Shopping Without Felonies

So it happened and I'm thirty.  And life didn't end, though I suddenly stopped allowing my family to wear shoes in the house.  That frankly came out of nowhere...but somehow I'm resolved and I'm annoying.  It's a strange combination to be, and likely a strange combination to be around.  And also I have pink hair right now, so nobody has called me "mam" for awhile.  I'm safe...for now.  Really, I should say "they are safe".  Because let's face it.  I was getting feisty.

So on my birthday, Chris agreed to go shopping with me.  Not sure if it was a gift, or a sacrifice in the name of support, since this was my first shopping trip since having Adelai.  I'm still waiting for a few more pounds to effortlessly and suddenly drop off my body, so I wasn't all that excited.  But I did have a substantial amount of gift cards from Christmas, so I reluctantly planned the trip.  To Nordstroms.  Because I like pain. 

I love Nordstroms, so please don't misunderstand. Or maybe I should say, I loved Nordstroms when I could look at my body without vomiting in my mouth a little bit.  The thing about Nordstroms is that not one of their employees looks like they struggle to look presentable.  It makes me want to explode in a somewhat psychotic rage every time one of the gorgeous, meticulously dressed people approach me and ask if they can help somehow.  I muster up the words "No, thank you.  I'm fine." However, what I'm really thinking is this:

Can you help me?  Clearly not.  You weigh 104 lbs and I could break you in half if we were both competing to reach the cheeseburger first.  But we wouldn't, because you would be eating a salad.  And I'd be all greasy, and you'd be all hungry, and neither of us would be happy.  Except that clearly you wear a size -2, and I'm enormous.  If I wanted to be that skinny, they'd have to remove bones from my body.  And how did you have time to put on jewelry?  Don't you have a two year old who will immediately notice that you have something on you that can be grabbed and swung on?  Doesn't anybody try to hang off of you 20 hours a day?  And what is that in your hair? Is that product? Did you ACTUALLY have time to DO your hair?  Oh.  And your makeup? Oh. Kay....ummm no.  You can not help me.  I wear sweatpants 80% of my life.  You clearly wear these amazing clothes in your sleep.  I bet you know exactly where the matching socks are in your house.  We have nothing to say to each other. 

So Chris just cracked me up while shopping, because if there were a poster boy for total discomfort, it would him standing in the middle of the women's section.  He's trying desperately to be supportive, but somehow that comes in the form of sitting in a small seat, hidden in the midst of clothes attempting to immerse himself in his Blackberry.  He is kind of holding my purse, if by "holding my purse", you are referring to him putting my purse under the seat next to him and using absolutely no effort to "watch" it. 

I'm not sure why this is an improvement.  Wouldn't a man want a woman to claim in that department?  The other possibility is that you would just be some creepy guy sitting in the women's department pretending to attend to your Blackberry.  For fun. 

Every once and awhile, he says "oooh, cute!" randomly.  This usually occurs after I pick something off the rack that is so awful that I have to look at it more closely.  Then I say "really, honey?  You thought this leopard print shirt was cute?" and then he's all terrified that he's been discovered as uncomfortable, and says "Oh. No way.  That's hideous. I was being sarcastic?"  

So I go through the process of trying on a pair of pants that Skinny Girl told me - "were super cute! I tried them on last night.  I loved them!" - as I'm walking into the dressing room.  Great.  Immediately I'm picturing her and I wearing the same pants.  She probably wears the same size jeans as Chase, my four year old. 

I try them on and I try not to become instantly depressed to the depth of my core. I also try on 7 shirts with just 1 wearable and I plan to sneak out of this store as soon as is humanly possible.  Skinny Girl is ringing up the total.  I ask her if I can get the pants tailored when I finally lose the weight (in 32 years).  "Oh yes.  I totally understand.  I have 2 boys.  It was so hard to lose the weight!  I totally had to work out, and I never work out.  How old is your baby?"

She never works out. 
SHE NEVER WORKS OUT?
EVER?
NEVER EVER? 

I look down at my shoes.  My vomited on, peed on shoes.  "Umm...10 months. She's uh....10 months old."
Is that a stunned look on her face?
"Oh." She says. "Sooo cute....."
Silence.
I look at Chris.  He shakes his head silently.  After 9.5 years together, I understand that he is quietly communicating that I should not release the murderous rage.

I take the bag from her with a forced smile and Chris and I start to walk out of the store. 
"Good for you for not killing her."
"I know, right?"
"So...mature -" he says slowly, and realizes that he's just called me a name that has the potential to freak me out.
"Maybe mature isn't bad.  I don't have to go to jail today.  Mature could be good."
"True.  Mature could be good."

So on my birthday, I was felony free. 
That's a good birthday. 

The Grown Up is Here

I'm turning 30 in 36 hours. 

I'm turning 30, and I'm about 30% hypochondriac, so it's fitting that I think my ankle and my knees just got strained for no apparent reason, except that I'm almost elderly, so that's what happens naturally.  I'm abruptly turning into the old lady who breaks a hip on the way to the fridge and all things go downhill immediately.  I know I'm headed that way for a fact because I saw somebody's cell phone yesterday and had no idea how to use it.  That only happens to the elderly, and the natural conclusion is that 30 is going to be so much worse than I expected.  I mean seriously.  Not only that, but when I stand up it takes a few seconds to actually stand up straight.  Oh. My. Gosh. 

So anyway.  Thirty.  Time to make some adult decisions.  Time to go where no twenty-something would ever dare go. 

That's right. 

I cancelled the satellite TV. 

Take some time to really let that sink in.  Because I didn't. 

It all started when I was staring at the black hole of sadness that is our budget and realized that our bill was nearly 80 dollars.  Last time I checked, it was hovering around 49.  (Clearly I last checked when the dinosaurs were wandering the earth.  Because that was back in the dark ages, and clearly I was alive at that time because I'm THIRTY.)  

So I urge Chris to call the nice people and inform them that we have approached a point where we are unable to be ripped off any longer.  He calls and immediately I can hear him wavering on the phone.  Obviously she has informed him that the hike in the cost is somehow related to our subscription to the Fox Northwest Sports Channel.  This is the channel that is on 24/7 in the summer...the channel that just happens to televise every single Mariner game.  I know what Chris is thinking.  No Fox Northwest Sports Channel?  Why be alive? 

So in my wise age, I grab the phone and engage Amy the service woman, (who strangely seems to be quite effortful in her English pronunciation, by the way) in a nitty-gritty conversation. 
"Amy, I'm the wife.  Give it to me straight.  How much is this additional package costing me?"
"Well Mam, the base package is 59 dollars, and with the (insert name of super awesome sport package here), it's then 69 dollars. You then pay taxes on top of that, resulting in 79 dollars a month."

In this moment, I'm already furious.  She called me "Mam".  That's so inappropriate, I can't even breathe.  I'm a girl.  She should have called me "Young lady" or "little girl".  Obviously she can hear that I'm almost 30.  I turn around and meet the eyes of Chris. 

If ever a grown man ever looked more pitiful, I would be shocked.  I could literally see the joy of life leaving his eyes right in that moment.  He was even holding sweet little Adelai, and it didn't matter.  The Mariner season?  Gone?  What's the point of living?  Why even have a stupid summer then?

I look away from the sad boy and out the window. TEN DOLLARS.  That's not going to do a darn thing to the deeply depressing piece of paper that informs me that I'm enslaved to my debt. 

He looks pathetic.
I sound like a "Mam".
Amy (as if that's actually her name) the service person is waiting expectantly, working deligently to sound like she is American. 

"Amy.  So are we saying that the bottom of my option is 59 bucks?"
"Yes Mam."
I'm going to jump into this phone and strangle this woman if she calls me that word one more time. 
"Okay, let's just cancel the whole thing."
My own mouth drops.
His mouth drops.
She sounds stunned.
What did I just say???  Can't turn back.  Mam's don't turn back.  Mam's move right on forward.
The deed is done.  Like a big girl, I have dropped the hammer down on the household entertainment.  The boys are going to be devastated.  I'm devastated.  Visions of ESPN channels 1, 2, 3 and 4 just flashed before Chris' eyes.  He is a shell of a man.

"Effective today or would you like to start tomorrow?" She asks.
"Right now please", I say, shockingly firm.
I turn and witness the screen on the TV go black.  I hang up the phone.  Shock.

Can I just say that my kids are going to give me the most aggressive amount of hell that ever rained down on somebody?  And as Chris left to go and pick them up from their grandparents house, I turned to a quiet house and stared at the face on the Dave Ramsey book.  Thirty years old, and bored out of my mind instantaneously.

But you know?  The truth of the matter is that if you can't find a place to tithe, yet money is escaping your death grip because entertainment is so critical, well than a 30 year old needs to make some changes.  Because heaven help me if I meet Jesus face to face and can discuss the details of the Bachelor but I didn't find a way to put my treasure where my mind, heart and soul are. 

Oh my gosh.  I forgot all about the Bachelor.  That just proves that I'm losing my memory too.
When did a grown up move into the Garland home?  She is going to ruin everything.

Rough Morning

On Wednesday mornings, I have the pleasure of getting my three children ready for school/daycare solo while I prepare myself for a day of work in the ER.  The word "stressful" is not even close to describing the feelings that I have between the hours of 6:30am and 8:15am.  It's more accurate to say exhausted, panicked, crazy, disoriented, agitated and unstable, all rolled into one delightful mother.  One wonders after so many years of interrupted sleep what it would be like if I actually woke up, had a few minutes to orient myself and then rise when I felt it was time. 

Maybe I would then build a pyramid and run a marathon simultaneously.

So this particular morning, I was feeling on top of my game.  Lunches were made in advance, clothes were already laid out for wear and backpacks were already packed.  I was hesitantly confident that I could locate two pairs of matching socks for the boys.  All I needed to do was dress them, feed them, do hygiene, love on them and move on with our lives.  Piece of cake.

Except one factor that gets me every time.  On occasion, children are not thankful for your diligent work. 
Chase didn't like his shirt.
Justin refused to wear "those pants".
Justin threw his body on the floor because I prepared a cup of milk for him.

And then he screamed at me with unadulterated fury. 

All I could really do was walk away.  To be honest?  My feelings were hurt.  Sometimes as a mother, when I stress so much to make sure every single one of the children are taken care of, it shocks me when it blows up in my face for completely different reasons. So I went through the rest of the morning and I couldn't really help but feel an undercurrent of sadness.  He yelled at me like I had done something horrible.  And I was only trying to love him and anticipate what he needed before he asked.

So I did my best to power through it, to smile and accept his eventual apology.  I drove him to school and he ran up to the door of the preschool before I could grab his hand and enter together.  He ran to his teacher and was so excited to see her.  He immediately began playing with his friends and was lost in the joy of the moment.  I signed him in and approached him to hug him good-bye.  He received the hug half-heartedly and continued playing. 

So I reminded myself that he was two, and he had so much going on.  I reminded myself that as a mother, I didn't need to be thanked every single day, especially by a two year old who sees the world as revolving around him.  I reminded myself that my world does revolve around him, and he's pretty accurate in that.  And I headed for the door. 

The door to the preschool was just about to close behind me when I heard his voice.  It was hard to hear as the door was closing, but I did hear clear as day "Bye Mommy! I love you!"  I turned around and held the door open, peaking my head in to look at the doorway of his preschool room.  His beautiful little face with big brown eyes and huge dimples smiled back at me.  He waved and looked so happy.  "Love you Mommy."

It made my whole day. 

And as I drove to work, I couldn't help but wonder....is that an ounce of what God feels when I finally stop in my day to acknowledge Him?  Does He wonder why I take so long in the day to pray?  Does it break His heart when I get angry at random moments when I think my expectations aren't met?  Does He feel broken-hearted when I give Him a half-hearted hug as I'm thrilled to engage in the world?  Does His heart leap for joy when I turn and profess my love for Him sincerely, if only for a moment?

I think so.  And I need to do better.  But the encouraging thing is that because I know how my heart responds to my babies, I have an inkling about how His heart responds to me.  Justin could burn down the house, (and he probably will someday) and it wouldn't matter.  My deep profound love for that child is interwoven into the very core of who I am.  He's stuck with me and to think....God's love for His people is exponentially bigger than anything I could imagine. 

It's just beautiful. 

My Most Embarrassing Moment EVER

In Hawaii, one of Chris' favorite things to do was to be in the ocean.  The real ocean...the one that is the Pacific.  And he just happened to marry me, who responds to water like a cat.  I could go my whole life without putting my face under water and I would be so happy about it.  One of my favorite things to do in Hawaii was to lay by the pool, get sunburned, repeatedly smell the suntan lotion and read book after book after book.  This was especially wonderful because not a single person would ask me to wipe his or her buns.  And I often had a Mai Tai in my hand....not because I like to drink (I don't), but because a lady came to my side every once and awhile and asked me if she could get me something.  I said yes, she scampered away, brought it to me and allowed me to charge it to my room.  Sometimes I ran out of stuff to ask for, so often the Mai Tai was ordered.  So she was my best friend, and that's how I ended up drinking a lovely drink next to a pool. 



There would come a time in the day where Chris would get bored and announce that it was time to go in the ocean.  We paddleboarded, went out into a canoe and on the third day, he offered me the suspicious opportunity to "body surf". 
"What's that?" I asked.
"Oh, it's really fun.  You'll love it.  You stand in the ocean and the waves come by and you ride them into the shore.  It's really fun." He said.  I thought about this for awhile.  Chris would rather die than sit by a pool for more than 3 minutes.  I did need to compromise because I knew full well that he could not do what I was doing.  So I agreed.  And by the way, I agreed because I assumed that Chris would never put me in a situation where I would suffer. 

Could I have been more wrong? 

So we wade out past a few waves.  The water is warm, my hair is dry (just the way I like it), and I'm so unaware of what is about to happen that I actually wear a headband.  I'm not actually concerned about my hair, really.  It's more about the fact that I hate water by my nose, and consequently I never get my hair wet.  So why wouldn't I keep my hair out of my face?

As the water comes up to my chest, I start to panic a bit, but Chris instructs me to "jump when the wave comes, and it will go right by you."  I try it a few times, and it works.  It's actually kind of fun.  I'm struggling a bit though, and when I say "Chris, this is getting kind of hard...", he looks over and grins.  "I guess I didn't know you were going to bust out the doggy paddle." 
"Really, honey?  Did you think I was going show up with the backstroke?  I don't even know what you are supposed to do in this scenario to keep your face dry." He is laughing.  A lot.  Waves are passing us by, and every single wave Chris acknowledges as "the perfect wave! I can't believe I missed it!"

They all look the same to me.  And the water seems to be getting deeper. 

He tries to surf one, and it kinda looks like he's going to drown.  He is swallowed up by water and surfaces far away from me.  He swims back to me treading water in the ocean and says "that was awesome! Did you see me go, like 40 feet?!?!"
"You did that on purpose?" 
"Yep.  That's body surfing, honey."
"Really?  That looks horrifying."
"Okay, well the very next one we'll do together, okay?" 
"Chris I don't think that I can do this.  You went under the water and I think breathing in salt water won't work for me very well."
"You'll be fine. I promise. Just hold your breath."
Honestly, if I had ever been successful in the my whole life at holding my breath, I think I might actually like water.  But I suck at that. 

The waves seem to be getting higher.  I report this to Chris, who, rather than looking petrified appears to be excited.  Obviously he's never seen his life flash before his eyes. 

So I tell him that I think I'm going to be done now.  He acquiesces and I start to swim towards the shore when I feel a tugging sensation from behind me.  For some reason, I feel like I'm being pulled back towards the ocean, which is weird because I'm swimming back to the shore.  It starts out as a small sensation and grows to a point where I'm actually being pulled backwards.  I'm in a place where I can stand and the water is at my chest. I turn around just in time to see a wall of water above me.  Did you catch that?  ABOVE ME.

And do you know what I did?  I tried to jump.  Because that's what my loving husband who adores me said to do.  I jumped and got smacked in the face with a wall of water.   Do you know what doesn't work when a wave is curling over on top of you?  Jumping. 

All at once, my feet are above my head.  I feel like I'm in a washing machine.  My head smacks the bottom of the ocean and all I can hear is water rushing all around me.  Salt water rushes into my nose and mouth.  This is my worst nightmare.  I'm rolling all around with absolutely no control over my body.

I was under water for 30 minutes. 
Okay, it was like 30 seconds. 
But it was a really long time. 

I roll up onto the beach, and stand up, spitting out water.  My hair is plastered to my face.  I taste salt. I smell salt.  I feel salt.  I hate salt.  
"Whoa!" I hear my husband say from behind me.  "That was awesome!"
I turn and look at him.  I'm sure I looked at him with a look of death.  SERIOUSLY.
"That was not awesome" I say, with an unavoidable hint of rage.
I touch my head to rearrange my headband and realize my headband has been removed from my possession forever.  "Chris! I lost my headband.  That sucked."
People are looking at me.  They must have been worried that I was dead.
He's gesturing to me, pointing downwards.  I'm confused.  He should be on bended knee, asking for my forgiveness for placing me in hell. 
"Honey.  Your umm....boob fell out of your swimsuit."

And that was the last time Jessica Garland ever went in the ocean again.  FOREVER. 

Night Time with Justin

I love Justin.




I really do.  I love just about everything about this child. 



But when the sun sets, Chris and I both make eye contact, sigh, and will ourselves not to freak out immediately about the upcoming interactions with Justin.  Because the boy is stubborn.  Don't get me wrong;  I love "stubborn".  I happen to have been called stubborn 90% of my life thus far, and always considered it a compliment (much to the chagrin of my parents).  However, Justin has taught me all about stubbornness.  I was an amateur.  I mean seriously - I was in the tadpole class and he's the big giant crocodile of stubbornness. 
He makes cement seem flexible. 
He makes me seem easygoing. 

An example of night time at the Garland home....

7:30   Adelai goes to bed.  Like a breath of fresh air, she is laid down wide awake and puts herself to sleep.  Because that's how much God loves Jess Garland. 
7:35   The boys change into their jammies.
7:37   Justin realizes that he doesn't have his Toy Story sheets on his bed (because he peed all over the place last night and now has red sheets...which represents the "B team" of sheets in Justin Land).
7:38   Justin has a blow out tantrum wherein he screams at the highest decibel you can imagine.  No one can understand.  No one can sleep.  No one has hope that life will ever get better. 
7:40   Chris and I finally understand this tantrum is about sheets.
7:45   Jess finally gets Justin to believe that red sheets are Elmo + Lightening McQueen + lobster sheets, all rolled up in one and subsequently trump all sheets in the entire universe. 
7:46  Justin begins jumping on the "melmo" sheets, trying to touch the ceiling.
7:50  Chase climbs into bed like an angel.  An easygoing, sleep loving, angel from heaven. 
7:52  Justin beats cheeks out of the bedroom and yells "I want some cheese, Daddy.  I'm hungry! I need to go pee!  I want my blanket from the car!  Let's go to the store and buy chocolate milk!"
7:53  Whichever parent lost the quick rock-paper-scissors match goes and retrieves the toddler, who turns into screaming crazy person, once again.
7:55  Justin's tantrum is ignored and we begin reading books with Chase.  Justin comes running and yells "I want to read Gold Bug", which is the toddler equivalent of Where's Waldo, except that there are 400 pages of cars and all must be talked about.  Every-freaking-single-one-of-them. 
8:40  The lights are out, Chase is almost in a coma.  Parents leave the room. 
8:43  The door closes, and the light under the door comes on.  Justin is giggling.  Chase is crying and saying "You woke me up, Justin!"
8:45  Justin wanders around the house, giggling.  He is caught, walked back to his room and placed in his bed. 
8:46 Justin wanders around the house, giggling.  (Again.) 
9:14 Chris and I think he has gone to bed finally, only to realize that he is singing on the ground in his room, jumping on the bed and laying on the floor in the hallway.
9:15  We lose our cool.
9:16  We realize losing our cool doesn't work at all and makes everybody feel crappy.
9:17  Justin wanders the house, giggling.  He "wants to cuddle, mama!"   He wanders some more. 
9:20 We lose our cool again.
9:21 We feel crappy again and give up.
9:22 Justin says "Mom and dad, I just need to poop.  Can't I go poop?"
9:23 I say "fine, you can poop, but you better squeeze something out, child".
9:29 Justin has squeezed out the smallest turd anybody has ever seen.  (Did I really just write that?)
9:36 Justin begins wandering the house again.  Chris and I give up completely.
9:54  He starts to look a little tired. 
9:55  I pick him up off the ground, he goes limp in my arms and lays down.  
9:56  Chris and I collapse.
10:01 Chris sneaks into the bedroom to put a pull-up on Justin, because had he put it on before, the tantrum would have never ended.
10:05 Lights out in the Garland home.


It's exhausting.  He's devoted to getting his way.  We are devoted to not giving in, and yet he outwills even the best of them (meaning me).  I know the parenting strategies, but no strategies makes up for a 2 year old boy in a small house with two other children sleeping.  He has the ability to ruin everything, he has leverage over his parents, and he has the energy of 1000 adults, all combined together. 

Let's face it.  We are his bitch..   Ahem.  Justin is the champion. 



 

Preschool Combat

I'm a girl.  Not sure if that was clear, but I'm really a girl.  When I was told I was having a boy at the ultrasound for Chase, I walked away absolutely stunned.  I guess I just assumed that, while boys exist, I could only reproduce what I already was.  Plus, all the people in my family are girls, so needless to say I feel vastly unprepared to be the mother of two boys.  Everyday I am slapped in the face with their maleness and I'm totally perplexed.  I always considered myself a tomboy.  I was wrong. 

First of all, their boy parts are...*ahem*...scary.  I didn't realize how awkward I was around them until I had a daughter and realized how dramatically more comfortable I was.  I think when Chase was born, Chris and I actually had a conversation about if it was possible to break it.  As the boys grow older, I'm freaked.  I really am.  I'm about ready to just say to Chris that he needs to take care of all things with respect to their boy parts.  I just don't want to traumatize them (or myself) for life.  And when I'm trying to assist in washing body parts by batting a wash cloth at it with a terrified look on my face, I think it's safe to say that we are approaching trauma status. 

Second, they try to kill each other everyday and are best friends.  I think I'm starting to get the rules of brother combat, but I clearly live in an alternate universe of dolls and playing house.  For example, did you know that a pencil can be whipped across the back of your neck and leave a red mark for a few hours? 

These seem to be the rules of combat in our house, though take account for the idea that I'm female and only an observer. 

• If you profess your love for any object in the home, you can essentially kiss it goodbye.  Your weakness has been identified by your brother/best friend/enemy/competition.
• If you are playing with a toy...any toy at all, you are asking to be tackled from behind, thrown to the ground and the toy to be ripped out of your grip. 
• If you are the person that tackled the other, you better run for your life. 
• If you are the child that happens to run for your life, you should run to your mother and stand by her, ever so nonchalantly. 
• If she happens to ask you in a frustrated tone "What are you guys doing?", you both must look at her ever-so-innocently and say "nothing mom". 
• If you are wrestling and somebody wants to poop, all you have to yell is "I have to go poop" and the other immediately releases.  Both smile and wrestling is paused until the pooper returns.  
• Each boy has their own art form.  Chase is cool until he grits his teeth and wraps his hands around Justin's neck.  You know that Chase has crossed the line at this point.  However, if he's just swinging a baseball bat and hits Justin in the buns, this was "just fun".  Justin on the other hand is always having fun until he starts screaming a guttural growl wherein he starts swinging his arms in a crazy fashion and running after the other.  This appears to be the moment when the grown up is supposed to dive on the Justin and take the blow.  Because Justin will swing.  And you will be hit.  And it could be funny, or it could not be funny to him.  You never really know until you release and he either laughs hysterically or screams like a wild child. 
• Apparently the goal seems to be that you fight just enough to make your mom wonder if she'll accomplish anything at all today besides keeping you alive.  This is a intricate dance of fighting just enough so that she thinks accomplishing something was possible, yet she's interrupted enough to fail. 
• Time out is really just an opportunity to harass the offender who is stuck in a chair for a predetermined amount of time.  Just make sure that anytime your mom turns around, you are again looking ever so innocent. 
• Being in time out together is hysterical. 
• If you are angry at each other, this lasts for 14 seconds.  Just enough to make the other person cry. 

I don't get it.  I'll never get it.  They hold hands and punch each other with the free arm.  They jump off of beds, collide, wrestle to the ground screaming and then laugh.  Any object is a potential weapon.  I'm just the lady on the outside trying to argue for sanity to two insane little testosterony boys who just hear "blah blah blah".  Then they turn, smile with big dimples and say "Hey mom? Justin colored the wall with red marker.  And also the couch.  And his face.  Can I have some milk?  Why does your face look like that?"

My Nemesis

If you have seen my son Chase, you know that he's going to be tall.  When he was born, several nurses gasped at the sight of his feet; they're enormous and always have been.  Seriously.  He's like a puppy in that sense.  Chase is four and a half and wearing size 1 shoes...for about 4 months.  He's the size of a first grader, basically.  This past fall he played Kinderkick soccer, and while he barely made the cutoff date with his age and ended up being the youngest child on the team, he towered over everybody.  He has bright blond hair, and essentially you just can't miss Chase when he's amongst his peers.  He shines like a light.  A giant, fluorescent white light. 

I was the same way (minus the shining).  I'll never forget the very first day of 8th grade.  I started a new school and I was (literally) 5'9. My first period class was PE, and they measured us that day.  I took my shoes off, tried to slouch and when they announced that I was 69  and 1/4 inches tall, I thought I would die from embarrassment right there. (Because clearly nobody knew how tall I was until they said the number, right?  Love middle school logic.)  I stood in that gym and quietly swore that I would never grow again.  NEVER.  Hear that God?  This is freakishly tall enough!

And I never grew again. 

And then I kinda thought I was magic.  (Middle school logic again.)

And I've always sort of held on to that belief, odd as it is, that I could really change whatever I want if I wanted it bad enough.  It seems to work a lot, so rarely am I confronted with the concept that I've got no control over anything.  It happens more often with more children, but when it comes to my own body, that moment in the gym sticks out in my brain.  I mean, for Pete's sake.  I stopped myself from growing, did I not?  How many people can say that? 

So then I got hit by a semi-truck on the freeway in May 2003 and slowly, over the course of several years, the magic has stopped working.  I injured my brain that day, and now I have a seizure disorder.  It started out very quietly.  Moments of time would happen where I would feel strange with an intense sensation of deja vu.  Over the course of years, the moments intensified and other symptoms developed.  It really kicked it up a notch last summer when I got disoriented in the shower, smelled burning and essentially passed out in my bed thinking it was all a dream until I woke up with shaving cream all over my legs. 

The doctors are clear; take medication, or watch the seizure episodes kindle until a fire erupts and you have a grand-mal.  (I've never had one of those.)  Well, instead of taking medications, I got pregnant and meds were off the table.  As soon as Adelai was born, I started "taking" medications.  I put that in quotations because "taking" is really not the term for it.  It's more like I started battling the medications. I started arguing with the meds and breaking up with them every two weeks.  I would take them, forget them, wonder if I really needed them since I wasn't having any seizures, stop taking them officially and then have a seizure.

I smell burning every time now.  Not good. 

Anyway, I don't really have a point.  Or maybe I do.  I think what I'm trying to say is that being out of control really sucks.  Wanting to have control over stuff and realizing that it's all a sham is really a let down.  I was going to accomplish all this stuff this morning, and instead I ended up sleeping a couple of hours to recover from the seizure I had.  I tell all my clients "take the medication, even when you don't have symptoms.  That means the medication is working!" And then I watch myself go home and do the same exact thing as I think out loud "why do I have to take it?  I haven't had any seizures.  They must have the diagnosis wrong.  I think I'm fine."

Seizures are my nemesis.

So I was going to have this lovely day with my family and my plans didn't matter.  I do love the part where my nemesis leads me directly to God though.  With Justin's febrile seizure, I found God waiting for me patiently.  With my own seizure disorder, the lack of control brings me right back to the place where I just know I'm not in control of anything, my plans are irrelevant and ultimately I have faith that this a good thing. 

Because frankly, if I were in control, I'd be 5'6 with freakishly straight hair that oddly grows with natural blond highlights.  I'd never know problems, I'd never know struggle, I'd never experience stress and I'd never seek God. 

I guess I'll just take the medication and teach my kids that, truly, Mommy can't escape the need for God every day.  And in retrospect, I would never want to try.