Wow. Has it really been 2 years? Remember in a previous post on this blog I mentioned that all too soon I'd be walking my children into Kindergarten? Well...that day is less than a month away. My sweet little boy is 5 years old and ready and raring to go to school. Well, at least one of us is ready for him to go.

The other day we were just bumming around the house and I looked over at him sitting quietly on the playing with this Skylander dog tag necklace. I thought to myself, "Where did my baby go?" He looks so grown up, yet he's still so small. Things come out of his mouth that make me feel stupid, yet he has so many brilliant questions that leave me in awe of how his little mind works.

We took him to orientation last week and he had the chance to play in the Adventure Club room with the other kids his age. He was nervous at first, then slowly started to realize it was going to be ok. He finally got into the games and toys with the other kids and was just fine. When it was time to go home, he was excited to go back when school started. I'm so happy that he is looking forward to school!

His sister, however, is a different story. I'm concerned at how she's going to react being without him for the first time. In fact, I don't think she's ever been without her brother aside from a few hours here or 1 night there. This is going to be a big change for all of us.

As I sit here typing, I realize my feelings are quite similar to my 5 year old's. I'm very nervous, but slowly starting to realize that it's going to be ok. We just need to get into a routine and learn what works for us and go with it.

It'll be ok.

No Mistakes

God doesn’t make mistakes. Or so I’ve been told. I’ve questioned that theory many times. Recently I’ve been going back into the files in my head and bringing out old memories that need to be dealt with. Some weren’t as bad as I thought they’d be. Some still fill me with so much rage that I file them away again, afraid to deal with them. These last few weeks, I have been taking them back out, one by one.

It’s funny, the things a person remembers and what they forget. I’ll always remember that day in 1^st grade that we were supposed to be quiet and another kid asked me about my new watch. I told him to put his head down and be quiet. It was my name that ended up written on the board that day, not him. However, I can’t remember the marching band performance during halftime of the Homecoming football game my freshman year in High School. I was there…I was in it. There was even a video recording to prove it. I remember going to practice day after day. I remember walking onto the field and back off the field afterwards, but I don’t remember the performance.  I’m blaming it on stress induced amnesia.

“The dark years”, as I now call them, were not too long ago. I managed a string of bad relationships that I needed to get out of, but my self-esteem level kept me prisoner and wouldn’t let me build the nerve. I managed to escape one during an unusual surge of strength and run right into the next loser. I was abused mentally, verbally, emotionally, and physically by these jerks.

I let it happen. I needed to face that fact. I had plenty of support on the outside, although no one knew what was really happening until years later. I had every opportunity to get out, but I didn’t. I was terrified to be alone. I had no self-esteem and was severely depressed. I wanted too badly to fit in and be “cool” and I have finally come to the realization that that will never happen. I must embrace being an outsider.

Now, I’m not going to do a major gothic overhaul on myself (no offense to those who like the look), however, I needed to realize that I am unique. I have a weird sense of humor and find great amusement in other people’s stupidity. I don’t understand how Stephen King’s books are supposed to be scary. I actually felt sorry for Carrie White in Carrie and rooted for the ghosts in Rose Red. I have a slightly off kilter obsession with vampires (even before I read Twilight). Tim Burton is my favorite director and I think Johnny Depp is the most talented actor on the Silver Screen. I thought the Saw series was brilliant and own every single installment. Now, tell me honestly, is this the profile of a normal person? Probably not, but I kind of like it that way.  

I woke up today and looked at myself in the mirror. When I look deep into my reflection, I can still see that scared girl I used to be. She’s still in there; she’s just buried under excess pounds of depression and hatred. I’ve been trying to coax her out little by little and let her know that it’s going to be ok. What happened was for a reason. I have to let the hatred go.

If you could go back and change your life…would you? I would say no. Each person I have encountered in my life has impacted me a different way. I have learned what I want and don’t want;  the things I need and don’t need; who really loves me and who I really love. I have also learned how strong I can be. I don’t think that I would feel compassion for other people if I didn’t know what it was like to want compassion. I wouldn’t know how to empathize with someone if I hadn’t gone through their problem myself at one time. I wouldn’t have such a deep gratefulness for my family if I didn’t realize how quickly they could be taken away.

I believe there is a design. God knew that I would have a flair for the theatrical and, when I look back, my life kind of plays like a romantic comedy/horror film. I can only smile when I imagine God sitting up there just waiting for me to get it through my thick skull and then, when I did, He probably smiled and thought “There she is. That’s my girl.”

God doesn’t make mistakes. My life is not a mistake.  I am not a mistake.

An Unexpected Hug

It has been several months since my final day of work. I have already gone through every emotion in the grieving process. Twice. The depression hit me hard this time. I was struggling with my self-worth, taking care of the kids, guilt, and disbelief over how long it was taking to find a new job. It's been a rough winter.

One night I was up late and was praying. I was getting angry with God. I had so many "why" questions and wasn't getting answers. I'm pretty sure He was answering me somehow, I just wasn't getting it. I was too deep in self-pity and depression to notice. I asked God to please send me a sign.

A few days later, I received a phone call from my Mom. She said that she was told to get me something from my Grandma. Now, just so you understand, my Grandma means the world to me. She is sweet, kind, loving, and generally just plain awesome. She is retired and lives on the other side of the country from me. I miss her every day.

When I received the item, it was not what I had expected. I figured it would be some sort of figurine or household item that we might have needed. Instead, it was a holding cross. A holding cross is a hand carved cross that is slightly off kilter so it fits in your hand perfectly while you are praying. It is a beautiful natural wood color with no paint. This item is used often in hospice centers so that the people have something to hold onto while praying or are being prayed for. It's a comfort item. Obviously, I was appreciative of the fine gift, but I was mad at God and didn't want to use it right away.

I left it on my nightstand for a couple of weeks. Each night I looked at it and cried while begging God to answer me. Finally one night, while laying in bed, I quietly prayed again. I told God that I was angry and that I didn't understand how I was supposed to feel comforted by Him. At that moment, I decided to try holding the cross that my Grandma had sent me.

I put the cross in my left hand and laid down on my right side with the cross in front of my heart. Doing so forced me to hold my right arm out in front of me and as I bent my right elbow, my right forearm and hand crossed my body in front of my left hand. The end result, I realized, looked like I was hugging the cross. I was finally able to release everything that was built up inside me. I cried harder than I had cried in a long time. That night I slept well and woke up the next morning with a new perspective on our situation.

I am not sure where she heard it from, but my Mom has always said, "God doesn't give us what we can handle, He helps us handle what we are given." The problem was that I wasn't allowing Him to help me by being angry. So, He went to my Grandma and put it in her heart to send the cross to me. He helped me handle what I was given by sending me a hug through the heart of a woman from across the country.

Note: Here is a link to a site for holding crosses. http://www.holdingcross.com/

Cradling a Dream

Have you ever walked through an antique store, picked up an item, and wondered where it was from? If it could talk, what would it tell you? What has it seen? Where has it been? Who did it meet? Someday, I hope someone will want the bassinet as badly as I did.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was like every new mom: scared, excited, anxious, nervous… There really wasn't a word to describe exactly how I was feeling. I still can't find a suitable word. We set up the baby's room. There was a crib, dresser, clothes, blankets, toys, stickers on the walls of the stars and moon, a brand new linen set with the same décor, and a cradle in the corner ready to be moved into our bedroom for those first few precious months of life.

I would day dream of laying in bed in the wee hours of morning and reaching over to rock the cradle ever so gently to lull my sweet baby back to sleep. I was going to bring the cradle out into the living room with me while I read books or watched movies. It was going to be just like I dreamed when I was little and put my dolly in her little bed. It was going to be perfect.

Six and one-half weeks before his due date, my water broke. I spent the weekend in the hospital waiting for something to happen. I was hooked to monitors, IVs, and medicated from Saturday morning until Monday evening when he was born. He had size to his advantage, but still struggled to breathe. Twenty days after his birth, our son came home with an apnea monitor, danny sling, sleeping wedge to attach the danny sling onto, and reflux medication.

My heart broke when I quickly realized that the special sleeping arrangements wouldn't work in the cradle. That dream went into the garage for storage until we found a new home for it. My husband had to tear down the crib and reassemble it in our room. When we had everything set up, it reminded me so much of a hospital room. Wires, monitors, medicine, special sleeping apparatus's. It was a scary few months. Every time the monitor would beep, our own hearts stopped. On Valentine's Day, the doctors told us we could stop using the monitor. In March, we could do away with the danny sling and sleeping wedge. In April, we stopped the reflux medication. By the Grace of God, our son was healthy.

Almost two years later, I was pregnant again. This time, the only word to describe what controlled my pregnancy was fear. I read everything and anything I could on what to do and what not to do. I was terrified of a repeat of my son's birth. Even though the final outcome was a healthy little boy, I feared the heartache and pain we all went through to get to that point.

I was hesitant to buy anything for the new baby, especially the one thing I wanted the most: a bassinet. The bassinet represented a baby that didn't need wires, monitors, special sleeping arrangements, and medicine. It wasn't our son's fault and I do not love him any less. In fact, he made me a stronger person. It was just a dream that I longed to fulfill.

A few months before the due date, my mother-in-law told me she wanted to get a bassinet for the baby. There was much discussion on the part of my mother-in-law, my mother, my husband, and me. None of us could agree on anything. This one was too soft. That one was too hard. This one might fold up. That one is too big. This one is too small. Sigh. Gary and I decided that we would just pick one up when I found one I liked. We went to a local consignment shop and right there in the front of the store was a bassinet. It was dirty and broken. The green and white Winnie the Pooh pattern was dingy and dusty. The wheel was broken and bent. The bottom storage compartment was torn. Kind of like my dream had been. We bought it.

On the way home, we stopped at a hardware store bought new wheels. Then we got a new mattress. We ripped the whole thing apart to get the fabric off and washed it with disinfectant and a lot of elbow grease. Gary put the new wheels on it. I spent hours hand-sewing the storage compartment back together. What emerged from that dusty heap of fabric and metal was the most beautiful bassinet I had ever seen. It was the perfect size and shape. It rolled effortlessly from room to room. It had a canopy that would lay flat or stay up to shade the baby's face from the light. The storage compartment held extra diapers and clothes. It had our heart and souls put into it. It was perfect.

A few months later, our daughter was born. She was healthy. Her birth went almost exactly as planned. She was nursing like a champ. After spending one day in the hospital for recovery, we brought her home. After the initial meeting of family members and getting settled, I brought her into our room. Even as the tears flowed, I smiled as I laid my baby girl into her bassinet and stepped back. No wires, no monitors, no sleeping contraptions, and no medications. Our son stood on tip-toe and peeked over the edge and into the bassinet at his new sleeping sister. I was overwhelmed with completeness.

She slept in the bassinet until she was about 4 months old and then we transitioned her into her crib. The bassinet stayed in a corner until I found out my cousin was pregnant. I offered her the bassinet for her first born baby. I don't know if she'll ever know how much that small piece of furniture really meant to me. The day it was taken away, and as odd as it sounds, I thanked the bassinet for bringing me closure to my silly dream. Then I shed a few tears as I watched it leave my driveway in the back of a van to bring sweet dreams to a new baby.

Sometimes I wonder what memories are stored inside those old antiques. If that dusty old item was meant to heal a broken heart. I wonder if I'll ever see that bassinet again sometime when I'm old and searching through antique shops. It has a story. It was mine.

Our Angel Went Home

Six years ago, I became the proud owner of a fawn pug puppy. I named her Bobbi Jean and she was my baby. From the beginning, she was a joy. She loved to cuddle and sleep sitting up nestled between me and the arm of the couch. Her little, round, fuzzy belly would stick out and her skinny little legs would be all sprawled out in front of her as she seared my ear drums with her snoring in the safe haven of my arms.

Not long afterwards, the long journey of vet visits began. The first time, I was at home with Bobbi and Wilson (Rat Terrier). I was watching a movie and needed a bathroom break. As I was washing my hands, Wilson ran into the bathroom franticly trying to get my attention. He led me to Bobbi and I saw that something wasn't right. She was stumbling around, falling over, and making a small squeaking sound. I rushed Bobbi to the emergency vet. They bombarded her with tests and blood work and finally concluded that she had an epileptic seizure. They decided not to prescribe medication with only one seizure to go on. She only had a couple more seizures, but the vet was never concerned about them.

A few months later, I had her spayed. This was her first surgery.

She made a perfect little companion. She even 'helped' me get dressed on my wedding day in October of 2006 by adding sparkly pug snot to my shoes. That day, she also gained another canine brother. Dakohta, a Springer Spaniel, belonged to my husband and brought our household total to five.

That Christmas, my brother was supposed to come to our house. He was in the Navy and I hadn't seen him in a long time. It was snowing that night and I was so worried that he and my parents weren't going to make it. Just as they pulled into the driveway, I glanced over at Bobbi, who was straddling the top of the sofa and snoozing away. Her head was so swollen, it was almost double in size! I ran over to her and woke her up. I felt her head and back and there were bumps all over her skin underneath her fur. My Dad rushed us to the emergency vet. They concluded that she had an allergic reaction to the distemper shot she had gotten earlier that day. One massive dose of Benadryl and she was fine. Ever since that night, we had to dose her up with Benadryl before she was able to get her yearly shots.

In March of 2007, Bobbi started acting like she wasn't feeling well again. I took her to the vet and they found yeast in her ears and blood in her urine. They did an x-ray and found stones in her bladder. She needed surgery #2, medicine for her ears, and a dose of Benedryl every day, most likely for life.

Two months later, I found out I was pregnant with our first child. He was born in December, 6 ½ weeks early. DJ needed to have special formula that his little tummy would tolerate. His formula, doctor visits, and apnea monitor were all expensive and not covered by insurance at that time (I was in the "out-of-pocket" portion of the plan). In January, I started kicking around the idea of finding a new home for Bobbi and Wilson.

Vet bills, food, and licensing (we needed a kennel license in our city for 3 dogs as well as their personal licenses) were getting quite costly. It was NOT an easy decision. I knew the cost of owning a pet and when you adopt a pet you're supposed to take care of that pet for the rest of his/her life. However, it came down to what was fair to the dogs as well as our checkbook. My parents told me they would take Bobbi to be a companion to their own pug, Elli. I will forever be grateful for their decision.

In February of 2008, Wilson finally started biting at us whenever we'd get near him. He had been growling since we brought our baby home, but we thought it was innocent jealousy. Now, I was terrified that he'd bite my baby. I called the Humane Society to see what they suggested we do, and the lady told me he needed to be "put down". So, I gathered my courage and my dog and drove to the humane society to say goodbye. I got there and the lady at the desk told me I was misinformed and he would not be put down. I made the decision there to surrender him. I signed the papers and left with his collar and leash and the hope that someone, somewhere, would love him as much as I did.

That same day, my parents took Bobbi to live with them.

Shortly afterwards, and almost exactly a year after her surgery, my Mom called to tell me that Bobbi needed surgery again. The stones had returned. She was 3 ½ years old and this would be her 3^rd surgery. Afterwards, they kept her on a strict diet that seemed to help keep her system clear.

My husband battled for months over a decision he didn't know how to make. Do we keep Dakohta? Do we find him a new home? In the end, he surrendered his beloved pet so he could have a life with a family that would have more time and funds to care for him. We loved him dearly, and still miss him greatly, but we felt it was kindest and best for him.

For 3 years, the only thing that truly bothered me about Wilson and Dakohta is the unknown. The uncertainly. No closure. I will never know what happened to them. I tell myself that they found loving homes and are spoiled rotten and are completely happy. I hope. At least I know the outcome of one dog. My sweet Bobbi. She is well loved and is able to have the best vet care from my parents.

Two days ago, I received a call from my Mom that there was blood in Bobbi's urine again. Yesterday she took her to the vet and had x-rays done. Stones. The options were another surgery with no guarantee it wouldn't happen again at any time or let her go peacefully with no more pain. Her little body had been through so much. Surgeries, seizures, medications, special foods…it wasn't helping. She was a sick little girl. We had to let her go.

I requested to be there when she slipped away. She was my dog. She was the special one in my heart. Sweet baby.

Today, I took her to the vet. I signed the papers and we were led into an examination room. There was a deep-red, extra soft blanket placed on top of the cold, steel table. There was a box of tissues waiting for me. As soon as the door shut behind us, I felt like I had just taken my little dog into purgatory. The veterinarian came in after a couple of minutes. He was very soft spoken, empathetic, and kind. He explained to me what was going to happen and gave me a few private minutes while he got everything ready.

I held her. I pet her. I hugged her. I kissed her. I told her how much I love her and how I will always love her. I told her that she is such a good girl. I said that my Grandpa is in Heaven waiting to play with her and he would let her eat anything she wanted. That our beloved dachshund, Hans, who passed several years ago, is waiting for her. That my Mom's childhood dachshund, Stretch, will be waiting also. She could run and play without a care in the world. No more special diet food. No more treat restrictions. No more pain.

The vet came back into the room. He brought with him a lady (the vet tech, I assume) and a syringe. He removed Bobbi's collar, the lady held onto Bobbi, and I just petted her nose like I used to when she wanted to cuddle as a puppy. I looked in her eyes as the vet administered the injection. She looked at me and then went limp. They laid her down on the blanket and put the stethoscope on her chest. She was gone. The vet conveyed his condolences and told me to take as much time as I needed. As soon as he closed the door behind him, I cried.

I had no idea just how hard that would be.

Today is December 29, 2010. Today, a pretty little pug got her wings.

Dream well, sweet baby.

Cleansing with Tears

Today, I cried. Twice. The first time was early this morning while dressing for church. I was overwhelmed with our current circumstances and stopped to pray. I couldn't help but to be overcome with emotion as I begged God to make it all better. I asked God for direction and to help me understand when he shows me a sign.

The second time was at church. We were supposed to help in the nursery today. A young lady stopped by and asked if we needed any more help. I took the opportunity to let her replace me so I could go to the service.

The pastor spoke of how we, as humans, do our rituals without much thought. We can partake in communion, but all the while we're thinking about what Christmas gifts to buy or what to have for lunch. The longer I sat there listening to the sermon and about John the Baptist and ritual cleansing (baptism) and the Last Supper, the more I realized that the message was what I needed to hear.

This is the time of year to be joyful and celebrate the birthday of Jesus Christ our Savior and Lord. I haven't been joyful and have been getting too caught up in the "who gets what gift" game. I go through the motions because I do it every year. Put up the tree: check. Decorate the house: check. Buy and wrap gifts to put under the tree: check. Next bake cookies, make travel plans, book hotels, make phone calls, send cards, write letters…Why? Do I really want to? Or is it because it's just what I have done every year and it's becomes a mindless ritual? I tend to forget why I'm even celebrating Christmas.

More than once, I've heard someone say "I'll be so glad when Christmas is over." Did you ever look forward to your birthday party? How would you feel if someone you loved said "I'll be so glad when your birthday is over!" It would make you sad, wouldn't it? I mean, it's your birthday! It only comes around once a year. It's the day that you were born. It's the day you hold special to remind yourself and everyone around you that you are still here. You exist.

Lost job, lost house, unexpected expenses, unexpected circumstances all take their toll on a person. Many times it's hard to see the positive when so many negative things bombard you at once. As I sit here with my cup of coffee and my computer, I realize that I have already been blessed. I look around me and I see walls, a ceiling and floor: a place to live. I hear the furnace running: warmth. I smell clean laundry: clothes on my back. I tasted dinner tonight: food. I felt hugs from my family: love.

The reason I cried during the sermon is because I realized that I keep begging God to fix my life, but I don't  pay enough attention to His. I realized that I keep asking Him to serve me when I should be serving Him. Repent. The pastor said it means to 'turn around'. I must turn around and let God lead the way instead of constantly trying to drag Him along and then wonder why He's not leading.

                                                                                                             

I may not have everything I want, but I most certainly have an abundance of what I need. What I need most, is God's love and I have to trust Him to lead the way. Everything in His time.

(Disclaimer: If you're wondering about the "Today"...I wrote this on Sunday, but posted it on Monday.)

Requesting Instructions

Dearest Creator,

I would like to say thank you for the gifts I have received. You placed me into a loving family. You gave me strength to overcome my past and heal on an emotional level. You saw to my physical needs such as a roof over my head, food to eat, and clothes on my back. You have also seen it in your heart to bless me with an amazing best friend, my husband. You truly out-did yourself when you gave us our children. They are intoxicatingly gorgeous and are turning out to be such wonderful people with awesome personalities. I do, however, have a few questions.

Why must everything be life or death? I’ll give you one example for each kid.

This morning, D woke up yelling. He was calling for daddy, who had already left for work. In the 1.7 seconds it took me to bolt out of bed and fly to his bedroom door, his screaming escalated as if the grim reaper was right behind him. I immediately ripped the gate out from his doorway, threw it into my room, and lunged to whisk him away from his obvious impending doom. After surveying the room and finding no danger, I asked him why he was screaming. Between high pitched screams he sobbed, “I go pee now.” Sigh. He just had to pee and couldn’t get the gate to his room off like he had done all week. I’m awake now.

Lila, who continues to receive a clean bill of health from her doctor, is convinced she is about to starve to death the moment she sees her bottle. My sweet little angel, who moments before was playing happily with her toys and giving no indication that she might be hungry, turns into an almost unrecognizable creature as she screams and sobs and reaches for her bottle which is being made. She practically hyperventilates during the few seconds it takes to get it into her mouth after the bottle is set in front of her. At night, when giving her the last bottle of the day, she can be sound asleep and suck that bottle dry. We’ve learned that in order to keep her asleep, we have to be very quick. Almost no time can elapse between the bottle being removed from her mouth until the pacifier goes in. If even ½ a second is allowed pass, she wakes up crying, and will continue crying for the next 2 hours. Apparently all of those exercises in Phy. Ed. to improve your reflexes were actually good for something!

When will they learn that NO doesn’t mean keep trying until your parents get so frustrated that they are willing to duct tape you to the wall just for 3 seconds of motionlessness? I now understand why You made them cute. It’s so we don’t kill them! I also now understand why some species eat their young. I’ve gotten really good at counting to 10…backwards…with my eyes closed…again…and again…and again…

I believe You have a sense of humor. I mean, come on, you have to! I’ve seen the giraffe, a duck-billed platypus, and the rhinoceros. Whenever my little boy looks at me with his big, bright blue eyes and says or does something that makes me question my ability to be a parent, I KNOW you see my questioning look that says “Seriously?” directed toward the sky. I can only imagine You sitting in Heaven on your throne, looking down at me with a smirk and just waiting to see what happens next.

Children are wonderful, magnificent, bright, energetic little turkeys. They are my humbling pride. One moment I’m marveling at the very existence of these miniature people and the next moment I’m on my knees begging for sweet release from my worldly torment. No sleep, poopy diapers, spit-up, crying, no sleep, tantrums, time-outs, potty training, no sleep, feeding, washing, dressing, carrying, no sleep. I wouldn’t have it any other way. They’re only little once. Too soon they will be going to school. I’ll have to walk my little babies into Kindergarten. I hope the teacher has a box of tissues handy.

Life is a never-ending lesson. A person can’t ever truly know it all. Those that think they do need to pray more. We may be parents, but we’re still children to You. You are the real parent. I started out this letter with the intent of asking for instructions on how to get my children to behave and how to make them stop doing the things that annoy me. I just realized that I was going to ask how to make my children not act like children.

With this letter, I would, instead, like to request guidance and patience so that I can raise my children to be the people that You meant them to be. Please open my eyes so that I can see that they are just children. They do no see things as I see them. They do not know the things I know. It’s up to us on earth to teach them Your ways. Show me how I need to be so that I can show them.

Your forever child and with sincere love,

Me