Tales from the Krit

Pure Sweetness

2012-03-07T00:12:00.043-06:00

As most of you know, Sophie had been praying for a baby brother or sister almost since she was old enough to talk. She was ready. We were all ready. In theory. But when the phone rang that night and a friend called to say she had "a situation" to tell us about, I didn't feel very ready. I felt very close to re-seeing my dinner.

The director of a women's shelter told us she had a young girl who had checked in a few days prior. She was eight months pregnant. She had no intentions to parent. When Dorcas asked her if she'd considered adoption, *A* exhaled and smiled for the first time since checking into the home for abused and substance-dependent women and their children.

"I want to do that."

I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. A baby! A sibling for Sophie!

I'm certain, even though I hadn't spoken a word since "hello", my excitement could be felt through the phone line.  I was on the verge of a teeny squall when Dorcas said (the words forever embedded in my brain): "Now, I have to tell you, it's a scary situation. You and Russ will really need to pray about it before you make a decision about this baby."

Scary situation.

Dorcas is not a word-mincer, and for the next forty-fiveish minutes, she proceeded to just flop it out there - all the gory details about this birthmother's history.

(Pause for a moment...)

I think adoption is an incredible thing. Anyone who knows me at all knows I have never once anguished over the fact that my children are not "biologically mine". I've never missed pregnancy or grieved not giving birth (I've had to grieve the loss of a baby...but that's not what I'm talking about.)  I've never missed seeing me or Russ in the face of our newborn children or watching our genetic traits unfold in new, little wordy or science-y Mini Me(s) before us. Don't get me wrong, I don't say this to belittle or begrudge those who do desperately want these specific things; I say them simply because it has just never been part of my definition of motherhood. I wanted to be a mom. I wanted to hold babies, to rock them, to watch them grow and change, to teach them things, to laugh with them. I frankly didn't care how it happened. I believe God knows exactly who our children are, before they're formed, and at some point after we felt led to adopt, I just trusted Him to bring them to us. The "in His perfect timing" part wasn't a picnic - especially for someone who's not known for her patience, but I knew it was part of adoption.

And adoption, I truly love.

That said, ask any adoptive parent, there are scary aspects of adopting. (Insert cringes of horror at the absurdity of that statement.) What happened with Seth was an anomaly. I know that. What I mean is, even in "normal" adoptions, there are often turbulent waters to tread through before you get to that wonderful moment of peace before the judge. And that night, as Dorcas was detailing those freaky, foreign things, in her special "speak the truth", no holds barred, Dorcas sort of way, I felt myself start to shake.

In A's case, those details involved a lot of things my naive, sheltered, (shall we call it prissy?) self had very little knowledge of. Most specifically: drugs. Big, scary, life-altering drugs. Eliza's birthmother took an unimaginable number of illicit recreational and prescription drugs before and during her pregnancy, from conception until she entered the women's shelter - about five weeks before Eliza was born. A fact very few of you knew, mostly because, you just didn't need to.

I tell you now, not to try to paint A in a negative light or stand in judgement of her in any way. We all mess up. We all choose paths we wish we hadn't. Every one of us has at least one ugly garment in our closet that we wish we could burn. Really, if we're completely honest, most of us are just one or two bad decisions away from a totally different life. It's only through the shed blood and saving grace of Jesus that we're given hope, and a promise, and a renewed purpose. Russ and I are forever grateful that A chose life for our baby girl, and that she chose us to entrust with that life. And Sophie, to this day, calls Eliza the "best gift ever".  Our birthmothers will always be more special to us than we can ever, ever express. I tell you these details about her now only to help you understand the miracle that is our sweet daughter.

When Dorcas finished putting it all out there on the table, my immediate reaction was fear. Crushing, paralyzing, make-you-sick, all encompassing fear. Every fiber in my being wanted to run far away from another uncertain adoption situation.  Let's just put a pin in all the other *stuff* for a moment; I couldn't handle another special needs baby! The suffocating demands, the neverending exhaustion, the physical toll on our bodies, the emotional toll on our marriage, the financial hardship. No way. No, thank you. NOPERS. I could feel the word forming on my lips when I suddenly paused and told Dorcas we would get back with her. First, I jumped on the internet and did some research. That did not help calm me. Then I called my dad to get his medical opinion on things. He was forthright in admitting he couldn't offer any clear-cut answers when it came to drugs (especially these particular drugs) and their effects on a developing fetus. So I went into our bedroom, closed the door, and did what I should have done first - I got on my knees and prayed. I told God I desperately needed crystal clear guidance on this decision. I begged Him for guidance. I promised that wimpy, ninnified me wouldn't even be freaked out if He'd just go ahead and write the answer for us above the mantel in bold letters. "DO IT!" "DON'T DO IT!" I pleaded with Him for a tell-tale, obvious sign, not just a feeling. Please Lord, tell me what to do!

And then it hit me. This quiet sense of rest. It was the kind of calm that only comes from knowing you're following where God is leading.

Real peace.

And for a girl who will never ever, even in her most relaxed state, be described as "chilled", that was my sign.

I knew we were supposed to say yes. I knew this baby girl, whether she had deformities, whether she could see, or hear, or speak, or eat, or learn, whether she required round-the-clock care, I knew she was our daughter. And each time I talked to Russ about it, he said he felt exactly the same way. So I picked up the phone and told Dorcas our answer was yes. Absolutely. YES!! From that moment of acceptance, one-by-one, God opened door after door after door - orchestrating every single moment of the adoption, down to the tiniest detail. First in amazingly, impossibly healthy exams and tests, for both mom and baby, and then in absolutely wonderful heart-to-heart conversations with A. From that first slightly awkward "nice to meet you!" embrace, we felt the same kind of undeniable connection with her that we'd felt during our initial meeting with Sophie's birthmother - that weird certainty that the stranger sitting across from you is carrying your child and is going to be, from that moment on, a forever part of your story.

March 7, 2011 came and we all met at the hospital for A's induction. It started at 6 o'clock that morning and our sweet little screecher didn't make her appearance until 13 hours later. Let me tell you, seemingly endless hours of watching someone lie in a bed allows for a lot of thinking time. As I sat there, doing the only thing I could do on this end of the birthing process: pace and eat a lot of Skittles, I realized we were just moments away from seeing if she was okay - if God really had protected her from all the bad stuff. I knew all the pre-birth tests in the world couldn't tell us for sure, but in a very non-Kristy way, aprehension took a backseat to excitement. I totally trusted God's plan for our family. Somehow, I just knew it would be okay.

At 7:47pm, there she was...

Beaten up and bruised from a hard, hard labor. But totally, perfectly, wonderfully fine.

Chubby fine.

We named her Eliza Kate. Eliza, meaning "consecrated to God" and Kate, meaning "pure".

And just like that, our world became infinitely sweeter.

Happy Birthday, Cupcake. We love you to pieces.

You are a giggly, curious, energetic, crazy-smart, cuddly, always-talking, people-loving, squishy little spitfire ball of sweet bliss. And we are so happy that you're ours.

How Much Honesty Can I Handle?

2011-11-03T18:17:00.035-05:00

So.

I was going to entitle this post, "How Much Honesty Can You Handle?", but really, that's not what this is about. I suspect YOU can handle quite a bit of honesty. No. What this is about is me and how much honesty I can handle. This is about me getting a few (long overdue) things off my chest. About "coming clean". Laying it all out there. Being real.

Sounds like a SUPER fun read, yes?

I've been alternating between wanting to say something and wanting to continue not saying anything for awhile now. And, today, after a heart-to-heart with the hubs at lunch, I've decided it's time to just do it. Mainly because, well, quite honestly, I feel a little like I've been living a lie. Not an overt lie. More like a lie by omission. But, in the spirit of "the truth setting me free", I'm going to just flop it out there. Be my "authentic self", to borrow from Dr. Phil. Oh, boy! But seriously, more than anything, the motivation for writing this is the fact that, in keeping silent, I think I'm starting to hurt people's feelings. Maybe that will make more sense in a minute.

Those who know me best know I'm an extremely sanguine person, a person who loves being around friends and family, a person who loves to go and do and see things. A person who is always up for a party, a get-together, an event, a little road trip, a living room chat session. A happy, smiley, outgoing person who loves life.

And while parts of that description are still very much me, especially at the core, what most of you don't know is that I am also a person living with a chronic illness.

A rare, beast of a disease called systemic mastocytosis that keeps me home bound most of the time. Rather than try to explain what "that word" is, I'll now point you to Wikipedia: the source of all knowledge. Or to The Mastocytosis Society, a less reader-friendly, more credible website.

In layman's terms, what it means is this -- I deal with almost constant nausea and balance issues. Most of the time, I resemble a college frat boy after an all-night boozer party. From the wobbly gait to the barf bucket, I am legit. Party on, Garth! : ) I also deal with fatigue, flushing, swelling, hives and a rainbow of other nifty rashes (like TMEP), incessant itching, bone and muscle pain, abdominal pain, migraines, diarrhea, retching, tachycardia, difficulty breathing, and blood pressure fluctuations - especially in the aftermath of a reaction. On a good day, my nausea is such that it can be knocked back to a functional degree with Zofran and my other symptoms hover just enough below the surface to be able to effectively hide them, at least long enough for a trip to Sam's or Target or a quick lunch with a friend. On a bad day, I am in bed. On a really bad day, I find myself taking a trip to the ER for IV meds and hydration.

This is probably where you're saying, "WHAAAAT? Why did I not know this? HOW could I not have known this?!"

Because, my friends, I've been living with it for about twelve years now and I am wicked good at hiding it. Granted, for most of those twelve years, it wasn't about "hiding it" so much as it was about trying to figure out what was going on. Mastocytosis is friggin' hard to diagnose! For years, we've played the super fun "What's Wrong With Kristy?" medical game. It hasn't been until just recently that we've had a name for the madness.

Now I hide it because, like the ostrich who buries its head in the sand, to acknowledge it is to give shape and form to something I'd prefer not be real. I hide it because people are inherently afraid of illness and to accept the "sick" label is to potentially look loneliness and isolation in the face. I hide it because I am human, and being human involves a certain amount of vanity and a relentless quest to appear better than you actually are. I hide it because I've always wanted, more than anything, to be a mom. I've wanted Russ to be a dad. And to acknowledge an imperfection in the world of adoption is to jeopardize that chance. Which brings me to the question you're all asking at this point -- how the heck DID we adopt? The answer is simple: God knew who our children were before they were formed and He brought them to us. Period. Adoption through an agency could have been more difficult, so He brought into our lives two amazing birthmothers who wanted to place their babies through private adoption. Birthmothers who wanted us to be the parents of their babies, and nobody else. God orchestrated every single moment of both of our girls' adoptions, down to the smallest detail. (...And as a rather important side note, thankfully, the type of masto that I have typically just makes you feel like you WANT to die, rather than actually putting you six feet under. Thankfully? Ha.)

In saying all of this, I fully acknowledge that there are people who deal with far worse suffering. Dear friends immediately come to mind. Never do I want to be so far into the bowels of my illness that I am blinded to that fact. Sometimes when the physical crap starts to mount up and my brain starts torturing me with how different life is now, and the scary "what if"s start to creep in and the "used to be"s start spinning around in my freakishly excellent memory, I have to pause and remember all that I have been given. I am thankful beyond measure for the blessings in my life. Blessings which include, but are certainly not limited to:

A husband who goes above and beyond EVERY.SINGLE.DAY to help alleviate the load I bear. He cooks, he cleans, he cares for our girls. You can see your face in the shine of the toilet lid when he's finished, people! He runs errands - to the grocery store, to the pharmacy, to the cleaners, to here and there and everywhere. He takes Sophie to birthday parties, to school events, to Chuck E. Cheese, to the county fair. The man never stops. He NEVER stops. AND he goes to work and deals with the security of our country. Add to that the fact that, more often than not, he uses his "vacation days" to shuttle me to doctor's appointments or to help care for our girls when I'm having a bad day. Aaaaaand he does it with seemingly endless sources of strength and endurance, without complaining. He is Superman. Without him, I wouldn't be able to be a mother. End of story. He is my rock.

A best friend who is there for me no matter what. No matter when or how I need him to be, he is there. He was there when I was a kid, when life was kicks and jollies, and he is here for me now - when Fun Kristy is often hard to find and Pain In The Ass Kristy is all kinds of abundant. A friend who makes me laugh to the point of shooting Coke out my nose and who listens to me and lets me cry when crying is the only thing that will help. A friend who jokingly points to his own bald head when I get down about the handfuls of hair appearing in the shower. A friend who sits with me through countless procedures and tests - tests like colonoscopies: the true test of any friendship; who says, "Even though you are forty-flippin-years-old, I will take off work and sit with you while you take this new medication...to watch you and see if 'anything weird happens' because you are a freak and I know you're scared of such things.". A friend who knows my love of music and how it soothes me, and provides me it in a neverending stream of awesomeness. A friend who gives and gives and asks for nothing in return - other than that I "try again tomorrow".

Two girls who light up my life. Who have fulfilled my heart's desire. Who bring me joy, and laughter, and love immeasurable. Who complete me and give me the umph! to tackles the challenges and hardships of the day. Did I mention the laughter??? Enter: Sophie...and the Depends I have to frequently strap on to keep the undies dry when the child opens her mouth. She is hands down one the the funniest kids ever. And it is such a HUGE blessing. Enter: Eliza. The sweetest, easiest, happiest, most squeezably lovable toddler on the planet. Huge blessing #2.

Family who support and encourage me and lend a helping hand whenever needed. Who love me deeply and truly despite a pitifully long list of flaws. Who surround me with prayer and encouragement and fill me with renewed strength. They are like medicine for my soul. Which brings me to...

Modern medicine. Thank you, Jesus, for modern medicine!!!!!!

A Heavenly Father who never, EVER forsakes me.

And (drumroll, please) a clear spinal tap and a bone marrow biopsy which came back negative for the cancerous form of this illness.

Yep. There it is.

So why come "out" now?

Because sheesh. It's time. To be real. To be brave. To be honest.

To help others understand. If there's one thing I've learned from being sick, it's empathy. How many times have you inadvertently judged a person or situation or jumped to a conclusion without knowing the full truth? I know I have! I think pre-masto Kristy was a bit of a Prissy Pants, in fact. I ask you, before you become frustrated with or offended by someone, to consider this -- maybe it's not that they don't want to come to your special event, or that they're lazy, or forgetful, or inconsiderate, or a big bummer of a friend. Maybe they desperately want to be there for you; they simply aren't able to in exactly the way you want them to be.

So often the surface expertly hides what lies beneath.

I don't know. Maybe this was just for me. A little therapeutic vent. But if in the process of me finding a little courage I can help lighten someone else's load and encourage them to be less afraid of showing their true self, well, that's gotta be worth something, right?

"My hope in God is the anchor of my soul, both sure and steadfast." (Hebrews 6:19)

Until the Sleep-Deprivation Crazies Diminish and I Remember How to Form a Sentence, Enjoy the Parade of Pictures!

2011-04-03T12:13:00.001-05:00

Our Little News

2011-03-31T11:06:00.002-05:00

Okay, yes, I've gone and done it again. Ditched the blog. Two and a half months without a post. Pitiful, I know. I'm sorry.

But I think you'll forgive me when I tell you what's been going on with us for the past couple of months.

Meet the newest addition to our family.

Eliza Kate

Born March 7, 2011

8 lbs 3 oz

6:55 pm.

Yes, big sis Sophs is definitely as smitten as she appears to be.

Bring It On, Bugs. She's Ready!

2011-01-06T18:03:00.009-06:00

Since she was little, Sophie has always been fascinated with exterminators. She calls our current Orkin service technician "The Bug Guy" and spends the whole time he's here following him around, watching him search for unwelcome critters in the nooks and crannies of our house. He visited today while she was in school, and when she found out, she was distraught. "You mean I miiiiiiiisssssed The Buuuuuuuuugggg Guuuuuuuy?!" She made me promise to see if next time he could come on a day when she would be here, and then she promptly went to work in the study, taping...cutting...making her very own "pest" and hunting tool.

Well, obviously, it's a grasshopper and a flashlight.

Never Underestimate the Value of a Good Colorist. EVER.

2010-12-19T20:34:00.001-06:00

Thanks to the recommendation of a longtime blog reader (who, interestingly enough just happens to live in the same town as I do), I am no longer Snow White, nor am I Jon Bon Jovi, circa 1986.

I am happy to report, I am me again.

I have been reunited with my normal hair color. And let me tell 'ya, it feels so good.

Please pardon the fresh-outta-bed look. I was so excited about the hair, I forgot to give myself some eyebrows or eyelashes. Whoops. One of the problems with having a red-headed complexion, sometimes certain facial features need a little coaxing before they come out of hiding.

(Thanks, Chrissi! Thanks, Mandy! You guys rock!)

"The Brown Gravy Will Be AMAAAAAAzing!"

2010-12-15T16:18:00.003-06:00

Meet Greg. Greg just had surgery to remove all four of his wisdom teeth.

But Greg's not worried about that little detail. He's going to go home and make a cotton shirt and eat some KFC mashed potatoes. Life is good, isn't it, Greg?

The Power of Suggestion

2010-11-07T19:45:00.002-06:00

While I was cooking dinner tonight, Russ and Sophie were snuggled together on the couch, looking for something to watch on TV. As Russ was flipping through the channels, Sophie suddenly shouted out, "Ooo! Go back! What's that?!"

"That's 'The Pirates of the Carribean - Curse of the Black Pearl', " Russ said.

Sophie clapped her hands over her face, "Oh, nooooooo, Daddy. Now I'm going to have bad dreams!"

Russell said, "What? There wasn't anything scary on the TV....those were just the opening credits."

Sophie promptly replied, "It doesn't matter. You said the word 'curse'. Anytime I hear the word 'curse', I have a bad dream!"

Russ said, "Huh. So if I say the words 'cotton candy', do you dream about cotton candy?"

Sophie put her head down on the coffee table and let out an enormous sigh.

"Oh, just great. Tonight I'm gonna dream about cursed cotton candy."

Raggedy Ann

2010-10-29T23:08:00.003-05:00

Oh, and yes, some things never change...

Happy Halloween, everyone! :-)

Uh oh. Did I Just Become One of "Those Parents"?

2010-10-07T22:02:00.014-05:00

Well. Neat.

Today we had our first school "incident". And by that I mean, instead of dealing with a Sophie discipline problem, we're dealing with the way we feel about how a teacher handled something that occurred in the classroom involving Sophie.

Sophie's kindergarten teacher had a baby, so Sophie has a long-term substitute teacher right now. I was a long-term sub once. It was my first teaching job in Little Rock. I was fresh out of college, and in all honesty, the thought of "taking on" twenty-four 2nd-graders, who had bonded with their teacher and were more than a wee smidge grumpy at the thought of having to greet a new teacher, kind of filled me with a special kind of terror.

Teaching is a tough gig. It is. Anybody who thinks it's nothing but happy-skippy learners and "summers off" clearly has never spent time in a classroom.

Nobody's perfect, including even the best teacher.

Nor is my child perfect. ...I think, um, we've established that a few times before.

That said, I'm resisting the urge to "Go Cable" on somebody right now. (I realize not many of you get what that means. But, yep, a few of you do! It isn't pretty.)

So here's the story:

Sophie got off the bus crying today. Those of you who know Sophie well know it takes quite a bit to make her cry. She said she had to move her ribbon to red (which is the BIG BIGGEE in the in-class behavioral management process). The interesting part is she claims to have no idea why. The even more interesting part is (based on her story and my knowledge of Sophie), I believe her. Since her longterm sub still hasn't provided the parents in her classroom any contact info, this is the email I just sent to her teacher. (Please be honest with me about if you think I've handled this appropriately. This is my first angry school moment, so I feel a bit like a fish out of water.)
*****

Dear Ms. Please Come Back Soon,

Russell and I have talked extensively with Sophie about what happened today and she adamantly keeps telling us the same story:

She says that during carpet time, Samajay called her a "Red Head" and that he kept saying, "You're gonna get on red...you're gonna get on red! You're a Red Head!" She asked him to please stop calling her that. When he kept on, she said, "I'm going to tell Ms. Blank." She stood up to tell Ms. Blank, and he grabbed her arm and told her, "If you don't tell on me, I promise I'll be your friend." Sophie kind of idolizes Samajay (she talks about him all the time at home, calling him a "good, nice, cute boy"). She said to him, "Okay, I won't tell. But if you don't be my friend now, that's telling a lie." She said Samajay immediately jumped up and ran over to Ms. Blank. Upon hearing whatever he told her, Sophie said Mrs. Blank looked up "with mad eyes" and yelled out, "SOPHIE!! Move your ribbon to red right now!!" That was apparently when Sophie started crying because she didn't know why she was in trouble.

Well...

None of this really makes sense to me. I thought maybe she got in trouble for talking during carpet time, but Sophie told me that's the time when they are allowed to talk amongst themselves. Then I thought maybe Sophie got in trouble for saying the word "lie". ...But that doesn't really make sense either. Plus, in accordance with the school handbook, if a child has to move their behavior ribbon to red, a note is supposed to be sent home to the parents explaining what happened. I've searched her backpack and I find nary a note.

Just now Russ yelled out that he found a line written in her folder that said:

"Sophie had an incident where she called a fellow classmate the "b" word."

Upon reading that, Russell and I (well, after we contemplated the "b" possibilities and picked ourselves up off the floor) spoke again with Sophie and said, "Tell us one more time what happened." She repeated the story. Afterwards I asked her, "Sophie did you call Samajay a name? ANY name? You know how important it is to tell the truth." She told me, "No, Mama. I didn't. He called me a Red Head, but I didn't call him anything. I just told him I would tell on him if he didn't stop calling me that."

I said, "Did you call him a "b" word?"

She said, "What's a "b" word? ...You mean like a bumblebee?"

I know Sophie's not perfect. I assure you I'm not one of those parents who thinks her child is without fault. (If you followed my blog, you'd know why I'm trying to keep from laughing a LOT right now.) This is not a "Heaven doesn't MAKE Cs!" moment. (Sorry. Another story. For another time.) I know Sophie's likely to get in trouble for talking, or for playing too rough on the playground, or for talking, or for a plethora of other Dennis the Menace-like behaviors. ...Or for talking. (Whoops. Yes. Dabbling in the obvious for a moment: she is a talker.) But I do not for ONE SECOND believe she called a classmate a curse word. First of all, she doesn't know any. Russ and I do NOT use bad language at our house. Period. I'm not saying she couldn't have heard "a 'b' word" on the playground or on television...or, heck, the possibilities are pretty endless, aren't they? And I'm not saying she wouldn't repeat a word in ignorance. I remember as a child trying that out at home. Once. But neither Russ nor I have EVER heard her use any bad language. And she knows if she were to "try out" a word she heard around us, she would get a spanking for it. We've talked to her about how she should never use words she doesn't know the meaning of because it's likely they're not nice. She's six! And thank the Lord, an innocent six. Her version of bad language is: "weenie" and "dork" and she thinks the ultimate bad word is "stupid". (She heard her grandmother say it once in response to a toy that, despite much fiddling-with, just wouldn't work right. ...She just about passed dead away from the shock of it all. "Mooms! You said...'stupid'!!!!")

What I'm upset about is, not so much "the word", since I know she didn't say it, but the fact that it appears that Ms. Blank just reacted to what Samajay said and told Sophie to move her clip without first speaking to HER about the incident. Had she spoken to her, she may have figured out that Samajay just misunderstood her, or she might have figured out that Samajay wasn't telling the truth. Had she spoken to her, she definitely would've been able to see firsthand, based on her reaction, that Sophie had no knowledge of any "b" words. Not any offensive ones, anyway. I'm also upset that in the aftermath of the punishment, she just left Sophie sitting there crying, still without speaking to her.

Perhaps the incident was worthy of moving to red. Without being there, I can't really say for sure. I doesn't seem like it to us, but we'll admit we aren't familiar with the exact guidelines for having a child move their ribbon to red. But what I do know is that we take "red" behavior very seriously at our house. Sophie knows the consequences that come with having to move her ribbon to red. I want you to know I have held off disciplining her (something that I don't believe in because I don't think it's fair to keep a child in limbo regarding their punishment) because it is really important to me that when I punish her, I know exactly what I'm punishing her for. And right now I don't know. And I know she doesn't know. And I hope I don't sound condescending, I don't intend to, but I feel pretty confident that there was a missed step between Samajay telling Mrs. Blank whatever-it-was-he-told-her and Sophie moving her clip to red.

And it's a step that deflated my child.

I would very much appreciate it if you would give Ms. Blank my email address or phone number, so that I don't have to interrupt her teaching time tomorrow to discuss this with her.

Thanks so much,

Kristy

*****

P.S. So, conciseness is not really my gig. Sorry about that.

Gimme The Jon Bon, Please.

2010-10-06T16:57:00.019-05:00

I know, I know. You all wish so badly I'd had my cell phone with me at my hair appointment, so I could have taken a shot of my Knots Landing 'do prior to its date with that last bottle of toner.

But, alas, I didn't.

And in the state I was in at that moment, I'm really not sure I could've remembered how to work the buttons anyway.

But fear not...I can provide you with visual evidence of the disaster!

Remember I told you my hair was a grayish color with platinum, almost-white streaks all throughout? Remember I said it reminded me of the ever-popular frosted hairdo of the 80s? Well. What I forgot to tell you was the part about the diffuser. And, really, it's key to helping you understand how No Cry Kristy found herself so distraught over something as silly as hair.

So, after Perky Girl lifted the towel (and brought me a paper bag to breathe into), she asked me to please let her "just dry it" so we could see if the color would "even out some". She asked me how I normally styled it at home (I guess she thought at that point a little normalcy would help calm the rising panic in the room). I told her I just usually let it air dry, for the most part, but that I sometimes used the diffuser a few minutes to add a bit of volume and curl, when I wanted it to look especially nice.

She quickly pulled out the diffuser.

I yanked my glasses off so she could work freely, without anything hindering the fix-it process. I felt like we were in a delicate spot. Like if we did everything right from this point forward, the zebra stripes in my grey-green hair would magically disappear. I held my head perfectly still. (I know. But when you're praying for a miracle, you want to make everything as miracle-friendly as possible.) The more she diffused, the more poufant-y I started to feel, but I just kept my eyes closed and pictured myself in my Happy Place...with good hair. When she finally told me I could put my glasses back on, this is what sat staring back at me in the mirror. Pretty much spot-on.

Well, minus the come-hither eyes, pursed lips, and eagle talon earring. My subdued make-up and smaller-than-a-windshield glasses may have said 2010, but my hair said, "Whoa OHHHH...livin' on a prayer!" I was ready to rock.it.OUT.

Only Richie and Tico were no where to be found. Now you understand the tears.

Yesterday's Fun Little Fiasco...

2010-10-05T11:27:00.032-05:00

(*At this point I've made the decision to omit names to protect the guilty parties. I want to wait for a response to the email I sent to the owner/head stylist before I start yip-yapping all over town and putting up billboards. For now, in homage to "Raising Arizona" - a movie we should all turn to in times of crisis, we're using code names.)

I find myself in unfamiliar territory.

I've been a client at This Particular Salon for a little over a year now. I started using them on the recommendation of a friend, after my fabulously amazing hairdresser in Albuquerque refused to move to Arkansas. (I can still see the look on Jack's face when I suggested he and his tight leather black jeans, floral lavender silk shirt, and boyfriend might enjoy relocating to the Bible Belt.) My regular stylist has been on vacation, so this past weekend I decided to try Perky Girl - the new super cute, super fashionable stylist at This Particular Salon. (Does anyone else do this: We look at the stylists to help assess their hair-cutting abilities? If they're cute or cool with cute hair, we think hey!, they can make me cute and cool, too! If they have fried orange hair or they look like they're channeling Farrah circa 1979, we strongly consider feigning an illness and high-tailing it outta there.)

I went in on Saturday basically just wanting her to touch up my color/highlights. I normally just add some auburn and chestnut highlights into my natural medium brown base for shine and depth. Nice, boring, and easy, right? What can I say, I like ruts. Perky Girl and I talked extensively before she started coloring. We studied my roots, I showed her some pictures, we looked at the little "hair swatches" in the book...yada yada. I could see some hesitance on her face. I don't know, something just seemed to be off. She seemed slightly timid (which should've been my cue to bolt from the chair), but I ignored the Inner Voice and ~~bravely~~ stupidly forged ahead.

Four hours later (yes, you read that right), I walked out with very dark, very I-did-my-own-dye-job-out-of-a-box-at-home hair. You guys have been kind in your critique of it on Facebook, but in person it looked like a bad toupee. Cruella deVille, with a bad toupee.

Maybe with a pointy hat and a broom or Seven Dwarfs, it would be a fun twist for Halloween. But it was certainly not what I had in mind.

So I went back yesterday (she assured me she could make it right, and she really is a very sweet girl, so I wanted to give her a chance - plus I'd already plunked down my ridiculously large sweaty wad of cash, so I felt like I was kind of up a creek in terms of options). This time, instead of using pictures from a magazine as a reference, I printed out several pictures of myself, to remind her what my hair color used to be and what I wanted it to be again. After sitting in her chair for a few minutes, Perky Girl let out a big sigh and admitted that the color had turned out "quite a bit darker" than she'd expected. She apologized and thanked me for the opportunity to make things right. Ah, precious darling. I resisted patting her. No problem, we all make mistakes. The room was all 'a twinkle with sweetness. And actually, her admission gave me a bit more confidence in her ability to get it right this time. I mean, at least she could recognize a botched job when she saw it! A step in the right direction, right?

Um...

After the tick-tock crawl of yet ANOTHER four hours in her chair, she lifted the towel to reveal my new 'do. I clapped my hand over my mouth to suppress a scream. I'm crappin' you negative, I looked exactly like a character from Knots Landing. Turns out, unbeknownst to me, she had used bleach (as in: what you use to disinfect your toilet and whiten your socks) to "highlight" my hair and then she had painted on a toner over it. The finished product was kind of a gray-green hue with billions of platinum blond/almost white streaks. It looked like the old frosted hairdo of the early 80's. It was AWFUL. I didn't have my cell phone/camera with me, but rest assured, had I, you would have been provided a quality wet-your-pants momento. It was all kinds of comical. Or it would've been had I been able to take it off, put it on a shelf, put my real hair back on and walk away.

I know it's just hair, but I immediately burst into tears. When Perky Girl saw how distraught I was, she burst into tears. I was squalling. She was squalling. It was quite the display of Estrogen Fabulousness, let me tell you. Another stylist who was there late with a client came over to see who had died. After sizing things up, she said the only thing that could really be done at that point was to put another toner on it, so that's what they did. Which was supposed to slightly darken The Trainwreck and give it some nice auburn undertones, but which actually just reverted it back to its previous flat Cruella color.

So eight combined hours later (approximately the amount of time it takes to do a complex surgery), I walked out with my toupee again. Only now it has kind of a burgundy glow to it. Very special. Especially in the moonlight.

The words that escaped my mouth on the drive home, admittedly, were not very lady-like.

No, they were not.

At this point I'm not sure what to do. Really, I'm scared to let anyone do much of anything, for fear my hair will wave the white flag of surrender and just start jumping off my head in clumps. Which, actually, might be a preferable look to what I have now.

Serenity.

A little perspective, Kristy. Think of the starving children in Africa.

Is This the Kind of "Quirkiness" that Ends Up Being Featured on A&E?

2010-08-19T13:43:00.005-05:00

Sophie likes making messes like this one...

And this...

And this or this. Yes, it's true. She has a special place in her heart for messes involving toilet paper. ...Well, sometimes she mixes it up and uses Kraft cheese singles to make the "snow". It's always good to show Mom you have an appreciation for variety and creativitity.

And, of course, this (which looks just like an ordinary stool, but sooooo totally isn't)...

Sophie, in fact, LIVES to make messes. It is the entire raison d'etre of her existence (or "raisin detra", for those such as myself, who prefer to hang out with H.I. McDunnough). I'm pretty sure at the completion of one mess, she's already blissfully dreaming of the next mess.

Take last night, for example...

I stepped away to answer a phone call, leaving five, almost-six-year-old Sophie to tend to the task of washing her hair. Not a problem, right? Wrong. I returned to find 32 ounces of shampoo dumped on her head and her body covered in shaving cream. "Covered" to the point that my new bottle of Skintimate shaving cream was totally gone. Do you know how much "pouf" comes out of an entire bottle of shaving cream? Well...I do!! Factoring in the bottle of Draino that I had to use to unclog the tub, that was one expensive bath.

A $15.37 bath, to be exact.

Grrrrrr. Mama needs a cocktail.

The Way to a Girl's Heart is Through Her Stomach. ...Bonus Points, Apparently, If You Have a Monocle.

2010-08-17T23:43:00.006-05:00

In the van on the way home from school today: "Mom, I have two new boyfriends - Biscuit and Mr. Peanut. That's not what their moms named them, but that's what I call them. They call me Hot Fudge Sundae."

Sophie + School Bus = Guaranteed Blog Material.

2010-08-16T14:01:00.013-05:00

So, let's see.  Five days into kindergarten and already Sophie has provided me with some most excellent blog material. I decided to do a little Top Five - Week in Quotes for you. For the sake of your computer monitor, and your windpipe, I would advise you to put down anything you may be drinking or eating.

5.)   At recess on Friday a boy pushed Sophie in the back and knocked her to the ground. Whether it was accidental or intentional, when she got up and turned around, she told him, "Walk away, friend. You've made a BAAAD decision." (When I asked her what the kid did in response, she said he just stood there staring at her. Then he wandered away, kicking at dirt clods. Booyah! Three cheers for rendering the potential bully dumbstruck, my love.)

4.)  Thursday she informed me: "Mommy! Did you know they have this place...this special room or center place, where you can go to talk about the things that are bothering you. Like if your dog or grandma dies, or if someone is mean to you on the playground...or, I don't know, probably even something like - you don't like celery, and there's a big pile of it on your tray at lunch. Stuff like that."

3.)  Wednesday's kindergarten adventures included: "the best lunch ever" (corndog, carrots with Ranch, and blushing pears - the pink pears were apparently what made it a 4-star dining experience), "some grown-up lady" stopping Sophie in the hallway to ask where she gets her cute handmade clothes (her response: "My mom gets them out of my closet."), and the dirtiest feet I've ever seen (seriously, recess must be in a tar pit!).

*To deal with the black feet issue, first thing when she comes home, I've been having her head to the tub to rinse off. What I probably need to do is release her into the backyard to run because all of the energy that has been "contained" all day in the classroom comes spewing out like a volcano about thirty minutes after she gets home. As a result, "wash your feet, please, Sophie" translates into her playing the part of Shamu and singing at the top of her lungs. Oh, and doing the occasional cannon ball off the edge of the tub. When I poked my head in the bathroom to give her the "Um...hello?" face, she blurted out, "CLEEEEAN FEEEEET!!!"

2.) Tuesday she informed me: "Mom! I have MILLIONS of friends!! Probably close to, like, seven hundred and FIFTY! ...Really, it's kind of mind-boggling." I almost snorted peach soda all over the steering wheel.

And, for our top quote of Sophie's first week of kindergarten, drumroll, please...

1.) Since the first time she spotted one as a toddler, Sophie has begged to ride the school bus. Even as a tiny tot, she would squeal and point whenever we would see one pass on the road. My answer has always been the same, "Maybe when you get to kindergarten." Suddenly, here we are - the long-awaited day, and, nope, no chance this kid is forgetting what that means. BUS DAY! Russ and I spent lots of time discussing it, and finally we landed on okay - we'll let her ride home after her first day of school.

She was so cute, climbing down off those steps of the bus - backpack on, just 'a grinning for all she was worth. I gave her a huge hug and asked her, "So how was it? Was it all you'd dreamed it would be?" She paused for a second and said, "Bad news, Mom. Buses are all about penises."

!!!!!!!!!!!!

Turns out some kid with a phallic obsession was in desperate need of a muzzle. Bless the heart of the sweet older boy who came over to Sophie and advised her to put her fingers in her ears and sing songs outloud, so she wouldn't be able to hear the impromptu anatomy lesson going on behind her.

Alrighty, then.

And thus concludes Sophie's status as a bus-rider. Rest in peace, school bus...rest in peace.

Everything's Better with Bacon.

2010-08-12T09:52:00.025-05:00

Well, last Thursday it happened.

Sophie's first day of Kindergarten.

I think it was probably pretty obvious from my previous post and the chubby-cheeked-trek-down-Memory-Lane that I wasn't quite ready to let her go. Even though, admittedly, the thought of a teeny break from the glitter glue antics did sound pretty darn nice. (I only yelled, "SWEET GLORIOUS FREEDOM!" and frolicked, dancing and prancing in the street, that one time Wednesday night.) ...Still, I knew I'd probably get a little misty when I left her in her classroom and made the Sad Mom Walk back to the car. How can you weather a momentous event such as The Big K without squeaking out a few tears, right? So, despite not being a crier, I'd prepared myself to be a little "out of sorts" that morning. Maybe a tiny bit droopy. What I did not expect was to burst into tears the moment my eyes popped open. Nor did I expect to continue squalling, working my way through an entire box of Kleenex by mid-morning.

It was ugly, peeps. U-G-L-Y.

By the time I ended up calling Russ at work and telling him, through sniffles and snorts and Snuffleupagus-ness, that I was a little upset about Sophie being gone and that maybe we should go get a little something to eat together for brunch, I was so puffy I looked like I needed an epi pen to counteract the bee attack on my face. I knew I wasn't fit for public, but I thought maybe the distraction would help restore me to normalcy. I should've known when Russ asked me where I wanted to eat and I blurted out, "Sleepy Hollow Elementary School!" and started ugly-crying again that normalcy was not in the cards.

But we forged bravely ahead.

I collected myself during the drive to IHOP and was doing most-excellently - right up to the point when the waitress walked up with the menus with the smiley face pancake on the front that Sophie always orders. That's when I let out a noise like a stepped-on cat and buried my face in the roll of toilet paper I'd carried into the restaurant. The poor waitress. She wasn't sure what was going on. She glanced nervously over at Russ, who started chuckling. He reached over to pat me on the arm, and I guess based on that display of spousal support, she decided whatever was wrong with me hadn't been inflicted upon me by my man. She turned to me and asked, "You okay, honey?" I told her I was, indeed, not okay - that I'd just deposited our only child at kindergarten. (Only it came out, "KINdergaaaaaaarten!") It was obvious that things were headed to the scary place again. She bear-hugged me and said, "Aw, it'll be okay, little mama." She walked back into the kitchen and when she returned with our waters, she was carrying a plate of bacon. A little impromptu offering before our meal. Because apparently crispy strips of fat is the bandaid for distraught mothers.

As it turns out, it was.

By the time our breakfasts arrived, I was significantly less of a basket case.

After I was settled back at home and Russ had returned to work I started thinking, about Sophie and all she's been through to get to this point. In all the years of reflux, and feeding aversions, syringing formula, and countless doctor's appointments, spontaneous vomit launchings, feeding therapy, barf buckets, and dehydration, just EVERYTHING that was involved in caring for Sophs for all those years, I never imagined we would get to this point. Sophie. Going to school. With a $1.75 in her backpack for lunch in the cafeteria.

THE CAFETERIA.

For most every other kindergartner on the planet, the cafeteria is just a normal part of A Day in the Life... But for Sophie, this day seemed impossible.

I remember when she was three and a half, still totally syringe-fed, still completely uninterested in drinking or eating on her own, or able to do so - had she been interested. I remember finally coming to a point one night where I just said, "Okay, Lord! If this is how it's going to be, then - okay. If I have to go to her kindergarten classroom periodically throughout the day with the syringe to keep her hydrated, so be it." I remember saying outloud, "If she never carries a lunchbox to school, it will be O-KAY!" I don't think I totally bought the easy-breezy attitude I was trying to sell myself, but I do remember acknowledging that as long as the kids didn't tease her mercilessly or call her 'Syringe Girl' or 'Barf Girl', I could make peace with all the other stuff. I distinctly recall reaching the point that night where I made the conscious decision to stop desperately searching for "the end of it" and just rest in what we had - a life-loving, vivacious little girl, who despite her overwhelming, exhausting health issues, was happy and, really, for all practical purposes "healthy".

That moment of acceptance was such a big thing for me.

Still, I had so many hopes for Kindergarten.

Thursday, that moment of independence came. And the magnitude of it hit me in such a rush. The gratitude. The years of struggle finally having come to fruition . The hope realized. The reflection of so many prayers answered so completely.

It was such an amazing feeling.

I bawled. And headed for the kitchen to see if we had any bacon.

T-minus Seven Days Until the Start of Bawlfest 2010.

2010-07-27T19:16:00.001-05:00

One week from tomorrow, Sophie starts kindergarten.

My baby.

My little helper.

My constant companion.

...is STARTING KINDERGARTEN!!!!

Reading, writing, arithmetic. Lunch in the cafeteria. Recess. Field trips. Sophs is even bargaining for trips home in the afternoon on the school bus.

This child is ready.

Her mother is not.

Kleenex, purchased from Sam's in the convenient 40-pack economy size, are on the To Do List for this week.

******

(Let's just all say a prayer that she makes it through Week 1 without a trip to the principal's office.)

And Here I Was Thinking It Had Something To Do With Calories.

2010-07-17T21:59:00.003-05:00

Sometimes when we go to mom and dad's house to visit, Sophie drinks skim milk. It's what's in the refrigerator because it's what mom drinks.

At home, she always drinks whole milk.

Quite frankly, I never knew she gave it a second thought. I mean, it's milk. White. Cold. "Good for strong teeth and bones!", she likes to tell me as she flexes her muscles and flashes her pearly whites.

Tonight after she drained her glass at dinner she announced, "Mom, did you know there's absolutely no difference between 'skin' milk and udder milk?" I was in the process of saying, "Really?" when she clarified . "Well, except for that one comes from the cow's skin and one comes from its, you know...I'm not supposed to say 'boobies'."

I'm glad we're getting these little discussions out of the way before school starts.

Clearly, My House Is In Crisis.

2010-07-15T20:55:00.033-05:00

Russell has this thing about socks.

And, yes, it goes beyond the funny little quirks you or I may have about socks. Waaaay beyond.

-For starters, I am not "allowed" to match his socks when the whites come out of the dryer. Six months or so into our marriage, I was relieved of that laundry duty. Apparently, I don't do it right. Right defined as: actually I don't know exactly how right is defined. I do know it's beyond making sure there's a right and left sock in each pair. No, Russell's definition has something to do with ridges, and seams, and weave, and making sure each pair will reside in the drawer in the harmonious melting of soulmates.

Even after many 'a tutorial, I still don't get it. Or perhaps I just don't have the patience to try to get it. Either way, when the whites get folded, Russ's socks don't. They get dumped on his side of the bed.

There's more...

-Russ's socks cannot return to his feet after they have been removed. This doesn't mean that he won't dig them out of the hamper to re-wear his used socks the next day. No, normal people have that sock rule. This means if he puts on a pair of socks and for some reason has to immediately remove them, they cannot be put back on. CANNOT! I asked him one time what would happen if there weren't any more socks and he had to put that particular pair back on...what would happen? He looked at me like I'd asked him what would happen if he had to give a lecture to the Department of Energy naked.

When he was able to shake off that unimaginable horror and speak, he informed me, "That would never happen." I guess that explains why he always packs 15 pairs of socks for a five day business trip. He may be underwearless for a day or two, but by golly, he won't be re-wearing socks!

-Socks have to be a certain height to be worn with slacks. Not a certain color. Not a certain pattern. It's perfectly fine to wear blue socks with black pants or argyle socks with striped pants. They just have to be tall enough "not to let air in" on his legs. Needless to say, I'm not really allowed to buy his dress socks either because, well, I have no idea what height tall-enough-not-to-let-air-in is. One time when I discussed this little detail with him he told me, "Well, if you don't know, I can't explain it to you."

I'm sure he's right about that!

There are other sock rules that Russ abides by. Oddities that used to catch my attention that now, sixteen- married-years later, go by virtually unnoticed. However, despite those sixteen years of marriage (and the fact that I know him inside and out), he would "prefer" I not purchase socks for him. And so I don't. I just let him take care of that little shopping task.

Or at least I used to...

Yesterday when he returned home from work, he had a bag in hand. I asked him what he had purchased and he said "socks". All was well until he walked out of the bathroom looking like this:

I thought he was making a joke. So I laughed.

He said, "What?" I said, "Are you kidding?" He said, "About what?" (And he was serious, y'all. I could tell from the look on his face, he had no clue what I was talking about.) I pointed down to his feet. I told him I didn't think this was an acceptable look for anyone under the age of ninety-five. Maybe when he was a little old man with a cute white mustache and a cane, maybe this look would fly.

Maybe.

Probably not.

That's when he told me (direct quote), "Kristy, this is what's in."

Granted, I've been sick for awhile now and keeping up with current fashion trends hasn't been high on my list of priorities. But, "in"...? Midgey black socks that, bless their hearts, kind of remind me of the rolled-down way we used to wear them in the 80's worn with brown Merrell shoes and shorts are IN?

He elaborated. "This is how I wore them in England."

Oh. Wow.

I looked in his bag. He had purchased twelve pairs of black Old Man socks. To be worn with shorts. Exclusively. (Because they couldn't possibly be worn with slacks. The chance of air getting in would be too great.) I asked him if I could take a quick Facebook poll to find out what others thought of his sock choice. He encouraged me to.

Interestingly enough, it wasn't the sixty (that's six zero) exclamation-filled, horrified NOOOOOOO!!!! responses or the lone "My son has cute legs!" yes-vote from his mom that convinced him of his fashion faux pas.

Nope.

It was the very elderly man that we spotted in our neighborhood on our drive to Sonic that evening. Mowing his yard. In his shorts, brown shoes, and, yep, wait for it...

BLACK SOCKS!

I about spewed Cherry Limeade all over the windshield.

When we got home, Russ changed his socks.

A Delightful Fusion of Karate, Hip Hop, and Hey-Mom-Wanna-Make-A-Trip-To-The-ER-Tonight?

2010-07-09T14:14:00.011-05:00

Oh, Sophie. Sophie, Sophie, Sophie... What can I say? You are a master of dance, my love.

I have to admit, it made me a little nervous that she opted to go sans helmet this time. Yiiiiiikes. It was all I could do not to blurt out, "The granite!...The edge of the coffee table! Stitches!" during this little number. But seeing how I was supposed to be Nigel, thoughtfully critiquing her performance, those sorts of outbursts probably wouldn't have been very well received. I'm just guessing - based on the way she would pause, hand on hip, and tell me to "focus, Mama!" whenever I would start to get the giggles. Whoops.

Cat-Out-of-the-Bag Time.

2010-07-07T12:54:00.028-05:00

Okay. So...

Those of you who know me best (or who don't know me at all, but have been following the blog long enough to observe a trend) know that when I'm not feeling well, I stop blogging. Not in the form of a sputtering slow down. Nope, I come to a screeching halt.

Vrrrrrrpppppt!

Partly because, being an All or Nothing kind of person, when I feel yuck...I feel YUCK. With a capital Gross. Just keeping up with my little Energy Bunny of a child and getting out of my jammies is an ambitious exercise in You-Can-Do-It, Kristy! During times such as these, it's pretty much all I can do to just get from point A to point B. (A being "getting out of bed in the morning" and B being "getting back into it at the end of the day".)

And partly because I'm one of those people who is a weird combo of: Bare-My-Soul and Locked-Down- Tighter-Than-Fort-Knox. When it comes to medical stuff, or more accurately MY medical stuff, I fall into the second category.   I don't know what my deal is. ...Well, actually, I do. I don't want to seem pathetic, or weak, or needy, or crazy, or annoying, or...the list of unflattering adjectives goes on and on.

But recently it occurred to me that's it kind of hard to ask people to pray for you when they have absolutely no clue what's going on. And I've reached the point where my desire to feel better is greater than my desire to not look like an idiot.

Most of you know the past several years haven't been easy for me - medically-speaking. I go through these debilitating flare-ups, which can last from several weeks to several months (fatigue, nausea, weakness, balance problems, headaches). I've been tested out the wazoo (including a not so cheap trip to Mayo), which contributes to the whole feeling-like-an-idiot sentiment, as well as to the don't-want-to-talk-about-it mentality. On the one hand, I'm thrilled they haven't found anything significant yet. But on the other, until they determine the source of my symptoms, it's pretty darn hard to treat them.

Lately (as in:  for the past several months), I've been dealing with overwhelming nausea, abdominal pain, gastric "unpleasantries" (for the sake of all, I refrain from going into detail) and retching. Spontaneous retching, to be more specific. (Which, in case the "spontaneity" part of things makes it sound all festive and fun, let me tell you, it isn't.) The trashcan and I have been close buddies throughout the day, but mornings and in the middle of the night have been especially hard. When my stomach is empty, the pain and nausea are just excruciating. The gnawing and burning, despite being on Prevacid, are just agonizing. I keep crackers beside the bed, for when I wake up feeling like I'm going to yack. (For those of you wondering if Russ enjoys the sound of Saltines at 3 a.m., oh, yes indeedy, he surely does! That and rolling over into crumbs give him a special kind of thrill.)

Let's just say we are giving our vows a work-out.

The good part of all of this is that I've figured out something about myself. Something pretty major, in fact.

I struggle with fear.

(*Those of you who know me best, please pause for a respectful "Really?")

It's definitely my besetting sin. Especially when it comes to illness. I remember as a child being so afraid of getting sick. If someone in the family caught a stomach virus, they were all but dead to me. I'd barricade myself in my room or set up camp at a friend's house until my mom had time to thoroughly disinfect all of the bathrooms and everything else Sickie had come into contact with.  It's a super neat trait that is pretty much in direct opposition to my spiritual gift of helpfulness. I've always enjoyed helping others who are down - making them feel better, getting them back to a place of "well".  But when it comes to a "catchable" illness, nuh uh, buddy, you're on your own! It's funny, I've never really been a germ-a-phobe (in the classic Howard Hughes sense - I don't scrub my hands raw, I don't obsessively clean, I don't carry hand sanitizer in a holster on my shorts); I've always been more a sickness-a-phobe.

I've never wanted to get sick. I spent LOTS 'o effort trying to avoid getting sick. ...And here I am: sick.

Clearly, God has a sense of humor.

Actually, I know that's not true. I mean, I know He's not laughing at me. I know He cares for me. But I also know that He wants those who claim to trust in Him to practice what they preach. And I know that He sometimes uses unpleasant circumstances to draw His children back into fellowship with Him. Here is where I pause to shout, "Thank you, Lord, for the valuable lesson! May I please stop learning now?!" Hee.

For the first time in my life, I've really been trying to actively deal with my fear. It isn't easy. I'm in the middle of being tested for some conditions that I really don't want to have. Conditions that are hard to diagnose, that can lie dormant for many years - until they become "bad" enough to detect.   Conditions that...eeee. Ain't good. But beyond that, now is the fear - not of what they will find (as scary as that potentially is), but that they won't ever figure this mess out, and I'll be stuck feeling like this forever. In combination with the almost-constant pain and nausea, it's hard to feel like I ever "get away" from my fear.

I'm trying to refocus my thinking. To, even in the midst of the symptoms, redirect my thoughts to my Heavenly Father. To spend time in His Word, reading Scripture and praying. To be able to find joy, in Him, even when my physical state prevents me from feeling happy.

It's really hard for me to openly admit this about myself. (Understatement.) I'd so much rather just bask in the compliments of the last post - where you guys showered me with praise about my strength and faith in the midst of trial. I'd much rather just be That Girl, and never show you This Girl. Confessing that I'm not strong...that my faith is often weak...that my happiness is often wrapped up in my circumstances...that I'm still such a baby Christian when it comes to facing adversity the way our Heavenly Father wants his children to...well, it's pretty ugly and humbling.

But I feel like it's what God wants me to do.

To reach out to fellow believers in a genuine and honest way, even if it means looking like a weak little toadie.

Specifically, I ask if you would pray for two things:

(1.) For wisdom for the doctors in determining what is causing my symptoms, for clear answers in the tests, and for complete healing and renewed strength.

(2.) For a peace that surpasses my understanding and a calming of my fears, regardless of my circumstances.

Thank you, my friends. :-)

P.S. In perkier news: I found out today that I'm one of the five finalists for Nickelodeon's Parents Connect Best Parenting Blog. Woo! Come on lifetime supply of Toot and Puddle toothpaste!! (Voting ends Sept. 1st, and you can vote daily if you'd like. Thanks, bloggy faithful 'o mine!)

Nominated for best parenting blog. Vote now!

Little Miss Giggle Pants

2010-06-15T14:17:00.002-05:00

That Moment.

2010-06-06T11:00:00.014-05:00

(*As you guys know, I rarely talk about Seth on the blog. It's just one of those things. He's not ours anymore, and sometimes saying his name in a public forum -- even if it's just the name we call him, feels disrespectful. I don't know. He's such a huge part of us, and he always will be.  So many of you have been so kind to ask me about him - if I know how he's doing, if we ever get to see him, that I decided to tell you this story.)

I've always wondered what I would do - if I ever saw him again.

I remember the last time we saw him.

It was the week of his first birthday at my parents' house. A couple of weeks before we would learn the decision by the Supreme Court.

Had I known then it was just fifteen short days away, I would've...

What?

Wept. Clung to him. Given him a lifetime's worth of kisses. Sang "You Are My Sunshine" over and over to him until it was embedded in his memory. Begged God for just one more day.

Booked the fastest jet to a deserted island?

I've often thought about that. That it was good I didn't know. Good that I didn't have a chance to think. To react.

Good that he was back in the care of his sweet interim foster parents and that we were miles away back in Albuquerque. Good there was a 900 mile buffer between us that day when the phone rang at 11:11 and we learned that the last time we had seen our baby boy was, indeed -

...the last time.

Good that God, in his infinite wisdom, only reveals to us what He wants us to see, when He wants us to see it. Good that He is in control - He is still God, He is still good, His will is still perfect - even when our world shatters and we are left broken and numb.

~

We often return to the small town where we grew up...where our parents still live...where he lives with his paternal grandparents. Especially now that we're only a couple hours away, we love to go back. It's a small town. An everybody-knows-everybody kind of town. So I always knew it was possible that I would see him again.

Not as his mom.  Just as someone who knew him. Who he didn't know anymore.

I've always wondered how I would react in that moment. Worried, actually. I've had this vision of me bumping into him in Walmart. Rounding a corner and BOOM...there he is in the chip aisle. I saw myself standing there. Stunned. Crying. Laughing?  Being pulled towards him by a force stronger than I could resist. I don't know... I definitely saw myself being "that weird lady in Walmart". Not escaping gracefully.

Walmart.

I had in my head it would be at Walmart. In Small Town, America everything happens at Walmart. Always. (Give me dirty bun-head, no makeup, a pair of yoga pants, and five minutes in Walmart, and I'll run into every person I haven't seen since high school graduation. Guaranteed.) Because of that, I've always been on guard at Walmart. For six years, I've been on alert. Whenever mom sends me there for something, my mission is always the same: Get In, Get Out. I'm like a stealth bomber. Grab the lettuce, drop the money, fly out. At Walmart, I am prepared.

I wasn't prepared at the China Restaurant.

About a month ago we went home for the weekend, and as she always does, Sophie requested that we eat at her favorite spot. Nothing says fine Chinese dining like red jello blocks and shrimp cocktail - woo! And in typical fashion, when she saw we were nearing the end of our meal, she asked if she could have a quarter for the toy machines up front. It's a simple thrill for her, and one I always try to oblige if I have any loose change. I dug one out, handed it over, and walked a few steps behind her up towards the lobby of the restaurant.

Just as we were almost there, a little boy darted up and fell in step beside her.

I didn't see his face. He didn't notice me. I remember thinking he looked cute walking up with Sophie, but he was just a kid. A kid with a cute back. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sophie at the machines, perusing the fine selection of googly eyes, plastic jewelry, stickers, gumballs, and various other assorted five-year-old Must Haves. They talked back-and-forth. Sophie mostly talked. He mostly listened and nodded.

Then Sophie's quarter got stuck. She jiggled the machine for awhile, twisted the knob, poked at the glass - trying her best to unlodge it before yelling in her oh-so patient way, "Mama!"

It was with that one word that they both turned around.

And there he was.

One-year-old-him in a six-year-old body.

Same determined little jawline. Same cautious stance. Same searching eyes.

I gasped. Put my hand up to my mouth.

Sat quickly on the stool that God had conveniently placed by the toy machines that day.

Every fiber in my being wanted to hug him.

I sat on my hands to keep from grabbing him and I turned my attention to Sophie.

I tried to hear what she was telling me. But my mind was spinning...

Seeing her standing there. Seeing him standing right beside her. A million what-ifs whizzed through my brain in an instant. A world of emotions. So many possibilities.

I couldn't help but think, "He would've been such a good big brother."

He smiled at me. That crooked little grin.

No recognition. Just a hesitant smile for a stranger.

That's when Russ finished paying at the register and turned toward us. He saw his face and froze. I knew he knew.

Seth walked back to his table, where his babysitter stood chatting with some friends - oblivious to our little moment.

Sophie's quarter magically unstuck and she picked out a toy.

I exhaled and stood up. Legs wobbly, like a baby deer.

Russ and I each took one of Sophie's hands and the three of us walked out the door.

I looked back. Suddenly stuck by an overwhelming feeling that I was leaving something important behind. I squeezed Sophie's hand tighter. In the car just as we were driving away, we heard a voice from the back seat.

"Who was that little boy, Mama? Did you know him?"

I guess she felt it, too.

All of a sudden my eyes filled with tears and I felt such a rush of gratitude. God had provided us the perfect moment with our son. It wasn't awkward or tense or confusing. It was just us...and him.

For three minutes.

And it was enough.

Sweet Little Blessings.

2010-06-02T23:00:00.008-05:00

Adoption is such an incredible thing.

It's amazing how quickly your heart swells and opens to this new little person. How it feels like you know them and they know you, from that first touch. The feelings are instant. The love is permanent. I guess that's what makes it so scary - the risk of losing something that has already taken up solid residence inside of you.

I still don't know exactly how God does it - how he makes the connection so strong. So crazy fast. How He makes a teeny stranger feel familiar, as surely as if you had grown them in your own womb.

But He does.

Ask any adoptive parent and I'm willing to bet they'll tell you a slightly different version of the same story.

I remember so clearly that drive from Albuquerque to Arkansas ten years ago to meet Sophie at the hospital. I remember giving myself a good talking-to along the way. "Hold on. Wait." I remember the firmness with which I lectured myself. Wanting to remain cautious and detached. Almost angry in my determination not to feel. Warning my heart to hold back until things were more settled.

During the drive, I couldn't help but think about that first meeting with Seth. Holding him in her hospital room in that blue chair by the window right after he was born. Watching the light shine in on his few golden tufts of hair. Looking at his teeny fingers wrapped so tightly around mine. I recalled in cruel detail how the feelings grabbed hold so fast. Thoughts of losing him were still fresh. Everything was still so raw - broken and exposed. Being only six weeks past the Supreme Court decision, missing him still consumed us. Even when I tried to deny it, it was still all I was. During that long drive, as excited as I was to meet Sophie, I thought mostly of Seth. The tears were hard to keep in check as memory after memory after memory of our too short year with him mercilessly flooded back.

I kept thinking, "What in the name of all things sane are we doing? We're nuts. Officially." I recall blurting out to Russell at some random point in the drive, "There's no way we're strong enough to ride this (bleepin') rollercoaster again!" Then I picked a fight with him about dirty floor mats. Just to be mad at something else.

I remember the resolve. Nevermind that we'd already named her, I absolutely would not bond with this baby until we knew for sure. I would be an excellent caretaker - caring and nurturing. Loving. Giving. But I would not be a mother. Not until we made it through the Ten Days. Not until after the hearing before the judge. Not until it was official. Sure. Signed. Stamped. Filed away. Heck, maybe I'd wait until she was old enough to point to her parents and declare them as such...give any judge who tried to take her away the finger. Maybe then it would be safe to unlock my heart and feel again. Until then, the ground was too shaky. I would not stand on shaky ground.

Not this time. I would protect my heart first. End of story.

It was a good plan. Maybe even an excellent plan.

In theory.

I remember walking into the hospital room and dad standing up from the rocker to hand Sophs to me. This sweet, warm, wiggly little bundle. I held her. I unwrapped her to take a closer look. I gazed upon her sweet rosy-cheeked face and into her eyes. I saw her fit just so - into our little family. And that was that. The plan exploded in a poof of Good Intentions Vapor. The strong wall crumbled, despite how solidly I thought I had built it.

I was in love.

It was ridiculously obvious to everyone in the room. Written all over my goofy-grin mom face...

She's beautiful. Be still my wildly thumping heart. We have a daughter.

Right then I felt it...

God had given us our rainbow. Hope. Wrapped in a fuzzy pink blanket. Eyes full of promise. Pure joy.

Thank you, Lord.

A Little Drop of Awesome in a Sea of Mundane.

2010-06-02T20:33:00.000-05:00

The kungfu-ninja-stick-helicopter move where he almost decapitates himself darn near makes me wet my pants. Whooeeeee! I have a strange feeling I would really like hanging out with this guy.