My Dad

Tonight I was terrified. I was caught up in the fear of imagining life without Chief and I was so sad. I don't get this way often, and to be honest I felt incredibly alone. I knew immediately exactly who I wanted to talk to. I wanted to talk to the one person who can always make me laugh when I ask him to. I wanted to talk to the one person who doesn't tell me to "stop thinking that way" or to "snap out of it" or to "trust God more." I wanted to talk to my Dad.

My Dad is not my dad because of genes. In fact, he and I don't share any. He and I do not have the same blood running through our veins. My Dad married my mother when I was just over three years old. When he married her, he fulfilled the greatest of vows to love, honor and cherish, not only her but also me. Let me tell you that in my life, fulfill them, he has done.

I am a daddy's girl in every way. In my world my dad is the greatest of heroes. There are a thousand reasons why he's my hero. For starters, despite the fact that I'm not genetically his child (and he does have his own "biological" children), my Dad has always treated me like his blood. He has always believed me, even when I lied, he's told me when I was being a jerk to some boy, he's given the "speech" to every single one of my serious boyfriends (and done it so successfully that they've all left terrified of him after the encounter and NEVER said what he told them), comforted me from heartbreak, fought with me (when I deserved it), fought for me (when I needed it), and loved me, despite my flaws.

My dad makes me laugh. I've heard time and time again, that I'm a lot like him. I think that's quite a compliment. When I think of my dad a few token words come to mind: hilarious (he really is), thoughtful, and loyal. My dad is fiercely loyal. I have always wanted to emulate that.

So tonight, in this complete moment of brokenness and vulnerability, I took to my dad the things that I was afraid of. I said "Dad, will you make me laugh?" and he immediately started acting silly (and I immediately started laughing). I told him why I was sad, and he immediately filled my heart with heavenly wisdom, fatherly strength, and humanly courage.

I don't think he'll ever know what he means to me. I don't think he'll ever be able to understand how much I admire him. I don't think he'll ever know how comforting it is to know that he's always got my back. He makes me braver, because I can feed off of his bravery. He makes me trust God more, because he so beautifully displays that trust in God. He accepts me. He encourages me. He supports me. I'm a stronger person because of him.

I love you Daddy. Thank you for choosing to love me so wonderfully.

Our introduction to parenthood.

When I was fifteen years old (give or take some years) I was diagnosed with severe endometriosis. I was told I would most likely never be able to have children. The scar tissue was enough to make it that even IVF would probably result in failure. So I wrapped my teenaged brain around the idea that I would never be a mother.

I went about my merry way and got married. Not right then, several years later. Because I was not supposed to be able to get pregnant, lets just say that "birth control" or some variant of that were far from my mind. At that time I had no moral opposition to birth control (I do now), but we just didn't use it. So about two and a half weeks after being married the "time of women" was late. A week late to be exact. I thought this was odd, because it was physically impossible for me to have gotten pregnant prior to my being married (unless God decided to create another miraculous birth, but I highly doubt that), and we had only been shaggalaging for a short period of time. Nevertheless the lobster pointed out that certain female assets had gotten bigger and then stated that he thought I was pregnant. Due to my belief that I was unable to conceive I thought this was pretty ridiculous. I took a test simply to oblige him. I genuinely did believe that it would be negative.

I went into the bathroom and did the "deed". Waited in there for the results, so that I could walk out and tell him "I TOLD YOU!!!!" Well, there was no need to wait the 2 minutes, that sucker was positive immediately. I opened that bathroom door walked right up to him and punched him square in the gut. Yes, yes I did. I went violent. Then I screamed at him "YOU GOT ME PREGNANT!" The worlds largest smile washed over his face. I swear, on some level, he was incredibly proud of himself. He probably thought "Yes! My man seed is SO potent that it can cut right through that scar tissue BS and implant itself in her uterus." While he sat there smiling and saying "Yay" I started to cry. Literally. This was not exciting news. I was devastated. I had plans. I had goals. I did not intend to have children. Children were going to come through adoption after medical school, after my residency was finished, when life was more "settled". They were not going to come from my body before medical school even began, a week before my husband was going to deploy.

He tried his best to comfort me. I started shaking (this is what I do when I'm panicking). I think he tried to hug me because I have a memory of pushing him away from me and saying "haven't you done enough to me!?"

I called my mom and told her. I was literally freaking out. Apparently my entire family believed that I was slutty enough to have gotten knocked up before we got married, and they anticipated this phone call as soon as they heard I was getting married. It is important to forgive them this horrible assumption as they know nothing of the military and the fact that rush weddings were incredibly common in a world where deployments were happening at the drop of a dime.

The lobster called his parents and told them and they were excited. His dad came into town that day to say his goodbye's before Chief deployed. That day Lolli's first baby gift was purchased: a lamb that spoke the words to "Now I lay me down to sleep". We still have it.

That day I was completely shocked. It was my first introduction to God having a completely different plan for my life than what I had imagined. I was blessed to bond with my firstborn in so many beautifully unique ways while her father was deployed. When he came home, she was almost five months old. She was my first child miracle. She is still the light of my heart. I have never encountered a child like her. She is filled with a spiritual wisdom and understanding that can only come from the God who miraculously created her.

It seems like yesterday that she was born. Can't believe that was almost seven years ago.

I'm sitting her in my grandpa's chair sipping hot coco from your favorite giant coffee cup. You know the one I'm talking about, the City of Los Angeles Starbucks one with the blue and white downtown LA outline. I miss you Chief. I mean, I really miss you. I've been forced to lay around all day and all that ends up happening is that I think about that you are not here and I feel sad. Everything feels so different from four months ago.

I have this feeling of impending doom. I know you probably think it's silly, and I suppose it is in a lot of ways. Feelings are not indications of what's to come. Feelings are manifestations of what we hope for, or fear. I fear you not coming home alive. I fear a world without you by my side. I fear raising our children alone. I fear having to make decisions without your wisdom. I fear not being strong enough to resist peer pressure, or to resist making stupid decisions. I fear life without you.

I have my limitations. Today I was supposed to be resting in bed. I obliged up until about an hour ago and then I felt more energized than I've felt in the past eight million years, and I went and cleaned my daughters' room. Can we say one whole bag of broken toys and trash!? I was flabbergasted! I don't understand why little kids are so lazy that they don't put things away as they dirty or break them. I seriously just don't get it.

I laid around all day. I've been dutifully taking the medications prescribed. I have consumed, up to right now, a gallon of water, and I will continue drinking until I fall asleep. I have weathered the hot flashes (seriously, hot flashes...apparently those are common when you have pneumonia), been patiently (okay, really impatiently) bored all day long, and I had a moment of complete weakness and cleaned. I hope that I don't wake up tomorrow morning more sick than I was before, but I really am feeling better!

We'll see how it goes.

True Confession

Of all people in my life, I have given you the least amount of credit deserved. I have fought you the hardest, felt the most betrayed, been the most resentful. I have girded up my loins and gone to war with you, deemed your opinion worthless, and rejected you. I have not given a thought about what you needed or wanted, instead demanding that you give what I needed. I have painted a picture, drawn the line, mapped out the road and you were going to follow it come hell or high water.

I hate you smoking. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I hate the smell of it. I hate the taste of it. I hate the cost of it. I hate the death of it. I hate that I can't make you stop. I hate that my ability to combat addiction isn't capable of fighting yours. I hate that your smoking, is my greatest weakness. I hate that it makes me resent you. 

Fear makes me hate your addiction. Fear creeps in and dominates the conversation, like the elephant in the room: what on earth would I do without you? What if our children think it's okay to do it too? What if I end up surrounded by a pool of addicts? What if my love is not strong enough to keep all of us together?

The thing is, that I have never really factored you into the equation. What if you smoke to fight away some horrible demons that invaded your brain when you first stepped foot in that country? What if you smoke instead of sniff, or drink, or abuse? What if you smoke because you need to feel like that rebel that you spent so many years being, hasn't died or completely disappeared? What if you smoke so that you don't cheat, or lie, or steal? Or you smoke so that you can be "bad boy" enough to keep me interested?

It hurt me that you spent over a year smoke free only to start again. I'm not going to lie. To be honest, I don't know how to love you enough to not hate you smoking. I'm too selfish. I want you around. I want to wake up thirty years from now, next to you and your happily functioning heart and lungs. I want it to be me and you sitting around with our grandchildren telling stories of our pasts. I want you to be the one holding me while I disintegrate when our children move away from our home. I want you to be the person I go camping with, hiking with, fear-of-heights conquering with, exploring my dangerous side with, laughing with, loving with. I want it to be you that I have gray hair and wrinkles with. 

No one knows how to love me like you do. Literally. Not a single person walking this earth, knows how to love me like you. It's amazing, completely flabbergasting, that I was so blessed to be joined with you. You love me like no other person. You lift me up, encourage me, challenge me, defend me, support me, love me, I mean really love me with all that you are. In a world filled with so many little boys, you stand tall as the greatest of men. What God has created in you humbles me. There is an awesomeness in you that can't be described. I am the luckiest woman in the world. I am the most blessed among women that this white spice rack gets to be your Mrs lobster...

So, I'm a bastard. I'm an asshole for not loving you enough to let this go. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I will try with all my might, to be as supportive as I can. Please forgive my passive aggressive comments, my overtly aggressive comments, my threats of forcing you to eat vegan, my bribes, begs, attitudes, resentments. Please forgive my silent treatments, my anger, and my inability to simply say "I love you. I'll love you no matter what. I'll keep right on choosing you every day. I'm just so scared of losing you." And as I write this, I literally can hear your voice saying "I already have..."

My funny Charlemagne.

I'd like to introduce you to my little firecracker. Her name is Charchee. Well, it's not her real name (we're not weird celebrities. Apple anyone?), but it's a nickname that has sort of stuck with her since she was incredibly tiny.

She was born incredibly tiny. She was considered to be what is called a micro premie. A micro premie is a baby that was born under a certain size and weight. Her stats weighed in at 2lbs 13oz and she was 12.5" long. She. was. tiny. I still remember the image of her with this premie sized pacifier in her mouth: it literally covered her entire face. She was so small that her blood pressure cuff was the size of a small bandaid (you know, the skinny ones). I still have it, if you need proof.

Charchee has been a fighter since birth. She was the last of the triplets to come out of my body. She was also the only one who was never intubated, or in need of oxygen (there was one time when she had the early stages of bowel death where they put a nasal canula on her, but this was precautionary only and she never required the use of assisted breathing). Charchee was in the NICU for 7 weeks. She would have come home with her brother and sister, but her bone marrow had a harder time producing red blood cells, and she became dangerously anemic. She had to have a procedure where they took all of her blood out of her body, and replaced it with healthy blood. Because of this, they required her to stay an additional 7 days in the hospital to ensure no infection occurred and that her body was adapting.

She was the first of the triplets that I was allowed to hold. She was three days old when I was allowed to finally hold her in my arms. I remember the moment so miraculously because I had been anxious to hold them all for what felt like forever. They handed me this massive bundle (she literally was covered in blankets, a hat, basically cold weather gear). When they put her in my arms, I was shocked by the weight of her. Or maybe it would be better to say, the lack of weight while holding her. She weighed nothing. Her skin was translucent. But I treasured that 15 minutes that I was allowed to feel somewhat normal. I absorbed it with all that I had. The lobster was there and he didn't try to claim holding privileges. He said to me that he knew I needed to hold her more than he did (we were only allowed one 15 minute period of holding per day and that was based entirely on whether or not her body had been struggling to maintain its temperature that day--if it was struggling, no holding). He stood there over by Pinot's incubator while I held her. I think he didn't want to hold her because he was afraid. The entire time the triplets were in the NICU, the lobster was immensely emotionally withdrawn. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. He needed to maintain his distance until he knew they weren't going to die anymore. For him, it was almost as if they weren't born. I hated him for that, back then. I hated that he wasn't broken, hurting, aching, devastated with me. I was too damaged to realize that he was being that way for me. If we both disintegrated then who would have been strong enough to hold our family together? And I seriously disintegrated. I was completely insane for about a year and a half. I didn't care about anything. I was just "functioning" and barely that.

In the NICU Charchee was completely chill. She did, however, wear her emotions on her sleeve. There was one day where I was holding her and she went from frowning, to smiling, to frowning, to smiling, over and over again. She did it for about five minutes. It was so funny. She pulled out about five PIC lines (these are IV's that are threaded directly into the major artery of the heart. They are considered a surgical procedure to have installed, and it's a massively long IV), endless regular IV's (when the nurses finally gave up on putting PIC lines in her), feeding tubes, and basically anything that "tied her down." She was bound and determined to be free.

Charchee was also funny baby. She loved her Auntie's Virgin Mary blanket, which Tonio had given to her. She would cry and cry until Tia wrapped her up in that huge furry green blanket. Jules used to wrap her up in it and prop her up on her bed while she did her hair and makeup. I would go in the and say "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" and Jules would say "What? She's fine! She likes it!" Maybe that was the first sign of the type of child I would have.

When Charchee was littler, she would walk out into the living room, stand there with her feet apart, hands on the hips, look around at what everyone was doing and say "What are you doing?" with authority. She never wanted to be held, unless it was her idea. But there were moments of complete beautiful vulnerability where she would let her guard down. There was one morning, after the trips had moved up to twin beds, when I walked into her room in the morning and found her and her brother snuggled in bed together. They both had their blankabies and their fingers in their mouths, faces touching, passed out. It was so cute. That was back when they were two, before the boy was moved to his own room.

Charchee has had her fair share of sicknesses. She's been in the hospital a gazillion times for uncontrollable vomiting. She used to turn purple for no known reason (which also invited a hospital stay). She has underactive sweat glands, so she overheats at the drop of a dime. She has a skin condition which they are calling exzema, but doesn't function on any level like normal exzema.

Charchee is the most incredibly girly girl I have ever known. She loves clothes, fashion, high heels, nail polish, pretty hair bows, dresses, skirts, make up, doing her hair, and on and on. I have a plethora of pictures where the girl is walking around in her play high heels, playing. She is constantly asking if she looks pretty. Heaven forbid Brun should get the "prettier" dress first on Sunday mornings.

When the lobster left, my hilarious firecracker died inside. Her flame, her spark, her happiness disappeared in an instant. It took a while for it to hit her. She was actually quite normal until we came home from California. I remember, about half way through our trip, it started reaching her. She said to me "Mom, I want to go home. Daddy is there. I don't like it here." That was the first time I heard her say she didn't like something. The day we got on the airplane to go home, she told everyone in the airport that she was "going home to see her daddy." It didn't matter that I told her that wasn't the case. She would not be convinced. So when we walked into our house and daddy wasn't here....

She was so angry. She couldn't be consoled. I was panicked and lost. I tried talking to her, having her talk to other people, reaching out to her, nothing worked. There was a moment when it finally hit me: Charchee grieves like me. We both shut down. We both become irritable. We both have to process our grief in our own unique ways. We both can't talk about it until we're ready. We both lash out until that moment comes. We both are broken, intense individuals. That was the first moment I saw our similarities with such clarity. It also changed my perspective on her grief.

The biggest turning point in our relationship came when one night we went on an adventure. We ended up shopping (which is outside of my comfort zone), and she helped me pick out some new clothes. This four year old child lit up like a Christmas tree. You'd have thought I gave her the world. She was having the time of her life. It was rejuvenating for both of us. She helped me to remember what it means to value my appearance in a more modern way, and I helped her to not feel so alone.

The past couple of weeks with Charchee have been amazing. She is my little firecracker again. She is outgoing, bossy, helpful, charming, and silly all over again. She came up to me today and said "Mommy, will you hug me?" This is music to my ears!

Charchee is a force to be reckoned with. She is beautiful, smart, and determined. Look out world. This chick rocks!

sickness and all saints day

I have a "to do" list that seems to be growing longer by the second. Each minute I sit here, more and more things for me to do pile on. It's not that these things are overwhelming me. They're not. They are simple tasks that I can easily accomplish. It's just that I have been sick, I mean really sick for the past week and a half, and I am not getting any better. This morning, the lobster announced that it was "time" for me to "take it easy." It's nice when lobsters announce that! :) So, instead of tackling errands, cleaning and organizing, today I sat in my (also my grandfather's) red chair and vegged. I've tackled drinking hot tea every hour on the hour, hot soup for all meals, and approximately two gallons of water. I am determined to get better quickly! I must admit, the coughing spells are mellowing out, and my nose isn't running faster than the speed of sound (plus I'm not on any decongestants), which is positive. But my glands are still so swollen that it's difficult to swallow, I have a headache that still hasn't gone away, and my lungs hurt from the constant coughing.

Today is all saints day, and because I'm sick, we didn't go to church. However, I spent a large part of this day thinking of those people I've loved who have passed away. Here I sit in my grandfather's chair, mourning. I miss him. I wish he was near to me in more than just memories. I wish I had fought harder to show him Truth. I wish I had done more. I know that today is the day to honor those believers who have passed away, but for me, I feel consumed by thoughts of him. I loved him tremendously so. I love him so much more than I know how to say. I think about him constantly and I miss talking to him. I was so blessed to be able to bond with him throughout the lobster's deployments/training/nights away. I was blessed to have been able to share the experiences of war and the military with him. I am thankful for so much encouragement that he gave to me, especially because he is the only member of my family who has ever really been able to encourage me in living this lifestyle. Is that what made the connection so powerful? Was it because he is the only one who made me feel supported? It seems strange to recognize that. It also seems sad. I just miss him. I miss him so very much.