my own. Maybe to some this reminder would cause despair or hopelessness, but the idea that I am a part of a humanity that is searching for hope in the midst of pain makes me deeply grateful for those beautiful moments of justice, the many gifts I have been given in this life, those days when hope is ever-present and birds are singing and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that no matter how my story ends, I am not alone in it.
That, my friends, is perspective. None of this is about me, after all. Any suffering of my own is a drop in a much larger bucket. Any tendency to want to have a Jersey Shore kind of day and blame my problems on someone else is just a fruitless, selfish endeavor.
Suffering with perspective allows me to enter into the suffering of Jesus himself and further understand what he has done for me, into the suffering of friends and family and love them better, to not be indifferent to the suffering of the world. It teaches me what not to say to someone in times of grief and that, in fact, there is very little that needs to be said at all that can possibly be more meaningful than mourning quietly alongside someone. It shows me that the power of transparency and honesty is about a lot more than self-revelation and inner peace, that it's about giving others' suffering a voice and a space to grieve, too.
This morning I watched a video of a woman who was about to have a double mastectomy holding a dance party in the OR. I don't know her. I don't know what transformed a situation that was probably full of solemnity, fear and anger into a moment of audacious hope and laughter. This was a sweet and painful moment of perspective for me.
For today, a woman chose to dance in the face of suffering. And so I am going to get off my computer and turn on a little Michael Jackson and have myself a dance party, too. I am going to laugh and cry and keep hoping. Life is short, after all. I'd rather be dancing than sighing.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Saturday, November 2, 2013
A Party in a Galaxy Far, Far Away
Someone should warn you when you are pregnant with a boy: be prepared to watch Star Wars, hear about Star Wars, playact Star Wars, construct Star Wars Legos, dress up like Star Wars characters and, of course, be prepared to host a killer Star Wars party. I think there has been some unexplainable and universal change to the boy genome that makes it physically impossible for them to resist the allure of this massive commercial dynasty. My son, despite my own lukewarm feelings about said film, is obsessed and hasn't even actually seen all the movies. It doesn't matter. 2 minutes of a Youtube clip of Han Solo careening through the universe and they are all hooked.
When we were moving to Wisconsin this summer my sweet boy was concerned that he wouldn't be able to have a Star Wars party this fall. "What if I don't have any friends by then?" Well, that'll break any parent's heart. After reassuring him of that distinct impossibility and promising him all the same that we would actually fly back to NC for his birthday if it ended up true, we moved forward to plan a party. Yes, he has been talking about this since approximately five minutes after his lego party last year ended. So yes, it was going to happen.
I geared up my creative juices, scoured the internet for good ideas and here you go. One party in a galaxy far, far away.
LIGHT SABERS
What good jedi festivity would be complete without a lightsaber? The kids loved making their own and then trying to use the "force" to keep balloons afloat. Of course, that particularly activity lasted all of 2 minutes before devolving into an all out light saber battle. Really easy project with big returns.
PIN THE LIGHT SABER ON YODA
I'm guessing this is the last year that pinning something on anything will hold much appeal for my boy, but he was excited for this one. What's better than Yoda overseeing the festivities? Pinning a lightsaber on him.
LEGO SCAVENGER HUNT
It's always fun to put together a clue hunt for these kids. They had to follow a set of riddles around the house and find bags full of legos. At the end they raced to put together small star wars sets. This was a total hit!
THE FOOD
Apparently lego-themed food is a big deal. The internet had tons of suggestions and here's what we made! I take just about zero credit for these ideas, just their execution.
FAVORS
Nothing fancy, just some bags with fun Jedi labels filled with some little treats. The kids went home with a bag and their light saber to continue to have fun.
There you go. Nothing too pinterest-worthy, but I have a happy little jedi who spent his 7th birthday with new friends and lots of laughter. Can't ask for more than that. Except, in his eyes, for Star Wars to be real.
When we were moving to Wisconsin this summer my sweet boy was concerned that he wouldn't be able to have a Star Wars party this fall. "What if I don't have any friends by then?" Well, that'll break any parent's heart. After reassuring him of that distinct impossibility and promising him all the same that we would actually fly back to NC for his birthday if it ended up true, we moved forward to plan a party. Yes, he has been talking about this since approximately five minutes after his lego party last year ended. So yes, it was going to happen.
I geared up my creative juices, scoured the internet for good ideas and here you go. One party in a galaxy far, far away.
LIGHT SABERS
What good jedi festivity would be complete without a lightsaber? The kids loved making their own and then trying to use the "force" to keep balloons afloat. Of course, that particularly activity lasted all of 2 minutes before devolving into an all out light saber battle. Really easy project with big returns.
PIN THE LIGHT SABER ON YODA
I'm guessing this is the last year that pinning something on anything will hold much appeal for my boy, but he was excited for this one. What's better than Yoda overseeing the festivities? Pinning a lightsaber on him.
LEGO SCAVENGER HUNT
It's always fun to put together a clue hunt for these kids. They had to follow a set of riddles around the house and find bags full of legos. At the end they raced to put together small star wars sets. This was a total hit!
THE FOOD
Apparently lego-themed food is a big deal. The internet had tons of suggestions and here's what we made! I take just about zero credit for these ideas, just their execution.
FAVORS
Nothing fancy, just some bags with fun Jedi labels filled with some little treats. The kids went home with a bag and their light saber to continue to have fun.
There you go. Nothing too pinterest-worthy, but I have a happy little jedi who spent his 7th birthday with new friends and lots of laughter. Can't ask for more than that. Except, in his eyes, for Star Wars to be real.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Back to School
I sat in class last week using all the energy I could muster to keep from turning around and stabbing the guys behind me with my gel pen. With one hand cupped behind one ear and the other on said pen, I strained to follow the lecture which was being largely drowned out by the musings of the aforementioned gentlemen, musings that included their most recent foray into alcohol consumption and how they were determined to "try not to cheat" this semester. Noble endeavor. Apparently, some very basic things about college have not changed. Except, of course, my inability to focus on one type of noise (the professor) while another type of noise (alcoholic boasting) is going on in my vicinity. I'm pretty sure I was experiencing age rage due to hearing loss. I'm not sure. Thankfully, my good sense won out and I have not been arrested for a felony.
Other things unrelated to my aging have changed a lot. Just yesterday, I frantically made notes on a mitosis lecture while the people who surrounded me spent time on espn.com or texting their friends. One totally unashamed guy slept through the whole thing and another young woman kept asking me "what did she just say?" after completing her most recent text message. This is all at a very reputable university. Folks, I came of age when laptops and cell phones were still in rare use. My roommate in college had a big "car phone" that she kept locked away except for long trips or if she wanted to avoid using long distance when she called her family. When I walked across campus, people either smiled at you and said hello or awkwardly looked at the flowers on the side of the path, but they did not have earphones plugged in (unless they were carrying around their big ol' cd walkmans) and they certainly weren't chatting with some apparently nonexistent human at their side. People who didn't pay attention in class had to resort to daydreaming or writing notes on actual paper to other humans present in the room. Unless, of course, they slept like the guy next to me. We did that, too, although at a much smaller university it was a lot harder to get away with it.
The thing about school is that I absolutely love it. I loved being a student all the way through college and I love it again. It's amazing getting to learn new things and after being gone for so long to feel those synapses firing in that specific way they do only when being challenged in an academic way is exhilarating. And like pretty much every other class I've ever taken, I'm working hard and taking this seriously. Which seems to put me in the minority. When no one around me seems to be as excited about lecture, I go through a range of emotions. First, aggravation: Don't they know they are distracting those who actually want to learn and, thereby, risking impalement by gel pen? Second, sadness: Don't they know that they are missing out on an incredible opportunity to learn really interesting stuff? Third, confusion: How can they just waste their money (or, more likely their parents' money) and not care? Fourth, dawning realization of curve benefits: Don't they know if they don't do well, my score will only get better since they will boost the curve? General feeling of ashamed thankfulness toward these punks accompanies this thought. Fifth, astonishment: Are there really people out there who don't want to do their best at this? Why I continue to ask this last question over and over again in my life I do not know, but the answer is one around which I cannot wrap my mind. How can you not want to do your best at a task set before you?
So here I am, 12 years after graduating from a small, private, liberal arts university in the south, trekking the halls of an enormous, public research institution in the midwest. And just before my first test, the only test I've taken (besides the Myers-Briggs assessment) since 2001, I was nervous. I had my flash cards and had rewritten my notes. I had done all the readings and taken all the quizzes. I'd gone to the Q & A and discussion groups and emailed the TA with extra questions. And still I was sick-to-my-stomach, hands-shaking nervous when I showed up. Once upon a time, I was a great test-taker. Matching and definitions? No problem. Essays? Even better. But Scantron and I were no longer well-acquainted and that test, my friends, was 100% multiple choice.
Why was I so nervous? Well, despite my delusions that I am a recovering perfectionist at this point in my life, it seems that when it comes down to it, I still really want a 100% on a test, possibly even more than I did in college because now I feel like the old lady in the room has something to prove. I still wrestle, deep down, with needing to get the highest score possible and feeling really, really good when I do. I love being a student, which is good, but I still struggle with letting the fact that I'm good at it define who I am. Not so good.
Apparently I have not recovered as completely as I thought. I did really well on that first test, I'm not ashamed to say. And I basked in the glow of that grade for a good week. And it's ok to rejoice that I worked hard and it paid off. But it seems I still need a daily reminder that my worth and my identity don't lie in what I can accomplish, but in Whose I am. Does God rejoice that I work hard and love what I'm doing? Sure. But he rejoices all the more when I am content in who I am in Him. Loved, forgiven, precious, even if I don't get an A+. That was a lesson I did not believe in high school.
Tonight is my second test of the semester. I am decidedly calmer. I haven't studied as long or as hard but I suspect I've still studied longer than most of my classmates. I am not going to panic if I only get a 90 (or, gasp, lower!), but I'm still going to work my hardest and go for that 100% because I believe it will reflect the fact that I know this information, have worked my hardest and have enjoyed learning it. And have spent a lot of time this last month just enjoying God and letting Him remind me that in the grand scheme of things, of life, perfectionism is an illusion and I will not always be the best at something. And at the end of the day, no matter what happens, that test score will be something (I hope) to rejoice in, but not something to define me.
Other things unrelated to my aging have changed a lot. Just yesterday, I frantically made notes on a mitosis lecture while the people who surrounded me spent time on espn.com or texting their friends. One totally unashamed guy slept through the whole thing and another young woman kept asking me "what did she just say?" after completing her most recent text message. This is all at a very reputable university. Folks, I came of age when laptops and cell phones were still in rare use. My roommate in college had a big "car phone" that she kept locked away except for long trips or if she wanted to avoid using long distance when she called her family. When I walked across campus, people either smiled at you and said hello or awkwardly looked at the flowers on the side of the path, but they did not have earphones plugged in (unless they were carrying around their big ol' cd walkmans) and they certainly weren't chatting with some apparently nonexistent human at their side. People who didn't pay attention in class had to resort to daydreaming or writing notes on actual paper to other humans present in the room. Unless, of course, they slept like the guy next to me. We did that, too, although at a much smaller university it was a lot harder to get away with it.
The thing about school is that I absolutely love it. I loved being a student all the way through college and I love it again. It's amazing getting to learn new things and after being gone for so long to feel those synapses firing in that specific way they do only when being challenged in an academic way is exhilarating. And like pretty much every other class I've ever taken, I'm working hard and taking this seriously. Which seems to put me in the minority. When no one around me seems to be as excited about lecture, I go through a range of emotions. First, aggravation: Don't they know they are distracting those who actually want to learn and, thereby, risking impalement by gel pen? Second, sadness: Don't they know that they are missing out on an incredible opportunity to learn really interesting stuff? Third, confusion: How can they just waste their money (or, more likely their parents' money) and not care? Fourth, dawning realization of curve benefits: Don't they know if they don't do well, my score will only get better since they will boost the curve? General feeling of ashamed thankfulness toward these punks accompanies this thought. Fifth, astonishment: Are there really people out there who don't want to do their best at this? Why I continue to ask this last question over and over again in my life I do not know, but the answer is one around which I cannot wrap my mind. How can you not want to do your best at a task set before you?
So here I am, 12 years after graduating from a small, private, liberal arts university in the south, trekking the halls of an enormous, public research institution in the midwest. And just before my first test, the only test I've taken (besides the Myers-Briggs assessment) since 2001, I was nervous. I had my flash cards and had rewritten my notes. I had done all the readings and taken all the quizzes. I'd gone to the Q & A and discussion groups and emailed the TA with extra questions. And still I was sick-to-my-stomach, hands-shaking nervous when I showed up. Once upon a time, I was a great test-taker. Matching and definitions? No problem. Essays? Even better. But Scantron and I were no longer well-acquainted and that test, my friends, was 100% multiple choice.
Why was I so nervous? Well, despite my delusions that I am a recovering perfectionist at this point in my life, it seems that when it comes down to it, I still really want a 100% on a test, possibly even more than I did in college because now I feel like the old lady in the room has something to prove. I still wrestle, deep down, with needing to get the highest score possible and feeling really, really good when I do. I love being a student, which is good, but I still struggle with letting the fact that I'm good at it define who I am. Not so good.
Apparently I have not recovered as completely as I thought. I did really well on that first test, I'm not ashamed to say. And I basked in the glow of that grade for a good week. And it's ok to rejoice that I worked hard and it paid off. But it seems I still need a daily reminder that my worth and my identity don't lie in what I can accomplish, but in Whose I am. Does God rejoice that I work hard and love what I'm doing? Sure. But he rejoices all the more when I am content in who I am in Him. Loved, forgiven, precious, even if I don't get an A+. That was a lesson I did not believe in high school.
Tonight is my second test of the semester. I am decidedly calmer. I haven't studied as long or as hard but I suspect I've still studied longer than most of my classmates. I am not going to panic if I only get a 90 (or, gasp, lower!), but I'm still going to work my hardest and go for that 100% because I believe it will reflect the fact that I know this information, have worked my hardest and have enjoyed learning it. And have spent a lot of time this last month just enjoying God and letting Him remind me that in the grand scheme of things, of life, perfectionism is an illusion and I will not always be the best at something. And at the end of the day, no matter what happens, that test score will be something (I hope) to rejoice in, but not something to define me.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
What Happens in Wisconsin
We've been in the great Midwest for 4 months. And during that short time, I have observed some interesting things about life here in lovely Wisconsin.
First, everyone, and I mean everyone, asks you if you own a snowthrower (read "snowblower" for my northeastern friends) when you meet them. What is that? Is it a mark of honor?
Second, the rule at Josh's school is that they play outside for recess until it is below 0 degrees. That's Fahrenheit friends, not Celsius. I guess we'll be sending him in with snowpants and boots starting, well, next week.
Three, everyone loves the Packers. Everyone wears Packers gear as often as possible to any type of event, up to and including Sunday morning church services. If you want to experience a sane grocery shopping experience never, I repeat, never go to the grocery store in the 4 hours preceding a game.
Four, people complain when it is 85 with low humidity. I, on the other hand, run around rejoicing that I can breathe and enjoy the outdoors in the summer.
Five, people like guns. There are signs on the sides of roads promoting gun ownership, revering guns, advertising gun shows. Kids play with toy guns like it's no big thing. What's with all the guns, folks? Are we afraid the corn fields are going to rise up and attack us?
Six, aforementioned corn. Everywhere. All the time.
Seven, those crazy accents I anticipated really do exist. And my neighbor even said "Don't you know?" in that fantastically Canadian way us East-coasters imagine people out here talk. Also, someone told me to "yak it up"(read "Yayk it uop") with my hubby. Apparently that's English.
Eight, everyone who finds out that we moved from North Carolina asks us why in the world we would move to Wisconsin and then they proceed to tell us the winters aren't really "that bad." They are lying through their teeth and I can see them holding back a mixture of hilarity and pity in their eyes. My neighbor actually admitted that he wants to watch us the first time we shovel our driveway. Possibly he'll bring popcorn. Maybe laughing at transplanted southerners is a form of winter entertainment during the dark months around here.
Nine, water fountains are now bubblers. I shall never call them that. At least not with a straight face.
Ten, and I'll end with a straight-up nice one, the people are awesome. Down to earth, friendly and helpful. Our neighbors invited us over for "brats" the 2nd night we were here and are now good friends. A group of people we'd never met before helped us unload our moving van and provided friends for my son, as well as a heavenly coffee cake, towels and sheets so we wouldn't have to find ours that first night in a new house. They are now good friends, too. How could they not be? The coffee shop people are nice, the toll booth people smile and I promise you I met the friendliest receptionist ever born at my son's dentist office. She should have an award for nicest human.
So, Wisconsin, four months down, countless months to go. I love your accents and will continue to enjoy encountering your quirks of culture and language. Thanks for providing the prettiest summer weather ever to welcome us here - surely it provided a good enough foundation for us to make it through the winter that, apparently, started today with our first flakes of snow.
First, everyone, and I mean everyone, asks you if you own a snowthrower (read "snowblower" for my northeastern friends) when you meet them. What is that? Is it a mark of honor?
Second, the rule at Josh's school is that they play outside for recess until it is below 0 degrees. That's Fahrenheit friends, not Celsius. I guess we'll be sending him in with snowpants and boots starting, well, next week.
Three, everyone loves the Packers. Everyone wears Packers gear as often as possible to any type of event, up to and including Sunday morning church services. If you want to experience a sane grocery shopping experience never, I repeat, never go to the grocery store in the 4 hours preceding a game.
Four, people complain when it is 85 with low humidity. I, on the other hand, run around rejoicing that I can breathe and enjoy the outdoors in the summer.
Five, people like guns. There are signs on the sides of roads promoting gun ownership, revering guns, advertising gun shows. Kids play with toy guns like it's no big thing. What's with all the guns, folks? Are we afraid the corn fields are going to rise up and attack us?
Six, aforementioned corn. Everywhere. All the time.
Seven, those crazy accents I anticipated really do exist. And my neighbor even said "Don't you know?" in that fantastically Canadian way us East-coasters imagine people out here talk. Also, someone told me to "yak it up"(read "Yayk it uop") with my hubby. Apparently that's English.
Eight, everyone who finds out that we moved from North Carolina asks us why in the world we would move to Wisconsin and then they proceed to tell us the winters aren't really "that bad." They are lying through their teeth and I can see them holding back a mixture of hilarity and pity in their eyes. My neighbor actually admitted that he wants to watch us the first time we shovel our driveway. Possibly he'll bring popcorn. Maybe laughing at transplanted southerners is a form of winter entertainment during the dark months around here.
Nine, water fountains are now bubblers. I shall never call them that. At least not with a straight face.
Ten, and I'll end with a straight-up nice one, the people are awesome. Down to earth, friendly and helpful. Our neighbors invited us over for "brats" the 2nd night we were here and are now good friends. A group of people we'd never met before helped us unload our moving van and provided friends for my son, as well as a heavenly coffee cake, towels and sheets so we wouldn't have to find ours that first night in a new house. They are now good friends, too. How could they not be? The coffee shop people are nice, the toll booth people smile and I promise you I met the friendliest receptionist ever born at my son's dentist office. She should have an award for nicest human.
So, Wisconsin, four months down, countless months to go. I love your accents and will continue to enjoy encountering your quirks of culture and language. Thanks for providing the prettiest summer weather ever to welcome us here - surely it provided a good enough foundation for us to make it through the winter that, apparently, started today with our first flakes of snow.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Why We Wait
In church yesterday, I sat down with tears streaming down my face. I know this might be a regular occurrence for some people, but I'd rather become a dog-feces collector at the local park than cry in public. But there was this moment- just a few words in a song- that reminded me again of why we continue to wait. Why, in the face of loss, frustration and no change in our circumstances, we continue to hold onto hope that we will become a family of four.
There was a line in the song that spoke of God being the father to the fatherless. And many times I've sung that and not thought it through very far. Not thought about all the individual stories I've now heard about children out in the world who are legally or effectively parentless. Whose stories, even if they end in good, have started off hard. Have begun with loss and grief. A lot of people think adopting an infant will make it easier on that infant who never knew a different life but doctors now know that even those little ones know. They know they were taken from the arms of the woman who carried them for 9 months and placed with strangers. They need reassurance, to build trust, to learn to love. And no matter how amazing their adoptive families may turn out to be, the story of loss will still be there. It was never intended for them to lose so much so young. But it happens to way more children than we can even fathom.
So, why do we continue to wait? Not because we're amazing or particularly good at waiting. Not because this process is fun and enjoyable and we want to prolong this period of invasive questioning and interminable inaction. Some people have said to me "I could never do that." I always think first, "Well, goodness, neither can I." Who really can? God alone is really the father to the fatherless, really the only one who can fill any of us, can redeem any of our losses. By saying yes to adoption we are not saying we are amazing parents sent to heal a child. We aren't saying we have better coping skills or that we are the "right" family for a little kid to come into. We don't believe we have it more together than most of the families we meet. In fact, the whole home study process really shines a light into all the ways you don't have it together in ways you never realized. All we are saying is that there is a need that we can fill and a missing place at our dinner table. And while well-intentioned people who love us tell us whichever child comes into our life will be lucky to have us, privileged to be a part of our family, I know in my heart it will be the other way around. That this child, this one we've been waiting for, will cause us to be overwhelmed with gratitude. Just like our firstborn biological child, we'll struggle through those early feedings and sleep-deprivation and wonder (guiltily) what we were thinking. Just like him, we'll marvel at her first words and cheer when she takes her first steps. We'll agonize when she's sick, we'll teach her the abc's and soccer (which are equally as important, by the way), and we'll watch her while she's sleeping, careful not to wake her, wondering what dreams a little baby has. And we will look at each other all the time and say "Where did she come from? How did we get this gift?", just like we do with our son who came to us another way.
So, we hope and wait. Not to be someone's savior, not to change someone's life, but for the life that is going to radically change ours.
There was a line in the song that spoke of God being the father to the fatherless. And many times I've sung that and not thought it through very far. Not thought about all the individual stories I've now heard about children out in the world who are legally or effectively parentless. Whose stories, even if they end in good, have started off hard. Have begun with loss and grief. A lot of people think adopting an infant will make it easier on that infant who never knew a different life but doctors now know that even those little ones know. They know they were taken from the arms of the woman who carried them for 9 months and placed with strangers. They need reassurance, to build trust, to learn to love. And no matter how amazing their adoptive families may turn out to be, the story of loss will still be there. It was never intended for them to lose so much so young. But it happens to way more children than we can even fathom.
So, why do we continue to wait? Not because we're amazing or particularly good at waiting. Not because this process is fun and enjoyable and we want to prolong this period of invasive questioning and interminable inaction. Some people have said to me "I could never do that." I always think first, "Well, goodness, neither can I." Who really can? God alone is really the father to the fatherless, really the only one who can fill any of us, can redeem any of our losses. By saying yes to adoption we are not saying we are amazing parents sent to heal a child. We aren't saying we have better coping skills or that we are the "right" family for a little kid to come into. We don't believe we have it more together than most of the families we meet. In fact, the whole home study process really shines a light into all the ways you don't have it together in ways you never realized. All we are saying is that there is a need that we can fill and a missing place at our dinner table. And while well-intentioned people who love us tell us whichever child comes into our life will be lucky to have us, privileged to be a part of our family, I know in my heart it will be the other way around. That this child, this one we've been waiting for, will cause us to be overwhelmed with gratitude. Just like our firstborn biological child, we'll struggle through those early feedings and sleep-deprivation and wonder (guiltily) what we were thinking. Just like him, we'll marvel at her first words and cheer when she takes her first steps. We'll agonize when she's sick, we'll teach her the abc's and soccer (which are equally as important, by the way), and we'll watch her while she's sleeping, careful not to wake her, wondering what dreams a little baby has. And we will look at each other all the time and say "Where did she come from? How did we get this gift?", just like we do with our son who came to us another way.
So, we hope and wait. Not to be someone's savior, not to change someone's life, but for the life that is going to radically change ours.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Navigating the Anniversaries
In retrospect, perhaps it wasn't the most emotionally savvy idea I've ever had, volunteering at a children's clothing consignment sale this weekend. If you've never been to one of these, you should know that it could be otherwise known as a pregnancy festival or a family-with-a-bajillion-kids gathering. Certainly, it's a virtual field of land mines for people with fertility issues or infant loss of any kind, particularly those who had a miscarried child's due date to remember this weekend.
But there is no gentle or loving way to tell the woman who has just given birth 3 weeks before and exclaims "I am SO glad not to be pregnant anymore, I am DONE with having babies!" that you'd give anything to be in her shoes and shouldn't be she be thankful for her children? (Especially when you remember the feeling of being glad your own pregnancy was done so you could sleep again. Or at least think about sleeping again. Ha.) There is no way to quickly answer the question that every volunteer feels compelled to ask- "How many children do you have?" -without being reminded of your baby's loss and the times you've come close to an adoption but seen it fall through. Again. And why, why, does it seem that when you tell people you are adopting, they ALWAYS ask you from which country? And when you respond that you are adopting domestically, they seem disappointed. What is THAT?
So yeah, maybe I shouldn't have volunteered. But my yearning need for a good deal (and the wide chasm of emptiness that comprised my son's winter wardrobe) overrode any emotional good sense I might've developed over the last 4 years. If you volunteer, you get to go to the pre-sale and everybody knows that's where the good stuff is. My kid is now ready for his first ever big snow storm. A few months early, but hey.
Navigating the anniversaries can be really hard. Our little girl might have turned 4 this past weekend. She might be running around the backyard with my son and our neighbors even as I type this. I say "might have" because nothing is guaranteed. If we hadn't lost her during pregnancy, she could have easily passed on in early infancy or through some childhood illness or accident. Nothing at all is ever certain and the thing I'm learning about these anniversaries is that if I let myself fantasize about what she might be doing now, I only make it worse because I create a false reality. I only get sadder, I only imagine I see glimpses of what she might have looked like or which of our traits she might express as she grows and which things she would do that would make us wonder from where in the world she came. Dreaming about those things does me no good and only distracts me from the family and friends I have here with me. In the now. And it doesn't help to actually remember her, because none of my imaginings are actually who she would've been. Don't our kids always surpass our own imaginations?
One thing I can say is that this year there was a change for me. The past three years I knew it was September long before I noticed the calendar. I'd feel on edge, angrier than usual about stories about children being abandoned or killed at birth, frustrated at irresponsible birth fathers, missing the children we still don't have, snapping at people who said the wrong thing. But this year, I had to look at the calendar. I had to purposefully notice that mid-September was approaching. Maybe I'm just busy with all the "new" in our lives or trying to desperately remember how to be a serious student. But it snuck up on me. So, I wore my special necklace, the one that reminds me of Amara, and there was just a sweet remembering this time. The ache is fading a little, it doesn't make me as sad as it used to. I'm not crazy enough to think that next year will be the same or easier. I am sure I'll be surprised as each one comes around to see what new thing God is doing in my healing. What a gift, though, to feel like I could just be present this year. That my mourning had taken a turn, was mostly just a time of remembering and then being reminded to continue to dream about what may come this coming year.
No matter what, even the hard anniversaries are good. They remind me of God's presence, of his deep care for me even when I was pretty convinced he was punishing me or abandoning me, of all the amazing people in my life who have loved me well during this crazy process and who are going through challenging and often similiar experiences of their own and of the fact that my story is far from complete.
God gave me the gift of hope this time around and that is no small thing.
But there is no gentle or loving way to tell the woman who has just given birth 3 weeks before and exclaims "I am SO glad not to be pregnant anymore, I am DONE with having babies!" that you'd give anything to be in her shoes and shouldn't be she be thankful for her children? (Especially when you remember the feeling of being glad your own pregnancy was done so you could sleep again. Or at least think about sleeping again. Ha.) There is no way to quickly answer the question that every volunteer feels compelled to ask- "How many children do you have?" -without being reminded of your baby's loss and the times you've come close to an adoption but seen it fall through. Again. And why, why, does it seem that when you tell people you are adopting, they ALWAYS ask you from which country? And when you respond that you are adopting domestically, they seem disappointed. What is THAT?
 |
| Whole outfit = $15. He insisted on wearing it right away. |
So yeah, maybe I shouldn't have volunteered. But my yearning need for a good deal (and the wide chasm of emptiness that comprised my son's winter wardrobe) overrode any emotional good sense I might've developed over the last 4 years. If you volunteer, you get to go to the pre-sale and everybody knows that's where the good stuff is. My kid is now ready for his first ever big snow storm. A few months early, but hey.
Navigating the anniversaries can be really hard. Our little girl might have turned 4 this past weekend. She might be running around the backyard with my son and our neighbors even as I type this. I say "might have" because nothing is guaranteed. If we hadn't lost her during pregnancy, she could have easily passed on in early infancy or through some childhood illness or accident. Nothing at all is ever certain and the thing I'm learning about these anniversaries is that if I let myself fantasize about what she might be doing now, I only make it worse because I create a false reality. I only get sadder, I only imagine I see glimpses of what she might have looked like or which of our traits she might express as she grows and which things she would do that would make us wonder from where in the world she came. Dreaming about those things does me no good and only distracts me from the family and friends I have here with me. In the now. And it doesn't help to actually remember her, because none of my imaginings are actually who she would've been. Don't our kids always surpass our own imaginations?
One thing I can say is that this year there was a change for me. The past three years I knew it was September long before I noticed the calendar. I'd feel on edge, angrier than usual about stories about children being abandoned or killed at birth, frustrated at irresponsible birth fathers, missing the children we still don't have, snapping at people who said the wrong thing. But this year, I had to look at the calendar. I had to purposefully notice that mid-September was approaching. Maybe I'm just busy with all the "new" in our lives or trying to desperately remember how to be a serious student. But it snuck up on me. So, I wore my special necklace, the one that reminds me of Amara, and there was just a sweet remembering this time. The ache is fading a little, it doesn't make me as sad as it used to. I'm not crazy enough to think that next year will be the same or easier. I am sure I'll be surprised as each one comes around to see what new thing God is doing in my healing. What a gift, though, to feel like I could just be present this year. That my mourning had taken a turn, was mostly just a time of remembering and then being reminded to continue to dream about what may come this coming year.
No matter what, even the hard anniversaries are good. They remind me of God's presence, of his deep care for me even when I was pretty convinced he was punishing me or abandoning me, of all the amazing people in my life who have loved me well during this crazy process and who are going through challenging and often similiar experiences of their own and of the fact that my story is far from complete.
God gave me the gift of hope this time around and that is no small thing.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Confessions of a Skinny Girl
I am too skinny. I am too skinny in a culture that doesn't even have such a category, other than for those who struggle with eating disorders or serious illnesses. I am too skinny to find dresses that fit correctly or bathing suits that cost less than $100 or jeans that stay up without a belt. I am too skinny to have the kind of family I have dreamed of. I am just too skinny.
Here's the problem, though; ever since getting pregnant the first time around, during which my metabolism went haywire, I have gotten more compliments on my appearance than in the first 28 years of my life. I hear it all the time, "You look great," "What do you do to stay so thin?" and "Man, I wish I could look like that." Usually, I just uncomfortably nod my head and say a quiet "thank you". But inside? Inside, my heart is breaking. Because I don't want that kind of attention. I don't want it to be considered good or healthy or desirable to be my weight. I don't want to do anything that affirms what our culture says about skinny being the only beautiful. I don't want a BMI of 18. I don't want this.
And the reason it has taken me almost four years to write about this? Well, it's not kosher to complain about being too skinny, is it? Even now, some of you are reading this and thinking "Oh, I'm so sorry for you, you poor, sad, skinny girl. Are your diamond shoes too tight, as well?" I have had plenty of friends who have struggled with weight on the other end, who have longed to lose their baby weight, who have worked hard on diets and exercise and weight watchers and have not gotten the results they've wanted. Who have longed to be skinnier. What do I say to them in this struggle? We are just worlds apart.
I haven't always had this problem. For most of my life, I was at a normal, healthy weight. I could gain it if I ate too much ice cream and am well acquainted with the famous "freshman 15." After all, what do you expect when you combine a sweet tooth and stress with an unlimited dessert bar at college? I could lose weight if I wanted to and went through my share of phases where I wanted my body to look slimmer. I remember what it was like to long for that "hollywood" body, to buy into the idea that the slimmer I was, the more beautiful I would be. And now I hate the fact that I have what I thought I wanted.
Most days.
Here's the rub. Some days, in my darkest of hearts, I feel really good. Really proud. I like the way I look. I feel proud of the skinny. I fear the day when we will solve whatever is causing this uncontrolled weight loss and I will gain back the weight. Deep down I wonder if I really DO want to gain the weight and be healthy again. Will the compliments stop? Will I miss the skinny? Will I be satisfied with the new look which, after all, is really the way I looked most of my life?
On the other days, most days really, I count calories. Not in the way most people do. I have to make sure I've eaten more than enough. I have to make high-fat, low-sugar, gluten-free, protein-packed smoothies just to make sure I don't lose more weight. I have to get on the scale, always with a feeling of apprehension, and check to be sure that I'm at least maintaining where I currently am, staring at the screen and hoping an acceptable number pops up. And hesitantly sharing with my husband when I've accidentally lost again, like there's some kind of shame in it or that I am somehow to blame.
And friends, this is exhausting. It's much like counting every calorie on the other end in the hopes of losing weight. Except that when the people around me joke about "not taking that second piece of cake" or something going "straight to their hips", I have to keep silent. I can't interject with "Yeah, I wish I had that problem!" People look at you like you have two heads if you complain about this. And I get it. Who else struggles with this? Well, honestly, probably a bunch of people like me who keep it to themselves because there's not a whole lot of compassion floating around out there in cyberspace for us, just videos and posts by well-intentioned people either condemning skinny people for having the wrong priorities or being sick or, on the other side, people praising us for (allegedly) working our booties off to look this way.
So every time I receive a compliment, every time I have to go buy some new clothes because my old ones no longer fit, my heart cries out "no"! Every time someone sends me an article on why sugar or gluten or sun-exposure or just, frankly, breathing may be causing my infertility and weight problems, I want to run the other way. I wonder when I refuse that cupcake at the kindergarten party if the other parents are thinking "Oh, THAT'S why she looks like that. She doesn't eat what she wants," when deep inside I would love to devour that cupcake, have a second one and wash it all down with a gallon of sweet tea. But I can't. I'll actually lose more weight and get a migraine on top of it. And if there is anything worse than a disgruntled unintentionally skinny girl, it's one with a migraine.
If I believe the compliments, I look better than I did when I was 10 pounds heavier. And I doubt anyone, when I finally, hopefully, gain the weight back will say "Wow, have you put on weight? You look amazing!" But maybe they should. Maybe I should post on facebook when I put on a pound, when I finally reach a BMI of 19 or 20, when I'm back to my pre-baby weight from 7 1/2 years ago and don't need to even worry about looking at a scale anymore. Back to being healthy.
In the meantime, I have to fight that daily battle wherein I confess that at the same time that I hate this, I sometimes also love it. That while I don't want to think of this as beautiful, I often do believe it is. And that even while I struggle with not wanting this and trying to fix it, I need to still believe that I am beautiful even if it's not the weight issue that is the focus of the beauty. That it is worth the hassle to continue to try to figure out what's causing this and fix it, and maybe get to experience the joys of eating good bread and pasta again. Because seriously, gluten. I miss you. If we have said goodbye forever, I shall fondly and longingly remember your contributions to my happiness.
And the bottom line here? My doctor has been convinced from the start that this is linked to our infertility. That my inability to maintain a healthy weight prevents this biggest of dreams that we have from coming true. That if I could just go ahead and gain 10 or 15 pounds already (easy, right?), all these "why" questions would be answered and we would have the baby we've been waiting on for four years. Which means there is yet another element of having no control in this whole crazy infertility journey because I can't do a simple thing like gain weight.
So, I will continue to drink my 600 calorie smoothies and use whole milk in my cereal. I will continue to exercise and run around with my kid because it's just plain fun and I can't be bothered about worrying if my caloric output is too high on top of everything else. I'm an active person and I like that. I will continue to ask God to help me figure out what's causing all this and for, again, patience in the meantime. I will try to be gracious to people who comment on my weight and gently explain why I wish I weighed more and why I wish our culture didn't praise the skinny. I will continue to be a skinny girl until I am not.
But dang it, when I finally break the weight threshold I haven't been able to hit, I'm gonna rejoice. With more than a smoothie.
Here's the problem, though; ever since getting pregnant the first time around, during which my metabolism went haywire, I have gotten more compliments on my appearance than in the first 28 years of my life. I hear it all the time, "You look great," "What do you do to stay so thin?" and "Man, I wish I could look like that." Usually, I just uncomfortably nod my head and say a quiet "thank you". But inside? Inside, my heart is breaking. Because I don't want that kind of attention. I don't want it to be considered good or healthy or desirable to be my weight. I don't want to do anything that affirms what our culture says about skinny being the only beautiful. I don't want a BMI of 18. I don't want this.
And the reason it has taken me almost four years to write about this? Well, it's not kosher to complain about being too skinny, is it? Even now, some of you are reading this and thinking "Oh, I'm so sorry for you, you poor, sad, skinny girl. Are your diamond shoes too tight, as well?" I have had plenty of friends who have struggled with weight on the other end, who have longed to lose their baby weight, who have worked hard on diets and exercise and weight watchers and have not gotten the results they've wanted. Who have longed to be skinnier. What do I say to them in this struggle? We are just worlds apart.
I haven't always had this problem. For most of my life, I was at a normal, healthy weight. I could gain it if I ate too much ice cream and am well acquainted with the famous "freshman 15." After all, what do you expect when you combine a sweet tooth and stress with an unlimited dessert bar at college? I could lose weight if I wanted to and went through my share of phases where I wanted my body to look slimmer. I remember what it was like to long for that "hollywood" body, to buy into the idea that the slimmer I was, the more beautiful I would be. And now I hate the fact that I have what I thought I wanted.
Most days.
Here's the rub. Some days, in my darkest of hearts, I feel really good. Really proud. I like the way I look. I feel proud of the skinny. I fear the day when we will solve whatever is causing this uncontrolled weight loss and I will gain back the weight. Deep down I wonder if I really DO want to gain the weight and be healthy again. Will the compliments stop? Will I miss the skinny? Will I be satisfied with the new look which, after all, is really the way I looked most of my life?
On the other days, most days really, I count calories. Not in the way most people do. I have to make sure I've eaten more than enough. I have to make high-fat, low-sugar, gluten-free, protein-packed smoothies just to make sure I don't lose more weight. I have to get on the scale, always with a feeling of apprehension, and check to be sure that I'm at least maintaining where I currently am, staring at the screen and hoping an acceptable number pops up. And hesitantly sharing with my husband when I've accidentally lost again, like there's some kind of shame in it or that I am somehow to blame.
And friends, this is exhausting. It's much like counting every calorie on the other end in the hopes of losing weight. Except that when the people around me joke about "not taking that second piece of cake" or something going "straight to their hips", I have to keep silent. I can't interject with "Yeah, I wish I had that problem!" People look at you like you have two heads if you complain about this. And I get it. Who else struggles with this? Well, honestly, probably a bunch of people like me who keep it to themselves because there's not a whole lot of compassion floating around out there in cyberspace for us, just videos and posts by well-intentioned people either condemning skinny people for having the wrong priorities or being sick or, on the other side, people praising us for (allegedly) working our booties off to look this way.
So every time I receive a compliment, every time I have to go buy some new clothes because my old ones no longer fit, my heart cries out "no"! Every time someone sends me an article on why sugar or gluten or sun-exposure or just, frankly, breathing may be causing my infertility and weight problems, I want to run the other way. I wonder when I refuse that cupcake at the kindergarten party if the other parents are thinking "Oh, THAT'S why she looks like that. She doesn't eat what she wants," when deep inside I would love to devour that cupcake, have a second one and wash it all down with a gallon of sweet tea. But I can't. I'll actually lose more weight and get a migraine on top of it. And if there is anything worse than a disgruntled unintentionally skinny girl, it's one with a migraine.
If I believe the compliments, I look better than I did when I was 10 pounds heavier. And I doubt anyone, when I finally, hopefully, gain the weight back will say "Wow, have you put on weight? You look amazing!" But maybe they should. Maybe I should post on facebook when I put on a pound, when I finally reach a BMI of 19 or 20, when I'm back to my pre-baby weight from 7 1/2 years ago and don't need to even worry about looking at a scale anymore. Back to being healthy.
In the meantime, I have to fight that daily battle wherein I confess that at the same time that I hate this, I sometimes also love it. That while I don't want to think of this as beautiful, I often do believe it is. And that even while I struggle with not wanting this and trying to fix it, I need to still believe that I am beautiful even if it's not the weight issue that is the focus of the beauty. That it is worth the hassle to continue to try to figure out what's causing this and fix it, and maybe get to experience the joys of eating good bread and pasta again. Because seriously, gluten. I miss you. If we have said goodbye forever, I shall fondly and longingly remember your contributions to my happiness.
And the bottom line here? My doctor has been convinced from the start that this is linked to our infertility. That my inability to maintain a healthy weight prevents this biggest of dreams that we have from coming true. That if I could just go ahead and gain 10 or 15 pounds already (easy, right?), all these "why" questions would be answered and we would have the baby we've been waiting on for four years. Which means there is yet another element of having no control in this whole crazy infertility journey because I can't do a simple thing like gain weight.
So, I will continue to drink my 600 calorie smoothies and use whole milk in my cereal. I will continue to exercise and run around with my kid because it's just plain fun and I can't be bothered about worrying if my caloric output is too high on top of everything else. I'm an active person and I like that. I will continue to ask God to help me figure out what's causing all this and for, again, patience in the meantime. I will try to be gracious to people who comment on my weight and gently explain why I wish I weighed more and why I wish our culture didn't praise the skinny. I will continue to be a skinny girl until I am not.
But dang it, when I finally break the weight threshold I haven't been able to hit, I'm gonna rejoice. With more than a smoothie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Good Enough
Having to actively fight the perfectionist side of myself while I take these three classes is a true battle. I want the A. Gosh darnit, I ...
