Thoughts from the East Side

Wow. November 8. I did very well on NaBloMo, don't you think? Amazing. It all went down hill when I went to take care of my grandma for a week when Mom was in Vegas. Grandma is 92 next month and an interesting bundle of the baggage my family carries daily. Then life got crazy when I got home.

(My apologies if this is the first time you're hearing some of this.)

November 16 -- dear friend had a lump removed from her breast

November 18 -- told Beau about friend's surgery (forgot to tell him before), and he reported to me that he found a lump on his back . . . felt said lump. It's big. And hard. And exactly what they tell you to look for in self exams.

November 20 -- found out that dear friend's tumor was cancerous . . . she walked through cancer 15 years ago and cannot have any more radiation. A visit with her oncologist would tell more.

November 22-24 -- Thanksgiving celebrations. Lovely, lots to be thankful for.

November 25 -- An excited Ellie woke up to see the tree full of lights and in our living room. "Daddy, look at that! There's green ones and red ones and yellow ones and blue ones and 'nother one green ones!" It almost makes up for the terrible twos which also hit this weekend.

November 26 -- Beau had his appointment. Likely a cyst, but can't tell without an ultra sound. Scheduled ultra sound for November 28.

November 27 -- Ellie got two timeouts and a spank . . . FROM THE BABYSITTER. Honestly, I can see her getting that stuff from me, but she is always good for the babysitter. Please let this be a short phase!

November 28 -- Beau had his ultra sound. Scheduled follow-up appointment for December 5. Also had congregational meeting at night. Grr for budgets and people who don't contribute to their church like they should. It's not like it's their money! Sheesh. Called dear friend when I got home to get a report from her oncologist. Double masectomy. Then six rounds of aggressive chemotherapy. Cried with friend, laughed with friend, listened, talked, enjoyed the fact that God gives us good friends and brings strong and amazing women into our lives.

December 3 -- found out from doctor that baby is currently in a breech position. This explains all of the pain I've been in--low baby and breech = ow, ow, ow!! He told me not to leave sleep over it (I told him I was--not from worry but from pain), but he also let me know what would happen if Breech Baby doesn't adjust her position. In four weeks, they will do an ultra sound to determine baby's definite position. In five weeks, they would do an external manipulation to try to coax Baby into head-down position. If it doesn't take or if she moves back (most do), they will schedule a c-section for the last week of January. Also, they do the external manipulation at the hospital, because occasionally women go in to labor during the procedure. Coming to terms with the fact that Baby could arrive any time between five weeks and nine weeks.

Later that night -- returned from moms' group to hear that my cousin's wife had their baby--about three weeks early. The baby was breech, so they'd scheduled a c-section for late this week. Her water broke on the 28th, though, so she called her husband at work and climbed into the bathtub so any leaking would not get all over her house. Five minutes later, her husband walked into the bathroom to find his wife carefully trying not to push any more than the foot out of her. Yes. The foot. My cousin called 911 and delivered his breech baby with the cord wrapped around her neck in their bathtub while their toddler was still home!! The paramedics arrived at their house just as Brian was looking for something to suction out the baby's nose. Now I'm losing sleep.

December 5 -- Beau's ultra sound inconclusive. Whatever it is will be removed on Friday (today), and doctor will send it in for biopsy if needed. Super.

December 7 -- Lump removed. It's a cyst. Praise God! It had gotten infected and came out in pieces (I'm trying not to imagine all of this), but it was definitely a cyst. During the suturing process, Beau "squirted the PA in the face (EW!)," so now he has to get an infectious diseases test. It's always something.

And that brings us to the current time. I'm going out for breakfast. I've earned it! Especially because for the moment our two year old is not terrible and Breech Baby isn't causing terrible pain.

This IS my life

Sometimes I feel like I'm constantly waiting for my life to start. This isn't a new feeling; I'm plagued by it often. A conservative estimate figures that the average person spends more than three years of his or her life (three 365-day years!) waiting for things to begin. So how do you measure how long I have wasted waiting for my LIFE to begin?

But, when I look around, I see that my life has started. And it's a beautiful life--even in all of its ugliness.

* I am loved by an incredible God who sees in me things so beautiful that they make me cry.
* I have an amazing husband who also seems to think I'm better than I am.
* I have the loveliest daughter in the world (sorry, but it's true!) and another on the way . . . both of whom are special treasures entrusted to my husband and me by this God who loves and cherishes our little ones even more than we do. And who watches over them so carefully that even our parenting mistakes will not prevent our girls from changing their world.
* I finally have a job that I love, where I am a writer.
* My family is healthy, even in our dysfunction, and we love each other deeply. Poorly at times, but deeply nevertheless.

There is no reason, as I hold my life in my hands in this moment and gaze at it longingly and lovingly, to not see that it has begun. That even when it is dismal and dictated, it is still too brilliant to exchange for one that might seem easier or more free.

So what do I do? How do I LIVE in this moment? Switchfoot reminds me: "This is your life; are you who you wanna be?" If I could add one more thing to truly become who I want to be--even, dare I say it, who I am--I would call it a writer's life.

That's the life I want to live--a writer's life, fully embracing my dreams and my realities . . . my talents and my imperfections . . . my joys and my sorrows. I want to live this writer's life. And to do that, I need to stop waiting for something. This life is here to embrace. So embrace it I will.

Even when it hurts.

Note to Self

Some days I feel like my entire life is dictated by what I have to do. Do I ever get to have a day where I can do what I want? Nothing more.

Beau said to me yesterday that he wants some say in how we spend our money. Me, too. It's dictated.

Today I'm watching Wild Toddler Boy while I try to squeeze in some work and laundry and cleaning and making dinner. It's the work that gets me. And that's why I have to watch Wild Toddler Boy. Because I need someone to watch Ellie while I'm at work one day a week. It's dictated.

I live in Michigan, when I wish I could greet the morning on the Wild Coast or the Historical Coast, but I have to live here where we have jobs and family and bills to pay. It's dictated.

What would my life be like if it wasn't dictated? Would I be wild? Would I be one who gives voice to dreams, notices little things, and makes otherwise impossible imaginings appear real? Or maybe that's why I want so desperately to be all of that. Because it's not dictated.

Day Two of What Should Be Day Five

Me again. Trying to rise up and meet WMW's challenge . . . it shouldn't really be this hard. I had about five posts in mind last night, and the time to write them, and the capability to not post them all on one day. It was tempting, but I'm trying hard to learn to overcome temptation. So here I am. With a blank page. And that d*@$ cursor again.

I'm watching the news, though it's hard to call it that. They do about two minutes of news once every hour. After that, it's mostly political agendas and stories about sensational activities. I have to check out CNN.com to find any real news. And thank goodness I have that insider in Iraq where I can get REAL news on the war.

The media is frustrating to me. It tells me what to think while only presenting one side of the story. Not only am I told what to think, but I'm also told what to feel about any given story. It's hard to imagine crying that hard over a dolphin, albeit a sad story, when we just ignore what is happening to children the world over. But the media and "celebrity" seem to be on the same page. So am I the one who's missing something?

And how do I keep my daughter from it all?

There's so much to protect her from:
* the monkey who visited her in her dreams on Friday night . . . and bit her!
* the heartbreak of having her cow snatched from her bed, all because he couldn't be washed and was getting gross after two years of love
* the fact that the monkey may come back, even though Mommy picked out this new cow (who could be washed) because the monkey doesn't like him

It's hard being a mom. No wonder God works so hard to try to convince us to stay away from sin . . . he understands the heartache it will cause, and He's desperate to protect us from it all. Any parent would be.

Heaven, honey. Heaven. That's Home. No dolphins will be slaughtered there, but no children will be neglected or violated or betrayed either. Oh, and only the good monkeys make it in. And both cows.

The Potty Training Diary

Day One
Assemble necessary items:
* Potty Chair
* Big girl underwear for shameless goalsetting
* Ample supply of pullups, featuring Dora and Sesame Street characters
* Star stickers
* Homemade potty chart (because why pay for one?!)
* Timer to remind us to potty every 30 minutes

Day Two
Scrap timer and just occasionally suggest we "try to potty"

Day Three
Add giant stack of favorite books to bathroom to encourage toddler to sit on toilet for more than ten seconds

Day Four
Realize that false hope is better than no hope at all

Day Five
Move big girl underwear out of dresser . . . acknowledge it will be a while; consider giving up all together

Day Six
Call both sets of grandparents to excitedly declare "I went potty four times!" Clarify that it is toddler we're talking about rather than Mommy and Daddy but admit that we do find ourselves announcing each visit with urgency and wondering why no one cheers us on.

Day Seven
Realize that four-potty-trip days don't qualify as any kind of hope

Day Eight
Agree with toddler that it's a waste of time to sit on potty reading when the cow chair is much more comfy

Day Nine
Wonder how parents have potty trained toddlers for centuries when yours clearly isn't going to catch on

Day Ten
Refigure budget to see if two sets of diapers will fit in; decide to give up eating in order to afford it all

Day Eleven
Sit in total shock and awe when toddler announces, "I have to ucky! Ucky on big girl potty!" and actually proceeds to pee-pee and poo-poo on said toilet. Wonder how Mommy got stuck cleaning out the potty afterwards. Also marvel at smile of pride on toddler's face and wonder how I could have considered giving up.

Seasons of Life

It's an interesting thing, life. We go through times, or seasons, where people often shrug off what we're feeling by saying, "Eh, it's a season of life. Enjoy it. It won't last long."

Here I am, only 30, and I feel like I've been through a million seasons. Some that weren't worth enjoying and others that have left behind memories I'll cherish forever. On second thought, I think that all of them have left behind at least ONE memory worth cherishing. Even if it is just how we got the heck out of there alive!

And here we find ourselves in some new seasons.

Young Family: There have been three, and soon there will be four. That's a crazy thing to think about and a big adjustment to make. With it come joys and triumphs . . . and heartaches. We had a great time camping, until Ellie fell out of the trailer and landed on her face. No real damage, but some real trauma--for Ellie because her cookie broke; for Mommy because my Ellie was lying in a heap at the bottom of the steps. We peed on the big girl potty. After three attempts, a minute amount actually came out! Yay! Real progress!!

Another thing that comes with this is being in the "child-bearing" season of life. Between August 2007 and May 2008, I know more than 15 people having babies!!

Adult Child: Even though I am the youngest in my family, somehow a lot seems to fall to me . . . my grandma (91 years old) lives with my mom. Since Dad is in Iraq, every time my realtor mom has to be out of town, Ellie and I pack up our lives and move to Mom's to stay with Grandma. The inevitable conversations about what to do with Grandma or about Grandma also fall to me. As does camping in October. It works, but it's more than awkward. I'd like to not be an adult child anymore.

Here I also grieve my father's absence. It's hard to keep in touch, but maybe that's because I'm lazy. I know it is no indication of my feelings for my dad or the degree of my missing him. He'll be home in January, and I know we'll cherish each moment we have. But I also know that he'll leave again until April. He won't meet Megan until she is 2 1/2 months old. That is hard. I also grieve my mom. She misses him so desperately, and her reflections on it don't match up with her actions toward it. My inclination is to withdraw from the whole situation . . . but I owe Ellie more than that somehow. I owe myself and my parents more than that, too.

The "Wedding" Season: I thought we were past this . . . and we were, for our college friends and such. We entered this season again, though, because I worked in youth ministry for four years. That saw three lovely ladies through four years of high school . . . through driving, dating, prom, graduation, college, and into adulthood. Amber is getting married March 15. Then she's moving to Oregon (another reason to visit!!). Sarah is getting married July 12. Then she's moving to grad school in Boston, NYC, Connecticut, or some other distant locale that would LOVE to be my family's vacation destination. Jillian is getting married at the end of September. Then she is staying in West Virginia--a long drive, but a lovely spot to see. The significance with these weddings is that we are no longer asked to be groomsmen, ushers, or bridesmaids. Instead, we're invited to serve as Master and Mistress of Ceremonies(!) for Sarah and Jillian, and Ellie is invited to be a flower girl for Jillian. Craziness. See how the seasons overlap?

I'm sure there are more. For instance, I can add At-home Mom, and Beau can soon (hopefully) add Grad School Student. In the mean time, we're just trying to figure out what these seasons look like for us, how to get out of some of them quickly or with our sanity, and how we can afford the others.

Growing up is strange. But it's also lovely. I'm glad to be in a place that I wasn't five years ago. The knowledge is great, and the progress is essential. It's also interesting to think of what labels we'll give our seasons five years from now. In all of GOd's wisdom, we can't identify those seasons yet. We don't know where the joys will come in or where the heartache will come in. All we know for certain is that we are loved. By many. And we are carried when we need it, and we carry when they need it.

And that's the greatest beauty.

Are you going through a dry spell
I was there awhile ago
Now I've come to a place where the rain falls
Where the trees bear fruit and grow
Where I find a refuge in my God
It's a place of surrender I know
I look at God and see what I want to be
He looks at me and sees His own

Seasons change
And then they pass
No way to know how long they'll last
I'd love to know the reason why
But God knows
Seasons change
- Seasons Change, Crystal Lewis

Being a Mom and Embarking on New Adventures

I've been awake for four hours so far today. That doesn't count the times I woke up while I meant to be sleeping. It's been a busy four hours, and Ellie has cried for almost all of them. There was a peaceful hour before she woke up, but then all hell--and runny noses--seems to have broken loose. I don't know what brought it on.

My head finally was aching so badly that I carried her upstairs and shut her in her room. And now I feel terrible about it. It's not like I used a dog kennel or anything like that. Her room is lovely--complete with a pink bean bag, bumble bee bookends, an empty diaper box that doubles as a boat, a comfy big-girl bed, a CD player, and a box of Kleenex that has been emptied one by one onto the floor too many times to result in smooth Kleenexes. And I brought books up with us. But I still feel awful. I just couldn't deal with the crying anymore. Does that make me a bad mom?

Maybe her problem is the fact that Liam is here today. She stays with him on Tuesdays while I work, and I watch him on Wednesdays while his mom enjoys a day of peace alone. If three crazy cats and a loud dog qualify as alone. Anyway, Ellie melted down last week Wednesday, too. She hit, she pushed, she cried, she whined, she screamed, and she horded toys. She doesn't like to share. She's going to eat Baby Megan, isn't she? Or lock her up in a dog kennel.

Thank God we don't have a dog.

In other news, we're camping this weekend. Clearly we're insane. At least Grandma found a nice camper for us all to use. Tomorrow, Ellie and Mommy will drive to meet "Bamma Binga" in way-too-cold-and-rainy Ludington where we'll enjoy four days and three nights on the coast of the Great Lake that looks like an ocean on stormy days. Did I mention the storm we're supposed to get tomorrow? Yeah. Clearly we're crazy. At least the camper has a TV and VCR. Plus I'm bringing cookies.

Then, next week we embark on Mission Potty Training. Clearly I'm insane.

By the way, if my daughter grows up to be as rude as the president of the United States is, I'm buying a dog kennel for her.

The Lofty Task of Motherhood

I came across this today: " 'Salvation' isn't just about me, BTW. It's good news for the people around me, too, when I live as Jesus taught. His way of living restores relationships, sets injustices right, frees me from anxiety and slavery to money, for instance, and is GREAT news for the most vulnerable people in my life, when I try to live in a way that brings the Kingdom to Earth, as it is in Heaven." (see comments)

It strikes me that, as a mother, "salvation" truly changes the way that I raise my children. It changes the way that I think about, treat, care for my unborn daughter, and it changes the way that I discipline, love, potty train my oldest daughter. It changes the way I live my life. It has to. And it truly does have to be good news--for me, yes, but for everyone around me.

I love the way the author, in his comment above explains salvation--by grace, through faith, not works--to an admitted nonChristian who inquired about how this relevant gospel changes our lives . . . and brings about good works without requiring them. I want to save this forever and share it with my little girls when they ask why we go to church every Sunday. Ellie, Meg, it isn't about making our lives richer or seeing our friends or complaining about how weak the coffee is . . . it's about learning how to make OUR salvation GREAT news for the people we meet every day. For our friends, for our enemies, for our families, for our neighbors, and for the most vulnerable people in our lives.

Does being a Christian have an impact on my parenting? Does being a Christian have an impact on the television I watch? On the jobs I take? On the job I do at the job I took, or the way I talk about my friends or my pastor or my coworker, or the way I spend my money? What about the way I vote and what issues make me angry? It damn well better. But maybe it isn't being a Christian that does it . . . maybe it's "being saved" that does it. Because I'm "saved," my whole life needs to change . . . and it needs to change for the better. Because if my neighbors hate to see me coming, then it surely isn't good news. And I heard once that if it isn't good news, then it isn't the Good News . . . for anybody.

400 Days

It's not really that long. It's not the end of the world. It's not forever.

But it is a really long time.

In 400 Days, my daughter went from inside me to walking around and talking. She learned to smile, laugh, sit up, roll over, fall asleep on her own, feed herself, play, talk, walk, run, make up songs, tell jokes . . .

In the next 400 Days, she'll likely be joined by a baby brother or sister (a sister, if you ask her!), maybe she'll learn to potty in the toilet (Mommy's wishful thinking!), she'll turn two, and she'll learn a million more words, jokes, and motions for nursery rhymes and songs.

It's not the end of the world. It's not forever. But it's a long time to miss your grandpa . . . and my daddy.

Be proud of your grandpa, young one. He is going to a place where he'll be in danger . . . where he'll be learning new things and "playing" new games. There will be new people . . . many with guns, many with bombs and IEDs. But they'll be people, sweet thing, and that's why your grandpa is going. Grandpa will live a life no one should have to, and he really will be one of the safest people there. My darling daughter, I don't know if he'll come home. There are no promises. But I do know that the soldiers there--mommies, daddies, grandmas, grandpas, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, sons, daughters--will be lucky to have the man that we are lucky to have. For the next 400 Days you will know your grandpa only through technology. Through email and through webcams. For the next 400 Days Mommy will not curse technology again. Except when it doesn't work. Except when Mommy can't bring Grandpa into your living room for you to love and tell jokes to and sing songs together. Except if that tape erases, and we lose his stories.

My love, I wish that I could make this different. I'm sorry that you have to say goodbye for longer than you imagined. I'm sorry that your sweet "Bompa" will miss the next 400 Days and that you will wonder where he is and why Mommy is sad sometimes. I'm sorry that I can't promise he'll come back to us just because we tie a yellow ribbon on our porch and pray as hard as we can. Just know that Chaplain Bierenga loves you more than he can say. And that he'll do all he can to come back to you and hug you and swing you onto his shoulder and whisper in your ear.

Until then, 400 Days isn't so long. Really. Really?

It's time. It has to be.

I need to go on a trip. I'm feeling like I need a sunset or a suntan or just a change of scenes. I'm a mommy, but I still need to write and dream and be. It's easy to put that aside in favor of making sure that She writes and dreams and is.

Is there really any way that can happen unless she sees it somewhere though? I don't think so.

So it's up to me.

I have an obligation.

I wonder if I'm up to the task. When She looks at me, I can tell that She thinks I am. So . . . (deep breath) Rowling unveiled the beautiful and mysterious and perfect Harry Potter with a million kids at home right? I should be able to write down at least ONE of the stories in my head.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

I need to do it for me. Otherwise I'll never make it through.

Brave

There is so much about me that is less than I hoped it would be. When I dreamed about my life, I dreamed of Oregon or Washington, D.C., or Boston or Cape Town. That was before I discovered that I don't really like Boston, but that can't be held against me. When I dreamed about my life, I weighed less, and I looked just a bit different. When I dreamed about my life, I didn't do what I do for a living, even if my living is with a really cool, important, and flexible job.

Somewhere along the way I settled for the rut I fell into because settling was easier than climbing. So I sit. And I dream. And the life I dream of doesn't look much like the life I live. The people are the same, but the places and the sights are so, so different.

But sometimes it just isn't enough. Sometimes I want reality to look just a bit more like my dreams . . . all because the short girl dancing in my living room quite often doesn't stop until she's danced across my heart.

This is the best thing that I've ever done. I keep expecting it to get old, but it doesn't. Every day is better than the one before it, even when I struggle to find time to fit my less-than-dream job in between the tears and the "cackuhs" and the mountains of laundry that fill my basement. There are no bonbons, but there are cackuhs and djoooce. And I wouldn't take a dumb old bonbon anyway. I'd take these temper tantrums over any of those.

So it's for her that I try. It's for her that I fit the job and the laundry in. It's for her that I try.

So long status quo
I think I just let go
You make me want to be brave
The way it always was
Is no longer good enough
You make me want to be brave.
- "Brave" Nichole Nordeman

It may look ugly, but she sure makes me want to try.