‘Tis Grace…

As I celebrate the beginning of my 30’s, I can’t help but look back on my 20’s. I was shocked at how much actually happened in the last ten years; it has me excited about what might be in store for the next ten. Hopefully, I won’t bore you with all my memories – if I do, too bad!

In my 20’s…

I got married, bought a house, lost three babies to miscarriage, gave birth to three living babies, had surgery nine times (yeah… more on that another time).

I worked for a newspaper, a toy store, an office supply store, and a church.

I became an aunt, lost two grandparents, left a church, started attending a new church, lost friends, made new friends.

I got my first laptop, got my first and second iPhone (I got the second one yesterday, I was still 29!), and supported my husband as he worked to get his master’s degree.

I thought I would die for wanting children, I said goodbye to babies I never got to hold, I grew angry with God for punishing me by taking away my babies, I learned that God loved me with a tenderness that I didn’t realize could even exist.

I was told that Ethan might not live and that his only chance for survival might be emergency surgery while I was still pregnant, I watched as Ethan grew and the pulmonary sequestration didn’t, I held my son for the first time – wishing never to let him go, I laughed when they gave him a sedative before his CT-scan because it made him giggle, I watched as they carried him off to surgery in that adorable hospital gown, I wept as he moaned pitifully after waking from the anesthesia, I held him as he tried to sleep tangled in wires and tubes and IVs, I rejoiced when that ordeal was finally over.

I was shocked to see two babies on the ultrasound screen, I carried twins in my belly until I thought I’d explode, I gave birth to and nursed the most beautiful girls God ever created, I slept less and cried more than I ever had in my whole life.

Thanks to the Internet, I made my first purchase and sale on eBay and Craigslist, made my first friends in Australia, New Zealand and China, I found support for the most difficult times in my life, I joined Facebook against my better judgment.

I went whitewater rafting and zip-lining, I tried new foods, went snorkeling, totaled a car, saw the Grand Canyon and Zion National Park, I saw Las Vegas and flew home on 9/11, I cried when I saw the Towers fall yet praised God that it was not our plane that flew into them.

In the past ten years, I’ve grown from a kid who thought she knew everything into a woman who’s quite certain she has a lot to learn. I think these past ten years and my future are summed up quite nicely in a verse from my favorite hymn:

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come.
‘Tis grace that hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

Who knew bathrooms could be so important?

Before I was pregnant, I didn’t bother to look for the restrooms every place I went. I didn’t chose one store over another because of the cleanliness or locations of their restrooms. All that changed, though, soon after I received the news that I was pregnant. It’s almost as if my bladder had its own ears so that when the nurse uttered those magical words, “It’s positive!” it shrank three or four sizes.

Now, I must point out that it’s a fact that I have a small bladder to begin with. I actually underwent several highly embarrassing tests to find out why I had to pee so often only to have them tell me that I am perfectly healthy (yay!) but I have a bladder the size of a lima bean (boo).

You can imagine then – especially if you’ve been blessed to carry a child in your womb – how much more often I had to pee when I became pregnant. Suddenly, my first priority upon entering a store was to find out where the bathrooms were. I avoided places like Olive Garden where the bathrooms were located by the entrance and I was always inevitably seated at the back of the dining area. When I got too large to “hover” (I did manage to hover during my pregnancy with Ethan until the last month, but with the twins, it was impossible after around five months), my goal was to only go places where I knew the restrooms were clean. I’d choose Taco Bell over Don Pablo’s if I knew that the restrooms were cleaner there. (What universe that might happen on, I have no idea, but you get the point.) When I was pregnant with the twins, I almost decided not to leave the house rather than try to find a nice place to pee.

Right after Ethan was born, I thought bathrooms would take on a less significant role in my life. No, honestly, I did. Really. Ok, you can stop laughing now. First, there was the obvious issue of changing diapers – and possibly trying to scrub baby poop out of my shirt from one of his many blowouts. However, the biggest challenge I had was finding a bathroom suitable for breastfeeding. Alright, alright, I can hear all your comments already – I know I have the right to nurse wherever. But I hated the idea of making other people uncomfortable, so I often sacrificed my comfort in order to keep everyone happy. The worst place I ever nursed was in the public restrooms at Jacob’s Stadium (you know, the place where the Indians play? I refuse to call it anything else.). I actually would have nursed in my seat in the bleachers if I could have, but there were a bunch of drunken college guys sitting behind me and they’d already been staring at my chest the entire afternoon. So yeah, I went into the bathroom to nurse Ethan. I nearly suffocated, but my child was fed. After that, restrooms with chairs outside the stalls become quite important.

Then came potty training. At least by that point, I was well-versed on the location of every restroom in every store we went to. And with Ethan, it was pretty easy – hold him facing the toilet while he peed and then you’re done. For some stupid reason, I thought that it would be that easy with the girls, too. No one ever told me that you can’t control the direction girls’ pee will come out! Seriously, even with our nifty travel potty seat, I never knew if I’d be changing their pants when they were done peeing because it went a different direction every time they peed! I’d try to help them lean forward, but then it would go down a leg. They’d lean to the side and it would come squirting out the front! At least with boys, you can point their penis in whatever direction you want it to go. It’s rather convenient actually, like a little hose.

I hope I’m not the only one who has this obsessive compulsion to find bathrooms before they look at a menu. Who chooses Walmart over the competing store because they have a bathroom in the front and the back of the store. (I hate it, though, when we’re in the middle of the store and one of the kids says, “My has to pee, Mommy!” It sends me into an instant state of panic. Which one can I get to faster? Which one has room for all of us in one stall? Which one has less grossness for my kids to touch?)

Please tell me I’m not alone. Or at least tell me I made you laugh because if I’m insane, it would be nice to know I’ve at least provided someone else comic relief.

More uplifting thoughts about pregnancy

After reading and re-reading my post from yesterday, I realize that it may seem as though I hated being pregnant. I did, except for one thing – when my babies moved inside me. Even the freakish alien part. Feeling a little person you’re longing to meet move inside you is the most indescribable sensation. Aside from that, however, I was exceedingly glad when I got to hold my babies on the outside. The joy of holding your new baby for the first time makes me understand why Michelle Duggar has gotten pregnant so many times.

Tom and I began to talk about “more” when the girls were around a year old. That’s when I began to suffer from a very familiar pain – Endometriosis. I’d already had three laparoscopic surgeries to remove the adhesions over the past four years. So this time, my doctor recommended a hysterectomy. What a difficult decision. It’s one thing to use birth control or something you can choose to reverse if you want kids later. But taking out one’s uterus means THE END. No chance of ever having kids again. After much prayer and a gazillion long talks with Tom, we realized that our family was complete. So I had a complete hysterectomy with the removal of my left ovary – the evil one.

It’s awesome to know I’ll never have a period again. I’m beyond relieved that I’ll never have another miscarriage. When I see a pregnant woman waddling through Walmart, I’m usually glad it’s not me. There are times, though, when I want to go back in time and make my kids babies again. I want to rock them to sleep and hold them in my arms and touch their soft cheeks and smell the baby smells. I don’t want another baby – I just want my kids to stop growing so darn fast.

Great, now I’m tearing up. Seriously. What was the point of this post again? Oh, that’s right. I was trying to explain that even though I didn’t love being pregnant, I would do it all over again just to hold my babies. I also want to point out that going through miscarriages and infertility doesn’t mean you’re going to love being pregnant. I struggled with guilt when I had morning sickness because I thought I was supposed to be thankful for feeling sick. I struggled with guilt when I felt fat. I struggled with guilt when my hips hurt so bad it brought tears to my eyes. I finally got the thing I’d been longing for my whole life (or at least for the last several years) and it didn’t make me happy. (Actually, I find that to be true about everything I’ve ever longed for – when I finally got what I wanted, it didn’t truly satisfy me. But that’s another post for another day when I’m capable of forming complete thoughts.)

In conclusion (because I can’t find a better way to transition to my final thoughts), don’t let anyone make you feel bad if you didn’t love being pregnant. That doesn’t mean you don’t love your kids or that you wouldn’t move heaven and earth to protect them. It just means you don’t particularly enjoy tossing your cookies, sciatic nerve pain, pubic diastasis (google that one, it’s a doozy), looking like a whale, peeing every five minutes, heartburn, bloating and all the other hidden delights of pregnancy. That doesn’t make you a bad mother; it just makes you human.

Tell me how you REALLY felt

Pregnancy is a strange thing. Some women blossom when they are pregnant. They get that “glow” about them and they love their new shape. They exercise and eat right and look amazing right up to the day they give birth. Not me.

I started gaining weight the day I found out I was going to have a baby. By the time I had Ethan, I had gained more than 50 pounds. All around me, my new mommy friends were bragging about how they only gained 15 pounds and wore their pre-pregnancy jeans home from the hospital. I could barely fit into my pre-pregnancy sweatpants several weeks after Ethan was born.

I also experienced terrible hip pain. Like “kill me now” hip pain. By the time I was five months along, I couldn’t put on my underwear without pain shooting through my pelvis and hips. My exercise at that point consisted of rolling out of bed like a beached whale and waddling to the bathroom 15 times a night.

Speaking of night, how many pillows does it take to make a pregnant woman comfortable? There aren’t enough in the world. Sleep was a joke. A really bad joke.

Being pregnant with twins was, well, twice as bad. My belly didn’t grow much faster than it did with Ethan until around 30 weeks. In fact, by the end of the pregnancy (I made it to 37.5 weeks) I hadn’t gained any more than I had with just Ethan. However, I was HUGE. I outgrew all my maternity clothing and even Tom’s extra large shirts barely covered my belly. You know you’re huge when even your OB tells you that you look like you are about to pop.

The skin on my belly was stretched so tight that even the slightest touch was nearly unbearable. So in the evenings, I’d pull my shirt up over my belly and collapse (well, ease myself slowly down) on the couch in sweet relief. That’s when the real fun began. Kaylee was in the exact same position Ethan had been in – head down, feet shoved into my right ribs. Sienna was laying sideways across my belly on top of Kaylee with her back against my belly button, her head was on my right and her legs and feet tucked somewhere in my left side. In the evenings, when I sat down, they started fighting. Kaylee would shift around for a comfy position, and that would make Sienna uncomfortable so she would move. She would get her feet under her somehow and push up with all her might so that her bony little butt would form a huge lump on my side. It seriously looked like aliens would burst out of my stomach at any minute.

The pain was exquisite – my hips, my back, everything hurt. My feet swelled, my hands swelled – I couldn’t even wear my wedding rings and I feared people would think I was an unmarried woman having babies out of wedlock. When I got to 36 weeks, I was at the doctor for a check up and I began crying when he asked how I was doing. I begged him to schedule a c-section for the next day. He managed to convince me that I could wait another week or so. It was pure misery. I want to cry right now just remembering those days.

Was it worth it? Oh yes, a million times yes. My kids are the biggest blessings in my life and I would go through pain a thousand times worse just to keep them with me. Will I ever do it again? Well, I have no uterus now, so the answer is no. But if I could, I don’t think I would anyway. I like my family just the way it is. It feels complete. Nine months of torture (twice) is nothing compared to the incredible joy of raising my kids.

Me, the morning I had the girls.

Rainy Day Lament

I’m so happy to see the sun out. It’s really hard to be cooped up in the summertime when your kids think they should be able to go outside. The first day isn’t so bad. I dig out the “rainy day activities” – crafts, toys we don’t let out unless we’re trapped inside, special snacks, perhaps a movie. The second day, well, that’s when the whining starts. It’s not so bad at first – just a squeak here and there. Easy to remedy. The third day. Ahh. The third day. That’s when the whining becomes more of a persistent, nagging noise. That’s the day when I let them watch two movies. And eat popcorn. And ice cream. And fruit snacks. And anything else that will keep their mouths from being able to make that grating noise.

The real horror begins on the fourth day. They wake up whining. They whine while they are chewing. They whine when they are swallowing. They don’t sleep for nap time because we haven’t been doing enough moving around. They are tired of movies, tired of crafts, and terror of terrors, they are tired of “special snacks.” They don’t want to play follow the leader or musical chairs anymore. They don’t want to read another book. They want their sandbox, their kiddie pool, and their tricycles. I just want out of the house!

Thank the Lord for museums. Seriously. Air conditioning. Alice the allosaurus, fish, bunnies, and turtles. A shadow catcher. Train tables. Candy sticks at the gift shop. None of my kids have ever gotten bored with the museum. They are terrified of Alice, but they still love to go. We like it so much, sometimes we even go when it’s sunny.

Anatomy Lesson – aka, No, Mommy does not have a penis.

Anyone who has young children will agree that it’s a bit awkward to figure out what to call certain parts of our anatomy. I’ve heard or read somewhere that you should teach your kids the proper names for their private parts so that if anyone ever touched them inappropriately, they would be able to tell very clearly what parts were touched. So we taught Ethan that he has a penis. Yes, I just typed the word penis.

As an adult, it’s hard for me to say the word penis out loud. Ethan, however, treats his, uh, his winkie like it’s just another part of his body. (You might recall from previous posts that my children are perfectly comfortable running around naked no matter where they are.) One morning he told me he needed to put on his underwear because his penis was cold. Makes sense, doesn’t it?

Then the girls came along. They are two and a half now and I have yet to tell them that they have any parts down there. A few weeks ago Ethan took it upon himself to give the girls an anatomy lesson while they were all peeing in the bathroom together. (Hey, they take baths together and until a few months ago, someone always peed in the tub.) I overheard him telling the girls that “Boys pee out their penises and girls pee out their butts.”

I debated for about 30 seconds – should I tell him that isn’t true? Should I tell the girls that they have *whispers* vaginas?  (Spell check just informed me that the plural of vagina is not vaginas, but since I don’t often speak of more than one vagina, I’ll just leave it.) At that point I decided that it was ok if they thought they peed out their butts. Yes, I know, I know. Damaged for life. Do you want to inform them about their vaginas? Because that’s not where pee comes from. And at this point that’s all they care about.

Since that fateful day in the bathroom, Kaylee asks me at least once a day if I have a penis. She looks at me with her big blue eyes and asks, “Mommy, does yours have a penis?”

“No,” I answer. “Mommy does not have a penis.”

“I want to see yours not has a penis.”

“No.”

“Why, Mommy?”

“Because those are private places we don’t want everyone to see.”

“Mommy, does Grandma Judy has a penis?”

“No.”

“Does Grandpa has a penis?”

“Yes.”

“Does Senna (Sienna) has a penis?”

“No.”

(Giggles) “Does I has a penis?”

“No, Kaylee, you do not have a penis.”

“I has nipples.”

“Yes, you have nipples.”

“Do you want to see my nipples?”

“No, Kaylee, those are private places too.”

Silence. Then, “Can I eat a sucker?”

Crisis averted. “Yes, let’s get a sucker.”

I know I have to tell them about their bodies someday. For now, we are working on what we can show people (and ask people to show us) and what is private. Maybe I’m hoping to preserve their innocence. Hoping to shelter them from all the filth that surrounds sexuality in our society. Perhaps, if I wait until they are a bit older to tell them why boys are different than girls, they will develop a healthy sense of what it means to develop into men and women.

Or maybe I’m just afraid to say the word vagina out loud.

Bittersweet

Bittersweet. It’s a symphony (you know, by The Verve). It’s a kind of chocolate. According to Merriam Webster, it’s also a poisonous Eurasian woody vine.

Today, though, bittersweet describes the feeling I get as I watch my kids grow up.

• Sweet: Toddler giggles; chubby hands with dimples on their knuckles; sunscreen, coconut shampoo and grape jelly-scented hugs.
• Bitter: Long, skinny arms and legs; dimples that are fading; shoes that are too small before they are worn out; clothes that will never be worn again.
• Sweet: Watching my son read a book all by himself; sibling hugs; trips to the zoo without a diaper bag.
• Bitter: Nursing for the last time; back-talking and lying; saying goodbye to old toys; not being able to carry my kids anymore.
• Sweet: Watching my little ones play together and having semi-intelligent conversations with them.
• Bitter: Watching my kids fight with each other and not having enough room for all three – or even two – of them on my lap any longer.
• Sweet: When my kids tell me they will never be too big for kisses and hugs.
• Bitter: Knowing that someday they will think they are too big for kisses and hugs.

Here’s the part that is hard to put into words – Parenting would not be nearly as sweet without the bitterness that accompanies it. We wouldn’t enjoy our babies as much if they never grew into children. We wouldn’t appreciate our kids as much if they didn’t grow into teenagers. We wouldn’t… uh… love our teens as much if they never grew into adults. It’s hard to watch those chubby-little-unconditionally-loving wee ones grow into big kids. But if they stayed babies, wouldn’t we get kinda tired of them? Too much spit up and too many diapers without any returns on all our deposits, right? So yeah, it hurts to watch them grow up, yet it’s in this pain that we find the inexpressible joy of watching those helpless babies become big people. In the bitterness, we find something sweet. Bittersweet.

Father’s Day Cometh

I stink at gift giving. Well, I think I do. Tom says I do great. The problem is that if I think I picked out something that he will actually like, I have trouble keeping it a secret because I get so excited about it. I urge him to guess and then sob uncontrollably when he gets it right.

This year, I have found that even if I manage to keep my gifts a secret, there is a certain loud-mouthed toddler who lives with us that doesn’t understand what exactly “keeping a secret” means.

I got Tom a Chicago Bears blanket (because the Browns make us sad) for his birthday. I let Ethan see it weeks before the big day. The morning of Tom’s birthday, I wrapped the blanket while all three kids were watching. We all shared conspiratorial smiles and they all promised not to tell Daddy what was in the gift. Ethan was so proud of himself for keeping it a secret for so long and I was too.

Tom walked in the door after working out at the gym (they give you a free t-shirt if you go on your birthday! woo hoo!) and we handed him the gift. He made a big show of being surprised and Ethan was practically dancing, he was so excited. Tom dramatically said, “I wonder what might be in this package!”

The next few seconds were both hysterical and devastatingly sad.

Kaylee jumped up and down and innocently shouted, “It’s a blanket!”

At that exact second, Ethan collapsed to the ground in tears. He was heartbroken. After weeks of resisting Tom’s playful efforts to find out what his birthday present might be, all his efforts were in vain – destroyed in less than a second by an exuberant little girl who had no idea what she had just done.

Our Father’s Day gift to Tom this year was to have an Ansel Adams print matted and framed. Both the girls told Tom he was getting a picture of a mountain for Father’s Day. So when I picked up the complete project from the store, I just decided to go ahead and give it to him to avoid any tears and heartache.

So tomorrow, the only surprise Tom will get is what the cards we got him will look like. That’s ok, though – it’s the thought that counts, right?

It’s bird! It’s plane! It’s a…. fossilized piece of poo?

I found something weird in the garden today. It’s a good thing I did, too because by the time I was finished weeding, my poor kids had been outside with me trying to entertain themselves for over two hours. As I was hacking apart the last of the weeds, I glanced up to see what the kids were up to.

Kaylee was running around naked, as was Sienna. Ok. Not unusual. Ethan was also naked. However, he was laying on his back on a towel in the middle of the yard singing to himself. It was at that point that I became concerned about his – er – winkie getting sunburned.

It was time to unleash the treasure I’d unearthed.

What could it be?

A fossilized piece of poo?

A thumb?

A ancient tool from the lands beyond the Stargate?

A petrified hot dog? (Doesn’t look that scared to me! Ha ha. Get it? Petrified?)

Since we’ve already found the tip of an actual arrowhead in our garden, it makes me wonder if it might actually be a kind of tool from the Native Americans that used to be in this area before the non-native Americans forced them to leave. It’s kinda shaped like a square and has two smoothish sides and two sides that are kind of pock marked. The dents resemble the marks on an arrowhead except that it’s definitely not made from flint. I suppose it’s rock, but it could be a really dense metal.

I’m sure you’re as fascinated by this thing as I am. I mean really, I could be posting pictures of my toes.

Deep thoughts and a poem

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” Galatians 5:1 (NIV)

This verse never made sense to me before. But I get it now. Did you ever see the movie “Shawshank Redemption”? There’s a part where an older man finally makes parole after spending most of his life behind bars. When he gets out, he has no clue what to do because he’s been in prison so long that being free was more frightening and overwhelming than staying in jail.

I’ve known God my whole life – I was practically born in a church. I don’t have one of those amazing “listen to what God saved me from” testimonies. So I never thought I needed to be freed from anything.

It wasn’t until this past month that I realized I was a prisoner – held captive by a body shape that is impossible to attain, by food, by fear of rejection and failure. I reached my “goal weight” and it wasn’t enough. I relied on the scale to tell me if I was good enough – and I never was. Then I didn’t know how to stop counting calories – how to just eat without obsessing about how much I was eating and if I was burning enough calories to make up for what I’d just indulged in. I was good about covering it up, but on the inside I was dying.

I finally recognized that I was enslaved and decided to give up on dieting altogether and to learn to trust my body to know what it needs. I haven’t weighed myself in several months (I have to admit that I made Tom hide the scale, though). I haven’t counted calories since I deleted the calorie counting app from my iPhone. Those first weeks were literally terrifying (I know some of you can relate). I honestly didn’t know how to live without those “chains” that made me feel secure. I feared that without them, I would become fat and unlovable.

But in the past few weeks, I have had these moments of being at peace – moments of freedom. Where I ate as many no bake cookies as I wanted without wanting to make myself throw up. Where I stopped eating the no bake cookies because I realized I wasn’t hungry for them anymore. Where I looked in the mirror at my new short hair cut and thought I looked kinda sexy. Those moments are fleeting and few and far between, but they are there. And they make me want more.

Jesus died so that I could live every minute of every day in that freedom. Yes, His death was an atonement for our sins, but He also came to “set the captives free.” If you’re being held hostage by a negative self-image – know that there’s hope. After my counseling session today, I wrote a poem. I’d like to share it with you.

A red swimsuit and sand by the lake.
Sand castles and Daddy watching.
Cool water tickling my toes, then my knees, then my waist.
Chubby little legs giving way to the waves.

On my back, looking up through the water.
Murky liquid pouring into my screaming mouth.
Kicking arms, flailing legs.
Someone help me.

Seconds, or minutes, or days.
Too small to get up on my own.
Drowning in a foot of water.
Someone save me.

Hopelessness teaming up with despair.
Then something dark blocks the light.
Strong hands touch me through the water.
Daddy.

Lifted from my grave.
Coughing, sputtering, deep breaths of air.
Tear-covered cheek resting on a strong, hairy chest.
Daddy rescued me.

I cling to Him still.