A Lot To Scream About

Somewhere amidst the last couple of months of growth, my daughter learned how to scream – or as I like to call her in those moments, my husband’s daughter. (Although, if I’m being honest, that’s probably more my personality than his.)

She often screams when she’s hungry, when she’s done sitting in her high chair, when she’s tired, when she’s tired of playing with her brother, when no one is playing with her… She screams; you get the idea.

To Sassy’s credit, she has had 6 teeth pop through her gums in the last two months. And she does have a 4 year old brother pulling her around or holding her back most of the day. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told her brother, Little Boss, not to tie a rope around her ankle, just in the last week.

As I’m witnessing the dwindling of my baby girl’s passivity, I sometimes want to pat her on the head and say, “I understand.” Other times I’m tempted to set her on the back porch and walk away. In my better moments though, it’s empathy that prevails.

Life is hard. And sometimes it’s really, really hard.

In the last two years I have been diagnosed with two pretty horrendous diseases – one of which causes pain and immobility daily, the other of which required extremely severe treatment, and still may kill me in the end. It’s been no picnic.

A normal, predictable world of challenges and joys has been replaced with a sad perception of harsh reality, as so often accompanies pain and trauma. As Sassy knows, there really is quite a lot to scream about.

Of course, my goal as a parent is to teach Sassy and Little Boss to grow into people who can not only manage their emotions but also see beyond themselves. How will life ever be beautiful if they can not learn to look beyond their own plights and interests to the needs of others, and to the hope of God?

So while I may hug my screaming daughter close and whisper in her ear that I know how she feels, eventually I will set her down to figure it out on her own - as she will need to so often in this life.

“You’re okay,” I tell her. And myself.

As originally published here:

 

Remembering Her Start

Sometimes it's good to remember what you came from.

My daughter and I recently visited my radiation oncologist - the (earthly) man I credit with saving her life when my radiation treatment and astonishing pregnancy intersected.

She and I have visited once before, shortly after her birth, but her celebrity status in the office has not waned. From the receptionist Cathy, to the nurse Ellen, to the variety of technicians in the back, they come forward to marvel at the miracle that she is.

She toddles down the hallway happily, her chubby legs in their classic wide-stance as they amble her forward slowly, as though she’s surfing on her own feet.

After several outings that involved hot and/or dirty floors, I’m finally remembering the new necessity of squeezing her chubby feet into shoes – bright pink sequin shoes this morning. (They make me think of a peppy old lady in a puffy-painted sweatshirt. But one shouldn't complain over a wardrobe of gifted clothes.) A matching bright pink bow holds back her silky, brown hair as she smiles at her audience. Her arms are outstretched to do their part in the balancing act of walking and her little wrist is hard at work as she throws off waves of greeting to her audience.

When my doctor arrives, I scoop her into my lap and watch as the 60-something, childless man smiles at her and touches her hand. She giggles and shows her first sign of bashfulness by tucking her face into my chest.
 

"This man saved your life," I want to whisper into her ear.

She was a tiny little pea, in her first stages of a questionable development when I was being treated here. Prayer after prayer from that back, radiation room was answered. I squeeze my thumb into the palm of my hand just thinking about it - as I used to each day, laying on the table under the beams... picturing God wrapping his hand around her, protecting her. As He did.

It’s been a year and a half since I finished treatment - a well-spent year and a half of changing diapers and picking out little shoes, of watching her and her brother grow. 

I hug her tighter than usual as we say goodbye and I have the incredible privilege of slipping back into a life of normal, with her.

Rabbit Ownership

 At the risk of sounding insensitive, I admit that I do not understand rabbit ownership.

Why would we suppose that housing any small animal in a cage for the duration of its life would be a beneficial arrangement for said animal? And what are the return benefits to this caged confinement called pet-ownership? Looking at it? Petting it on occasion?

Like I said, I do not understand.

Perhaps I am simply being unpleasant. That my neighbor’s rabbit, caged a few feet from my bedroom window, wakes me up every night and morning is quite possibly clouding my judgment.

After all, I owned a rabbit myself as a child. It used to hop all around my room, leaving little black pellets, and to my father’s disdain, chewing holes in the corners of my bright pink carpet. Then one day, my bunny escaped from the second-story balcony where I often left him/her (?) to roam whilst I was away. (Even as a child I understood the cruelty in keeping an animal caged around the clock.) Wait a minute, I’m having an epiphany… I’m realizing that my father just might have had something to do with this miraculous bunny escape. He was known to “free” an inconvenient pet or two during my childhood.

I should call my father. Or maybe I shouldn’t; he would be too much of an ally.

Around 4 AM, when my neighbor’s floppy-eared critter starts moving things around in its cage and, from what it sounds like, running on some kind of squeaky wheel, all manner of plans goes through my mind. Who knew a rabbit could be so loud?

Mostly, I decide I’m finally going to go knock on my unfriendly neighbors’ door to tell them (again) that yes, whoever decided it was okay to build houses as close together as ours should be shot in the toe, but perhaps their backyard would be a more appropriate place to house their critter.

And when I’m more tired and less charitable, I imagine quietly creeping outside in the dark of the night and loosening the cage door. Run free, little one! You were never meant to live out your life in a cage anyway.

(I am a bit of my father’s daughter, aren’t I?)

Well, I don’t follow through with either plan. I just quietly stew over the pointlessness of owning a rabbit, every morning, around 4 AM.

And so yes, I have decided that ownership of non-domesticated pets is selfish – not even because it is inconsiderate of your neighbors but because it is inconsiderate of the pet itself. If you have a goat in your pasture or a chicken in your coop, I commend you. If you rescue dogs or cats from shelters, here again, I applaud you. (If you keep a fish in a tank, I think nothing more of you than to marvel at your dedication to keeping the bowl, aquarium or tank clean.) But if you have a small animal caged for your pleasure, I wonder, do you love animals so much that you can’t help but own one? Or is it that you care so little for the animal that you own it – valuing your access to it over the quality of its existence?

Well, whatever. Catch you very early tomorrow, little rabbit. (No pun intended, I promise.)

10,000: Here's to You

The page count on this blog has just ticked its way past 10,000 views.

In the blogging world, this is a relatively small number for the 8 months since its inception. Or so I would guess, anyway; I actually have very little idea what goes on in the “blogging world.” Which perhaps speaks for my numbers in many ways?

Given that my goal is not world fame or even a blog-supported income, I'm pretty happy. I am deeply honored that anyone clicks to come here ever. Amidst the endless sea of information at our fingertips, that anyone takes the time to read my stories is surprising. Every day, it’s surprising.

After each post, I’m convinced the views are coming from accidental hits. But there you are again, numbers rolling forward in a slow but steady encouragement to continue to sit down late at night and share.

The satisfaction I get from a story well-told is big in my small life. And the feedback of inspiration and encouragement shared is, well, lovely.

So, thank you 10,000.

Searching for Home

For roughly 9 months we have been house hunting and have made more offers than I can remember. Actually, that’s a lie. With a little bit of thought, I could walk you through every house we toured and got excited about, each one we called our parents about, each offer we wrote – and ultimately did not get.

I try not to get excited, try to remain as calm and aloof as my husband manages to. But each time, visions of furniture arrangements and improvement projects manage to creep into my sleepless nights of anxiety. And each time, I am brought to the humble low of disappointment.

Over the months of practice, I get slightly better at the process - slightly better at remaining emotionally detached from the brick and mortar possibilites. I stop telling my family after every offer we make. I avoid looking up makeover projects online. But I just cannot manage to shut-out the excitement – and then the disappointment.

It’s only a place to live, I tell myself. It’s just walls that house us. Nothing more. I hear that. And I even believe it, for the most part.

But I also really want to stop moving. I want to unpack all of the boxes in the corners of our garage, for good, or at least for long enough to get rid of the boxes themselves. I want to paint the walls whatever colors I please and make upgrades and changes without asking a landlord. I want to stop writing a rent check and work toward the golden challenge that is equity. I want it to be ours.

This month, when we find an amazing house just in our price range and make the only offer on the table, I get excited again. The sellers counter our offer and we accept. All of my rules are getting broken as I lose sleep imagining the possibilities. I call my parents. I research the schools nearby. I get lost in the prospect. Even though I keep saying “if” we get the house, I mostly think it’s “when” we get the house.

And then we don’t.

Another offer comes in at the end and is higher than ours. I am defeated and pushing back the sadness. But at the same time, I fully recognize that these are the normal adversities of life – the challenges we are privileged to undergo.

Yes, I am privileged today to be in a place so sound that my defeat stems from the house I live in, or rather, don’t live in.

One day, God will lead us through the front door of our home. Or maybe not. But I understand so long as I am well enough to lose sleep over the roof we live under, I am well.

As originally published here:         

         

1st Birthday

What’s in a year?

 

A tiny baby enters the world, enters a family, and alters it forever, filling the space that was awaiting them. Baby grows from teeny feedings of milk every couple of hours, exhausting her parents, from itty-bitty fingers and toes, from eyes that mostly stay closed, to smiles and coos. Her thighs and belly thicken into soft, rounded plump. She starts to reach out for those she loves, to remember, to prefer. She sits up and giggles, sprouts teeth, eats food and expresses tastes. She puts one knee in front of the other and moves at will. Then she puts one foot in front of the other and balances her way across the floor, and into your arms.

Parents, exhausted and euphoric, welcomed her with love one year ago. Twelve months of busyness, happiness – parenthood – slipped past. Now you’re gazing down at your 1-year old, asleep in her crib, and marveling at how much of that small mattress her sleeper-ed little body now takes up. Whenever did she get so long? Wherever did my time with my sweet infant fly away to?

Children turn-up the dial for life-pace.

 

Parents are more often brought to reflection, to measuring the passage of time by the lengthening of children’s bodies and the expansion of their vocabularies, to remember and reminisce because so much changes so quickly. Because so much happens in a day, in a month, in a year. Because life is full and blooming with significance.

So I will look down at my 1 year old, reflecting sentimentally on her fleetingly fast development, and I will remember to cherish today. When we’re listening, our children remind us of the precious gift that is today.

Happy First Birthday to my daughter. And thank you to her for coming to fill the space in our lives and hearts, for bringing us immeasurable joy and pervasive gratitude, for twirling us into a stupor over the passage of time and planting us right in front of appreciation for the present.