Grace

If you're anything like me, grace seems like an abstract, impossible notion to effectively give in the realm of parenting. I mean, what does that look like? We have to walk this complicated, intricate balance of how to pour out grace on our children, all the while maintaining a lesson of life: there are consequences for your actions.

I don't by any means, claim to have the "know-how" when it comes to parenting. I'm just like everyone else, doing the best that I can. That being said, I feel like today my heart had a little lightbulb moment when it comes to grace.

My daughter asked me if she could make dinner. She has been reading a book about meals that people eat in different countries and asked if she could try one of them. There was an easy smoothie recipe (that supposedly hails from Australia), and she asked if that could be our dinner. I said sure! and we proceeded to make the smoothies together. We washed and cut up apples, mango, bananas, limes, and threw in some blueberries for good measure. Lolli was tasked with getting the blender out (yes, I'm one of "those people" who store the small appliances they don't routinely use in a cupboard). She started to move it to the counter and dropped it. Then she picked it up and dropped it again (maybe she wasn't certain if it broke on the first drop? hehe). Slippery fingers? I'm not certain. I was busy cutting up apples.

Let me allow you to glimpse into the mind of mothers. We are constantly cleaning up messes. Our things are dropped, broken, spilled on, stained, destroyed. It's almost like children see something that parents love and they immediately have a robot-like need to destroy it. Because of this, mother's don't always handle broken things with grace. Sure, there are those freak-of-nature-June-Cleavers (who I am convinced are really sociopaths, hence their ability to show no angry emotions when their children destroy things) that say all of the perfect things, but for the majority of Mom's in the world the response is generally something like: WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!?!?! AAAAHHHH! YOU DROPPED IT! IT'S BROKEN! YOU DON'T HAVE ANY SHOES! SOMEBODY GET ME SOME SHOES!!!! AND THE BROOM! And then we proceed to angrily, frustratedly, perhaps silently (but usually this is that scary angry mom silence...), clean up the mess that our children have made.

On this day, I did not overreact. I said Is it broken? She said I don't think so. Dad investigated and it was. So I said Maybe Daddy will go to Walmart and get a new one and then we can finish making our smoothies. Grace. Grace poured out. And maybe that's what parental grace is supposed to be. It's not "letting it slide in grace" when our children behave like criminals (and let's be honest, children really basically behave like criminals almost daily: violence-hitting, biting, scratching, stealing-grabbing whatever toy they want when they want it, lying under oath-if I have to explain this one to you then you clearly do NOT have children, and on and on), but rather giving grace when the accidents come. Maybe grace is having the self control to recognize the things out of our children's control, and not behaving in a life-long-emotionally-detrimental way. Maybe grace looks like going to Walmart to get a new blender. Maybe grace is not being pissed when they spill (and mash) blueberries into your brand new couch. Maybe it's allowing them the freedom to destroy, fall apart, and then being the platform from which they can put things back together again.

So today I had a glimpse into how grace should show up in my home a whole lot more.

Spock and Princesses

I live in a world that I've created for myself. It's filled to the brim with meetings, tasks, events. It's an overloaded calendar and a way-too busy schedule. It's a sea of stress and over exertion.

Today I looked up and my eye caught the gaze of one of my children. She was standing about ten feet away from me, watching. I was busily working away at the computer. Emails, homeschool lesson plans, facebook pages all demanded my attention and I "needed" to get it done.

Come and play with me, Mommy.

My instinct was to say Just a minute and the truth is on any other day that's probably what I would have said. More than likely I would have said it in an irritated tone that hinted at "How dare you interrupt me?" But for whatever reason that I can't possibly give myself credit for, I got up. I walked over to her, smiled and picked her up. I spun her around and she laughed and laughed in the way that only she is capable of doing. She kissed my cheek and I stared into her brown eyes. She had a small patch of her curly hair over her eyes, between her glasses and her face. I brushed that aside and said You are SO beautiful. She proceeded to Vulcan Death grip me. I reminded her that I am immune and in my most serious super villain voice I said BUT YOU ARE NOT!!! MWA HA HA HA!

She jumped down, screamed and ran off down the hallway. She did so, in a beautiful tone that hinted at "Come and chase me Mommy!" I happily obliged, and turned myself into a Star Trek bad-gal out to get Ms. Spock (that's who she likes to be).

When it was all said and done I had this overwhelming sense in my heart that this is what I want them to remember about me. I want them to reflect back on their childhood and remember that Mommy got up from whatever it was that she was "SO busy with" and played. Even if she didn't feel like it. I want them to remember us playing with legos, barbies, and baby dolls. I want them to remember pillow fights, Sardines, and dog-piles. I want them to at least know, for a period of time that I hope to make last as long as possible, that they are safe, they are adored, they matter. Especially since reality will come in like a hurricane one day and tell them the opposite of all of those things. When it comes, it will chip away at their foundation, and I want to have built up enough of it to be able to withstand the destructive components of "you suck" that wash over children in puberty.

I want them to believe me when I tell them about how much God loves them, because I have lived a life that has shown them how much I love them.

I can't give myself credit for getting up and playing Spock. I have no idea why I did it. But for a moment, however brief it was, and how little it damaged my unending to-do list from being completed, I made my six year old brown-eyed girl feel like the center of my world. It cost me nothing, but it gave my heart so much joy.

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. 

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.

Breakfast

Have you ever pondered how much money you spend on breakfast cereals? Have you actually looked at the label and figured out what you're spoon feeding to your children? The ingredient list on some of the "healthy" cereal choices (Cheerios I'm looking at you!) will shock you!

I removed, quite a while ago, the typical boxed cereals from my home. Breakfast, in my opinion, should be something cooked. Why? Because when you have to prepare your food, you think much more about what you are consuming.

Breakfast in our home is often Oatmeal. There are a thousand different ways to flavor it: apples, pears, cranberries, nectarines, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, peaches, cinnamon, sugar, honey, milk, almonds, real maple syrup, and on and on. It's also cheap. I buy one box of oats for $6.99 a month and that feeds all of my children. You can scarcely pay that amount of money for one box of Cheerios nowadays! Plus, I control the sugar amount in their cereal (and often times I don't put any sugar at all!). Oatmeal can be made in the refrigerator (refrigerator oatmeal) overnight, in the crockpot (overnight), or in a pot in the morning (takes approximately 15 minutes from start to finish). You can use frozen fruits (I buy fruit in season, wash and freeze it myself, and use it as needed throughout the year), fresh fruit, and more. You can create a breakfast buffet with oatmeal toppings and allow your children to pick their own.

The possibilities are endless! So think about making a breakfast change and put some more change in your pocket! ;)

The experience of letting go

Unwrapping my fingers from yours, relaxing my arms and letting them drop to my sides, and standing there frozen in this moment watching you walk away. My feet are cemented to the ground. My heart is breaking. I drop my sunglasses down over my eyes. I don't like to cry. I don't like for people to see me cry. I don't like feeling so desperate.

You walk over to get in the formation that will lead you away from me. I do everything in my power to keep my mind focused and sharp. I want to remember you. I want to remember your smell, your smile, your laugh. I want to remember the feel of your scruffy cheeks in the morning before you shave. I want to remember the sound of your breathing at night. I want to remember...

Always in the back of the conversation in my mind is what if? It's an endless dialogue that will keep me company for the next year. It will plague my dreams and my thoughts. It will haunt me every time the doorbell rings unexpectedly. It will be the thoughts that pop up late at night when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet.

My ears will hunger for the sound of the garage door opening at the end of the duty day. My eyes will search for you in the sea of uniforms that surround me. Your car will shock my heart every time I pull up to our house and see it, because for a split second I will forget that you're over there and not sitting at home in our living room.

Our children will react the only way that children know how. They will be angry, out of control, emotional and they won't really understand the whole process of grief. I hate that they are learning this at such young ages.

The world will go on even though my entire world is frozen in time. People will laugh and be silly and I will feel like laughing is a betrayal and any moment that could be special is missing the majority of the equation. I will write. I will write until my hands can't move. I will do everything possible to make sure you feel included.

My phone will become my only connection to you. I will love this and hate it at the same time.

You are marching out now and I'm running as fast as I can to my car so I can be at the airfield before you and wave you in. My final goodbye. My last eye-to-eye glimpse of you. It will now be skype... the lifeline.

Somehow I have to get in my car and drive home. Somehow I have to walk in to that house with your stuff, your ghost, your memory and face those children who are all aching and hurting and give them comfort. Some how I have to get through this because they need me, and you need me, and this is what I'm supposed to do. Somehow I am going to make it through the next minute, even though it feels like my life is over. Somehow I'm going to endure this year even though in this specific moment, I feel like I. can't. breathe. Somehow...

I'll sit here in this garage waiting until the sobs stop. I'll sit here waiting until I can breathe again. I'll find the will to begin this life without you here. I'll get through the agony that I can't describe. And one day, God willing, I will wake up and this will be over.

Wrestling with God

There are moments in every mother's life where you are walking out of a giant thunderstorm, the kind that are capable of destroying your home and entire family. The clouds roll away and the sun starts shining again. You can still see the storm on the horizon as it fades away, but the sun's rays are powerful. They're healing.

Miracles do happen. Whether you or I want to accept, believe, or trust in that, they do. It's not something that can be denied. Just as oxygen is undeniable, so are miracles.

It's strange to be in that place. It's strange to be gut struck from the sheer powerfulness of the storm. I almost feel stunned in place. I almost feel frozen. I was blindsided. Not by the circumstance, but rather my emotional reaction to it. I had never felt so broken, so battered, so utterly pissed off at God in my entire life. And I think that's saying quite a lot, given what I have lived through. I was enraged. I was so angry that I couldn't communicate. I was so devastated that I didn't want to talk; to God, to Chief, to myself...

I was done. I had reached the limit of what I was capable of enduring.

I stopped believing in the possibility of hope. I stopped believing her even to be capable of being all right. I stopped praying, because I was too afraid to. I lost my faith. I lost my hope. I lost myself.

The week before we were to receive the "ultimate" news, I had this strange moment within myself. I was talking to my friend and he told me (paraphrased) to be afraid, but to not lose hope. That hope was the opposite of fear and to not ignore either. I had a reason to be afraid. But I always have a reason to have hope.

I argued with him. It's very much so the nature of our relationship: we speak truths, argue, but most of the time end up coming to very similar conclusions. It just might take one of us a while to get there.

That Sunday in church, I knew that the Holy Spirit was talking to me. It was almost surreal, how well I knew it was Him. It was so clear: Let. it. go. There was no promise that everything would be all right in the end. There was no assurance, or comfort (in the context of what every mother wants in these scenarios), just a command: let. it. go. In other words, let her go. I remember saying in my mind I can't. Don't ask me to do that. I can't. The response was quick, because it's one I have often said to my children: If it's more important to you than I am, it's an idol that you've built up in your heart, and you shouldn't have it. BINGO. Nail on the head. Flashing sign, blinking lights, arrows pointing. My child's health had become my idol.

I cried through the whole service. I wrestled and fought and I ultimately let go. I put my child on that altar and I said "Okay. She's yours. Come what may."

The next morning, I woke up feeling completely different. I felt resigned. I felt ready. I felt strengthened. I also felt like the idea of my child having cancer was finally, not the essence of the end of my life. I finally felt ready to be there for her.

That night I finally had the courage to ask for what I wanted. "God? Please don't let my daughter be dying. Please don't let her have cancer. PLEASE don't take her away from me."

It was several days later that we went in for the results. It was several days of peace and living in the moment. It was several days where we felt almost "normal". And I promise you that when we walked in to that office, hand in hand, we believed he was going to say that she had leukemia. So when he said "I can say with 100% certainty that your daughter does not have cancer." Chief and I froze. It had to sink in. We had to almost do a double take. We were ALL so surprised.

I learned a lot from the scenario. Probably more than I can adequately communicate. I learned to trust God more. As strange as that may seem to read, it's the truth. Trusting God is probably the most difficult thing for me to do. I can't even seem to bring myself to trust the people I am surrounded by, let alone a physically invisible God, who can often times seem like a complete jerk. But I specifically asked Him for my child's health and He gave it. I asked Him for it, without genuinely believing that He would give it to me, and He still did. And maybe that's what having the heart of a child is really all about. Desperation. I have a need and You are the only one who is capable of giving it to me, so PPPLLLEEEEAAAASSSEEEE!?!?!?!

What I can clearly say is laughing, playing, and living right here in front of me. I have no idea what the future holds for her, or for me, or for anyone for that matter, but I asked God and He gave. For that, I am eternally grateful.

Parenting

Some days being a parent sucks. Today was one of those days. One of our children has a very feisty temper. Well, she just has a feisty everything really, but her temper can be especially trying on one's patience and kindness. For the past week or so, she's been pushing every single button she can. She has exhausted the gentleness of her father and me. Today was no different. She was especially awful today.

I had tapped out of parenting her by the evening. When I start clenching my fists it's time for me to say that I'm finished in that moment, and I had to tell her Dad that it was his turn. Chief took over and she was as ferocious as ever. In a beautiful moment, Chief came out of the girl's room, walked up to me and hugged me. He said "Help me to use kind words." I said "Who are you talking to because I'm so mad I can barely see straight!" He said "You and God. I think she needs kind words but I'm so angry with her I just want to scream at her."

It was powerful. It was also beautiful. There we were, two grown ups, being pushed and challenged by our five year old child. There he was coming to me for a regroup, and bringing us both to God for a collected mentality.

We snuggled for a few minutes and then off he went back to fight the good fight. When he went back in to her room, in the midst of her screaming tantrum, he walked up to her and hugged her. I know because I had an overwhelming sense that I should hug her myself and when I walked in I saw them hugging while he was talking to her. We all stood there hugging in her room, talking about this behavior.

The thing that is neat to me, is that the story didn't turn out like you might have imagined. It didn't all wrap up neatly before bed. She continued acting like a lunatic. She didn't all of a sudden start to behave and apologize for her rude actions. She didn't have any sort of revelation about respecting her parents and treating people with kindness. But we did. We were reminded that she is a person (it's extra neat that as I was writing that sentence, I was reminded of what our priest said today in church: missionary work is reaching out to people and connecting with them. It's not protests and agendas, but connecting with a person in a trusting and intimate way. Powerful stuff!). We were reminded that so are we. We were schooled on the notion of self control and kindness (notice I did not say surrendering, but rather kindness). We also were drawn closer to each other and we stood side-by-side tackling this challenge as one unit.

It's amazing to me how the behavior of our children can teach us so many lessons. In the heat of this outrageously challenging evening, Chief and I could have turned our emotions on each other. We could have become angry and yelled and screamed and acted just like our child. But because of Chief's wisdom... because of his self control, the entire tone of our conduct changed. That, my friends, is leadership. It is leadership and missionary work in the most excellent of ways.