Raising Gentlemen

I'm sorry to have been so delinquent...  We've known Baby E's gender for over a month now.   Between illnesses, Avery's surgery, the children's winter break, and a major battle with depression, I either have not had time to write, or just have not felt up to it.  I'm trying to get back in the swing of things!

Baby E (sorry, you get the gender, but not the name--we need to be able to surprise you with something when he arrives!) is undeniably a BOY!  Yes, another boy.  My three sons.  Hahahaha.  Are you sure?  Yes, we're sure.  *points and laughs*  I've heard them all.....   Even our OB remarked about what strong genes we must have in our family...  Lady, you don't know the half of it.

Convinced this baby was definitely a girl based on how different the pregnancy has been, we were prepared to inundate ourselves with pink at this point.  Yes, I might've been looking forward to picking out hair bows and dresses.  Both boys decided they were ready to be big brothers to a sister.  Shawn was looking forward to styling pony tails and braids, father-daughter dances and dates, and doting on his princess.  I thought there might be a chance I've resolved enough of my own issues that I could be a great mom to a little girl.

That was actually a point a friend used when I revealed to her my desire for a third child, trying to convince me against it: "Well, you know it will be another boy, right?"  That was not a big enough reason to not try. Even when I was scouring through adoption websites, I started off looking at the little girls, but inevitably wound up back at the boys.  I could hope for a girl, but in the end, I knew it would be up to God, and He would be giving us what He knows is best for our family.

So, the big question--are we disappointed?  Not in the least.  He's healthy.  He's beautiful.  He's amazing. He is cherished.  He's very busy, especially between the hours of 10 pm and 4 am....  We love him, he's ours, we're getting the baby we pined and prayed for.  We wouldn't trade him for a girl for all the riches in the world.  We can't wait to meet him.

And, that's the thing--God gives us what we need, not necessarily what we want, think we need, or decide is best.  What we want is not always what is best for us, and what we think we want isn't always what we need.  As humans, we don't have the answers, and we just don't know.  God knows.  I'm grateful now we had this talk with Noah and Avery long before we knew Baby E's gender.  We may have thought we wanted a girl, but God had already knit together a perfect little boy in my womb.  He is perfect for our family.

Another thing, as my mentor pointed out, sometimes it's not even about us, our family in particular, but what the world needs, what is best for the future, and according to God's plans.  God has already written this child's story, and there is a reason he is a boy.  Shawn and I are raising gentlemen (please remind me of that, next time they have a contest to see who is most proficient in bodily functions and noises....), and we are raising Christian gentlemen.  Our boys will be good husbands, fathers and leaders.

My last point: I like being a boy mom.  I'm used to it.  I pretty much know what to expect and I've learned to roll with it, minus the occasional curve ball, of course.  I love my boys, and I wouldn't have life any other way.  We're on a course with our boys.  Our boys have, for the most part, made me a more relaxed, go-with-the-flow kind of person.  They've taught me to laugh at life, and seldom take it too seriously.  They've taught me what is important, and what isn't.   I'm a boy mom.  It's who I'm meant to be.  And I'm more than okay with this.


*Endnote:  Avery is already planning for Sibling #4....  He is thrilled with his little brother, but still planning a sister.  

Saying Goodbye

It's one of those things, working at a grief center, one would think you might get used to, or at least be prepared for, the death of a dear friend, especially when you met that friend through the grief center.  One might think it might be easier, or less surprising.

One might think it's not so much of a shock when that person is 93.

Here's the thing--it's not.  None of it is easier or less of a shock.  It's not something we're prepared for, or something we get used to.  It still hits us like a ton of bricks.  We just saw him less than two weeks ago, driving himself around, making his holiday rounds, visiting, laughing, chatting.  He just renewed his driver's license, and joked about not having to renew it again until he would be 98.  Many of us thought for certain he would be there in line, paperwork in hand.  His death was unexpected, and it has hit us hard.

Today, we celebrated the life of our dear friend, a dear member of our grief center family.  I don't think it could've hit me any harder if he were blood related.  Mr P was a gentleman I became very attached to over the past two years.  He's very dear to me, and very easily found a spot in my heart.

A true southern gentleman, we all referred to him by his surname, even when he insisted we call him by his first.  It was a matter of respect, and a title he was due.  I remember learning, when I met him, that he was 91, and wondering if someone had transposed the numbers.  Are we sure he's not 19?!?!?! I won't even call him an old man, because he wasn't.  Age was just a number to him, as well as an attitude.  He was spry, with a spring in his step, a smile always on his face, even after losing his wife, the love of his life, whom he adored.  He was one of those people who smiled with his eyes. Mr P still worked the family farm, shopped for himself, drove himself to his appointments, took care of his ailing wife right up until her last day, and kept up with his family.  He volunteered at our grief center, and visited with me every Thursday, always leaving at a certain time during hay season.  His son told me today that haying was off-limits on Thursday mornings, to make time for his visits to our center.

Mr P knew my family, always asking after them by name.  Introduced to Shawn and my boys only once, he remembered them each time after.  We talked about many things during our Thursday morning visits--his farm, his great grandson (one of 6) who was Avery's age, and also in preschool, how funny it would be to see Lilly at his farm with the cows (she had an open invitation to herd his cows); he shared stories about growing up and how different what we now know as a large city was as a small town then.  He told me about his wife, and his children.  And sometimes, we just simply sat, drinking our tea or coffee, and I would hold his hand.  Whether he realized it or not, he taught me about life, about marriage, about God, and about enjoying the moment.  It was an honor, a pleasure, and a privilege to serve him each week.

I was surprised today to find out these things meant as much to Mr P as they did to me.  I was surprised to be mentioned by name as someone from our little center who made a difference to him, surprised his family knew me by name, surprised his daughter remembered both myself and Shawn from the very few times we've met.  It is truly humbling.  In my job 'title,' I was there at the center for Mr P (and others like him), but so often, I know we were there for each other.  Friendship.

One of my favorite stories is from when he was suffering from acid reflux--he'd been through several doctors, a variety of medications, and the latest doctor was talking about some very scary things as the next steps.  Mr P came to visit that week and said, "Well Amy, you know what I did? I looked up remedies on the internet and I found one that works!"  He sure showed those doctors!

I know I am not the only one who is going to miss this beloved man.  Listening to his daughter speak today, he was loved by many, and he loved many.  He loved life, and he lived it to the fullest from his very youngest of days.

I'm going to miss his hugs.  I'm going to miss the way his eyes smiled, how they crinkled up when he smiled.  I will miss holding his hand, and kissing that papery cheek.  I will miss his kindness and his sincerity. I am sad, and my heart is filled with loss.  I'm going to miss my dear friend--but I will be honest in saying that I'm grateful we serve a loving Father, our God who has brought dear Mr P home, reunited him with his wife, and, having made them whole again, given them everlasting life.  I am grateful for the time I had with him, for what he taught me, and for his friendship.  I am grateful for Mr P, plain and simple.

Christmas Makes Me Cry

Well, it's actually the entire winter season, if I'm being honest.

It's no secret that the winter months are hard for me.  I know it's coming, I'm prepared for it--then WHAM!  Depression slams into me, and I'm left flat on my back on the floor, wondering if anyone got the license plate of the Mack truck that just hit me.  Even though I know it hits me every year, it still takes me by surprise.  I want to hibernate until mid-April.  I growl and snarl.  I yell and throw things.  I cry and whine.  I forget to laugh, and I forget to have fun. I know I'm not a pleasant person.  There's a phrase I just learned that fits it to a T: "When crazy meets exhaustion."  Yep.

It's not fun.

We were kind of hoping I would be flying a little higher this season thanks to pregnancy hormones (I sailed through my pregnancy with Avery), but that has not happened yet.  Shawn remarked a few weeks ago how happy I was when I was pregnant with Avery, that quite possibly it's the happiest he's ever seen me, and how wonderful it was.  Even though I know this is biological and beyond my control for the most part, I feel as though I'm disappointing him--as well as our children--because I'm not my happiest.  I'm not even a little happy right now.

I don't want to be this person.

Much of it is Christmas itself.  I'm overwhelmed, and not in a good way.  I'm struggling. I tell myself if I can just get through December, I'll be better.  Sometimes I even go so far as saying I hate Christmas, even though I know it's not the actual holiday I hate, it's the pressure from October (when it starts now) to January (when it finally ends). God forgive me, I even want to snarl "Bite me" when someone wishes me a Merry Christmas.  There's so much to be done, so much rushing, so much not stopping to enjoy the season.  Everything, including breathing, just becomes such a chore.  It's the over-commercialization of it, the greed, the intensity of the buy-buy-buy mentality, the need to rush through a day of thanksgiving with our families just so we can go out and buy MORE STUFF that very same night! I get cynical and disillusioned.  We are lucky we are able to provide for our children year round, and sometimes the idea of 'having' to buy them more for one particular day, well, it frustrates me.  Yes, I want to give my children gifts, but the societal pressure--oh my gosh.    The sight of--the need for--angel trees makes me cry.  As a mom, I cannot fathom having to rely on the kindness of strangers to provide for my children.  We chose two little girls from the tree at church--and you know what they asked for?  Winter coats.  It broke my heart.  Then I start thinking about everything Mary must've gone through--did she want to run and hide her child away, knowing the prophesy over him?  My heart breaks for her, mom to mom.  Knowing that little baby boy's future, what he would do to save the world, and everything his mother went through--I cry with gratitude, as well as sadness.  I have delayed decorating because I'm just not feeling it, and I know that's not fair to the boys.  Christmas music makes me either dissolve into tears, or want to throw something.  I won't even get into what those schmaltzy annoying Hallmark Christmas movies make me want to do--well, the commercials anyway (I wouldn't even make it five minutes into the actual movie).  Ugh.  We did finally do some decorating this weekend, but we did it to the 80's hard rock station on Pandora because the thought of Christmas music made me want to curl up in a ball and die.  Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like Ozzy Osbourne's Crazy Train....

I try to keep the magic alive for my boys.  I try to remember to do fun things, but at times I just don't have the energy for it.  I want them to remember the joy of this season, the magic, and the reason.

Instead, I start feeling like--and acting like--a cross between Scrooge and Grumpy Cat, rather than the Tiny Tim and Mrs Claus combination my family deserves, and needs me to be.

Major Mommy Fail.

I promised myself I would not do this.  Perfection, and the ensuing stress, were the theme of the holidays in my house growing up.  Christmas was nice, but it was just plain stressful and not always enjoyable.  Much of the time, it was miserable, and like the other 364 days of the year, it was dysfunctional. While my parents strived to make it different, it ended up being just another day of the year, albeit with decorations and presents. Perfection always backfired, and there was plenty of blame thrown around.  I promised myself my children would have a different holiday experience.

I want to find my joy.  I want to teach my children to celebrate their joy.

All of this makes me feel as though I'm being incredibly ungrateful. Then I feel guilty.  We do have so much to be thankful for--and so many people to be thankful for.  Our lack of family at the holidays doesn't even bother me anymore (I've come a long way to be able to say that) because God has provided so many friends for our boys, so many people who speak into their lives, so many people who love them.  I am grateful that our boys are so covered, that we are able to provide for them, and I'm grateful that we have money leftover to help others during this season.  That's another thing that had me in tears (a pregnant woman bawling her eyes out in the toy section of Walmart is NOT a pretty sight)--I am feel overwhelmingly blessed and grateful for all that we are able to do.

Again, I know much of this is biological and beyond my control.  While I cannot control the misfiring neurotransmitters and poorly moderated brain chemicals, I know I can control how I react to all of this.  It's up to me to take control of that much, and do what I can to turn it around.  I know I put too much pressure on myself, and that in itself is overwhelming.  I know I need to step back, reevaluate what is truly the most important, and start from there.  I can tell myself that if XY and Z don't get done, it will not be the end of the world.  Isn't it more important for my children to have a fun, meaningful Christmas filled with Jesus, rather than the perfect Christmas with the perfect gifts?  The answer there is a resounding YES.

Big girl panties pulled up...  Here we go.  Once I'm finished hiding in the corner in the dark, of course.

Getting Out of Our Box, uh, Seats

As I've mentioned before, Shawn and I are a bit on the painfully introverted side.  We want to be able to interact as little as possible, do what we need to do and keep moving so we can hide in the dark corners of our home.   Okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration....

As I've also mentioned before, God seems to have big plans for us in this new church of ours.  In the past year we've been attending, He's moved us from our comfortable row in the back to the middle, He's got us attending Bible studies, and now He's got us sort of serving and becoming more involved.   There's no more hiding or blending in.  People know our names now!  *gasp*  This is difficult for us; we love serving others, we love being able to do for others--but we are background people, as in, please don't make eye contact with us, please don't acknowledge us!

God is not finished with us yet, though.  He is no longer satisfied with our roles as background, behind-the-scenes people.  He is still pushing and pulling us out of our comfort zones.  More like kicking us in the bums right out of the nest.

One of the things we struggle with is the greeting at the beginning.  Most churches cap the morning greeting off at around 30-60 seconds, so all we've had to really do before is nod our heads, smile and shake a few hands.  We did not have to get out of our seats.  We did not have to move around.  We did not have to venture out of our comfort zone.  In this church, the greeting lags on for a 'torturous' 3-4 minutes.  The first time our pastor announced that time, I know I panicked.  How long?  He's kidding, right?  RIGHT?  Shawn and I have not-so-joked about having to use the bathroom during that time, coughing uncontrollably so people won't want to shake our hands--just silly things in order to avoid what we are not comfortable with.

Another thing we struggle with--our pastor has introduced a new prayer routine.  At the end of worship, he has us praying out loud for two minutes.  What is this man thinking????  Okay, all silly sarcasm aside--if ever there were a time for me to escape to the bathroom, this would be it.  I am not used to praying out loud.  I am not comfortable enough, or confident enough, in my own voice.  What if I say the wrong thing?  What if I sound stupid?  I know the reality of this is--if everyone else is praying the way we've been called to, they aren't listening to what I'm saying.  And, if I'm praying the way we've been called to, I'm not listening to what they're saying.  Right now, the best I can do is raise my hands in praise, turn my face to the heavens, and pray inside my head.  Along with this, he has us praying over those around us who ask for prayer at the close of the service.  This also requires praying out loud.

I know there is an example we need to be setting for our children.  We are not unfriendly people, we are not stuck up or better than anyone else.  We are not anti-social, just socially awkward. This is a struggle for us.  Entirely out of our comfort zone.  We need to step out.  No one is going to bite us, and we do like the people we attend church with.  I know our pastor has only good intentions for his flock when he does this, as with anything he does.  He wants visitors to know they are welcome and part of a family, and he wants long-time attenders to know they are loved, seen, and heard.  This is an opportunity for us to interact, so pick up on needs someone may have, a chance to just love on each other.

This is a teaching church, and we are learning so much.  Our pastor is a leader, a good one, and I'm grateful for the way he's helping God drag and pull us out of our comfort zones.  Part of his job is to grow us, to stretch us, to make sure we are not stagnant in our faith.  I'm not sure he understands the kind of um, 'fight,' he has on his hands with this particular family, buttttt, gotta give him credit for continuing in his efforts!  Our pastor is faithful to his flock, working hard for our benefit, working hard to bring salvation and the message to us.  He works hard to make our church a no-judgement zone, and he works hard to make sure we are comfortable and welcome, yet growing.

So, grow we shall.

Thank Your Spouse

I hate traffic.  And when I say 'traffic,' I'm talking about the rare 2-3 instances a week I have to deal with a 30-40 minute drive in moderately heavy everyone-needs-to-get-to-where-they're-going-before-everyone-else traffic, while Captain Motormouth talks about everything and anything in the back seat, and Admiral Backseat Driver analyzes anything and everything from the front seat, all of it making my head spin.  I fume at the texters, the fiddlers, the not-paying-attentioners, all putting my children at risk because their secondary task is more important than their primary task, which is driving.

Then there's my husband.  He drives 5 times a week, 1 1/2-2 hours to and from work, in heavy kill-or-be-killed traffic.  He expertly (I say 'expertly' because he makes it home alive and in one piece every night) maneuvers around the texters, the fiddlers, the ones with better things to do than drive, carefully making his way to work, or home to us.  At the end of his drive, the last thing he wants to do at night is take over for me, breaking up fights, putting Avery through the bath, and getting the boys through their bedtime routines; he does not want to head back in the direction he just came from to take Noah to Scouts, hang out in town until it's time to pick Noah up from practice, or go to Bible study so that he doesn't get home until 9 pm--but that's what he does. And he does it for us.  Because he loves us.  What I can do for him is have dinner on the table, and his soda in my hand when he walks through the door (don't worry, I draw the line at a smoking jacket and slippers....).  I can greet him with love, enthusiasm and a grateful heart.  He comes home tired and worn out, but he still has a smile for us.

Traffic makes me all the more grateful for my husband. It reminds me to be patient with him, and of all the things he does so I don't have to.  It reminds me that I get to stay home with our kids, which is something we decided is important to our family.  Traffic makes me grateful for all he does for our family, and everything he sacrifices.  I really don't know how he does it.  Four hours on the road each day means four hours lost with our kids, it means time lost for us as a couple, and as a family.  It means his stress level goes up, along with his frustration and blood pressure.  His health takes a huge hit.

Don't forget to thank your spouse.  Tell him or her why you're grateful for all they do, and remind them daily you are thankful just because they're who they are.

Thankfulness.... In 90 Seconds or Less

Shawn and I have been asked to share our testimony concerning infertility with our church as part of the November sermon series on thankfulness.  The catch?  We have to sum up 10 years of angst in 90 seconds or less.  What WHAT???  Don't they know me?  Please tell me they really meant 90 minutes...  Oh heck, just let me do the whole sermon series!

I asked a friend today if I can just say, "God is amazing, medical science can suck it."  Can I say "suck it" in church?

I really don't even know where to start.  I thought maybe if I sat down and started this post, divine inspiration will strike.  Or, maybe somewhere in this post, Shawn and I will find the testimony God wants us to give.

Don't misunderstand me, I know my testimony.  Shawn and I know ours.  What I'm getting hung up on is the 90 second part--what is the most important part of our testimony? What, out of this entire mess, do others need to hear the most?

We've seen my lab results. I've had countless tests, and we've seen the results over and over and over.  We've heard the damning words from my doctors, over and over and over. This past May, my latest work up showed I had no discernible female hormones at all.  My thyroid and adrenal levels were in the dumpster.  My endocrine system was so incredibly out of whack, my doctor wasn't even sure if we could fix it well enough for me to function, and certainly not well enough for me to conceive.  On paper, we never should've been able to conceive.  Between illness and the medications necessary, my body was just destroyed. When my doctors told us there was no way we would have another child after Noah, I believed them.  Things looked even more dire after Avery.  Medical science cannot explain our children.

I can.

Here's the other thing I'm getting hung up on--the whole thankfulness thing.  It's taken us a while to get to this point--maybe me more than Shawn.  I've journeyed through some massive bitterness to get to the point where I woke up and realized I already had Noah, and then when we had Avery--we already had two incredible kids, and there I was, bitter because God wouldn't give us a third child, in my time frame?  Bitter because God wasn't doing things my way, so I what I heard was, "NO!" rather than, "Not yet."  The death my doctors spoke to us sent me into a tailspin that lasted years, and I couldn't hear anything other than their words.  I couldn't hear anything other than my own anger.  I couldn't hear the life God was so desperately trying to speak to me.

I feel like a hypocrite telling people I was thankful through the entire ordeal.  It won't ring true to anyone's ears.  I know that I can't start there.  I have to start at the beginning with the tears, the devastation and the anger.

The truth is, Shawn has been more trusting and faithful through all of this than I have.  When I wanted to give up, when I yelled about my stupid body, when I was angry, when I screamed and cried about the injustice of it all--Shawn was the rational one.  He would reply, "Doctors are stupid.  God is good.  Trust Him."  He would remind me that we don't know what God can do, but we do know He is the great healer, that nothing is impossible for Him.  Shawn loved me through it, and in that, I hit my breakthrough and started to trust more, to believe more, to know more.

So, why am I thankful?  I'm thankful to have a Father and a husband who never give up on me.  I'm thankful to have the blessing of two amazing boys, and another child on the way.  I'm grateful for these people in my life I never thought I would have.  I'm grateful for the problems we have, that other people would love to have.  I know how 'lucky' we are, and I try to not take that for granted.  I'm even thankful that I know everything that can go wrong, because those trials are what make me appreciate what I do have as much as I do.

It's Not What I Expected... and I'm Glad

I had the tv on this morning, just noise in the background while I took care of some chores.  I wasn't paying much attention, but something caught my ear and made my head whip around.  I actually rewound the movie to be sure I heard it correctly.

One of the characters was confronting her estranged mother after years of not speaking.  The mother bitterly replied, "Motherhood is not what I expected, and you kids weren't exactly easy."  The mother then continued to blame the adult daughters for everything that she felt had gone wrong with her life.

I've heard this before, and not from a movie.  Maybe not in so many words, or so succinctly, but there it was.

So, here's the thing--motherhood is certainly not what I expected either.  From day one, it has not been the romanticized version I had built up in my head.  I can tell you that I never expected my children to have such varying age ranges, I did not expect to have boys, I did not expect to be raising a child on the spectrum, and, at one point, I didn't even expect to have more than one child.  I also did not expect the many daily rewards, the hugs, and feelings of self worth, the pride and love that make my heart swell until I'm in tears.  While it may not be the romanticized version I dreamed of, it's certainly not the absolute worst, dysfunctional movie version either!

Are my kids easy?  Oh, heck no!  There are days I might trade that for a little bit less exhaustion, but it certainly would be boring if my kids were easy!  There are good days, and that's what we concentrate on.  There are also the days I realize that it's me, not my children, who is the difficult one, and those are some pretty serious lightbulb moments.  When things are going sideways, it's my attitude that counts.  It is up to me to keep things in perspective, and remind myself that I am the adult.

Is anything ever what we expect?  If everything always went as we expect, where would be the joys, the surprises, the spontaneity, the fun (the need for God, prayer and friendship...)? What would be the point to a scripted life? There are challenges in everything, but we work through them.  And then we embrace them, for they are what make us who we are.  There is also joy to be found in everything!  Those challenges and joys are how we grow, and how we learn.  If we don't do so, we become stagnant and bitter.  And at the end of the day, we agree, this life is not what we expected, but it sure is worth it.

I don't want to be the mother lamenting to her adult children about what horrible people they are, or blaming them for things beyond their control.  I want my children to know they are loved and cherished. Even more importantly, they need to know they are liked and wanted, and to know that it is an honor and a blessing to be able to raise them.  I want them to know that I need them just as much as they need me, if not more.  Being their mom is not what I expected, and I'm happy with that.