On Testing of Parents

This is my son Chase. 



Since the day he was born, I've marveled at how easy of a child he is.  He goes to sleep when I tell him to, and he loves to cuddle.  When he was an only child, he would wake up at the crack of dawn and we'd bring him to our bed with his morning bottle.  He'd cuddle, drink the bottle and go back to sleep.  It was a good, stress free life.  The only difficult thing about Chase has been finding shirts that fit his long arms (they are freakishly long).  He often looks like he's wearing a 3/4 length sleeve, when he isn't.  (In my defense, that flippin shirt fit yesterday.)

And once, his feet grew so fast that when we finally went to buy him a new pair of shoes, the lady showed us how he had been curling up his feet to put on his shoes in anticipation of the limited space.  Oops.  He just should have said something.  First time parents just can't do everything right, you know?  It's not my fault.  He's gigantic.  As in, he skipped 2T/3T all together and went straight to 4T when he was just two years old.  Now his feet are 3/4 of the size of MY FEET.  This is going to get crazy, folks.  Prepare yourself. 

Oh, and when he ever got in trouble? (Which was never.)  He just flowed with it.  He didn't flip out and try to beat me up (like a certain other child living in our home named Justin), but he did the discipline and moved on.  Occasionally he tried to outwit us ("Mom? I only clean up at school. Not here." and "Why don't I play and you clean? Then we'll both be happy.  Right mom?"), but in general, he's an easygoing, loving child. 

Until last weekend. 

Cue four-year-old child suddenly noticing free will. 

And four seconds after he noticed free will, cue logical, reasonable mother having internal debates with unreasonable rageful mother who is taking a mental tally of her stretch marks and wondering how the offender would ever dare utter the phrase "no" to his victim.  Because CHASE GARLAND, I went through hell for you.  So this "no" that you speak of?  Choose wisely my son.  Because when Mommy starts to count 1-2-3, she really isn't counting an obscure, abstract thing.  She's counting war wounds on her stomach, wherein it appears that a cat was hanging off a cliff and attached itself to my body in a last ditch effort to save it's life.  And it failed. 

So this is my life this week. 
Me: Hey Chase?  Please stop putting your blanket onto Adelai and then laying on her.  That's dangerous.
Chase: Kay.
Me (20 seconds later, he's doing it AGAIN): Chase! Come talk to me. 
Chase: No.
Me (mouth drops to the ground.  Stunned, pause for 22 seconds and then): WHAT? 
Chase: No. 
Me: Are you joking?
Chase: No.

So I've just started to pick his (ginormous) body up off the ground and place him in his room until he's ready to behave.  And it's happened, oh, I don't know, 10 times today already.  In case you are wondering, it has nothing to do with a discipline technique.  Really, he either goes into his room, or he sees my head explode off of my body.  Because honestly?  I just don't see it coming.  My Chase?  My blue-eyed, blond haired cherub is turning into a person. 

And while my brain is turning into a hot mess, I sometimes picture the description of Jesus in Revelation, where His eyes are "like a flame of fire" (Rev 1:14).  And I realize that his flamy eyes are Holy, and my flamy eyes are rageful and unholy.  

In this moment, I'm pretty sure that Jesus' eyes are like a flame of fire because His children said "No". 

Even in my obsessive, desperate pursuit to know God as much as humanly possible, I still say "no" every day.  He must want to count all His stretch marks all day long....kinda like when He responded to Job's incessant complaining with a litany of "Really?  You're going to question Me?  Did you see the ostrich that I made?  I think not, little man.  I THINK NOT." 

Once again, I'm blown away by how He reveals Himself through the parent-child relationship.  I hope someday I stop saying No.   


 

Baptism

I was baptized today. 

And you know what?  I hesitated for awhile.  I'll just go ahead and let the cat out of the bag.  I was baptized as a baby and I hesitated for awhile because I thought that baptism was really about receiving the Holy Spirit and proclaiming your faith.  I did a mental tally each time I watched others, and I thought:

Been baptized?  check.
Have the Holy Spirit? check.
Proclaimed faith?  check.
Sobbed in front of the congregation several hundred times, thereby submerging myself in water on accident? check. 

So why did I have a tug in my heart that wanted to run into the water as fast as I could every time somebody was being baptized in front of me?  I still remember this moment last summer at the lake with Oasis when Pastor Keith asked if anybody else wanted to be baptized in the lake.  I was so conflicted.  I could feel simultaneous overwhelming urges to sprint to the water as well as hesitation that I was long past that.  Because isn't baptism step one?  And why would I ever need to be baptized again? 

Finally it dawned on me to ask.  (Genius, right?)

And basically Pastor Keith told me that the answer is ultimately complicated and well debated...but it came down to whether or not I felt called to do so.  And he mentioned something that stuck with me.  I won't try to put words into his mouth, but what came across to me is that baptism as a child is especially relevant if the person has remained faithful their whole life. 

And guess what?  That's not me.

While I had been baptized at 3 months old (1981..ouch), I had not been faithful until March 3rd, 2010.  Prior to that date, I would say that not many people had less faith than me.  Sure, I was a nice person and if somebody could make it into Heaven based on merit, well then I'd at least be a contender.  I never have killed anybody, I'm not a cheater, I turn bright red when I lie and while I had three speeding tickets before age 18, I couldn't help but sob uncontrollably each time I was pulled over if only for the horrible sense of being in trouble.  I even help suicidal people. 

Who needs faith with that resume'? 
But it turns out that God can intercede in your life without your permission.  And while He didn't have my attention prior to Justin's seizure, He sure came after the very heart of my soul.  He knocked me down, called me out and then comforted me in a way I've never been comforted before.

Now I hear Him loud and clear.  Any time I hesitate to wonder if God is really relevant, my mind goes back to the moment where I thought Justin was dying and it remains true that I am convinced: there is no moment in my life where anything is more important than glorifying the Creator.  I don't do it enough, but nonetheless, I'm convinced of that fact. 

I wondered if baptism would be a mistake.  I wondered if baptism would leave me disappointed that the heavens didn't open up as I came out of the water.  I wondered if I'd punch Keith in the face on accident freak out in front of hundreds of people as my face touched the water. 

I wondered a lot in an effort to control the whole event because that's my speciality. 

What happened was this: 
I was washed clean and I am new.  And it feels exactly like that.  And finally, as if that really wasn't enough?  I'm blessed to be apart of a church where they authentically rejoice in that.  And even better?  My boys were there to see me profess my love for the Lord. 

Doesn't get much better than that.  It was a good day.


Here is my short testimony from the baptism today: 

For the first 28 years and 360 days of my life, I sat proudly on the throne of my own life. Sometimes I even tried to sit on other people's thrones too.  I was the creator, the judge and jury, and worthy of much praise.  I thought I knew God, but I wasn't sure why He was all that relevant.  I figured that there were plenty of poor people in the world that needed Him badly.  Not me though.  Never me.  I was self righteous, self sufficient, self confident and if it didn't work for some reason, full of self pity. 

Then, my two year old boy suddenly stopped breathing and he didn't start again for 3 minutes.  God escorted me to the edge of the pit and showed me what life is really like when I'm on the throne.  It's dark, lonely, hopeless, scary and ultimately my seat on the throne is a facade.  My worst fears were not only out of my control, but also real.  When my son wasn't breathing, the person I had worshiped for all these years (myself) was completely worthless.

So I found my place in life.  It's face down on the floor in front of the Throne of Grace.  My Savior sits on the mercy seat and I have been given a new heart.  This heart can't get enough of the Word, worship or prayer. I'm dearly loved, remade and justified.  And I'm prone to wander, but His grip is faithful.  And sometimes I whine, but He is patient.  And other times I reminisce of the times when I was in charge, and He gently but firmly sets me straight. Now I can rest.

I'm so thankful that He came and got me.

And just in case your interested, the longer version is here.

The Dawn of the Personality

There is this moment when a baby makes the transition from blob-in-your-arms to terror-on-the-floor.  For the majority of their first year, babies are fairly black and white.  They are 1) easygoing or 2) not easygoing.  That's about it.  For the most part, barring any developmental challenges, they all smile, they all poo, they all laugh and they all melt your heart.  And you are sleep deprived, but you love the blob, so you are happy about it. 

Or you are drinking coffee by the gallon, so you're happy about that.  Either way, it's nice. 

Here's the way my blob started:


And here's what my blossoming wobbler looks like now:


 So I love her.  Oh my gosh, do I love her.  And she's turning into this little girl, and as she grows, I'm starting to see who she is.  And I'm already planning an entry for her birthday (end of April), so I'll do my best to contain myself here....but suffice it to say that being Adelai's mother has completed me.  Being a mommy to a girl is inexplicably full circle. 

She's now 11 months old, and we've entered the phase where limits have to be set.  It's pretty interesting when this happens, because it reveals so much.  The limits aren't anything horrible - the Garlands are easygoing and we basically have rules around not putting electrical stuff in your mouth, not playing with knives...you know, the basics.  And we do our best to not torture the animals, so we frown on putting thumbs into the eye sockets of the dog and cats.  But other than that?  The world is your oyster, Garland child.  Do some damage. 

When Chase hit this moment and we said "no, Chase", he slowly put the offending object down and looked at us....for like 10 minutes.  And his chin may have quivered a bit, but it was more a sense of pondering...as if he had a litany of retaliation, but his one word of "ball!" wasn't going to cut it.  So he remained pensive.  And 4 years later, he's still pensive and I'm waiting for the day when he unleashes all these ideas and I'll be hit with a wave of deep thoughts.  It's coming. 

When Justin was told no for the first time, he took the offending object and slammed it on the ground as hard as he could and then hit me.  Need I say more?  It's yet to change.  When we play baseball and he misses 3 balls in a row, he hits the bat on the ground and does a toddler version of cussing himself out.  Chris and I have to constantly help him to sooth himself.  He's got a hair trigger temper and he always has.  We are trying to learn how to patch holes in the wall now so that we can be prepared.  It's coming. 

So Adelai?  Today I came upon her putting part of the computer cord in her mouth.  And I swear, I just quietly said "Adelai, no..." from across the room.  And I'm not even joking, she turned around, made eye contact, dropped to the ground and burst into tears.  And it wasn't the kind of tears wherein the child can recover.  This was the kind of tears where life has ended, the soul has been mortally wounded and there is no hope for redemption.  She. Was. Devastated. 

I scooped her up in my arms and she layed her head on my shoulder (a rare moment these days since she's so interested in the world) and literally sobbed.  Snot on my shirt, tears running down her face...sobbed.  For two minutes.  And I kept saying "baby, it's okay! I love you. It's okay." But she just cried and cried and cried.  She eventually calmed down, but now the computer cord is like kryptonite and she won't come within 10 feet of it. 

It just cracks me up.  Maybe she inherited my terror of getting in trouble.  But then it seems Justin inherited my temper.  And it also seems Chase inherited my affection for thinking for hours.  So where is Chris in the genetics? 

They do seem to have a deep rooted love for doughnuts and chocolate milk.
 


I bet they will end up living in a van down by the ocean. 



The Opposite of Parental Joy

Being a parent?  Love it.  I really do. 

Something absolutely miraculous happens the moment you set eyes on that baby.  And it happens deeper every single time.  You look at this creature and realize that you'd literally jump in front of a bus for this little thing, and yet you don't even know if he or she likes chocolate.  Nothing matters.  This baby can do no wrong, and even if they do, you won't care.  It feels as if you can literally see the fingerprints of God all over this child. 

So here's the actual crux of the matter. 

Where do the fingerprints of God go when this amazing creature has explosive diarrhea all over his bed, and then comes to your bed and pukes all over your bed?  And then, this "blessing" has the audacity to look at you, look at the bed he's just massacred, and state in a particularly disgusted tone "Mommy, I don't think I want to sleep in your bed anymore."

That's right.  He really did say that. 

Just in case you are wondering how Chris and I handle that statement at 4:15am, both of us kind of laughed with a delirious quality to it, and said "well, that's completely understandable." 
Then he went to his bed and passed out (which had all new sheets on it already). 

So, a message to teenage Justin, from his mother:

Justin, if you are reading this, you vomited all over your father this weekend while he was sleeping.  And your father and I had to sleep in a smell which would be an easy win in the "worst smell ever" competition without any blankets because you had already pooped all over the other blankets in the house. 
And you gave me stretch marks when I was pregnant with you. 
And you jumped from high stuff to low stuff all the time, and I swear I gained a wrinkle and gray hair with each "trick" you did.  So now I look old.
So.  If I asked you to do the dishes, mow the lawn, pick up your sister, bring in the groceries, or take care of me when I'm old...by God, child, you better do it.  YOU BETTER DO IT.
And yes, that is a threat.  The phone number for DHS is (503) 378-6704. 
Love you.
Mommy

Housekeeping 101

This past Saturday, we had the pleasure of opening up our house to several of Chris' family members including his delightful grandparents for a family get-together.  I, being a world class procrastinator, found it fit to wait until Saturday morning before looking around at my child infested home and noticing that no 80+ year old would survive a stay in our home, short as the stay was.  Because oh, I don't know, 400 toys littered the floor. 

And also, my children eat like wild animals.  So, food is on the walls, on the floor, in their hair, on their faces....possibly on the ceiling.

And also, they are just gross.  Let's just get that out of the way.  I could labor on and get into the nitty gritty of nastiness, but for the sake of our friendship and my small amount of hope that you might still have an ounce of respect for me despite your reading of my blog, I'm just going to submit to you that, in fact, three children under the age of 5 are gross.  They are cute.  But they are gross. 

Oh, and guess what?  I'm a terrible housekeeper.  Always have been.  It's not that I don't enjoy clean; I really do.  In fact, I'm prone to notice the smallest amount of yuckiness with the best of 'em.  However, even before children, Chris and I would start to clean up and then one of us would say "Hey, did you know that there was something fun to do instead of this?" And the other would appear suddenly shocked and delighted at the concept of not doing something boring and stupid, and we would joyfully drop our cleaning supplies immediately and frolic away to enjoy all that poverty and the pre-child life had to offer.  (I think it was the dog park and store brand Mac & Cheese accompanied by 69 cent hot dogs.  So fun...obviously we hated cleaning if that was the joy.)

So where was I?  (Can't stop thinking of the horror of that meal.) Oh yeah.  So this Saturday, my obsessive mind kicks in and I realize that we are literally going to kill his grandparents with the state of our affairs.  So I actually break a sweat cleaning my house.  And I'm cooking simultaneously.  And I'm doing my best to attend to the children, but I think that's the day that somebody hit somebody else in the head with a baseball bat.  And I'm pretty sure that's the day that Adelai played in the dog water.  Or maybe that's the day that she played in the toilet.  The days blend together.  I can't remember.  Anyway. In short, in order to keep my house, I had to almost completely ignore my children.  For 6 hours straight. 

And as I collapsed on the couch after it was all over, it dawned on me that if I actually wanted to keep my house the way that I deep down expected it to be kept, this day would have to be repeated every single day for the next several years.  I would, quite literally, have to never ever stop.  Because with this age combination, when you finish cleaning a room and leave it, it is a very real probability that the next time you look at that space, it will be a total disaster.  It will look like a nuclear bomb went off and no mother ever made an effort. 

And here's the real kicker.  Were I to actually maintain this house, not only would I have no idea who my children were, but they'd literally be in danger of killing themselves or each other.  You don't hear about that much.  You hear a lot of moms say that they are choosing to have dusty bookshelves so they can play with their kids and contribute to the development of their children as they grow into people that know they were deeply loved. 

Me?  Sure, that would be a lovely moment.  But I also just hope that they grow into people who are alive and don't have brain damage.  That would be really cool. Were I to choose to move about my house frantically cleaning every single day, there is a real chance that Justin could turn to me as an adult and say "Really, Mom? You made my bed every single day, but I have brain damage?"

So I do three loads of dishes a day and I vacuum daily so that Adelai doesn't eat stuff off the floor.  And the rest?  Well I do my best.  That's all I can do.  And if you happen to come to my house and it looks like a hurricane blew through it, I have a couple things for you to consider:

1. A hurricane did come.  It was a category 3 named Chase-Justin-Adelai and it was intense. 
2. Please note that no blood is coming out of any area of my three children.  That's success.
3. Please consider that my house may have been spotless just 4 minutes ago, and the mess that you see right now is actually an improvement.

Being outnumbered by children is....well, frankly a set up.  And so, I'm firing that place of shame as a mother.  My name is Jess, and my house is a war zone.  I plan on winning the war at a later date, but the first several years of battle I'm clearly losing.  And I've got limbs hanging off my body, and I look terrible and I'm tired and I'm a mess.  But I'll win.  You just wait and see.  I'll win. 

Or, I'll eat mac & cheese and 69 cent hot dogs and use the spare funds to hire a housekeeper.  And by God, she'll win. 

SHE WILL WIN. 



This is what my kids would look like if I cleaned non-stop.



Girls & Boys are Different?

Sometimes I wonder if God is up in Heaven, sitting on His throne and just laughing to Himself when He hears men and women talking.  To each other.  In an effort to communicate.  On purpose.

I think maybe it's taken me about 10 years of relationship with Chris before I came to the conclusion yesterday that it's a very real possibility that I've never really understood a single word he has said.  Because it dawned on me that his words and my words don't actually mean the same thing. 

For example, a major challenge in our life is the much hated, much detested task of budgeting and paying bills.  Neither of us like it.  In fact, both of us would rather live in a van down by the ocean then actually pay bills.  (Yes, darling, I said it.  I would join you if somebody would actually buy all of our crap from us.) 

We both hate checking the mail. 
We both hate opening mail. 
We both hate looking at mail.
We both hate looking for the lost checkbook for an hour. 
We both hate sitting down and focusing on something super lame. 
We both hate adding/subtracting/thinking about numbers. 
We both hate looking at the final number. 
Get the idea? With respect to the financial world, I married my twin...not my opposite.

We have settled the debate (at least for now), and Chris is taking the lead.  Because I won the battle by noting that God identified him as the leader, and I'm the submit person.  So I SUBMIT.  Winner me. 

So yesterday, Chris announced to me while driving me to work that he was going to be some sort of lion about the finances and go hunt stuff and kill it a lot and bring it back because he was tired of waiting for it to fall over dead. 
Side note: See?  I can't even paraphrase it right because I don't have any idea what the words meant that were coming out of his face.  WHAT?

So I'm really very delighted at what he's saying.  Or should I say, I'm so happy to hear what I think I'm hearing, based solely on his tone and inflection.  But beyond that?  I'm lost. 
So I said "Wow! That sounds awesome.  But what does it mean?"
"It's like I'm just going to engage and then hunt the animal and be the leader.  Because nobody wants to be the leader."
"Oh....kay.  Wait. Can we redo this conversation and talk about your feelings?"
He stares at me.  Long pause, then a simple "no".
"Okay.  So you thought the lion would just fall over dead at some point?"
"No, blah blah blah blah blah furry animal." (He didn't actually say that, this is just word for word what I heard.)
"Okay.  I'm not the furry animal or the lion, am I?"
"Nope." He sounds exasperated. 
"Well yay then!" I say.  "Good for you."

So I'm pretty sure that he's doing something different now, but for the life of me, I'm not sure what it is.  I'll just roll with it.  But it does have me pondering....could I have gotten him to hunt some wild game or whatever a long time ago by using man language?  Because I certainly said a lot of feeling words in an attempt to get him motivated.  BUT IT NEVER WORKED.  In the past, our conversations go something like this:

"Chris?  I want you to do (insert project here) because I feel (insert feeling here)."
"Okay."
Nothing happens.
"Chris, you never did that thing."
"Why didn't you just ask?"
Cut to Jessica getting all crazy and Chris looking totally confused.

I think boys and girls are actually different.  Maybe in the next 10 years with him, we'll actually have a conversation wherein we both understand what is being said. 

That will be nice. 
By the way, I really hope I'm not the lion.  Or the furry animals.  Seriously...WHAT?

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.