Gut punched

In the Christian realm, the "issue" of giving money to the homeless is occasionally brought up. In these conversations, the argument is almost always made about how if you give money to a homeless person, they're going to use it to buy drugs or alcohol.

A while back, this subject came up with my dearest friend. He gave me a new perspective that I have found to be so powerful, I felt the need to share it. He said (paraphrasing) that we give money to all sorts of individuals (celebrities, organizations that support causes we don't agree with) who don't need it, that we know will not be used for the Christian good (Tom Cruise, Kanye West, Snoop Dogg anyone!?!?!?), so what causes us to think twice before giving money to a person that we can clearly see needs our money?

It's a bit of a sucker punch if you really think about it. Why does the guise of "entertainment" all of a sudden nullify and void our responsibility? Why does the guise of "homeless" do the same? Why aren't more Christians freaking out about how many people in our country have no bed to sleep in? Why aren't more Christians rushing out to care for the gentleman/gentlewoman who is standing on the street corner holding up a sign? Why is it so hard for us to do?

It is incredibly hard for me to do, I confess. I have been wracking my brain trying to understand the reason for it and I can't think of a justifiable one. The closest that comes to mind is a sense of mistrust. But that would only be reasonable if I am entitled to know what these individuals do with my gift, which I am not. Jesus did not say "feed the hungry" as long as they can show you that they truly DO live in a cardboard box, have never touched a drop of alcohol, and are 100% sober and attempting to find gainful employment. And how do I know that this person is not teetering on the fence of salvation? How do I know that this person is not an angel in disguise, or has not just cried out to God: If you really exist then give me food for tonight! Why are we so disturbed by the presence of the houseless individuals? Is it the burden of responsibility that we are oh so comfortable ignoring? Is it our own failures being shoved in our faces? Our failures of actually obeying what Jesus has commanded us to do: feed the hungry, give shelter to the homeless, care for the orphans...

It's amazing how easy it is to give money to an organization when the person who desperately needs it is standing right in front of my face, ASKING  me to help them. Why do my eyes so quickly and desperately turn away from their plea for mercy? Why is my heart not overflowing with love and a deep desire to provide for their needs? How dare I profess to be a "Christian" while passing them by...?

Ranting and Raving

Allow me to go on a bit of a rant, and please forgive me if you find it obnoxious. I have just had quite enough of a particular subject and since this is my blog, I get to do what I want to.

I am SICK AND TIRED of the male species calling women a gold digger in a derogatory way. Now, given my husband's chosen profession, I have not been accused of this circumstance (seriously...), but I have been a part of many conversations involving this subject and it irritates me. 

Why does it irritate you? That's easy to answer. Because the people who are making these accusations, are hypocrites. If a man assesses whether or not a woman is of value based on her physical appearance, he has NO RIGHT to make any comments about a woman assessing HIS value based on his ability to provide her with the lifestyle she desires. Period. Cut, paste, go to print. Check mate. Yada yada. No right, whatsoever. 

I have heard so many men complain about women wanting to know how much money they make, etc etc, and then two sentences later continue on about her being "hot" or "doable" or "attractive." In fact, in the majority of all conversations I have with a male species discussing a female love interest, the very first things they SAY are about appearance!

Now a man will tell you that he can't "possibly" marry a woman he's not attracted to. Fine. If that's the reality for you then great. But why would you be so shallow to have that viewpoint, but then not tolerate a female having an equally shallow assessment about you? Why? Because you're a hypocrite. Do as I say, not as I do.

Do I think being a gold digger is right? No. I think if your foundation of love for someone begins with financial stability there is something definitely wrong with your heart. Just as I believe that if you would marry someone with a foundation of physical attraction then I believe there is something wrong with your heart. 

But overall, my biggest point is this: know what you're marrying and then stop asking for people to feel sorry for you because you have to deal with it. If you marry a gold digger, then don't feel sorry for yourself when she wants you to make more and more and more money. Don't feel sorry for yourself when she doesn't support you quitting the job that you hate. Don't complain when she is constantly asking for more and more stuff. And if you're that girl who marries a guy who is 100% focused on what you look like, then don't act SHOCKED when he expects you to not gain weight, or have wrinkles, or to dress sloppily (even if you have five kids and you've been dealing with them all day). Stop entering in to relationships with this ridiculous idea that who you've married is going to somehow disappear into thin air and become some magically different human being. It doesn't happen. If you marry a self centered donkey, stop expecting them to become magically self sacrificing. If you marry an emotionally charged human being, don't expect them to become logical. And vice versa. It's NOT going to happen!

I am so annoyed with the ridiculousness of some people's decisions! 

Okay. Rant over. 

For now... ;)

Clean it up!

This weekend has been filled with cooking, baking, and cleaning. Of course there was some snuggling and laughing thrown in there too, but it's been mostly work work work! The hubs and I decided to reorganize our kitchen (it's been a mess for far too long now). In the process of all of that work, I noticed something while moving the microwave, it needed to be cleaned!

I hate cleaning the microwave. It's always a pain in the neck and it never looks the way I want it to. Well, for some reason, my brain remembered something about cleaning with lemons and microwaves. I didn't have any lemons, but I did have limes, so I figured I would give it a try. Here's what I did!

I took one whole lemon, cut it in half and placed it in the microwave. I set the timer to 45 seconds and turned it on. I opened the microwave, took a paper towel (you'll need this. The limes are hot!) and grabbed one of the limes. I turned it over (so that the skin was in my hand and the fruit was exposed) and wiped down the entire microwave. I did not have to scrub anything. I didn't need to apply any pressure. The stuff came RIGHT off! When finished, I threw away the lime and took a wet paper towel and wiped everything down one more time (to make sure there was nothing sticky left inside).

The entire cleaning ordeal took approximately 2 minutes (including microwaving time). It was the quickest I have ever cleaned my microwave. It was also the cleanest it has ever looked!

Don't you just love natural cleaning tips? Isn't it crazy how much money we waste on cleaning "products" when good ole Mother Nature has figured all of this stuff out for us!?

Tragic Goodbyes

I hate getting a new computer. It's not that I mind spending the money. It doesn't really bother me to spend money on myself or my family, if it is purposeful. It is about a relationship being over.

My computer and I have had some good times. I have shed many a tear (and an awful lot of laughs) in front of this computer screen. I have skyped with my best friend when he was deployed, multiple times, in front of this keyboard. I've clicked out angry, encouraging, and broken hearted emails. I've poured out my heart on this very blog, through the keyboard of this computer. She has worked fiercely and tirelessly to function the way I want. She has held my children's pictures, my kids' educational needs, and the needs of the volunteer work that I mostly enjoy.

But today, she announced that she was about to take off to the land of old and tired laptops. She's been giving me signs of distress for a while now. I've used up her mental capacity and she's grown weary. She is, after all, 5+ years old (ancient in laptop land). She's been slowing down and taking her sweet time to do things. I think her bones are aching.

This morning she froze in place and stopped moving. I could hear her breathing, but she didn't respond to my clicks or mouse prods. I had to forcefully shut her down. When I did that she launched into a system check that confirmed my suspicions: she is done.

So it appears that we will be getting a new one and I'll have to build up a new relationship with some other laptop. Gone will be the days of Windows 7 and I will have to adapt to Windows 8. I'll have to wipe this computer, and destroy the memory banks so that some stranger can not access her scattered brain and steal my identity. How utterly tragic.

My poor girl. You've served me well. Now where is my sledge hammer? :)

Polar Bear Plunge

When I was younger I had a mental image of my adult life. The picture was so vivid and powerful. I remember the distinct moment where it forked in the road. I had to choose, image or reality. It was time to stop envisioning and start living. You see life pictures are such a ridiculous thing to envision. The real joys, the real awesome moments of life are things you could never have possibly imagined.

The day I married Chief, I felt sick to my stomach. I felt, literally, like vomiting. I felt like a tiger about to be caged. I didn't have all those dreamy, musically sappy emotions that so many people seem to experience. I didn't want to get married. I wanted to be married, but not actually take the step of entering into it. I had no dreams of relinquishing my life, my heart, my self to another human being. So what I had imagined my wedding to be, ended up not happening at all. The truth is that it was an awful day. Sounds funny to write that, but it's true. My wedding day completely sucked. Hated the dress. Hated the church. Hated the rush of it all. Hated pretty much everything about it. Except two things: 1. I married the greatest man I've ever known and 2. my dad made me feel so safe, so brave, in what was probably the scariest moment in my life at the time.

I knew that being married would be tough. I knew Chief better than anyone else, well before I was willing to marry him. I knew that he knew me. I always had the belief that two people should enter into a permanent union with their eyes wide open. They should know the good, the bad, and the ugly before they decide whether or not til death do they part. I held nothing back. I didn't participate in the ridiculous mating rituals of "I'll show you my good side". I always thought that was stupid (I still do, by the way). How can someone adequately assess if the promise is really a good idea if they don't know the real you!?

He knew I didn't want to get married. He knew I was a flight risk. He knew it so well that he knew to spend time with me the day of our wedding (collective GASP!) right before the ceremony (double gasp!). He knew I just had to get through the promise. (I feel it necessary to add, for history's sake, that he threatened the tar out of me too... I will never talk to you again!!! He clearly was nervous I would bail again...) It was like standing at the edge of the lake waiting to join the Polar Bear Club (yes, I'm a member). You're standing there staring in to the water and you feel like your heart is in your chest. You have these self protecting notions screaming so loud you can barely think: get the hell out of here!!! but you have this other part that says I can do this. I want to do this. I know I can rock this. And no, I'm not referring to the wedding day. I'm referring to the relationship. I knew I was made for Chief. I knew he was made for me. There wasn't a doubt in my mind. Not even a slight doubt. Chief and I were meant to be. 

I was standing in the hallway, waiting to go down the aisle to the dude that was going to rock my world, staring ahead at the plunge. My brain was screaming at me to run away... Marriages don't work. What married people do you know that are happy? You're doomed to repeat the mistakes of your parents. You can't handle being alone. What on earth makes you think you can handle a soldier? And then my Dad cut through the internal screaming: "Are you ready?" He must have sensed that I was contemplating running out of the church. He said "If you don't want to do this we will walk out of this church right now and NO ONE will say anything to you." I laughed. (He always makes me laugh when I most need to) "No Dad. He's the one. I'm just scared." He said: "We'll do it together. I've got you." 

And with that, we linked arms and walked down the aisle: I made the plunge. With that I let go of my very life, and gave it to someone else. With that I erased my name, and the disappointments that went along with it, and merged my very self to something new. 

Now, years later (I am battled scarred, after all... haha) I can say that the pictures I envisioned of my adult life were nothing close to what my life is actually like. How could I have ever imagined something as amazing as all this? 

Rumination Syndrome

My son was recently diagnosed with a very rare condition called Rumination Syndrome. To help to define the perimeters of how rare this condition is, there is no known treatment plan for a child of his age. If he was 12, it wouldn't be that complicated, but 5? Nope, nada, nil.

This inspired a phone call to the Mayo Clinic. You know how many children under the age of 10 they have treated with this condition? One. That's right folks, one child. And that child was 9, not five. 

To explain, Rumination Syndrome is where your body involuntarily regurgitates (or vomits) up your food. You have no pain, nausea, or feelings of discomfort. Your food just refuses to stay in your stomach. The result of this is malnutrition. You are essentially starving because your body won't keep food in your stomach long enough to digest it. 

My son is underweight and under-size. He is considered to be the size of a very small four year old. The belief is that it's because he's not getting adequate nutrition. It doesn't matter how much we feed him, it won't stay down.

He was diagnosed three years ago with another rare gastrointestinal syndrome called Gastroparesis. He was the youngest child that his Pediatric GI had ever seen with it. He was 2. This was discovered after he spent a month vomiting every.single.thing that went into his mouth. By the time he was hospitalized (yes it took a month because there was no consistency with physicians and they all kept saying he had a stomach "bug"), he couldn't lift his head. He looked skeletal. My two year old child had lost nearly 10 pounds. 

For the past year, the medications for Gastroparesis stopped working. His condition was getting worse again. We went in for our routine six month check, and his doctor became convinced something else was going on. After a plethora of tests, we discovered he no longer has Gastroparesis (YAY!), but he does have Rumination Syndrome.

Let me put it to you how our doctor put it to us:

Doc: He's got Rumination Syndrome.

Me: Okay. What do we do about it?

Doc: Well... I have NO idea.

Me: Huh?

Doc: This is astoundingly uncommon to see it in a five year old. This is something that we see with adolescents. It's associated with Bulimia and severe anxiety.

Me: Okay...

Doc: I have nothing more I can do. But I'm going to do some research, contact some colleagues, as I'm sure you're going to do as well. Lets communicate and see what we can come up with. 

Me: You've got it.

It's not very often that your specialist doctor is stumped!

Today I spent three hours pouring over medical reference texts, websites, and on the phone with treatment programs. The other day I spent three hours on the phone with the Pediatric Gastroenterology head nurse at the Mayo Clinic. We are submitting a request to see if they will take on my son's case.

This child has endured uncommon experiences from  the beginning of his life. He's a triplet, wasn't supposed to survive in utero, wasn't "supposed" to survive after birth. He wasn't "supposed" to be smart. He wasn't "supposed" to walk. He has overcome so many medical situations. He knows far too much about IV's, hospitals, nurses, and doctors. But you know what? This kid is a rock star. He is smart, funny, charming. He is loving and silly. He loves Star Wars and Star Trek and cars. He has a deep love for all people (young and old, male and female). He befriends almost everyone he meets, even if they're putting in IV's (he HATES IVs). He loves Legos and his sisters. He shouts out "THANK YOU!!!!" to every police officer, firefighter, paramedic, security guard, MP, etc that he sees, whether or not they can hear him. He has a passionate love for all things Army and Marines. He has conquered a thousand odds.

So here's one more thing for this amazing kiddo to conquer. And conquer it I know he will. 

Blackberry Oatmeal

I know that some of you are waiting patiently for my Chili Recipe. I intend to make another batch here soon so I'll be able to get some good pictures of preparation and get it posted on here. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this quick (and easy) recipe for Blackberry Oatmeal. You'll be shocked at how simple it is! Enjoy!

Blackberry Oatmeal

Ingredients:
njoy this Oatmeal
Ziploc bag
Blackberries

1. Prepare oatmeal per package instructions
2. Wash blackberries in cold water
3. Place blackberries in Ziploc bag. Press the air out and seal the bag.
4. Mash the blackberries with your fingers. Be careful that you don't puncture the bag. (in our home the kiddos enjoy the pleasure of this activity)

5. Use scissors to cut the tip off of the bag.

6. Squeeze the blackberry "syrup" into the oatmeal.

 7. Serve and enjoy!

4

They told me it would get easier, having multiples. They say time heals all wounds and that life goes on and you get over things and you accept them and they get easier. In some ways that's true. In some aspects it is easier. I get to sleep at night. I'm not constantly changing diapers or feeding an infant who never. stops. crying. But that's not unique to a set of triplets. All mothers endure the same agonies: exhaustion, sleep deprivation, physical and emotional fatigue...

They are so much older now. Their conditions have become "normal". So normal, in fact, that when a physician diagnoses your son with one of the world's rarest gastrointestinal condition it doesn't even phase you. How completely screwed up is that? You don't even blink an eye...

My children are about to be baptized next Sunday. In the process of this experience, there was a discussion about their Catholic names and who their patron Saints would be. It was discovered that all of my children are named after saints. All of their names accurately define their personalities. And I couldn't help but wonder about our dead baby. What was that baby's name? What was their personality? Who would they have been?

It was a silent agony. It was something that I didn't share because at the time I was immersed in the circumstance of keeping the other three alive. The fourth child is something the triplets talk about constantly. I hate that. I wish they wouldn't. It hurts like hell. But then there's this part of me that knows it's incredibly selfish to prevent them from talking about and remembering the fourth member of their group. The four of them, collectively, attached to my body. The four of them heard my heartbeat and knew each other from the very beginning. The four of them experienced this endeavor from the beginning...

But three were born alive, for a reason that I will probably never know. One went to heaven, before ever seeing the light of day, or feeling the sun on their face. One went to heaven before feeling my kisses, or knowing my touch. One went to heaven, possibly so that others could live. Could that one child have been so self sacrificing so as to give their very life up, for the other three?

The triplets function as one. They talk constantly about feeling each other, knowing what they're thinking, and the agony they feel when they are apart. They function with one brain, or soul, or being that I can't relate to and I don't understand. But maybe they function as quads. Maybe there's one aspect of themselves that's in heaven, calling them to Christ and waiting for the four of them to be together. Maybe there's one who prays for them in a realm that I can't see.

I ache for that child. I ache for the remains that I gave birth to when the three were born. I ache that I wasn't strong enough to handle the situation before me, at the time. I ache that I didn't honor that child, or grieve for them adequately. I ache that we didn't give that baby a name...

They say that time heals all wounds. They said this would get easier as the years passed. But I tell you, that in the five years since I gave birth to my four children at once, only three of which had beating hearts, the ache has not disappeared. The guilt I carry is everlasting.

I wish I could have known you, known your quirks, known your face. I wish that our relationship would be deeper than the-four-that-never-were. I wish I would have talked about you and shared about your existence. I wish they wouldn't talk about you and miss you as much as they do. But most of all, I wish that it wasn't necessary for you to go to heaven before the rest of us... I wish we weren't here without you.

Waves

I was knee-deep in self misery and wallowing. I was trapped in self pitying scenario, like a broken record skipping over and over again. I was lost in the vicious mind-cycle of asking why, over and over again. And one day I woke up and finally accepted the outcome. One day the changes became habits and the habits became the norm and I stopped asking. It was what it was. It is what it is. And it will be what it will be.

So I put one foot in front of the other and I transformed myself to this new reality. I could handle it. I could juggle it all. I thrive in chaos. It's what's been the norm my whole life. I was equipped.

I think I did a pretty good job of it. It started to feel like it wasn't that big of a deal. But then a moment would come where someone would ask about it and I'd list each condition, each challenge, each diagnosis and my whole head would start spinning and I would think Do I really do this every single day!?

The truth of it all is that I am exhausted. I'm sick of doctors. I'm sick of tests. I'm sick of "conditions" and medicine and creams and on and on. I'm sick of going through every single day with eighteen thousand things that my brain has to remember and process and deal with. I'm. tired.

What I most want to convey to people is that parents with children who have special needs are exhausted. They don't need to be pitied or rescued. They need you to understand that sometimes they alienate, they "disappear", they don't call for a while, they withdraw... Not because they don't appreciate you, or value you in their lives. They do it for self preservation. They do it to climb inside of themselves, lick their wounds, and re-emerge stronger.

I am so tired. I am just trying to keep going. It's hard when you're so tired of things you can't change, fix, or will away. I'm tired of conditions and there is nothing I can do about them. I'm tired of all of things that massively impact my life, and I can not influence them at all. I'm tired of medicine. I'm tired of tests. I'm tired of going to the doctor all the time.

I have so much to count as my blessings. I work hard to speak of those things, and to focus on those things. Not in an effort to ignore my frustrations, but rather in an effort to keep my mind focused on the good. It's like being a wave. You can choose to lament over being crashed on the shore, sucked out to sea, and then tossed around over and over again, or you can choose to acknowledge that the sand is always there to catch you.

I am blessed that I have one heck of a beautiful beach always there to catch me. I'm blessed that he is the backbone of all that I am, and that he is strong enough to handle the ferociousness of my crashing down. I am thankful that he resists the force of my churning, but yet moves and bends with me. He works against me and with me at the same time. And the result is something beautiful that only the two of us together can create.

But today I'm tired. Today I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself. Today I want to cancel the doctor's appointments that we have almost every single day for the next week. Today I want to not give any medicines or treatments or any thought to conditions...

But instead I'll keep crashing on that beach. And I'll take great comfort in that he'll always be there to catch me when I fall. Today I'll focus on that, and maybe tomorrow I won't feel so drained.