Adelai is Two!

Dear Adelai,

You are two years old.  I can barely write any further because that sentence alone makes me speechless.  My girl is growing up. And wow, have you grown up.  

This past year, you started to keep pace with your brothers.  In your first year, you were gentle and reserved.  You watched your brothers with a sense of almost pity and with moments of disdain.  They played in dirt, jumped off couches, crowded you with overly excited affection and built stuff.  You seemed perplexed by this.  This year, you jumped into the clan of Garland kids with both feet.  You love them and look for them all day long.  You can often be heard saying “Where’s Chaze? Where’s Jutin?” Your favorite thing to do with them is to run up and down the hallways yelling and screaming.  Your face is lit up with joy.  You also love sitting by them, lying in daddy and mommy’s bed with them, and you particularly follow Justin wherever he goes. 

But you are all girl.  I remember watching you lay eyes on a doll for the first time and your face lit up with glee.  You take care of your babies all day.  You are constantly wasting boxes of diaper wipes washing their faces over and over again.  You love to color and have recently fallen in love with princesses and Strawberry Shortcake.  You hardly ever willingly wear pants and repeatedly call yourself a princess throughout the day.  In short, you know who you are. 

 The first year of your life, you were gentle and unassuming.  You were hesitant to meet physical milestones, quiet and you cuddled a bunch.  You didn’t speak much and could easily be described as reserved.  And then you weren’t.  You are sassy, young lady.  Sassy.  I have no idea where you get that from.  (Your mommy is so passive!) You hold your own with your brothers.  You are a force to be reckoned with.

You have a tendency to attack people when they aren’t doing as you command.  This includes lifting your arm up with the intent to assault and running across the room to complete the crime.  And you don’t just hit once, you hit over and over again.  As you are being carried into time out, you continue your assault on your victim until you are placed in your room.  You then scream, stick out your tongue and slam the door.  You can then flip the switch, flash a dimple and ask nicely for your demand.  Usually you are asking for something completely insane, so when the answer is still “no”, you scream again, attempt a swat, end up in your room and slam the door again.  Then you come out happy and life moves on. 

Your favorite word and clearest word is “NO.”  You don’t yell it, you just state it firmly and frequently.  All the time, really.  You haven’t really gotten a hold of vocabulary yet, but Daddy and I understand you because we’ve learned the Adie language.  You are up to two word sentences, but they have to be the right words.  For example, you have “No, Mama” down pat.  Love that.  Right now I think I’m fine with your vocabulary, because based on your blossoming sassiness, I’m just fine with your inability to express yourself.  Heaven help us when you actually can say what you are thinking.   

You love water and over the past year, your heaven is in the bathtub.  That is, until you started pooping the tub a few weeks ago.  Now you don’t like it so much.  Whenever I ask you if you’d like to get in the tub, you instantly say “poop?”  You also are on the verge of potty training, but can’t quite get the order down.  Right now, you poop your diaper, secretly take it off and then sit on the potty.  You’ll understand that this is not a great moment for me when you’ve smeared feces on the toilet, the carpet, your clothes and then you are remarkably unhappy with the results. 

Your laugh is perfection.  Straight from heaven.

Sometimes (all the time) I want to beg God to freeze time when you are sitting on my lap, all cuddled up.  At bed time, you whisper “nigh, nigh, mama.  Luhyu.”  I think probably if I never had another moment on the planet, I could stand before God and be grateful just to have had that one moment with you.  You and your brothers are the delight of my heart. 

These words just seem stupid because I will ultimately fail to express how you light up a room.  I’ll fail to express how the very sight of your smile when I get home from a stressful day at work washes all the unimportant stuff away.  I won’t adequately be able to tell you that you motivate me to be an authentic woman of God because I want to live up to my own personal standard of who is worthy of  being the mommy of Adelai Makena.  I look at you and think about all that you deserve, and then I look back at myself and think “Wow.  I have work to do.”  Because I know from the depth of my soul that God gave me you with an intention to raise you up in righteousness.  And can I admit that I feel like I still need more “raising up”?

I get told over and over to “enjoy these years with her because woe to you when she’s a teenager.”  In reality, I think it’s more like a life long sentence of loving a creature so much that you simultaneously must have a goal of independence and self sufficiency, yet deeply desire a life long connection and an ultimate moment when I get to hold your hand within the gates of Heaven.  I don’t care if you ever speak clearly.  I don’t care if you ever hate me, if you struggle, if you succeed beyond all imagination.  What I do care about is your eternity.  Sometimes as I see you walking out into the world, my prayer is simply that God would grab ahold of your heart.  That you would love Him early and that He would be the delight of your life.  Because my Adelai, I’ll fight hell for you.  I will fail at many things (like turning your clothes pink or forgetting a bunch of stuff), but I am resolved to not fail at this.  And don’t hesitate to remember that you got your sassiness from somewhere.

My sweet baby girl....it’s an honor to be your mommy. You inspire me. You humble me.  You make me laugh and you show me yet another sign of God Almighty in a tender hearted, fiery little girl. 
Love you Adie-Mak. 

Love, Mommy

Influenza Has Mommy?

Being a mommy does something odd to the psyche.  I think I'm so far deep into motherhood that, at some point, I forgot that I could actually get sick.  This isn't to say that I haven't been sick in the past 6 years, but more like I haven't been so sick that I couldn't ignore the symptoms along side the rest of the little humans in my life.  I'm fairly certain that I could be dry heaving into a garbage bag and any one of my three children would tap me on the shoulder and ask me if I could please get them some more milk.  Or wipe their buns.  Or could I please kiss their owie that they got when they smacked their brother in the face?

So on Saturday, I started to feel odd and easily exhausted.  On Sunday I started to cough uncontrollably.  On Monday I woke up and I thought I was going to die.  Fever, dry cough, congestion, you name it.  Total misery.   I couldn't stand up, I couldn't eat, drink, whine, nothing.

One thing you have to know is that Chris Garland is infamous for being a hypochondriac.  He will deny this until the day that he dies, but the fact remains that as soon as I mention a symptom, he literally has that exact symptom in about 3 nano-seconds, with of course the exception of things like a fever or congestion, etc.  For example, one of the very first symptoms I ever got when I was pregnant was cold symptoms.  My nose would get stuffy and I would swear that I was getting sick.  Then, coupled with a few other symptoms, I would take a pregnancy test and it would explain it all.  Chris got my "pregnancy cold" every single time and it was cured by my pregnancy test....every single time.  Mention a symptom, and Chris is instantly ill.  It's adorable/annoying/adorable.

So, over the weekend, Chris was obviously feeling "tired and sick".  He even took loads of over-the-counter cough medicine, even though he never coughed even once. Then Monday came, and he was refreshed and ready for the week.  I was hit by a Mack truck, but since I couldn't barely put a sentence together to express my symptoms, Chris was unscathed.  I stayed in bed for three straight days, with the exception of when I went to the doctor for ear pain and came home with influenza and antibiotics.

Which reminds me.  I'm sitting at urgent care, my head in my palm, coughing into a mask when the doctor gently asks me "Mrs Garland, did you get a flu shot?"

My mind immediately flashed to the traumatic events of every fall when I get my three children flu shots.  It is pure misery.  They cry, scream, go hysterical and respond to each other's cries as if their lives are truly endangered. As a tribe of psychos, they absolutely panic until the three of them see something shiny and then life goes on, leaving a rattled, exhausted mother in their wake.  Within four minutes, nobody remembers what happened except me.

But wait a minute...I obviously didn't get a shot that day at the pediatric clinic....and then I realized....I completely forgot to get myself a flu shot.  Me.  Unbelievable.

So I tell the doctor that I didn't get one....but can't stop myself from rattling off my life story just in case he thinks I'm a complete moron.  "I didn't get one, but I have three kids and they all got one.  I just forgot to get myself one.  See?  They are....covered, so...that doesn't count...but if the world had any ounce of justice in it, it would....right?"

"Mrs. Garland, I think you have influenza.  The real one" and then, as I look entirely defeated, he quietly jokes "do you need a mental health evaluation?"

Of course I do.  So when I come home and tell Chris, his face goes white and he takes a few steps back from me.  He says under his breath "Oh my God.  My wife has the black plague.  I'm going to die."

I step over all the garbage on the ground that has accumulated in the past 72 hours and return to my bed while Chris is giving the kids a bath.  I am so exhausted that I have to ask Chris to get me some water, but it takes him awhile to respond.  When he finally brings the water, which clearly he would like to hand to me with a 10 foot pole, he looks frazzled.  I ask him what is wrong, and no joke, he says "Oh nothing, just trying to handle my pre-flu symptoms."

So I was incapacitated for 5 straight days.  Chris got the kids ready for school each day and I swear, Adelai literally had a bee hive as she went to daycare each day.  For three straight days, they ate pizza and eggs for almost every meal.  They never had a bed time, but rather passed out on the floor and were placed into their beds.  They had free access to cookies and drank non-stop Gatorade.  It was probably the best time of their lives. And when I finally rose from my bed this morning, the house looked like a war zone.  Not to disrespect the survivors of WWII, but does anybody remember the scene in The Pianist when the main character finally comes out of the house at the very end and the whole entire place is decimated for as far as the eye can see?

 That was kind of like my house.  Except that instead of bombed out structures of houses, I had straight filth and garbage.

I used to feel like a total failure as a parent because my house almost always looks trashed.  No matter how hard I try, I have three little sabotages following behind me, ruining everything.  At least this experience has shown me that I do actually keep total filth and decimation at bay.  Sort of.

And FYI, Chris is still freaked out by me.  When I cough, he does everything short of duck-and-cover.  Luckily, he is still at the "pre-flu" stage, so I think we'll be just fine.

Although, speaking of the need for a mental health evaluation......

The End of Reservations

When I first began my inquiry of God, I was motivated by fear.  I had been a total control freak and while I would never have understood what I am saying right now, I was infatuated with many idols.  The day that Justin turned blue, I would have described idolatry as something some crazy weird people did a long time ago when they thought some weird statues were magic.

The truth was that at that time, I believed in God but I figured that I could handle everything on my own.  He need not concern Himself with me, who had everything taken care of by myself.  I mean...I was Jessica Garland, after all.  (I'm not sure that this actually means anything, but it did at the time.)

Over the course of the past two years, He's relentlessly revealed idol after idol after idol in my life.  Money (a giant one for me), control (another giant one for me), my physical health (a giant one....see the pattern?), my identity, what people think of me....all these things that sort of root my belief that, if every one of these things are in place, I'm secure.  Safe.  If these things are in place, I am on solid ground.

His relentless revelations are at times, tender and at other times, a blow to the soul.  When you are infatuated with your Creator, idolatry is heartbreaking.  At some point in the last six months, I've held money in my hand and been devastated.  This is literally paper that you exchange for stuff.  That's all.  I can't believe this ever uprooted my entire life when it dissapeared.  The clarity of my infidelity to God is painful.  When the fog lifts and you see that it was all just stupid weird statues, falling to your knees seems to be a reasonable reaction.

But the sudden revelation two years ago that the foundation of my life was a fraud knocked me on my heels and I came after YHWH with a fervor.  YHWH, save my boy.  YHWH, save my marriage.  YHWH, save my life.  YHWH, take it all.  YHWH, I'm a fraud.  Make me all new.  


(Sigh.)


Graham Thudium.  I'm never going to be the same.  Because as I had the privilige of watching you as you valiantly and courageously marched towards the gates of heaven, you showed me perhaps my biggest idol yet.  Watching you soften hearts....bring grown men to tears....you revealed the goal in life.  The real one.  Not the "American Dream".  Not the white picket fences.

Not the healthy children. (Insert punch to the gut here.)

My idol is my healthy children.  I have simultaneously been grateful for the blessing and called the death of a child "a mother's worst nightmare".  And of course it is up there at the top....there's no denying that.  Please do not hear me say that the death of a child is not a total nightmare.  But perhaps, if you believe that YHWH is faithful....if you believe that He is who He says He is, and He will do what He says He will do, than my worst nightmare should be more around the fear that my children will be so healthy and so successful that they don't encounter the Living God.  My worst nightmare should be that I would blow these precious years of influence as a parent by being fatigued or selfish or caught up by fear.  (All of which I'm prone to be.)

So I'm stepping out onto a ledge.  I'm no longer focusing as a mother on pleading for the continued health of my children in prayer.  Graham Thudium's life was the definition of success in Biblical standards.  He was covered in faith, he loved deeply and he became a warrior for Jesus.  A victorious triumph over the gates of hell. We are deeply mourning the separation, but resolute in faith that the separation is temporary and will not last.

I want salvation for my children....however God would choose to accomplish that task.  My plea then becomes that He would accomplish that mission--period.  Trusting that, as the Bible says, (Romans 8:28) in all things, He works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.


I now believe that, even if nothing is in place, I remain on solid ground.  And thanks to Graham and the Thudium family, I now boldly approach the Throne of Grace with no reservations.

A Routine Shiner

She sat in her hospital crib, suddenly laughing hysterically at a simple toy.  It was clear that she was feeling the effects of the medication she had received as she swayed from side to side. She tipped over into the pillow, flashed her dimples at me and giggled.  Her smile takes up so much of her face, and I noted the curls in her hair as she grabbed my attention like she so easily does.  I reached to pick her up, but she nonchalantly said "no" and went about her play.  I noticed that she was beginning to drool from her lip, so I quickly attended to her as she folded her tiny body over to press her face into the mirror on the toy.  She was delighted by her reflection.  I was delighted by her delight, even though her ever increasing independence in the world was, at times, tough to accept....or should I say, tough to celebrate.  She owns me.

I tried to appear carefree for her for a few minutes until I realized that she wasn't looking at me anymore.  Then  I stopped.  No sense in pretending that my heart wasn't burning in my chest as the doctors ran through the simple, routine procedure.  The anesthesiologist told me how he would care for her and was completely taken by her grin.  "Are you trying to win me over, young lady?  You had me at your first giggle."  She brightened as if she somehow understood and then sunk into her pillow further with pure glee.  Her laughter filled the tense room. Not a care in the world.

As they were preparing to wheel her away, I overheard a surgeon giving a family a completely different scenario.  "This is a risky situation" and "we'll keep you updated on the progress if we make any...." As they wheeled my girl away, my eyes filled with tears as I was full of gratitude yet couldn't stand the image of her happy little carefree body being whisked away from her mommy.  She never looked for me.  She was growing up.  It's the kind of security that comes from being well-loved...knowing that your mommy will always be back...always come for you.
I will always come for her.

The 30 minute wait turned into two hours.  In retrospect, I think God just shielded me from this knowledge, because I didn't really notice.  The doctor came and explained that it had not gone well.  She was missing a tear duct in her eye that was responsible for 70% of the drainage in the eye.  He explained that she might have to have some kind of extensive surgery, but I didn't listen to anything he said.  I pictured her hair, recently having exploded into curls.  Her inquisitive eyes.  Her fingers...her toes. He gave me a reassuring smile, but I give that smile to patients all the time after I've given them a pep-talk.  I know it doesn't mean much. He left and nearly immediately, they called for the mother of Adelai Garland. I rose from my chair trying to hide the anxious desire to push down grandmas and shove people aside to get to her.

I entered through double doors and there were children lying in beds, along the walls.  Some were sleeping, some were moaning as they woke up, some were sobbing.  I saw Adelai being held by a nurse.  Her eyes were visibly swollen and, under her left eye there was a dark purple bruise forming.  Blood sat on her lip, flowing slowly out of her nose. Her eyes were closed, but she was whimpering and sort of flailing around, yet without much effort.  I said her name and she sort of lunged in the direction of my voice with a sob. I caught her, clumsy in my attempt to scoop her with all her wires.  She fell into my body with a sigh and was unconscious again.  Her breathing became calm and she was home.  I am still her home.

Her head still fits perfectly under my chin.  Her body bends perfectly into mine, as if God created me specifically for what her body would need on this day.  We blended like puzzle pieces.  As I sat and rocked her, I remembered what it was like to be pregnant with her and then to hold her newborn body as she lay like this....so trusting and so peaceful.  I hugged her tightly and took deep breathes for her, helping her to regulate her breathing further.  Her oxygen saturation got back up to 100% and they were pleased.  She woke up a little further, lifted her face suddenly off of my shoulder and stared at me, about 5 inches from my face, as if confirming that it was really me.  She was reassured and dove into me again.  Back to sleep.  It is really me.

Over time, she woke up further and suddenly, a switch was flipped.  She became angry and irritable.  She threw stuff, shoved me away as if I had made her hurt and sobbed inconsolably.  She screamed, ripping off her band-aid that eventually took the place of the IV and bled all over her favorite blanket.  A patience lives in me that is not my own, because I simply sat for awhile as she tried to hit me and waited for her.  Then, she reached for me again and I delighted in her return.

She has a black eye now.  The world has dealt her a blow.  She has spent the day content with staying on my lap for hours at a time.  When she is in pain, she suddenly turns on me, but she finds her way back to my lap.  I am her safety.  She will forget that tomorrow, but it won't change the fact that I am her home.

And when she forgets it, and then remembers it, I'll smile knowingly, with a heart bursting with love.  First, because I'm a mommy and I live for her.  But second, because I do that to my Abba Father all the time too. When I get a black eye and remember to run back to my Home, His heart absolutely bursts with joy.

I should probably remember that.  You should too.

Darkness

I haven't blogged in a really long time.  There are a ton of reasons I could list.  Holidays...traveling....chasing the children....listening to Adie yell NO multiple times a day....working myself into a coma at night.  There is no doubt that I am swamped by life.  I am so far behind on laundry that it's not even funny. 

But the real reason is that I think the winter time is hard to swallow.  It's dark all the time, and somehow it makes me feel like I'm behind on everything.  There is something about it being dark before dinner is served that leaves me with the sense that I didn't accomplish much in those 8 hours that I had.  And when it's cold outside, I find myself dreading going outside to scrape the frost off of my car and kick myself for the 43rd time for not starting my car earlier.  So my real desire is to curl up in my warm blankets and hibernate until the sun comes back. 

I lost my coat.  Isn't that stupid?  I had a winter coat and I can't find it anywhere.  Every time I go to save money to buy a new one, I can't stand the voice in my head that relentlessly lists all the things that my children need over my coat.  As a mom, it's easier to shiver every day than it is to be warm and remember the needs of your babies.  So I'm really cold lately.  And on top of that, we keep our house cool enough that the butter doesn't even get soft on the counter.  We've saved a bunch of money by bundling up this year, but I still feel cold.  All the time.  Have I mentioned that I feel cold?  I'm cold. 

I think, if I'm being honest, that it started in Las Vegas.  I've never been to somewhere like that.  I've never seen that level of openness to depravity and greed.  I've had a rather PG rated life, so walking the strip and being handed pornography from a 40ish year old Hispanic woman really hit home.  She looked like a mother.  I look like a mother.  I recognized the worn out, stressed, tired and worried mess on her.  That's me.  I wanted to stop and say something. 

Maybe I wanted to say that I'm sorry that our world is so dark and hard...that we live in such a way that she got to this place.  I wanted to tell her that she had options, but then I realized that I wasn't so sure that she did.  I tried to make eye contact with her as she attempted to hand me the card, but she never looked up and quickly passed me by. Then I kinda got knocked back on my heels a bit.  Is this the world that I actually live in?  And shouldn't I, of all people, know this?  I mean you don't work in an ER as a mental health evaluator without seeing depravity.  But maybe I had limited it a bit....as if mental illness or drug abuse was the only darkness in this world.  But she didn't look like she fit either of those.  What gets a woman to stand on the strip and forcefully hand out porn to people walking by?  It was like my eyes were opened to a level of yuckiness and I just want to close them again.  I hated that place.  I hated it so bad that I cried and pleaded with Chris to let us go home early, no matter the cost. 
But I still can see her face. 

So in the darkness, I just sit.  I don't try to fight it anymore.  I am just waiting to figure out how God meets me here.  It's been dark before.  But before I knew God, I sort of wandered around in a frenzy.  I'm not sure how I thought that being in a frenzy made it all better, but that was my go-to mode.  Now I'm just waiting.

And isn't that what Christmas is all about?  Practicing the art of waiting....with glee and excitement, my kids wait for Christmas morning.  They find it exhilarating to wait, and the joy builds each day.  We are counting down the days until His birthday.  Counting down until He comes. 

Me: "God, You always come meet me when I'm so excited about you.  But I'm not excited about much these days and it's cold down here."
Silence.
Me: "Do you only respond to me when I'm full of joy?"
Silence.
Me: "You've left me all alone and I'm scared.  I see darkness everywhere and I miss the blindness where it all looked bright and full of promise.  I can't understand where You went.  I don't know how to find You again.... I think I wandered away and I'm not sure how to get back..."
Silence.  And then -
God: "I'm here. You never found Me because I was always here, and I came down to your darkness so that you could be warm in the light again.  Just be quiet and keep your eyes on Me.  I will fill you again.  Just wait."
 Me: "But don't you know that I don't wait well?  You should have a monopoly on knowledge about me.  I don't wait.  I never wait.  I'm a miserable disaster when I wait.  Can you do it sooner?  I think sooner is much better than later.  Why wait when you can do it now?"
Silence.
Me:  Ooooh....Nice touch.  I will wait then...since You gave me absolutely zero options. 
Silence.
Me:  I guess I'm waiting. 


And I'm waiting.  One thing I know about Him is that when He fills you up, it's a water that overflows.  I can wait for that.  I'm not a fan of waiting, but I'll wait for Him. 

Into the darkness, He comes like He promised.




Have you not known?  Have you not heard? 
The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.  Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint. 
Isaiah 40: 28-31

Repentance

I am not guilty of many sins that our society would deem outrageous.  I don’t drink.  I don’t steal stuff, I tell the truth too much of the time and I live a rather boring life of laundry and dishes and chasing after three children that I adore.  I spend my money on groceries.  I don’t do drugs.  I’m boring.  I haven’t killed anyone and I am at least 48% sweet, 45% sass and 7% inconsistent.  And I try to take care of people who don’t get cared for very often.  I even attend church all the time.  I don't have any felonies.  In the top 10 worst things I ever did list, #7 is when I intentionally failed a history test in 6th grade so that I would fit in with the cool (and apparently stupid) kids.  So scandalous.   

Hand me my mocha and my girl scout badges and lets move on. 


Except that in the last 36 hours, I've come to realize that I really have so much to be ashamed of.  So much. 


A 6 year old member of our church family is battling brain cancer.  My heart just breaks for this family…the kind of broken heart where you sit in a dark room and sob.  This beautiful little boy has had five brain surgeries and this is his third relapse.  All I can really think about is how unfair this is....and how undeserving this family is of this brokenness. 

And I think about the part where God changed my life in three and a half minutes as I thought Justin was dying during his absence seizure.  It took three and a half minutes of believing that I was losing my little boy before I gave up every ounce of belief that I had any contributions to offer and promptly got off of my throne.  Three and a half minutes got me to a place where I waved the white flag of surrender and begged for the Lord to take over everything I have.  Three and a half minutes.  Even now, any time I have the smallest hint of desire to follow my own impulses, the face of my baby turning blue whips me into shape in a mere moment.  Three minutes of staring at my worst nightmare, and my life changed from top to bottom. 

So I think of sweet Louise, a mom who loves her children with a heart of gold.  She is no different than me.  As I think about her experiences, I am struck by the cold hard truth that there is no reason that she is in her spot, and I am in my spot.  I have three healthy kids.  I’ve never received a glimmer of bad news with my children.  Even the moments where I thought Justin was dying resulted in a doctor looking me in the face and imploring me to believe that my baby was okay.  I’ve never wondered at the health of my kids.  I’ve never miscarried.  I’ve never wondered if I was going to miscarry.  From the moment that I heard their heartbeats to this moment that I'm sitting here typing, I've only had wonderful happy news.  And one thing that I know for sure is that I don't deserve this. 

I lived a good solid 10 years of my adult life with my back to God.  My sister recently reminded me of a time where I literally said "Why does this world have to be about God? Why can't it just be about me loving my family?" I snubbed Him and considered Him irrelevant.  I wanted Him, but only if He would do everything that I wanted Him to do.  And I'd take Him, as long as He didn't ask me to do stuff that I didn't want to do. 

But that's not the worst part. 

I understand today that the moment where I sit up from my kneeled position at the throne of God and ask for anything at all on my behalf, I've taken His blessing for granted.  Because how can I stop thanking Him for the health of my babies?  How can I complain that I don't have money for gas, or I'm not 100% sure where the grocery money is going to come from?  How do I grumble under my breath about laundry or get frustrated at how difficult it is to keep up with my housework when I'm working 30 hours a week?  How is it that I have such fleeting gratitude that I get flustered with my seizure disorder?  It's horrifying, really....to realize that the most important aspect of my life has been shielded for absolutely no reason at all, except grace. 

I think the more I understand grace, the more debilitating it becomes.  I don't mean debilitating in the sense that it's bad, but more in the sense that I can't hardly breath.  He is so good and I deserve so much less.  He shields me from so much, when I deserve total exposure. 

And it gets worse. 

Not only have I taken it all for granted, but to think that He sent His Son to die. God the Father experienced such remarkable pain in order to reconcile us to Him. 

I just didn't deserve that.  And if He struck me with lightening every time I forgot that I didn't deserve it, I'd die 1000 times a day.  My default is entitlement to everything good. 

I guess my point is this.  I have so much to repent for.  Sometimes I get all focused on the 10 commandments that I just forget the whole point.  If I would just see that He has rained blessing upon blessing onto me, I wouldn't have time to do anything except for throw everything to the ground and sob in worship.  At that point, it's probably not very difficult to not covet what others have...to not lust...to not lie, steal, curse, idolize or worship a different God.  At some point I feel like you would end up yelling "Oh Father, please don't give me anything else.  Your blessing is too rich....I can't stand anymore grace. I will be ruined."

That's where I am today.  Brokenhearted and overwhelmed with the grace.  Up until yesterday, I read the Bible and thought of the wealthy people as ridiculous.
Now I know they were talking about me.

 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ, just as He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we would be holy and blameless before Him. In love He predestined us to adoption as sons through Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the kind intention of His will, to the praise of the glory of His grace, which He freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His grace which He lavished on us. -Ephesians 1: 3-8

Conspiracy Theory

I have been on a mission for 17 months to get my daughter to say my name as her first word. 

It's true.  I worked with moderate effort to get my boys to say Mama, but both said "ball" clear as day way before they ever uttered the name of the woman who carried them for 40 weeks and then had them cut out of her body.  But I'm not bitter.  I'm awesome like that.  Totally graceful, totally not self centered.  A real mom.  I just want them to be happy, healthy and great contributors to society. 

And I also want them to remember that I am the most important person in their life.  Is that so much to ask?

So with Adie, I realized that I needed to step up the effort.  And I bumped it up several notches.  But she has been speechless for 17 frickin months.  Much to my dismay, she has created an entire language of grunting and squeals that every person understands.  Do you know how many times you have to say MAMA in 17 months when you feel like her first word could come any day? 

By the way, she has been saying "Hiiiiiii" upon greeting people for about 2 months, but I refuse to acknowledge that.  Clearly it was a fluke.  That would be a stupid first word, so it's not a contender. 

And Chris? He pretends he doesn't care at all.  He never says his name, and relies on me to introduce Dada to the mix.  Big mistake, Mister.  Because secretly?  When you are gone?  I call you "That One Guy" and "The Biological Contributor To Your Genetics".  Gotcha.  I did say I was on a mission, didn't I?

So my dream came true.  She has been saying mamammama for awhile, but finally a few weeks ago, I heard her yell "Mama! Mama!" when she wanted out of her crib.  And it has become consistent and I have lept for joy every time.  She probably thinks that "Mama" is the word to say when you want the tall lady to stop everything, scream and clap her hands furiously with a big smile on her face. 

And suddenly Chris is not feelin it.  His mouth dropped and he feigned pessimism.  "I didn't hear mama at all" and then "she thinks everything is called mama" and then "I can't friggin believe that she can say mama and NOT DADA". 

So he's gone into overdrive and I've caught him enrolling Adie into DADA boot camp.  Too bad she's so stubborn that she just stares at him.  I bet she is thinking "Why is Biological Contributor To My Genetics saying "dada" all the time?"

We also happen to play a lovely game in the Garland house where "No Nose" has to change poopy diapers.  Who ever touches their nose last after someone yells "No Nose changes diaper!" has to chase her down, pin her down, and engage in 5 minutes of a poopy wrestling match with a 17 month old who squeals like a pig. 

This morning, I promptly yelled "no nose!" and laid my head on my pillow, victorious. 
"No way!" I heard.  "She can make her own choices now.  Adie?  Do you want MAMA or dada to change your diaper?"  Chris said, ever so smugly. 

I thought I had been duped.  So screwed.

"DA." She yelled.
Both of our mouths dropped.
"Did she just say Da?" Chris asked, clearly flabbergasted.
"Yep." I said, totally delighted in my daughter. 
"This is a conspiracy.  A Garland Woman Conspiracy." He said, totally defeated twice over as he stood up to do the duty. 

That's my girl.  Nice try, That One Guy.  Nice try. 


 

Sick Mommy

I've been sick for about 48 hours.  I'll spare you the details, but essentially I'm out of commission.  Over the last year, I've had chronic pain, but whereas my body was begging for a break, my mind and my mommy-ness were fully intact and fully able to rise above the pain to be a pain in the ass rear end of my family. 

But this is different. 

I'm pretty sure that my house could be on fire right now, and I'd probably stay on this couch and at least consider the pros and cons of getting up before making a commitment to action. 

I have noticed a few things in the past couple days:

1. Even when a mom is sick, there is no number to call in for a sick day.  WHAT IS UP WITH THAT.
2. The kids ate fruit snacks for breakfast. And dinner.  Don't worry - they didn't starve.  They all ate at least 3 packages.
3. Adelai's hands can get seriously filthy.
4. Somehow, despite the lack of effort from mom, the kids look happier. (Probably directly related to #2?)  
5. Being sick allows an opportunity to see the empathy developing in children.  Rarely does the mom get that perspective.  When Justin heard that I was sick, he said all the things he had heard me say to him just a few days earlier....("Mommy, it's okay. You'll feel better soon. You'll be okay. Love you Mommy.")  And then, he looked at me with the biggest brown eyes ever and said, with the pure heart of a three year old, "Mommy, do you want me to take you to the doctah on my scootah?" 
6. I almost let Chris take Adelai to daycare today without a visual check.  On the way out the door, I realized she was dressed in a skirt and a dress.  Together.  At the same time.  And he was offended that I found this to be a problem. 
7. It is possible to miscommunicate with a man about the purpose for a bath.  It is not enough to say "how about a bath?" as an idea to prepare a fussy toddler for bed time.  You actually have to say "with soap" to clarify that it is a "cleaning bath".  Unfortunately I did not understand there was a possibility for a non "cleaning bath". 
8. My ideas of how to take care of myself have seriously eroded over the course of motherhood.  Drinking a 24 oz iced coffee to make all things better?  Bad idea. 

So I don't really have anything funny or witty to say here.  I just wanted to point out that when a mother becomes sick, the world needs, by necessity, to come to a complete halt until a mother can hold down her iced coffee. 

Otherwise, your dirty toddler wearing a dress and a skirt will eat packages and packages of fruit snacks and finish her day in a tub of water, sans soap. 

Mommy is sick! Hooray!

I Love Not Camping

Chris and I took a 4-year-old, a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old camping.  Because we are brain damaged. 

You might be asking yourself....How could Chris and Jess possibly consider this to be a good idea? Well for the record, I did not ever think this was going to go well.  But our church goes every year, and we most definitely didn't want to miss out on the fun. 

We did go camping last year and it has been a point of contention in our marriage.  Last year, I looked at the forecast and noted that it was going to be about 50 degrees at night and we didn't have any adult sleeping bags.  I asked Chris for a sleeping bag, and at that time, Chris said "What?  No, we don't need to buy a sleeping bag.  I'll just bring blankets.  It's only going to get down to 50 degrees.  No problem."  And then unbeknown to me, Chris brought an afghan.  Two afghans.  And as I was laying there covered in sweat shirt and pants huddled under that ridiculous blanket, I distinctly remember glaring at Chris and saying "I freakin knew 50 degrees was cold." to which he replied "Oh.  I just realized I've never camped sober.  Turns out 50 degrees is cold.  Who knew?"  

Imagine how well that went over. 

So this year, I was emphatic.  Bring a sleeping bag.  Non-negotiable.  And I was very anxious about keeping Adelai warm.  I planned for long underwear, and two pairs of pajamas to wear.  And I got a sleeping bag, but Chris decided to just bring the down comforter from our bed for himself.  The boys had new sleeping bags that they were very excited about, and I had made lots of snacks for the children. 

In our life, warm + lots of food = a chance at happiness.  I was hopeful.  But do you see that my only concern was warmth?  And food?  As if that's all you need? 

So naive.  So ridiculously not outdoorsy.  So caught off guard.
Did you know it can rain when you camp?
Because I did not.

It started raining at 8pm on Friday night.  I had just put Adelai in her pack and play to go to sleep.  I should have seen this disaster coming, because when I put her down, she looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind.  Sleep in this tent in this crib?  Mommy, do you not remember that I sleep in my crib in the house with the heater? Have you completely lost your mind?

Then she pooped through two of the three layers of pajamas that I had put her in.  Awesome. We got her cleaned up and down to just one layer of clothing, and I laid down with the three kids in the tent.  They briefly played an intriguing game of Adie throwing her toy and the boys attempting to trick me by stealthily picking up the toy for her before settling down.  The rain kept increasing in intensity and I marveled at how romantic it was to sleep in a tent with the four loves of my life. 
For 90 seconds I marveled at that. 

Chris joined us and appeared remarkably surprised that I had taken the whole sleeping bag. Apparently he had some vision of us sharing the sleeping bag and the down comforter together.  I laughed so loud that it startled the kids.  That was not happening.  So, he wrapped himself in the comforter which just happened to be littered with dried up fruit snacks.  It looked that splotches of stains all over the comforter, except that they were sticky.  Interestingly, at some point you just stop wondering where the stains/sticky stuff/boogers come from after the third kid.  Suddenly you just accept what you see.  Expensive down comforter littered with sticky goo?  Naturally.  Chris made comments to support his decision of no sleeping bag again, saying things like "Wow, it's kind of hot in this blanket.  I'm sweating" and "I'm really glad that I didn't have a sleeping bag because this is so comfortable, like I'm being hugged." 
It continued to absolutely down pour on our tent.  I again marveled at how this tent was able to hold back the water.  The five of us slept for about two hours.  And then.....Adelai woke up.  I don't know what time it was, but I think it was about 1 in the morning.  She woke up screaming as if offended that she had been left in this circumstance.  I was immediately concerned that she might wake up other campers, so I broke my rule of allowing her to soothe herself and I scooped her up and made the infamous "shhhhhh!" sound that is gifted to a mother the day that they take their child home.  You get the "shhhh!" and the tired, worn out, beaten up body as a reward for your sacrifice. 

And then it happened.  She looked at me and smiled a huge smile.  She might as well have said "good morning, Mommy! I'm ready for my sippy, eggs and toast."

I would rather meet a bear in the woods than see my 1 year old daughter awake for the day at 1:30am. 

I picked up her toy bear that she was sleeping with, which had been flung onto the ground.  One of the legs was dripping wet, as if somebody had dunked it in the lake and then brought it back.  I checked all around her bed for wetness, but it was dry.  Then I stood up in the middle of the tent and found myself standing bare feet in oh, I don't know, an inch of water. 

I must have stood there for at least one minute, trying to understand how my feet could possibly be wet.  I'm inside a tent....and my feet...they have water on them.  How can this be? This isn't right.  This is wrong, isn't it? 

Then I groped around in the dark to further evaluate this crazy fact, and lo and behold, everything on the ground was drenched.  And because this is the way my life goes, that included all of Adelai's clothes, my shoes, her baby, her blanket and my joy. 

So I shook Chris awake, who realized that somehow his whole back was wet despite sleeping on his side, (where is the freaking water coming from?!?) and he started to rock her while standing.  She enjoyed this immensely and cooed with him, clapping her hands because clearly she was so proud of him.   Then we brought her to our air mattress, where she smacked us in the face for fun and threw her sippy cup into the lake of water in the center of our tent.  Every time we tried to lay her down on the pillow, she made a sound reminiscent of a squealing pig being attacked by another squealing pig. 

Our pillows became wet from the magic water coming into the tent from somewhere as it just down poured for the entire night.  Somewhere around 3am as we were wrestling with this baby trying to keep her quiet, she lunged across my face and became totally still.  It seemed like maybe she had just gone to sleep instantly.  Can you imagine this for a moment?  I'm laying there, praying that this baby will pass out suddenly so that I know God loves me.  Then, she lunges across my face and stops moving.  Her breathing becomes even and she is quiet.  And I'm thrilled beyond imagination, but a bit hung up on the fact that my head is at a 90 degree angle with 20lbs pushing down on it.  And while her diaper is fresh, the part where her diapered buns are smashed up against my face is a little concerning.  I wonder to myself how long I can keep this, and after three tortured minutes, determine that I can't do it.  So I move her as gently as possible, and she sits straight up and is ready for the day, part II.  Chris turns to me and says "Really?  You couldn't hold that?"

About 30 minutes later, she laid down on Chris' pillow while he was moving around the tent trying to find the water.  Again, she went completely quiet and stopped moving.  If you have ever been around a young baby, you might recognize this move.  It's called the "freeze-stop-breathing-never-move-again-or-you'll-wake-the-baby" move.  It seemed to work, except then Chris didn't have anywhere to sleep.  I was okay with that, but he was not. 

So after a couple minutes of the freeze game, Chris gently tried to climb behind me (Adie on one side, me in the middle and that would press Chris up against the tent wall).  And then he whispers "my blanket is wet so I need to use the sleeping bag too". So he was reaching for the zipper as I was making sarcastic comments, saying  "Really?  Your down comforter didn't work camping?  So shocking."  Maybe it was because I had been awake for so long, but this absolutely cracked me up.  I started laughing so hard that I couldn't contain it.  And then I was laughing because I wasn't supposed to be laughing.  Then Chris started laughing and....the baby woke up. 
So now it's been hours and I realize that if nothing changes, I'm not going to get any sleep and that puts me at risk for seizures.  So I say "honey, maybe you should take her to the car so that she can scream it out and go to sleep." I anticipated that he would look offended that I'm sending him out into the rain to an inhumane sentence of listening to her cry in a confined space.  But he looked almost gleeful. 

"You mean like put her in the car and close and lock the door and come back to bed?"
"What?"
"That's what you mean, right?"
"No.  Not at all.  And just to clarify, I'm also not asking you to put her in a boat and shove her out to the middle of Triangle Lake either."
"Oooh, now that's a good idea."

So they went out to the car at about 4:15am, and Adelai didn't sleep until 6:15am.  I immediately fell asleep to the sound of continued down pour of rain and had a lovely dream.  I dreamt that I woke up in the day light, peeked my head out of the tent and the whole church had packed up everything and gone home.  One might guess that I would have been offended, but instead I jumped for joy and yelled "we're outta here!"

The boys woke me up at 7:15 and informed me that their shoes were dripping wet, the towels were soaked and all of our jackets and sweatshirts had been outside.  And no, the camp had not packed up to leave, much to my chagrin. 

So, here is what I know about camping.  The children love it to death and can't wait to do it again.  The parents of teenagers seem to love it because they never see their kids for the entire weekend.  The teenagers love it because they get to see each other all weekend long and have fun.  And the parents of young children?  They have a diagnosable mental illness. 

I very much want to finish by stating that the next camping trip will be over my dead body.  However, in reality, I love Oasis so much that I consider them to be particularly irresistible.  So I'll go.  And the best I can hope for is that my children won't remember the constant look of shock and horror on the face of their mother.

Moral of the story?  I love not camping. 


Her face says everything you need to know about camping.



Three Babies and a Man

I think I've tried to explain what it is like to stay home for an entire day with three children, all under the age of five, but ultimately it's just not possible. 

Simply put, being at home is harder than working in the ER and assessing psychotic and suicidal people.  Even if those people are screaming at me, incontinent and stinky, that job is still easier than staying at home with my children.  Because guess what?  At least I can lock them in a room and walk away.  At home, those same screaming, incontinent and stinky people are not allowed to be locked away.

At least that's what I've been told. 

I love my kids, but fact is fact.  And I do believe that Chris has never questioned that statement, but in the past two weeks he's had the punishment opportunity to stay at home with them twice while I've picked up a couple extra shifts at the hospital. 

Now to be clear, even though I know that staying at home is excruciating, I hate being away from them.  Two days a week of work is a good break for me, three days a week and I'm pushing it, and four days a week my heart just aches.  I still like my job, but I'm anxious to get home and kiss their faces.  Obviously, four days a week away from my babies drives me into a state of psychosis. 

So today was day #2 of Chris staying home with the children while I took an extra shift at the hospital.  I was at work by 8:00, and by 10:00 I was aching to hug my baby.  I called Chris and he begrudgingly agreed to bring the kids to the hospital for an early lunch so I could see them.  Again, clearly I was psychotic.  Sane Jess would see the complete disaster coming without any problems.  But crazy Jess who misses her babies?  It smacked that girl square in the face. 

The first clue that this was going to go badly for me was provided to me immediately when I came out of the door to meet them.  The first thing I saw was Adelai in her pajamas.  At 11:00.  In the morning.  Then I saw Justin wearing shorty shorts and a t-shirt that can best be described as a mid-drift.  And his shoes were on the wrong feet (which is actually true 90% of the time).  And also his face was totally dirty, as if he had smashed chocolate onto his face about 3 days ago, and nobody loved him enough to clean him up.  Then my eyes were drawn to Chase, who was wearing his signature look with one knee high sock and one ankle sock with shoes that were meant to be without any socks at all.  And he was wearing a shirt that had his name tag on it from school. He was the worst, because he looked like somebody thought that was okay.  Justin and Adelai just looked neglected.

The second clue occurred when we entered the cafeteria and the boys screamed at the top of their lungs and ran past a few elderly people to see the fish tank.  Like I said, Sane Jess would have turned right around and called it a day because the writing was on the wall, so to speak.  But I missed them, so I powered through.  We all sat at a table....or Chris and I sat at a table.  The kids actually ran up and down the dining room screaming and racing each other.  No matter what we said, they were spinning and yelling and incapable of even hearing our corrections because, well, they couldn't hear our voices over the low roar of their own chaos. 

And hey, guess what?  You can't go all psycho on your kids when you are at work.  I forgot all about that when I invited them, but as I was sitting there wondering if I could quietly stand up and walk away as if they were complete strangers, I remembered.  Boy, did I remember.

I forgot to mention Chris.  He looked like he had run a marathon and stayed up for 24 hours.  In short, he looked totally defeated.  I recognized defeat, because I always feel like that.  Outnumbered, tired and hopeless in the face of two boys and a toddler who have energy to spare.  So I didn't wander away, but we did wrap up the lunch very quickly.  And by very quickly, I mean that I suddenly grabbed all their crap, threw it in the garbage and rushed them out the door. 

They behaved for 39 seconds, so once again, I lost my brain and invited the kids to see a waterfall on campus on the way back to the car.  As we were walking to the water feature, a bird flew by to the roof above and the boys yelled "I'm going to scare that bird away!"
And Chris said, ever so quietly, "I hope that bird poops on them." 

Because that just sums up everything about being home with the children. 

So they ran to the water feature, and immediately Justin was climbing into the water and trying to jump off the rocks as I stood next to the sign that explicitly said every single action he was doing was not allowed.  And at one point, as he was preparing to jump off of a bridge-like thing into a rock filled ravine, I decided that I should probably begin to stop him.  So I ran towards him and he immediately flopped his body (with his shorty shorts, mind you) onto the cement and screamed. 

In front of the people. 

So I stood next to him and said in my nicest mommy's-boss-could-come-by-at-any-moment-so-get-your-butt-off-the-ground voice "Justin, I have to go back to work so it's time to go to the car with daddy."  And then a physician walked by and said "It doesn't sound like he agrees with that". 

My face turned florescent red, and I shoved the kid into Chris' arms and said good-bye.  I then returned to the haven that is the psychiatric patients. 

So the children went home, and at some point they dressed in bizarre (and largely inappropriate) clothes, as evidenced by this picture that Chris sent me that afternoon:



Chase just saw this pic and said "See? That costume was too short." (it's an 12-18 month costume)

He also informed me that Justin had picked up a yellow racer snake and was bit on the hand. 

Naturally.

I came home to Adelai wearing her clothes completely backwards, as if that was normal.  Chris seemed surprised and said "they're backwards?  I didn't even notice." 

And finally, as I came into the house, Justin yelled "Mom! Come see the rat in our backyard! And the snake!"  I never saw the snake, but I did see the dead mouse which I insisted Chris remove.  Justin then broke down in tears because the dead mouse was thrown away. 

For a moment, I almost felt sorry for Chris because I know they abused him all day long.  But then I remembered that Chris was able to return to work tomorrow, and I will once again return to my position as victim primary care giver. 

Clearly God chose me to be the mommy because even though they act just as crazy under my care, at least they are dressed like normal people when they are bit by snakes or throw public tantrums. 

I do have standards.

She's Not that Innocent

This blog title is two-fold.

1) I just stole internet from my neighbor to write this blog.  That's a first for me.  I'm a criminal...but let's face it.  It was a long time coming.  They have these two small dogs that bark in tandem so that the result is one continuous bark that makes me want to go over there and pound on the door one of these times.  SERIOUSLY?  Who wants two small dogs anyway?  And if you want them so bad, let them out of the garage.  We want our giant dog Ringer to be quiet so bad that we let him sleep on our bed, under the covers.  Get desperate, people.  So I stole your internet.  Sorry 'bout that.

2) We are also talking about our gorgeous girl with the crooked teeth smile and the double dimples that make you want to give her knives and other sharp objects just because she looked at them fondly.  Oh, really?  You want to take out every single silverware out of the dishwasher and throw them all over the kitchen? Okay. 




Adelai is almost 14 months old, and she's recently developed a mental illness.  It's no use denying it, since I have the degree to prove it.  Adelai has PICA.  I'm not sure that all letters should be capitalized, but when you are eating completely strange things on a repeated basis for a substantial amount of time, I think the name of the disorder is probably worthy of all caps.   
So.  In the last week, Adelai has ingested

•  a significant portion of several (at least 4?) Nerf balls
• 3+ crayons
• a portion of a plastic fork

Now, if you have never housed 2 young boys for a significant amount of time, you are probably wondering why Chris and I didn't just remove all of the Nerf balls in the house.  That's an excellent question.  One worthy of explanation to you, as well as the DHS caseworker that is no doubt headed my way since I disclosed above that I'm a criminal and that my child is totally out of control. 

The answer is actually quite simple.  If you had come to my door 2 weeks ago and asked to borrow a Nerf ball, I would have looked a bit puzzled and stated "I'm not sure if we have one.  Let me look around.  Probably not though."

But Adie has found at least five.  FIVE.  TO EAT.  LIKE A CRAZY PERSON. 
Of course I grabbed all the balls out of her hand.  But she kept finding more.  It's like the boys have a stockpile of stuff that I probably don't even realize.  And Chris and I are out-numbered.

Then I had this really ridiculous thought the next day.  I didn't want to throw away these perfectly good balls (except for the significant chunks of missing foam stuff out the side), because it was probably just a fluke, right?

Wrong.  I saw her in the playroom the very next day.  She spotted the ball from across the room.  Romantic music began to play and everything became slow motion as she gleefully charged the ball and immediately took a big bite out of it.  The following day, Chris told me that Adelai came walking up to him with puffed out cheeks; when he pushed on her cheeks, chunks of Nerf ball fell out and she laughed hysterically. 

So the Garlands can no longer own Nerf balls, thanks to crazy Adie and her addiction to eating foam.  Makes me want to pull her aside and whisper "Adelai.  We already have a crazy person in the house.  Please stop competing.  Justin will not lose, baby girl."

And a quick note about the eating of the plastic fork.  This also sounds like remarkably poor parenting on my part.  For the record, she was sitting on my lap and I was talking with several adult women.  Not a single person noticed that she was eating a fork until a lovely girl pointed out that part of the fork was missing.  And yes, in fact, one of the prongs was missing and never was to be seen again.  Can this really be my responsibility?  I've never had to instruct my children that forks are not part of the meal.  Who saw that coming?

So back to the Nerf ball.  She ate chunks out of all those balls on the same day that she ate at least two crayons.  So naturally I thought she was probably going to die and called the doctor's office.  The nurse put me on hold three times.  Obviously they have not received this particular concern  very often.  She said, super slow..."Okay....so..your 13 month old...ate...how many Nerf balls again?" She then went directly to the doctor (a first for the Garland home with a triage nurse) and told us to call poison control. 

And hey, guess what?  I have that number memorized.  So depressing. 

So I called poison control, and the lady BURST OUT LAUGHING FOR AT LEAST TWO MINUTES. 
Not joking. 
She was actually really nice, but seriously. She calmed herself, apologized and said  "She's going to be just fine.  Neither are toxic and both will come out exactly how they came in, so you're in for some interesting diapers, sweetheart."
Then she seemed remarkably careful to ask for my zip code, reassuring me that none of the calls get reported.  Clearly she thought I was no longer in the running for Mother of 2011 Award. 
"Oh, and Jess?  You should memorize this number because I'm sure we'll be talking again."
"Actually, I already have your number memorized because I have a wild three year old who is trying to make me crazy, one day at a time."
"Oh sweetie.  Now you have two."

Crap.

Wild at Heart in the Garland Home

As you may have noticed, being a mother to boys completely freaks me out. 

Aggressive play. 
Random wrestling moves that include having your brother by the throat.
Jumping from the highest point to the lowest point....45 times. 
Climbing the book case.
Climbing the retaining wall. 
Dragging your brother around the floor by his ankle. 
Digging for worms.
Picking up sticks and using them as swords/guns/lasers/arrows to kill the bad guys.
Making all of your toys engage in epic battle with each other. 
Becoming easily obsessed with karate moves. (Justin saw 20 seconds of a karate movie and punched the TV.  I wish I was joking.)

Every single one of these happen weekly, and each and every time, I have an instant response inside my head.  I've heard myself yell "No! Get down! There are no bad guys! Do not pretend to shoot your brother! You are going to get hurt! That is dangerous! That's disgusting!  You are going to break your neck!"  It goes on and on.  The question being constantly asked in my head is "Seriously? Why can't they play quietly like normal people?"

And I would have to admit that a great deal of my efforts are because frankly, it's totally embarrassing when my child tackles his brother or yells "I'm going to kill you!" in public.  You would guess they are watching Gladiator 24/7 in the Garland house.  The fact that I'm a therapist that loves to work with children doesn't help the judgement....or should I say, the fear of judgement.  The quiet, can't-we-all-just-get-along, coffee drinking girl inside of me longs to get my children to sit down, color something besides the wall, and make their toys help each other. 

And in the interest of time, we'll all just acknowledge that it has never worked and I'm causing myself a great deal of grief trying to turn these boys into girls. 

There, I said it. 

So I'm an avid reader (often reading a book every 5 days plus the Bible and occasionally several books at a time), and I ran into a dry spell recently.  At several recommendations, I had bought a copy of Wild at Heart by John Eldredge for Chris to read.  Turns out that Chris is actually too wild at heart to read the book, so it's been sitting around the house.  I decided to look it over, and lo and behold...it's changed my entire perspective of my boys. 

I hate giving synopses of books, mostly because I'm afraid I won't do the author justice.  However, the moral of his book is that God created man in His own image, in the wilderness, prior to the Garden of Eden.  He's built to be an explorer, a warrior, a ruler over all things.  Eldredge says "Like it or not, there is something fierce in the heart of every man."  Essentially, Eldredge argues that God made man with a tendency to seek an adventure to live, a battle to fight and a beauty to rescue. 

So as a mother, I read this book and it stung to the very core.  When I tell my boys to play nice, be quiet, and don't do anything dangerous, I feel like I can see down the span of time to the men I am creating.  Nice, quiet, fearful men who have no idea about the true identity of themselves or the power they possess.  My greatest fear is the picture of them sitting at an office job, knowing they are unhappy and not rising up and walking away.  I am afraid of my sons seeing a challenge and being so fearful that they will fail that they don't even try.  I would consider myself an epic failure were my sons to not recognize the man inside of them. 

I want warriors.  I want men who will rise up to the occasion and fight for what they believe in.  I want my sons to be fierce.  And I want them to be tender to their beauty.  And I want them to protect their babies.  And is it so much to ask for them to take care of me when I am incontinent someday?  (probably.)

So I'm going to ignore my own fear.  I'm going to stop (as best as I can!) trying to get them to settle down.  And I'm going to have faith that they won't end up in prison.  Chris and I have agreed that when they set up fights, we are going to gently lead them into a reason for the fight (like a beauty to rescue).   We are going
to acknowledge wounds, yet bolster them up to know that they can overcome pain.  We will help them to write the rules of God on their hearts, but we won't press them to be nice (that one is hard).  In short, I will step aside so that these boys grow up as God intended them to be.  And Chris?  He's going to show them how to be a man. 

My best quality is my innate, natural ability to give up control.  Not. 

And by the way, if this is being read in court in 20 years, and one or both of my boys are in trouble, can I just say this? 
The alternative was too heartbreaking to accept.   I refuse to break the spirit of my boys.
And I'd rather take my chances on God's design rather than my own.

The LORD is my strength and song,
And He has become my salvation;
This is my God, and I will praise Him;
My father's God, and I will extol Him.
The LORD is a warrior;
The LORD is His name. 
                             - Exodus 15:2-3

Why I was fired by PT

I flunked my first thing ever. 

Always the perfectionist unto death do we part, I finally got the ax-- in physical therapy, no less. 

Why, you ask? 

I have to admit...I was flabbergasted as well.  Somebody can be fired from PT? Really?  I can come in pain, and then leave in pain?  What kind of treatment plan is that?  As a mental health therapist, I would never get away with that.  Can you imagine?  Client came depressed and left depressed.  I guess my job is done here. 

The reality is that I'm about to whine.  If this bothers you, you might want to cease reading here. 

THEY GAVE ME HOMEWORK THAT I COULD NEVER ACCOMPLISH.  EVER. 

And here is my homework;  Do 10 exercises/stretches, 3 times a day. 

Doesn't that sound easy? 

I guess you might be wondering what kind of injury brought me to physical therapy.  I have three bulging disks and an annular disk tear in my lower back, and one (just one!) bulging disk in my neck.  Usually the result of significant trauma, mine is simply the result of nothing.  I love that fact so much.

MD: "Wow.  This usually happens to older men who are ripping out trees in the back yard or something.  Not really 30 year old women.  Did anything happen recently?"
Me: "Nope.  Just a 4-year-old, a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old."
MD: "Huh. That's weird."

So I didn't have a mental breakdown and I consider that a win. 

Anyway, back to the most impossible homework of all time.  Ten stretches, three times a day.  Is there a mother in the universe who can accomplish anything three times a day?  I mean seriously! Three times a day?  I'm tasked with doing something three times a day that doesn't:
1) poop
2) puke
3) pee
or
4) cry?

Sorry.  That homework is so impossible that I don't even know where to start.  Anybody who is requiring a mother to self care three times a day is out of their freaking mind.  And if you, physical therapist, cannot understand my limitations, well then I guess we're kind of done here anyway. 

And the saddest part was that my inability to partake in regular stretching was considered some kind of anarchist refusal to do anything.  Crazy. 

So here is a list of things that I can accomplish three times a day:

• Change diapers
• Say "Justin, you must wipe your buns.  Yes, every time you poop.  Seriously."
• Look for three pairs of underwear after Justin has refused to wipe. 
• Break up a fight
• Put children in time out
• laundry
• dishes
• meals
• pray (but only because I do that while doing other stuff too)
• make a pot of coffee and then turn it on twice to reheat the coffee since I got distracted and never got to drink it the first round
• Go to the restroom and get interrupted for ridiculous reasons (i.e. "where's my green car that I saw two years ago?" and "can I have some cheese?" and "Mom? I just saw a flying monkey!")

That's it.  No joke. 

Their other idea is for me to take a break from volleyball on Mondays.  Never going to happen.  Again, I sound like an anarchist unwilling to follow any instructions.  However, what kind of improvement will it be if I can move easily, but I'm locked up in a padded room in four point restraints? 

Because volleyball nights are the one thing that I guard with my life.  Suddenly, this mother of three is self centered, hostile, and completely unwilling to bend.  I will be at volleyball on Mondays so that I can be supporting all you other freaks my family every other day of the week.  My family has become accustomed.  Stay out of mom's way on Monday night - then you can bug her until kingdom come for the rest of eternity! 

So I was fired.  But the mother of three young children cannot be on a standard treatment plan.  You have to adjust for the fact that between 20 and 40 pounds will be picked up more than 20 times a day.  And a mom has to bend over for boo-boos and tears and hugs and toys and diaper changes and moments of discipline and laundry and sweeping and picking off stickers from the hardwood floor. 

(I could go on and on....that's only what I thought of in the last 5 seconds).

Put simply, I'm not an anarchist, Mr PT man.  I'm a mother in charge of three anarchists who could give a crap about stretches. 

Didn't you hear?  They need me to find the green car that they saw two years ago.  Sigh.

My Batting Average for Crazy

After Justin's seizure, I ended up being this changed person in hiding.  I remember sitting on my bed, thinking to myself "How am I ever going to tell Chris that I talked to God?" and "what will my friends think?"  and "should I commit myself to the psych unit?  I've admitted several people who also talked to God.  Sure, they were naked, but I'm only missing the naked part.  That's only 50%.  That's .500.  That's an excellent batting average for crazy."

I think that the desperate desire to find God immediately after Justin's seizure was intimately related to the fact that a few weeks later, I became the mother of three children that were officially outside of my body. 

When I had one baby, I was scared because I didn't have any idea what I was doing.  But I had time and it was really fun.  I was mildly panicked because I wanted to do it well, but I was reveling in the realization that my heart had doubled it's capacity to love in about 2 milliseconds.  That was nuts.  I kept waiting for it to go back to normal...waiting for me to become the self-centered person I'd always been.  But it was permanent.  The day after Chase was born, I couldn't remember what was important to me before I laid eyes on him.  I still can't.

When I had two babies (21 months apart), I started to panic more because I still wanted to do it really well and I started to get overwhelmed.  Two kids in diapers?  Two kids in cribs? Two part time jobs?  I put a lot of pressure on myself, trying to be all things to all people and working 48 hours a week while trying to convince myself that I was only working part time (since 20 of those hours were at night).  I ended up sucking at both being a mom and being an employee.  And my seizure disorder got worse.  Basically I was mildly awful at everything I did, mostly because I was working at 200% of my capacity.  I hit a brick wall with the seizures, reduced my hours and found balance.  I had been the one ruining myself, so I just stopped....easy enough. 

So when Adelai was born, one year ago today, I was overjoyed.  I really was.  I love being a mother to each one of these children. 

But.  I have not woken up a single day of the past 365 days without feeling the heavy weight of being a mother of 3 children, 4 and under.  It is the sense of having a hundred balls in the air, and they are all falling down and all that I can do is try. 

The message constantly running through my mind from the day of Justin's seizure was this: these are God's babies.  He knows exactly how to care for them. I've got nothing. 

So I went and found me some Jesus. 

But it doesn't mean that the balls aren't falling out of the sky. Put another way, if you've ever done a squat with free weights, it's the sense that you have a load on your shoulders that is excruciatingly heavy but your tasked with a rep of four to six.  And you can feel the weight all the way into your feet because the weight is overwhelming, and your whole body is shaking...but you keep going.  The only thing you can really do is focus on your form and hope that your spotter is paying attention.

The only thing that helps me is knowing that I'm not the one holding up this weight either. 

So I've stopped watching TV and I've immersed myself in scripture.  It's all I've got.  And it's enough.  He is enough.  And it steadies the panic in my heart and I'm on solid ground.  I don't think a psych admission is in order.  At least not right now. 

It's intriguing to me that I'm the most blessed I have ever been - I have a family I dearly love - but I look like I've been hit by a bus almost every day.  For 365 days, I've thought to myself each morning "it's okay if I look trashed today.  It's just one day, right?" 

One year later.....I'm understanding why moms have a reputation for wearing bizarre clothes, looking exasperated and desperate.  I've yet to brush my teeth in the car, but I get it.  I finally get it.

Anyway.  My point escapes me.  I guess I'm saying that having three kids has been really tough.  I love them so much.  They are the only people on the planet that could push me this far past my own abilities.  Because believe me, I have been pushed beyond my abilities....emotionally, physically, spiritually, financially, you name it. 

But, I've learned to focus on my form.  And I'm trusting my spotter.  And I believe with my whole heart that when these babies are raised up, I'll finally be able to put the weight down and I'll see that God was raising me up, too.

My Adelai

Dear Adelai,

You are turning 12 months old next week.  It honestly blows my mind that you are nearly one year old.  Feels like just yesterday that the ultrasound tech told me that you were a girl.  I had been coaching myself on how to respond if the tech told me you were a boy.  Because oh, how I wanted you.  I knew I was missing somebody and I knew I was missing something.  And I knew, walking into that ultrasound that if you had been a boy, I would have spent my whole life loving you just the same, yet missing something. 

When the technician said "It's a girl!",I instantaneously burst into tears.  Not the cute weepy tears, but the sobbing, snot filled tears.  I think I even immediately attacked the tech, saying "You aren't kidding me, are you? Are you sure?  How sure are you?" Then we had this incredibly awkward moment where she showed me your...ahem...body parts and I walked away from that appointment with absolute glee. 

I couldn't wait to see your beautiful face.

And when I saw your face, I loved you immediately - meaning, the moment that my eyes saw you, I loved you with every ounce of my heart.  It's the kind of love that transforms a mother's heart into something brand new.  As in, one hour before you were born, I thought I'd be overjoyed to see you.  The second you were born, I was overjoyed at the prospect of giving my life for you.  I was 100% willing to do whatever it took to guard you and nurture you and love you all the days of my life. 

You found your place quickly....right on my chest, burrowed under my chin. 

We spent the first 72 hours of your life just like this.

I was a bit concerned that you'd be crushed by your brothers.

But you really aren't.  You handle them with innate skill.  As if they are basically your entertainment, and if they happen to flip you around and drag you around the house (that only happened three times), you are just fine. 

You are a trooper.

So you came into our family like a breath of fresh air.  Previously I had been gravely outnumbered.  It looked grim.  I saw smelly boys with potty talk humor and many sport programs on TV in my future.  And I wondered how a baby girl would handle it.  But Chase, Justin, Mommy and Daddy all agree:

You are our princess.

So I loved you at sight, but the more I learn about you, the more I'm in love with you all over again.  Funny how that works.  I think one of my favorite things about you right now is your disposition.  You are literally so gentle.  All year long, you have learned things very early, yet held out to use your skill until you are 100% certain that it will work out.  Recently that applies mostly to walking.  We've all seen you walk.  In fact, both Daddy and I have seen you lift a stool up over your head while standing without support.  But nevertheless, you aren't 100% confident, so you aren't about to do it.  And it turns out you'll walk without a second thought when you are moving towards food.  (You love food.  Really a lot.  Like, more than anything.) But, for now, you book it old school by crawling.  You actually did that with crawling too.  You didn't crawl for the longest time, and then suddenly you just crawled across the house like it was no thing.  It's as if you have this thing you are working on, and it's in your back pocket until you've worked it out in your head.  And you won't budge until you are ready.

Right now, you race around the house like a pro with the walker.

And every time your brothers "toot" and consequently nearly die from laughter, I look at you and wonder if the boys laughing at "toots" might break your gentle little heart someday.  You honestly look offended already. 

And you are happy.  Everyone always tells me that you are so happy.  I love that about you.

My happy girl.

But my all time, most favorite thing about you is that you already know how to hug.  You come crawling over to me, out of the blue, pull your self up and lunge your body towards me.  Then, you rest your head on my shoulder and you talk.  Sometimes, you hug me so long that we dance to music and sing and you say "mama mama mama" the whole time. 

So, my sweet girl, Happy Birthday.  If you had anything to do in picking me as your mommy, I'm so thankful.  God's fingerprints are all over you and I can't wait to see all that He has planned for you.  It is my honor to be charged with raising you up into a gentle woman of God. 

And one more thing. 

Adie, I don't know everything.  Actually, if we are being honest, I pretty much know very little.  I know I will mess up a lot.  But it won't be because I didn't want to be perfect for you.  It really is because I really need Jesus every single day - all day long.  I hope you know that, as much as I'm head over heels in love with you, God loves you so much more. 

And Adelai? I pray for you every day.  I pray that 1) you will grow to love God with all your heart and 2) that you will grow to love God with all your heart, despite your imperfect mother.  And all I have to say about that is that, by the grace of God, we will get through this...you and me (and some other people too, like your daddy...but nonetheless...you and me.)

I love you with all my heart, Adie-girl.  Words will never tell you the full extent, but I'll spend my whole life trying to show you. 
Love,
Mommy