7. Coffee with a friend the other day after a rough day.
8. A husband who prays with me when I need it.
9. A son who saw my tears and told me that, "Even God takes care of the lilies of the field, how much more he loves you."
10. A pastor's wife who prays for me and encourages me.
All of these connections, all of this love. It is all around me. It has always been all around me. I am just starting to notice and FEEL it.
I need this today. Every day, but today especially. There is a struggle for my soul and it has been agonizing. I felt God telling me the struggle was over, and I could lean into him and trust him, all was ok, on May 29th. I am still trusting for that. Some days are harder than others. I can't do this alone. So many lies to overcome.
But really, if he told me the struggle was over, is is ME who needs to solve this, fix this? I CAN'T. He CAN. So, Father God, hear my prayers as I seek the healing that can only come from you. I know you have great things in store for me, erase the lies that say you don't, I won't, I'm not, I can't.
"Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am." Philippians 4:13, The Message
THROUGH anything.
Not continuing endlessly in the pain.
THROUGH.
THROUGH the fire.
Refined.
Shining.
Beautiful.
Thank you, Jesus.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Being Real
So...I'm having a bit of a crisis of faith lately. I'm finding it difficult to trust and to lean into the fact that God loves me and I am his daughter. My own imperfect earthly father left a lasting impression on me and I realize I've never truly been able to accept love. The idea of it, sure. The actuality of it, not so much. This has created a great anxiety within my soul, and a disconnectedness. Every thing that happens is filtered through that lens, serving to reinforce that core belief.
Last night I attended the first session of a local IF:Gathering (started by Jennie Allen) and came home with trepidation of how the night would go and whether I would be able to make it back for the second part today. For whatever reason, God saw fit that Ava would still be sick and stay up all night, which effectively broke my heart, but also made my spirit say "Of course, you have to miss out on everything good in life. If God really had this for YOU, you would have been able to go. He obviously does not."
I walk around with this deep, heavy sadness and baggage constantly, whether I am aware of it or not.
I compare my kids to other's kids, and marinate in the feeling of alone-ness and isolation that no one I know has been through a similar experience.
I've stopped telling the truth, not wanting to be pitied, but worse, knowing I will see the incredulousness on their faces and feel judged. And like a colossal failure.
I walk around carrying the heavy pack of guilt that tells me that every quirk or imperfection my children have, every weakness or bad night is my fault. The thousands of nights I have spent tending to my children rather than sleeping, my punishment.
For being unlovable.
For being unworthy.
For being less-than, an utter failure as a woman and mother.
For all of these emotions and experiences I gave my babies when they were still tiny in thr womb, that left a lasting effect in their makeup and ability to cope.
I'm afraid I'm going to feel anxious and unloved and take all of my children's shortcomings and failures to heart for ever.
I sure am right now as I listen to my two year old scream from the other room while her daddy tries to console her while she should be sleeping. (ETA: We just took her temp and it was 103, mom fail. At least now we know this current reason. Poor girl.)
But I don't want to.
One of the speakers last night was Ann Voskamp, on who's blog I've been perusing this evening and finding great comfort. I especially like her idea of 1000 gifts. So, I'm going to start leaning into that (some of it in list form, some in stories and pictures) starting right now, with five blessings.
Because I'm tired of feeling this way. Here goes.
1) My husband who loves me unconditionally, even when I don't feel it, even when I can't feel it.
2) My sweet, amazingly smart almost nine year old, who randomly thanks me for being a good mom.
3) My spunky, loveable two year old daughter, who likes to pop around the corner and say, "Hi, Mom!" in the most adorable way.
4) A sweet soul-sister of a friend who invited me out for coffee and listened to me vent without judgement.
6) A church where I actually feel like I might be loved, for the first time in a very long time.
Do you struggle with some of these things? If God is really our Father, than we come from a place of abundance, and not lack. I think leaning into this idea is imperative for overcoming false beliefs about ourselves and becoming the people God made us to be.
Last night I attended the first session of a local IF:Gathering (started by Jennie Allen) and came home with trepidation of how the night would go and whether I would be able to make it back for the second part today. For whatever reason, God saw fit that Ava would still be sick and stay up all night, which effectively broke my heart, but also made my spirit say "Of course, you have to miss out on everything good in life. If God really had this for YOU, you would have been able to go. He obviously does not."
I walk around with this deep, heavy sadness and baggage constantly, whether I am aware of it or not.
I compare my kids to other's kids, and marinate in the feeling of alone-ness and isolation that no one I know has been through a similar experience.
I've stopped telling the truth, not wanting to be pitied, but worse, knowing I will see the incredulousness on their faces and feel judged. And like a colossal failure.
I walk around carrying the heavy pack of guilt that tells me that every quirk or imperfection my children have, every weakness or bad night is my fault. The thousands of nights I have spent tending to my children rather than sleeping, my punishment.
For being unlovable.
For being unworthy.
For being less-than, an utter failure as a woman and mother.
For all of these emotions and experiences I gave my babies when they were still tiny in thr womb, that left a lasting effect in their makeup and ability to cope.
I'm afraid I'm going to feel anxious and unloved and take all of my children's shortcomings and failures to heart for ever.
I sure am right now as I listen to my two year old scream from the other room while her daddy tries to console her while she should be sleeping. (ETA: We just took her temp and it was 103, mom fail. At least now we know this current reason. Poor girl.)
But I don't want to.
One of the speakers last night was Ann Voskamp, on who's blog I've been perusing this evening and finding great comfort. I especially like her idea of 1000 gifts. So, I'm going to start leaning into that (some of it in list form, some in stories and pictures) starting right now, with five blessings.
Because I'm tired of feeling this way. Here goes.
1) My husband who loves me unconditionally, even when I don't feel it, even when I can't feel it.
2) My sweet, amazingly smart almost nine year old, who randomly thanks me for being a good mom.
3) My spunky, loveable two year old daughter, who likes to pop around the corner and say, "Hi, Mom!" in the most adorable way.
4) A sweet soul-sister of a friend who invited me out for coffee and listened to me vent without judgement.
6) A church where I actually feel like I might be loved, for the first time in a very long time.
Do you struggle with some of these things? If God is really our Father, than we come from a place of abundance, and not lack. I think leaning into this idea is imperative for overcoming false beliefs about ourselves and becoming the people God made us to be.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
A Birth Story in Two Parts: Part II
As I get into the bright orange Jeep (on loan from our wonderful friends since our brown bomb of a car has decided to gasp its last), I notice that Eric has already put a towel down on the seat. This both comforts me and fills me with anxious thoughts of giving birth in the car. I don't know how many times on our journey I will breathe silent prayers that my water will not break and ruin their vehicle.
As we head out of the neighborhood, I have the fleeting thought that maybe we should just go to the local county hospital which is 15 minutes away. I say nothing, and we turn the opposite direction, toward the hospital downtown, selected by default because the only midwives with any openings deliver there.
We turn on to 26, then 795, 695...eventually 83. Eric driving as fast as the cars around him allow, while also timing my contractions on a piece of paper he holds on the steering wheel.
1:42pm.
1:46pm.
1:49pm.
1:51pm.
We speed along to the Enya soundtrack we have playing in the background. It's supposed to be relaxing, but just ends up being ironic as we barrel along at 90 miles an hour, unintentionally soliciting middle fingers and a would-be racer who attempts to outpace us in his Ferrari.
"Please don't kill us," I breathe more than once.
The contractions are coming harder and faster now, I feel the urge to bear down. Eric dials the midwife again to let her know. She tells me to breathe out and make noise instead of push. It's becoming harder to do. I grasp the handle above the door and hang on for dear life, closing my eyes, and my legs, a little tighter.
I tell him he should call our doula and let her know to come. She is with a program at one of the local universities and seemed so sincere and eager to offer her services and gain experience. A doula was indispensable with my first lengthy birth, but this time I know she won't make it in time. Still, I say we should try her, since I signed some paper saying we would call when I was in labor. I don't want to break all the rules at once.
On the middle of 83, I yell, "Pull over!" I really think this is it, Eric is going to have to deliver our baby. On the side of the road. I had a premonition he might have to, and kept sending him "How to Deliver Your Baby in an Emergency" type articles from the internet during the last weeks of pregnancy. He says we are ten minutes from the hospital and asks if I can wait that long. The contraction eases up and I yell, "Just go!"
Somehow he manages to navigate the city streets which we have always gotten lost in for every other appointment. I feel a burning sensation, and some blood. I check to make sure there is nothing on the seat. Whew. We pull up to the curved drive in front, where they have told us we can park initially.
We were told someone would be out front with a wheelchair to escort us in, but no one is there. Eric hops out of the car, and runs in to look for one. I gingerly get out, and lean on the seat, swaying with a contraction, and only slightly annoyed at the passersby staring. Eric runs out of the hospital and asks a lady in front of us if we can use her wheelchair once she is in the car.
I can't get in the wheelchair. It would be impossible to sit down. I'm trying to point this out, when out of nowhere a lady (I don't think she was with the hospital even) tells me to get on backwards, on my knees. I find this infinitely more possible, and I'm grateful for the suggestion.
We are quickly escorted through the lobby by a security guard (we'll call him Malcolm), who tells Eric he must stop at the desk to get a badge while he escorts me up the 9 more floors to labor and delivery. This sounds like an incredibly bad idea to both of us, but I am in no position to argue. Malcolm wheels me on to the elevator and we begin our climb.
I can scarcely register my surroundings, I am in so deep with physical sensations and silent prayers that I would not give birth in the elevator, and that Eric would not miss it. At some point I start pushing.
"Don't push!" I hear in unison, and realize that there is another person in the elevator with us. I don't know it at the time, but she will be our nurse on the recovery floor, and she will tell me the story from her perspective. I will laugh, not remembering her at all, until she asks if I heard two people that day.
But I cannot stop pushing, I am too far gone, it is like a freight train now, zooming down the tracks at full speed. I reach down and feel something; the head! I remember asking, "Should I take my underwear off?", to another chorus of "No!" from the nurse and an overwhelmed Malcolm (who I'm sure by now is considering another line of work).
The elevator opens at the 10th floor, and I am wheeled out, still on my knees. About 5 feet past the elevators I jump off. Malcolm tells me to get back on, to which I vehemently shake my head. He asks me to walk then. I would laugh if I could. Again, I say no.
Just then, my water breaks, and a combination of blood and amniotic fluid gush out all over the pristine and shiny, newly waxed floors.
"Oh, sh*t!" Malcolm yells. "We need a nurse!" It registers in my mind that just ahead and to the right is a frosted glass partition behind which is the waiting room. A head looks out, and then a little boy of about three or four starts to dart out to see the commotion before being pulled back by a parent.
I get down on my hands and knees. This baby is coming, with or without Eric here, and this security guard is scared out of his whits and is gonna be useless. So, I'm preparing to catch my own baby.
Just then, the elevator opens, and off rushes Eric. He quickly surveys the scene while I say, "You're gonna have to catch the baby." He looks under my dress (see, it was a good idea), and says, "Yep."
With one final push, Ava Mae is born into the world, in her daddy's arms, at 2:08pm, and 7lb 11oz, although we don't yet know it is Ava Mae, and I don't yet know she is a girl. A moment passes and I wonder why Eric hasn't announced the baby as a boy or girl. I look backwards and say, "Oh, a girl, cool!" And just like that, our defining moment seems a little eclipsed now. I later find out that he was trying to gently remove the (thankfully long) cord from around her neck, so he hadn't had a chance to look yet.
I hear the double doors open, and see seven or eight nurses barreling towards us. They surround us, seeming very serious and concerned. I want to put their minds at ease, tell them I feel great now, everything is fine, maybe even make a joke about "cleanup on aisle 5"; it takes me a moment to realize they are concerned about the baby which they know nothing about, who was just born rather abruptly in the hallway and is plastered with blood.
Once they have assessed that there are no emergency situations, they let Eric cut the cord, and tell me to sit on the wheelchair while they hand her to me. I hold my baby, almost a full pound lighter than Wyatt, and take in her squished little face, cheeks for days, and arm rolls. She has lots of wispy dark hair which matches my dress.
My dress which is now splattered with blood and goo, I note, as they roll me into the room. Our midwife greets us; there are so many people in the room. They tell me to climb up on the bed, and take my baby to place in a corner bassinet where they can examine her under the lights. Had I not been in shock, I would have asked to hold her while they did this, but I still couldn't believe this had all just happened, and it did not occur to me to ask.
I nervously tell Eric to go be with her, so at least one of us is there. It is just the corner of the room, but it feels like a big room, and she is crying, and so far away. The midwife and some nurses attempt to clean up my legs, which have also been spattered. They seem annoyed that I decided to have a baby in the hallway, instead of in the conventional place, but I didn't decide that at all. In fact, had it been allowed in this state, I would have been quite happy to have my baby at home, and I think in hindsight that maybe I should have done so.
One of the nurses notices that the security guard has followed us into the room and is hovering nervously around the baby. "Who is he and how did he get in here?" she asks, to which someone tells the story, and she laughs before booting him out.
The midwife instructs me on pushing out the placenta, and when that is all done she inserts a numbing needle into my nether regions (say that five times fast, ha!). She says she needs to sew me up, and this surprises me, because I don't feel torn, and also because I pushed out a much bigger baby before. "It's because the birth was so fast, there was no time to accommodate her," she says.
I ask her how many stitches she is putting it; it seems to be taking forever, watching the clock and her long curved needle go up and back down. "I never count," she says, and I don't exactly find this comforting. Sometime during all this, the doula shows up, and holds my hand, because there is nothing else really for her to do. The midwife is meticulous and a perfectionist in her stitching, something I will be thankful for later, but for now I am eager for her to hurry it up.
At last I again get to hold my baby, who is hollering about something. Later I will laugh when I read her medical records and see the words, "Lusty cry". I try to put her to my breast, but she isn't having it, and I worry that we will have the same troubles I had with Wyatt. "Just let her be," the midwife says. "She has a lot to say. She just wants to tell you about it right now." She seems like a wise old woman, so I let her words comfort me as I cuddle and kiss my baby.
Eventually we are moved two floors down, to the maternity ward. Before the end of his shift, Malcolm knocks on our door, asks if he can come in, and rides in on his segway. "Sorry for scaring you half to death," I say with a smile. "That's ok, I've never had that happen before!" he says, and I wonder if that means he is new. "I just wanted to come say hello and make sure she was ok!" We exchange some laughs and he is on his way, convinced and relieved that everything is well. I can't help thinking that he must have felt responsible in some way, and I know that is a story he will tell over and over.
Later that evening, when we are both sufficiently cleaned up, my mom and Wyatt make their way to the hospital, mom complaining about traffic and getting lost. Wyatt holds his little sister for the first time, and I feel a strange mixture of anxiety and peace. Our lives will never be the same and there is no going back now. We are a family of four.
As we head out of the neighborhood, I have the fleeting thought that maybe we should just go to the local county hospital which is 15 minutes away. I say nothing, and we turn the opposite direction, toward the hospital downtown, selected by default because the only midwives with any openings deliver there.
We turn on to 26, then 795, 695...eventually 83. Eric driving as fast as the cars around him allow, while also timing my contractions on a piece of paper he holds on the steering wheel.
1:42pm.
1:46pm.
1:49pm.
1:51pm.
We speed along to the Enya soundtrack we have playing in the background. It's supposed to be relaxing, but just ends up being ironic as we barrel along at 90 miles an hour, unintentionally soliciting middle fingers and a would-be racer who attempts to outpace us in his Ferrari.
"Please don't kill us," I breathe more than once.
The contractions are coming harder and faster now, I feel the urge to bear down. Eric dials the midwife again to let her know. She tells me to breathe out and make noise instead of push. It's becoming harder to do. I grasp the handle above the door and hang on for dear life, closing my eyes, and my legs, a little tighter.
I tell him he should call our doula and let her know to come. She is with a program at one of the local universities and seemed so sincere and eager to offer her services and gain experience. A doula was indispensable with my first lengthy birth, but this time I know she won't make it in time. Still, I say we should try her, since I signed some paper saying we would call when I was in labor. I don't want to break all the rules at once.
On the middle of 83, I yell, "Pull over!" I really think this is it, Eric is going to have to deliver our baby. On the side of the road. I had a premonition he might have to, and kept sending him "How to Deliver Your Baby in an Emergency" type articles from the internet during the last weeks of pregnancy. He says we are ten minutes from the hospital and asks if I can wait that long. The contraction eases up and I yell, "Just go!"
Somehow he manages to navigate the city streets which we have always gotten lost in for every other appointment. I feel a burning sensation, and some blood. I check to make sure there is nothing on the seat. Whew. We pull up to the curved drive in front, where they have told us we can park initially.
We were told someone would be out front with a wheelchair to escort us in, but no one is there. Eric hops out of the car, and runs in to look for one. I gingerly get out, and lean on the seat, swaying with a contraction, and only slightly annoyed at the passersby staring. Eric runs out of the hospital and asks a lady in front of us if we can use her wheelchair once she is in the car.
I can't get in the wheelchair. It would be impossible to sit down. I'm trying to point this out, when out of nowhere a lady (I don't think she was with the hospital even) tells me to get on backwards, on my knees. I find this infinitely more possible, and I'm grateful for the suggestion.
We are quickly escorted through the lobby by a security guard (we'll call him Malcolm), who tells Eric he must stop at the desk to get a badge while he escorts me up the 9 more floors to labor and delivery. This sounds like an incredibly bad idea to both of us, but I am in no position to argue. Malcolm wheels me on to the elevator and we begin our climb.
I can scarcely register my surroundings, I am in so deep with physical sensations and silent prayers that I would not give birth in the elevator, and that Eric would not miss it. At some point I start pushing.
"Don't push!" I hear in unison, and realize that there is another person in the elevator with us. I don't know it at the time, but she will be our nurse on the recovery floor, and she will tell me the story from her perspective. I will laugh, not remembering her at all, until she asks if I heard two people that day.
But I cannot stop pushing, I am too far gone, it is like a freight train now, zooming down the tracks at full speed. I reach down and feel something; the head! I remember asking, "Should I take my underwear off?", to another chorus of "No!" from the nurse and an overwhelmed Malcolm (who I'm sure by now is considering another line of work).
The elevator opens at the 10th floor, and I am wheeled out, still on my knees. About 5 feet past the elevators I jump off. Malcolm tells me to get back on, to which I vehemently shake my head. He asks me to walk then. I would laugh if I could. Again, I say no.
Just then, my water breaks, and a combination of blood and amniotic fluid gush out all over the pristine and shiny, newly waxed floors.
"Oh, sh*t!" Malcolm yells. "We need a nurse!" It registers in my mind that just ahead and to the right is a frosted glass partition behind which is the waiting room. A head looks out, and then a little boy of about three or four starts to dart out to see the commotion before being pulled back by a parent.
I get down on my hands and knees. This baby is coming, with or without Eric here, and this security guard is scared out of his whits and is gonna be useless. So, I'm preparing to catch my own baby.
Just then, the elevator opens, and off rushes Eric. He quickly surveys the scene while I say, "You're gonna have to catch the baby." He looks under my dress (see, it was a good idea), and says, "Yep."
With one final push, Ava Mae is born into the world, in her daddy's arms, at 2:08pm, and 7lb 11oz, although we don't yet know it is Ava Mae, and I don't yet know she is a girl. A moment passes and I wonder why Eric hasn't announced the baby as a boy or girl. I look backwards and say, "Oh, a girl, cool!" And just like that, our defining moment seems a little eclipsed now. I later find out that he was trying to gently remove the (thankfully long) cord from around her neck, so he hadn't had a chance to look yet.
I hear the double doors open, and see seven or eight nurses barreling towards us. They surround us, seeming very serious and concerned. I want to put their minds at ease, tell them I feel great now, everything is fine, maybe even make a joke about "cleanup on aisle 5"; it takes me a moment to realize they are concerned about the baby which they know nothing about, who was just born rather abruptly in the hallway and is plastered with blood.
Once they have assessed that there are no emergency situations, they let Eric cut the cord, and tell me to sit on the wheelchair while they hand her to me. I hold my baby, almost a full pound lighter than Wyatt, and take in her squished little face, cheeks for days, and arm rolls. She has lots of wispy dark hair which matches my dress.
My dress which is now splattered with blood and goo, I note, as they roll me into the room. Our midwife greets us; there are so many people in the room. They tell me to climb up on the bed, and take my baby to place in a corner bassinet where they can examine her under the lights. Had I not been in shock, I would have asked to hold her while they did this, but I still couldn't believe this had all just happened, and it did not occur to me to ask.
I nervously tell Eric to go be with her, so at least one of us is there. It is just the corner of the room, but it feels like a big room, and she is crying, and so far away. The midwife and some nurses attempt to clean up my legs, which have also been spattered. They seem annoyed that I decided to have a baby in the hallway, instead of in the conventional place, but I didn't decide that at all. In fact, had it been allowed in this state, I would have been quite happy to have my baby at home, and I think in hindsight that maybe I should have done so.
One of the nurses notices that the security guard has followed us into the room and is hovering nervously around the baby. "Who is he and how did he get in here?" she asks, to which someone tells the story, and she laughs before booting him out.
The midwife instructs me on pushing out the placenta, and when that is all done she inserts a numbing needle into my nether regions (say that five times fast, ha!). She says she needs to sew me up, and this surprises me, because I don't feel torn, and also because I pushed out a much bigger baby before. "It's because the birth was so fast, there was no time to accommodate her," she says.
I ask her how many stitches she is putting it; it seems to be taking forever, watching the clock and her long curved needle go up and back down. "I never count," she says, and I don't exactly find this comforting. Sometime during all this, the doula shows up, and holds my hand, because there is nothing else really for her to do. The midwife is meticulous and a perfectionist in her stitching, something I will be thankful for later, but for now I am eager for her to hurry it up.
At last I again get to hold my baby, who is hollering about something. Later I will laugh when I read her medical records and see the words, "Lusty cry". I try to put her to my breast, but she isn't having it, and I worry that we will have the same troubles I had with Wyatt. "Just let her be," the midwife says. "She has a lot to say. She just wants to tell you about it right now." She seems like a wise old woman, so I let her words comfort me as I cuddle and kiss my baby.
Eventually we are moved two floors down, to the maternity ward. Before the end of his shift, Malcolm knocks on our door, asks if he can come in, and rides in on his segway. "Sorry for scaring you half to death," I say with a smile. "That's ok, I've never had that happen before!" he says, and I wonder if that means he is new. "I just wanted to come say hello and make sure she was ok!" We exchange some laughs and he is on his way, convinced and relieved that everything is well. I can't help thinking that he must have felt responsible in some way, and I know that is a story he will tell over and over.
Later that evening, when we are both sufficiently cleaned up, my mom and Wyatt make their way to the hospital, mom complaining about traffic and getting lost. Wyatt holds his little sister for the first time, and I feel a strange mixture of anxiety and peace. Our lives will never be the same and there is no going back now. We are a family of four.
(Grandma and big brother with Ava)
(If only I would have known how much I would treasure pics like this.)
Monday, January 18, 2016
What I'm Reading
Currently: We Never asked for Wings by Vanessa Diffenbaugh. Ms. Diffenbaugh writes with simple yet beautiful prose which leaves the reader feeling a weighty sadness when the story has come to a close. I enjoyed her first novel, The Language of Flowers, immensely, and have only just begun her newest piece. We Never asked for Wings is a story about the daughter of Mexican immigrants who bumps up against her own shortcomings as a mother and desire to run away from her responsibilities. As predicted, it promises to be another emotional page turner.
Just Finished: Cancel the Wedding by Carolyn Dingman. This isn't the kind of novel I would usually pick up, but I'm so glad I did. Ms. Dingman's first novel is well-written and entertaining, taking the reader through the intriguing step by step discovery of a deceased woman's secret life, as narrated by her daughter. There also happens to be a love story (actually several if you include past and present) intricately woven throughout to make it a thoroughly enjoyable read for which my extra mounds of laundry can vouch.
Recently Read: Amy, My Daughter by Mitch Winehouse. Boy. Where do I start? This also isn't the kind of book I would pick up immediately but with a restless toddler and a few rushed moments I found myself in the biography section of the library and the picture of Amy on the spine of the book intrigued me enough to grab this one before making a hasty exit. I'll be honest, I really, really found myself with a great distaste for Mitch Winehouse after reading this. Or about 10 pages in. I didn't know anything about him and started reading with an open mind, feeling great sympathy for this man who basically watched his daughter self destruct. Over the course of the chapters, though, it became increasingly clear in my mind that Mitch is unable to effectively camouflage the mounting evidence that he less of a loving father and more of the worst kind of opportunist. I'm not sure if the book mentions (but it probably does, as he seems pretty into self-promotion at any opportunity) that Mitch came out with his own album on the heels of Amy's death. The timing is less than flattering. As is the detached manner in which he provides detailed reports of Amy's ongoing drug use, yet tells those who have shown up for an intervention that Amy is "fine" (later used in the lyrics of the popular song "Rehab" on the Back to Black album released in 2006 - "I ain't got the time, and if my daddy thinks I'm fine"). Overall a very depressing and repetitive read, at best bringing to light the plight of helplessness that haunts the family of an addict, at worst revealing Mitch's co-dependent exploitation and stage parent tendencies. In the end, any sympathy I felt for Amy was less about her disease and more for being the daughter of a father who could not love her in the way she needed it.
Recently Read: Runaway Girl by Carissa Phelps. Told by a survivor of sex trafficking, this biography details the eye opening story of her time of the streets and subsequent rise back out of that world to go on helping others. This book is very raw and real, and at times, explicit. I read it with a new appreciation for how treacherous life can be for children on the streets and in and out of foster care. This is definitely a book that brings to light the hidden underbelly of sex trafficking and also provides links to organizations that the reader can partner with to help. I commend Ms. Phelps for so bravely telling her story; it is so important.
What have you been reading lately?
Just Finished: Cancel the Wedding by Carolyn Dingman. This isn't the kind of novel I would usually pick up, but I'm so glad I did. Ms. Dingman's first novel is well-written and entertaining, taking the reader through the intriguing step by step discovery of a deceased woman's secret life, as narrated by her daughter. There also happens to be a love story (actually several if you include past and present) intricately woven throughout to make it a thoroughly enjoyable read for which my extra mounds of laundry can vouch.
Recently Read: Amy, My Daughter by Mitch Winehouse. Boy. Where do I start? This also isn't the kind of book I would pick up immediately but with a restless toddler and a few rushed moments I found myself in the biography section of the library and the picture of Amy on the spine of the book intrigued me enough to grab this one before making a hasty exit. I'll be honest, I really, really found myself with a great distaste for Mitch Winehouse after reading this. Or about 10 pages in. I didn't know anything about him and started reading with an open mind, feeling great sympathy for this man who basically watched his daughter self destruct. Over the course of the chapters, though, it became increasingly clear in my mind that Mitch is unable to effectively camouflage the mounting evidence that he less of a loving father and more of the worst kind of opportunist. I'm not sure if the book mentions (but it probably does, as he seems pretty into self-promotion at any opportunity) that Mitch came out with his own album on the heels of Amy's death. The timing is less than flattering. As is the detached manner in which he provides detailed reports of Amy's ongoing drug use, yet tells those who have shown up for an intervention that Amy is "fine" (later used in the lyrics of the popular song "Rehab" on the Back to Black album released in 2006 - "I ain't got the time, and if my daddy thinks I'm fine"). Overall a very depressing and repetitive read, at best bringing to light the plight of helplessness that haunts the family of an addict, at worst revealing Mitch's co-dependent exploitation and stage parent tendencies. In the end, any sympathy I felt for Amy was less about her disease and more for being the daughter of a father who could not love her in the way she needed it.
Recently Read: Runaway Girl by Carissa Phelps. Told by a survivor of sex trafficking, this biography details the eye opening story of her time of the streets and subsequent rise back out of that world to go on helping others. This book is very raw and real, and at times, explicit. I read it with a new appreciation for how treacherous life can be for children on the streets and in and out of foster care. This is definitely a book that brings to light the hidden underbelly of sex trafficking and also provides links to organizations that the reader can partner with to help. I commend Ms. Phelps for so bravely telling her story; it is so important.
What have you been reading lately?
Monday, January 11, 2016
A Story worth Sharing
Lately, I've come across a blog belonging to Rory, who is one half of the country duo "Joey and Rory" (you can also find their blog This Life I Live on my blogroll). I'll admit I hadn't heard of them before, but kept seeing posts about them on my Facebook feed. He blogs about their everyday life together with their daughter Indy, and unfortunately the turn things have taken with his wife Joey battling a recurring cancer and now on hospice care.
Despite how heartbreaking this sounds (and it is), theirs is a beautiful love story, and their faith is incredible and completely shines through in every post and picture. The amount of love they have for one another is tangible and their triumph in the midst of heartbreak makes it a real life story worth sharing.
Since I first came across their story, I have been wading through the archives of Rory's blog (and sobbing = tissues are recommended). They are truly an inspiration in their love and faith, and I feel like I know them in some small way. If you are a praying person, please keep them in your prayers; Rory as he learns to navigate the last days with his wife and deal with her painful absence in the days to come; Indy, that she would always know how much her mother loved her, and treasure the songs, and stories, and keepsakes she left just for her; and Joey, that she would leave this world peacefully and knowing how loved she is as she transitions from this world to her Father's arms.
Despite how heartbreaking this sounds (and it is), theirs is a beautiful love story, and their faith is incredible and completely shines through in every post and picture. The amount of love they have for one another is tangible and their triumph in the midst of heartbreak makes it a real life story worth sharing.
Since I first came across their story, I have been wading through the archives of Rory's blog (and sobbing = tissues are recommended). They are truly an inspiration in their love and faith, and I feel like I know them in some small way. If you are a praying person, please keep them in your prayers; Rory as he learns to navigate the last days with his wife and deal with her painful absence in the days to come; Indy, that she would always know how much her mother loved her, and treasure the songs, and stories, and keepsakes she left just for her; and Joey, that she would leave this world peacefully and knowing how loved she is as she transitions from this world to her Father's arms.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
The end of an era...
Growing up is bittersweet.
When my first baby was still a baby, I couldn't wait for him to grow up.
"Things will be better once he grows out of this colic."
"Things will be easier once he is walking."
"...once he is communicating more."
"...once he isn't napping so we can travel more."
"...once he sleeps better."
"...when he isn't having all these meltdowns."
"If only..."
"If only..."
"I can't wait till..."
I have to admit, I am doing this right now with kid two. Rushing the stages. Wanting more freedom than I am allowed to have for the time. Desperately wanting things to just be...EASIER.
Flash forward to today.
I am taking kid one home from school, when he says, "Mom, I don't want those notes in my lunch anymore."
The little love notes I had written him every day without fail (ok, some days I forgot and used the previous day's note again) since his first day of kindergarten. Since the first day I dropped him off someplace new for seven whole hours, anxious, but trusting that he would be cared for and loved and have a great time. He was and he did.
All through that year and the ones that followed (2.5 more so far), those notes have been the one constant, the thing that has connected us during his day, while he learned and played and grew in his independence.
Until, "Mom? I kept meaning to tell you that, but I forgot, so I'm telling you now."
"Did someone see your notes?"
"No, Mom, it's just in case they do. I don't need them anymore."
"Ok, buddy, no more notes."
And just like that, the invisible ties that bind loosen, just a little.
When my first baby was still a baby, I couldn't wait for him to grow up.
"Things will be better once he grows out of this colic."
"Things will be easier once he is walking."
"...once he is communicating more."
"...once he isn't napping so we can travel more."
"...once he sleeps better."
"...when he isn't having all these meltdowns."
"If only..."
"If only..."
"I can't wait till..."
I have to admit, I am doing this right now with kid two. Rushing the stages. Wanting more freedom than I am allowed to have for the time. Desperately wanting things to just be...EASIER.
Flash forward to today.
I am taking kid one home from school, when he says, "Mom, I don't want those notes in my lunch anymore."
The little love notes I had written him every day without fail (ok, some days I forgot and used the previous day's note again) since his first day of kindergarten. Since the first day I dropped him off someplace new for seven whole hours, anxious, but trusting that he would be cared for and loved and have a great time. He was and he did.
All through that year and the ones that followed (2.5 more so far), those notes have been the one constant, the thing that has connected us during his day, while he learned and played and grew in his independence.
Until, "Mom? I kept meaning to tell you that, but I forgot, so I'm telling you now."
"Did someone see your notes?"
"No, Mom, it's just in case they do. I don't need them anymore."
"Ok, buddy, no more notes."
And just like that, the invisible ties that bind loosen, just a little.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
This is not how it is supposed to feel.
Is it?
I mean, bleary-eyed, bone tired, can hardly move and everything aches. I get it, if you have a newborn (they can be kind of inconsiderate).
But a two year old? One that is almost two and a half? Is she supposed to wake up a ton and then spend a couple hours climbing all over you, laughing and singing, gleefully declaring "Dere's mommy!", alternating with piteous moans and wails when she is in her crib and not right beside me?
I get it, those molars STINK. And its the LAST one. And now you seem to have a cold, which is making it hard to breathe. And you are apparently another one of those high need babies/spirited kids, which has never really been a great sleeper from the get go.
But. BUT. Mommy needs more than an hour here and there. As you know, you also share a room with your brother currently due to space constraints. So when you are raising hell/partying like a rock star for a significant amount of time...we have to move him. Into our bed. And then one of us (likely me), has to sleep on his bed in your room. Sleep should be in airquotes of the most sarcastic variety. Because this kind of behavior is causing insomnia for all of us (especially me. and you. YOU AND ME, BABY).
These are supposed to be the times I will miss. Well, guess what? You're not making that easy. When you sleep decently (not fabulous, but I will take decent any old day), I start to get cocky and think our days of this kind of nonsense are coming to a close. (And I also like you 1000% better the next day too!) Well, looks like the joke is on me!
I hope not for long. We have company coming tomorrow night and I will be in your room for three nights whether we all like or not. I've been stressing about that all week, what with this still going on.
So, newsflash, Ava Mae, you are fantastic and I love you to pieces. But I'm gonna need a little (lot) more sleep to be able to adequately express that. Help me help you.
Love,
Mommy
I mean, bleary-eyed, bone tired, can hardly move and everything aches. I get it, if you have a newborn (they can be kind of inconsiderate).
But a two year old? One that is almost two and a half? Is she supposed to wake up a ton and then spend a couple hours climbing all over you, laughing and singing, gleefully declaring "Dere's mommy!", alternating with piteous moans and wails when she is in her crib and not right beside me?
I get it, those molars STINK. And its the LAST one. And now you seem to have a cold, which is making it hard to breathe. And you are apparently another one of those high need babies/spirited kids, which has never really been a great sleeper from the get go.
But. BUT. Mommy needs more than an hour here and there. As you know, you also share a room with your brother currently due to space constraints. So when you are raising hell/partying like a rock star for a significant amount of time...we have to move him. Into our bed. And then one of us (likely me), has to sleep on his bed in your room. Sleep should be in airquotes of the most sarcastic variety. Because this kind of behavior is causing insomnia for all of us (especially me. and you. YOU AND ME, BABY).
These are supposed to be the times I will miss. Well, guess what? You're not making that easy. When you sleep decently (not fabulous, but I will take decent any old day), I start to get cocky and think our days of this kind of nonsense are coming to a close. (And I also like you 1000% better the next day too!) Well, looks like the joke is on me!
I hope not for long. We have company coming tomorrow night and I will be in your room for three nights whether we all like or not. I've been stressing about that all week, what with this still going on.
So, newsflash, Ava Mae, you are fantastic and I love you to pieces. But I'm gonna need a little (lot) more sleep to be able to adequately express that. Help me help you.
Love,
Mommy
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