Author Archive

19
May
“He said WHAT??!!!”: Best Potty Training Quotes

It’s been pretty serious around here the past few months.  I’m done with all this serious nonsense for today.  Nothing can make me giggle like the things that come out of the mouths of my little boys.  I have a little book where I try to keep track of the humorous things my kiddos have said over the years.  I am terrible at making time to finish things like baby books, photo albums or even updating the family photos on the wall, but I have found that I can keep this little book tucked away on a shelf in the kitchen to grab whenever they say something that makes me stop and laugh out loud (or desperately try to keep a straight face while my body shakes uncontrollably with muffled laughter and tears).  I read it when I want to sell the hoodlums or duct tape them to the lamp-post and I need to remember how much joy they bring to my days.  If you want one yourself, you can find them at Amazon under books “My Quotable Kid: A Parents’ Journal of Unforgettable Quotes”. 

Having little boys means that many of my quotes center on potty talk.  And, maybe I’m a 10-year-old boy at heart because I find them hysterical (and gross!).  For this installment of “He said WHAT?!!!” we will focus on the outrageous things my precious little angels have said during adventures in potty training. I figured keeping in line with previous blog posts and all the bathroom adventures we seem to have in this family that this seemed like the logical place to start. Enjoy! (Warning: DO NOT Read While Eating)

 

Will and Mikey’s Top Ten Funny Potty Quotes!

 

10. “Mommy, here are some stickers.  These are your reward for cleaning up my poop.”  -Mikey, age 3

(Said after I almost killed him for pooping in his big boy underwear for the third time that day!)

 

9. “My poop looks like a walrus!” -Will, age 4

(Both of my boys feel the need to make their pooping experiences into Rorschach Ink Blot Tests.  The psychologist in me resists the urge to interpret such data.)

 

8. “That poop burned my butt.  It was like a building that exploded and wood burning.  My poop was the wood.”  -Will, age 4

(Poor Will has chronic GI issues and has gotten very creative in expressing how his bowels are functioning.  It may be gross – but it’s never dull and he handles it all like a champ!)

 

7. “I have a big penis, Mommy. That means I’m a big boy.”  -Mikey, age 3

(For reasons I still do not understand my boys feel the need to update me on the state of their penis almost daily.  Why??!! It’s still a mystery.)

 

6. “Dr. Barakat, I have a serious problem.  I think my penis is too big.” -Will, age 3

(Doctor asked Will if he had any questions or concerns at his 3-year-old Well Child Check-Up.  Dr. B now looks forward to what will come out of Will’s mouth at each visit. It’s always unexpected and hilarious!)

 

5. “My chicken broth is my pee. My noodles are my snake poop.”  -Mikey, age 3 1/2

(I’ve never looked at chicken noodle soup the same…)

 

4. “Oh, look! Poop souffle!” -Will, age 4

(He said this with such surprise and joy as he sat by himself on the toilet when he thought no one was listening.)

 

3. “Speaking of poop and pee, I need to go potty. Caution – only say potty words on the potty.  Here (he hands me toilet paper) you can use this to wipe my bottom.  Speaking of bum, that’s a funny word!” -Mikey, age 4

(Speaking of poop…are you grossed out enough yet?)

 

2. “My poop felt like stalactites.” -Will, age 4

(Look it up.)

 

1. “I can wipe my own bum now, Mommy. And don’t worry – I will scrub any poo particles off my hands.”  -Mikey, age 4

(A monumental day.  We celebrated with ice cream.  After he scrubbed all those poo particles off his hands.)

 

Care to add any of your own??  Don’t be shy.  We certainly aren’t.  :-)

Category: He Said WHAT?!!, Motherhood, Raising boys  Leave a Comment
16
May
“But, God…” : Writing Through the Pain

I’m at the end of me.  I promised myself when I got here again that I would write through the pain.  I would not hide.  I would not succumb to apathy and self-pity.  I would resist the temptation to withdrawal from the world.  I would not let it win.  Whatever “it” is.  Today I hit the wall.  The wall that comes when I’m doing a little better and I begin to believe that my life is normal, that my body is my friend, and that my time is my own to do with it what I will.  Then I crash.  I see it coming.  It’s like a wave quietly swelling in the distance. As a rough and tumble tomboy girl-child, I used to body surf the summers away at the ocean. I’d spend hours floating in the water just waiting to see those ripples in the distance – ripples that promised oncoming adventure and exhilaration.  Unfortunately the ripples I saw this morning were not welcome and not the kind of adventure my young self craved or ever dreamed I’d have to deal with.  I could take a pounding as a kid – get tossed violently about in the waves and come up laughing, my body whole.  Not so anymore.  Waves knock me down.  For goodness sake, kiddie pool waves knock me down.  IT. IS. SO. FRUSTRATING.

I had to call out for help.  I hate calling out for help.  While I am getting better at it, it still breaks me down every time despite the smiles I attempt to put on for the world.  I was rescued by my loyal neighbor and friend who took my children for the afternoon as I tried to rest hoping it would fend off the aching and fatigue.  Right now, another dear friend has my children outside while they ride their bikes.  I am grateful to have them.  But I am so mad I had to be rescued.  I am so mad that my friend came over to bring dinner, help clean my house and watch my kids instead of to just “hang out”. I am so mad that I am not standing outside with her right now talking with her about our kids’ latest crazy antics or the clothes our husbands refuse to put in the hamper. I want ordinary.  Normal.  And I want to be in control.

But, I am not.  My body is not mine.  My time is not mine.  So much of my present and future is out of my hands.  My life feels anything but normal and controlled.  But, really whose is? At the heart of the matter is the fear that my life becomes worthless as I lie in bed day after day.  This leads me to dark corners I’d rather not visit and Lifetime Movie Marathon crying sessions.  I think I could surrender to the loss of control if I knew my life still had as much meaning when I am forced to sit idly and watch life as when I actually get to participate in it.  I get caught measuring myself by the world’s worth-o-meter based on busy schedules, gym memberships (*that they actually use*) and kids in T-ball and violin lessons.  I feel like an undisciplined sloth and my former driven self hovers over in judgment saying “Suck it up, girl. Get on with life. You are wasting it. You can’t really hurt that bad!”  And another smaller, younger, more fragile voice whispers fears of being swept aside.  Forgotten.  People see my illness. My “courage and faith.”  But I fear that who I am apart from being sick slips farther and farther away – caught under the tangled weeds of being a “patient.”  That is way to close to “victim” for my liking. Once my thinking spirals this far any worth I clung to begins to disappear.  But, God…

I love that phrase.  I think I first heard that phrase in a Beth Moore study.  Now regardless of what you think of this lovely lady who has a penchant for yelling at the top of her lungs, perfectly sculpted hair and nails and bedazzled cloths – that woman knows her Bible.  And she is not afraid to jump up and down like a lunatic  to get our attention and say, “Look!! See!!! Read!!!!”  The Bible is chock full of “But, God…” stories.  Lives that seemed useless, ruined, shattered, out of sync with everyone else…BUT, GOD…rescued, redeemed, redefined, re-purposed.

So I reluctantly open my Bible.  It opens to a verse I know well and thought I understood.  But now, in this present state, it speaks to me anew.  I love how the Bible can do that.

“Therefore, I urge you brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices holy and pleasing to God – this is your spiritual act of worship.” – Romans 12:1

My teenage and 20-something self used to cry over this verse as I begged God to show me how to do this.  My body had become my idol and my means of coping through controlling what did and did not enter my mouth and how many miles I could pound out on the pavement each day.  All in a desperate attempt to numb, simplify, avoid… cry out.  I was the abuser of my body back then and had to relearn how to surrender it to God every day as I struggled to obey what I knew He wanted.  Every moment for the first few years of recovery I had to consciously sacrifice control over my body to God as I journeyed back to health – trusting that He loved me enough that what was on the other side would be better than the pit I had cornered myself in.  It was terrifying.  Ironically, it set the stage for this moment.  Funny how God does that, huh? But, God…  knew the future.

Once again I am asked to sacrifice control of my body and trust that what is on the other side is worthwhile.

Is it? Is it Lord?  Will it really be worthwhile? How in the world will this all end up being beneficial to my husband and kids?

Then a word jumped out at me – “mercy.”  In view of God’s mercy I could trust that my present state wouldn’t be more than I or my family could bear. We can hand Him control not because He will work it out the way WE want but because His mercy is in every breath we take.

But, Lord, I want to be a woman of action! I’ll obey You but all I am doing is lying here.  It feels so pathetic.

Then my eyes were drawn back to the last part of the verse.  A part I had often overlooked. “…this is your spiritual act of worship.”  And then it hit me.  I may see uselessness, idleness, purposelessness …BUT, GOD…sees worship.  My accepting whatever is happening in my body and giving each moment I am lying in that bed to Him, trusting He knows why even if I don’t equals worship.  My bed becomes my sanctuary as I acquiesce that time and pain to Him.  He sees ME – worthwhile not for my doing but for my being… with Him.  He will use me as He likes in the waiting.  Frankly, what I “want” doesn’t matter.  It’s not about me.  It’s about Him.  He can use my life whatever way He pleases.  This becomes worship when I submit without tantrum – especially  when it’s hard.

Okay, I get it Lord.  How do YOU want to use this time? 

Today, for this moment, He has said, “You may be stuck in bed, BUT I’ve given you the gift of words.  Use them.  Write.  Don’t worry about the why or purpose.  Just write.”  And so I write… Tomorrow?  I don’t know.  But, I guess that doesn’t matter.  He knows.

But, God…

 

Category: Adversity, Chronic Illness, Eating Disorder, Faith, Gratitude  One Comment
29
Apr
Surgery Update and a Big THANK YOU!

Dear Friends and Family,

It’s only been 8 days since my surgery. A week ago I was hooked up to IVs, needing a chaperone for any and all bodily functions, and my wardrobe consisted of my oh-so-sexy hospital gown that highlighted my derriere. Although for some unknown reason my backside was covered in iodine from surgery, which baffled me as my incision was above my belly button -  fairly far away from my sexy bum. Did they think they were going to have to make a detour?  Thankfully they did not.  My surgeons successfully repaired two hernias that were markedly smaller than they had appeared at my last doctor visit and they did not have to resect any bowel (a huge relief!).  Divine intervention perhaps? All my prayer warriors must have been busy because  what was supposed to be a 4-6 inch incision measured in at 1.5 inches.  If I could lose the pooch I might even agree to wear a bikini again one day.

Speaking of pooch… I thought it was funny when my surgeon told me “We aren’t used to operating on someone with such great stomach muscles! Most people with hernias don’t have 6-packs.  Well, actually, you kind of have a 12 pack because your stomach muscles are split down the middle due to your weak connective tissue and two babies. We couldn’t pull things tight because of that so you are going to have to live with a pooch.”  So I have great muscles (although my 33-year-old metabolism, medications, and months at a time of bedrest invited a layer of fat to hide these muscles) but they do nothing for me as they aren’t really in the right place, like the rest of my abdominal and pelvic organs.  In the words of my grandmother – “I’m a thrill a minute.”

Considering all of this, I am doing amazingly well today.  Moving around on my own, eating real food, showered and shaved and even went on a naughty 30 minute outing to Loews to help Josh pick out paint and rug samples for our basement renovation.  Right now I am sitting outside taking in some Vitamin D and marveling that I am actually upright.  By medical standards my recovery is nothing short of remarkable. Emotionally it’s been a bit of a roller coaster, as it always is when I am stuck in bed for any length of time.  It becomes a spiritual battle to fight apathy, self-pity and make the best choices moment by moment for my body, mind and spirit.  But, fight on we do, and as of today I’d say God’s winning and helping me “make the next right choice.”

Once again I am humbled and astounded at the generosity, care and concern of you, my friends and family.  My life is a prime example of the “It Takes a Village” mantra.  Thank you so very much to those of you who have prayed, sent cards and flowers, prepared meals, done errands and called to say you were thinking of us (even when I don’t answer the phone — seeing your name flash on my phone, or listening to a voicemail, lifts my spirits and gives me that boost I need to stay connected to the world when I feel isolated in my bed).  My parents put their lives on hold (again) to care for my children, keep the house running smoothly and support Josh while he took care of me at the hospital and after.  Because of their selflessness, I am healing well and my family’s lives have been able to keep some sense of normalcy.  I love you Mom and Dad! Thank you for caring for your little girl so lovingly – no matter how old I get.

And most of all, I want to thank my loyal and steadfast husband, Josh.  Having a chronically ill spouse is incredibly difficult — and just as it is hard for him to completely understand what I am going through, I am sure I don’t truly comprehend the burden and stress that follows him around every day as he tries to stay afloat supporting me and our sweet (yet troublesome :-) ) boys. You are a provider in every sense of the word.  I know I am an expensive gal between medical insurance, medical bills and all the extras that pop up as we navigate through this journey.  You work hard – quietly, steadily and with integrity.  You give me the gift of not having to worry if we can afford treatment or medicine.  I know you worry, but you try to shield me from it.  And you have provided more than I could have ever dreamed of at this point in our lives.  And when I drain you of emotion and energy, you love me the best you know how. You are loyal.  It’s no secret that most marriages where there is chronic illness end in divorce.  But we are defying that statistic.  This past week you have once again stood right beside me. Thank you for staying at my bedside hour after hour.  Thank you for the tender way you fed me ice chips, fetched ice packs and changed my hospital gown when those ice packs leaked all over … all while sleep-deprived and weary sleeping on that hard “bed” (or not sleeping – I know you never truly slept).  Thank you for being my fierce protector when the nurse wouldn’t get me my medications, for fighting for me when I was crying in pain until I got what I needed, and for being ever vigilant from the moment we entered the hospital to the moment we left. Once home, thank you for bringing me my medications exactly when I needed them and for forcing me on my feet to walk around when all I wanted to do was lay in bed and feel sorry for myself.  It’s never easy for you to know when to be tender and when to be tough — all that practice must have paid off because this time I think we got it right.  Thank you for staying engaged with all the extra people in the house when your introverted self so desperately needs alone time to stay sane.  Thank you for loving on our boys extra and never letting your exhaustion or frustration impact your fathering.  Thank you for honoring the vows we made on our wedding day even though their has been a whole lot more “in sickness” than “in health.”  It’s been hard and messy, but it’s been worth it.  I love you, babe.

Humbled and Grateful,

Stephanie

Category: Chronic Illness, Marriage, Uncategorized  Leave a Comment
25
Jan
Tears and Truth

I wrote this blog post months ago and it has been sitting in my “Draft” folder forgotten.  I found it tonight and thought I’d publish it.  While it has a lot to do with the challenges of navigating marriage with chronic illness as an unwanted third party, it also touches upon the life-changing lessons my little boy, Mikey (our birthday boy), teaches me again and again every day.

“Mommy, play with me,” my sweet boy pleads.

He has lined his trains up on my arm as I lie on the couch face down in a pillow willing the nausea and pain to go away.

“I’m so sorry, buddy. Mommy, can’t right now. I’m afraid if I move I will throw up all over your train table.”

He giggles at that thought and decides not to risk it.  He plays while I continue to ride the waves of nausea.

I’m so sad today. Most days I can cling to hope and contentment, but not today.  Today I need to be sad.  Last night was supposed to be date night.  Our children were at a sleepover and Josh and I were going to have some much needed “just us” time.  I had planned dinner by the fire, a bottle of red wine, snuggling with pillows and blankets in front of a movie, a midnight walk to see the meteor shower…and, of course, “dessert” (wink, wink).  Three weeks of bed rest had brought with it an understandable generalized chaos and total loss of privacy.  Not that I am complaining — we were so very cared for by grandparents living with us to help care for the kids, and friends and kind-hearted strangers in and out of our house at all hours graciously bringing meals, doing laundry, cleaning and running our errands.  We are blessed beyond measure with community.  But, with relative strangers folding your “unmentionables” the stress level tends to build.

I knew my husband needed privacy, a quiet house and a well-appearing, attentive wife.  And, I needed to feel like more than just an illness or a burden for a night.  I needed to be a best friend and lover again. Unfortunately, despite all my security measures, chronic illness hijacked our night…again.

To prepare for our date I showered and scrubbed, did a thorough shave, moisturized and plucked…all the personal grooming tasks that are often left untended during bed rest.  I found an outfit that was comfortable for cuddling but not the pajamas and headband my husband had seen me in the past three weeks.

All the flurry of getting the kids out the door to their sleepover, picking up the house a bit and self primping had exhausted me.  I laid down on the couch trying to regain my energy. And then it came…

Knock.Knock.Knock.  My unwanted, unwelcome, intrusive guest…

“Did you really think I would leave you alone and cooperate with your plans?  Don’t you know better by now?”

I could feel my fever rising.  My body aching.  My brain shutting down.

“Noooo!!! NO. Not tonight. You are NOT invited to this party” I tried to fend it off.

Meds! Get the meds!  I quickly gulped down a handful of meds to combat pain, fever, nausea, vertigo, and generalized crappy feeling.  And, I shoved that nuisance out the door and waited…still hopeful.  Maybe I would feel better.  Or at least be able to fake it.

Unfortunately, what would usually perk me up seemed to squash what was left of any energy I had left and it felt as if my body was made out of lead and my eye lids had 50 pound weights on them.  I could barely focus my eyes.

In walks hubby…

I can tell from his posture, tone of voice and general demeanor that he had brought our uninvited guest back in with him — the burdens of the past few weeks plastered onto him.

I don’t recall much of the next hour. I know it involved terse conversation, mindless television, and unspoken wants and needs.  We did manage a fire in the fireplace; yet, instead of snuggling in front of it, we sat on opposite sides of couch in our own disappointed and disillusioned worlds.  He restlessly mentions that one of his favorite bands are playing in DC and I know he needs an escape.  So, I tell him to go.  By this point I can barely stay conscious I feel so drained and sick and I am heartbroken.  And my beleaguered husband is far too lost in his own pain, different but equally as intense, to realize that I am grieving and have had my life sidelined — again — by something I can not control nor predict.

What I want is for him to pull me into his lap and snuggle me.  Play with my hair.  Tell me I am beautiful despite this stupid illness.  I want him to love me in spite of it all and let me sleep in his lap while we watch a movie in front of the fire.  I want to hear he is not disappointed in me and that he knows and appreciates how hard I try to give him and our children a “normal” life.  And, I know, in his silence, he has just as many unspoken wants.  I don’t know how to ask.  I don’t even have the words most days and neither does he.  It’s just now as I write this do I know what I wanted from him last night.

We are still trying to figure out how to “do” marriage with this third party named illness.  I’m not hopeless though.  I’m just tired.  I’ve been knocked down this round, but I’ll get up.  And so will he.  We’ve committed to show up, every day.  And that has not wavered.  With practice we will learn to identify those wants and needs and speak them out loud.  (We will put a gag around chronic illness and not let it speak for us.)  I just wish were already there.

I admire my little boy — the one who wanted mommy to play trains.  He knew what he wanted, he asked for it, and when I couldn’t give it to him he happily made a contingency plan knowing that mommy loves him.  This is my same child who demands kisses and hugs, cuddles on cue, and is always present, positive and assuming the best about people.  I thank God that He has given me my baby boy as an example to live by.

Today I can be sad.  This is all very messy and real.  No fairy tale endings or quick fixes.

Tomorrow I go back to “defiant joy.”  (Thanks Lisa Copen!)

We will only get there by tears and truth.

 

 

 

 

Category: Adversity, Chronic Illness, Marriage  Leave a Comment
25
Jan
My baby is four…

My baby is four! How does that happen so fast? I remember this night four years ago so clearly. My hospital room was serene and quiet. My husband had gone home to shower and rest. And my baldy, pudgy, and precious baby boy and I snuggled in bed. I giggled because I thought he kinda looked like a turtle — with his scrunched up face and big forehead. I loved it. He was perfect in his “turtleness”. He nursed effortlessly (an unexpected gift as I had readied myself for another nursing battle). I remember being surprised with joy and contentment. Finally, I felt at peace in my own skin as “mother” — something that I had lacked up to this point. I struggled so tumultuously to raise my first precious baby boy the “right” way and spent the first six months racked with anxiety, panic attacks and postpartum depression. I was terrified of messing it up. In the solitude of that room with my miracle baby #2, I realized that I could surrender my little angels back to God and breath through the crying fits and sleepless nights and cherish them for what they were. A season. A moment in time that I was blessed with the job of sustaining a helpless little life. And we would all survive and thrive. Sleep would return. Crying would cease. Babies would grow. And we are all a whole lot more resilient than I had once thought — these babies and their mama.

Happy Birthday my Mikey-moo! Thank you for making me the mama I am today and for teaching me to enjoy the ride moment by moment. I am in awe of you every day. To end your birthday day here are the words to your favorite song that you always make me sing “five times” …

“I love you forever. I like you for always. As long as I’m living my baby you’ll be…”
(From the “I Love You Forever” book)

Category: Uncategorized  Tags: ,  Leave a Comment
30
Nov
Adventures in Raising Boys

I like to think I am of the adventurous sort.  I have white water rafted, rode every roller coaster I could as I child, and have ventured to the rainforests of Venezuela and the slums of San Jose, Costa Rica.  While my health may now preclude me from many such adventures, I am blessed with the extreme sport of raising boys.  I am not a boy – hence, I have no schema from which to conceptualize the crazy ass things my boys do.  I do not have an overload of testosterone coursing through my veins despite the rogue chin hair (seriously, girls – NO ONE warned us about those).  I do not understand the need to karate chop inanimate objects, turn everything into a gun, and their obsession with their penis.  I never realized how often I would discuss the aforementioned penis with my boys multiple times a day.  Is it too big?  Is it too small?  Why does it grow and shrink?  Where is your penis, Mommy?  Why can’t I constantly have my hands down my pants in the grocery store?  I am learning you never laugh at a penis question.  They are dead serious here ladies.  Their penis is synonymous to our… hmmm… I can’t find a parallel. I didn’t even know the details of my own anatomy until the summer before sixth grade when I was the youngest of my friends to get her period and desperately wanted to go swimming.  I spent an hour locked in the bathroom studying those ridiculous pink and blue charts you get in a tampon box trying to figure it all out.

Recently I had one of those conversations you have as a parent with your child that you walk away from and shake your head in disbelief, as you would not believe the conversation took place unless you had actually been a part of it.  I have had some of the most bizarre exchanges with my precocious all-boy boys. This one went something like this…

 

Scene Setting: Reading at bedtime in Will’s bed. Both of us snug in our pj’s happily winding down for the day.  As I read a sweet devotional on God’s love I catch Will studying my chest.  Apparently my pj tank top was a little more revealing than my usual attire.

“Mommy?” says Will. “Why are those private?” (He points at my boobs.)

“Because they are.  God made women’s chests private.” (I quickly pull up my top to ensure maximum coverage.)

(He reaches for my chest and I pull his hand down.) “Why?” he asks again.

“They just are.  They are for feeding babies and, unless you are a baby, only daddy is allowed to see them.”(I left out daddy touching them as I was hoping to steer him away from that thought. But, alas, he is a persistent little sucker.)

“Oh, Mom, will I ever get to touch some?” he sighs with resigned defeat painted all over his face.

I freeze trying to collect my thoughts. Did he really just ask that?  I want to laugh out loud but he is very serious about this and I get the feeling laughter is not the appropriate response.

Finally, I reply, “One day.  When you are married. Hey, I have an idea, let’s read an extra chapter in the Bible tonight! What do you say?” I change the subject and pray fervently for my baby boy’s future romantic endeavors and the little hussy that may lead him astray.

 

Wow. I wasn’t expecting these conversations until puberty.  However, in puberty he’d probably be mortified to ask me such questions.  I hope and pray I handle these conversations in a way that helps my little men along in life.  I want to give information – but not too much too soon.  I want them to feel free and unashamed – but model appropriate behavior (whatever that is).  I want them to love and celebrate who God made each of us to be.  I want to build them up as boys growing into manhood.  I want them to feel strong, confident, and secure.  I want them to feel like super heroes.  But, how do I do this?  In all those millions of conversations that take place each day, am I inching them closer to my hopes for them or I am sending messages of the exact opposite? It is so hard to know.

Today has been a tough one.  Full of testosterone laden tantrums, wrestling matches, and general mayhem.  By late afternoon, each of my boys were locked in their rooms (in an extended time-out), after getting their beloved bikes taken away for disobedience and targeted acts of neighborhood terrorism and violence.  I prepped dinner downstairs as I listened to their screaming and pounding on doors in protest.  At 4:59pm I figured it was close enough to a respectable drinking hour and I grabbed a beer.  I chopped veggies, savored my Flying Dog Pale Ale, and prayed silently I was doing right in this whole parenting gig.

Later, after some heart to heart talks, cuddles, and discussion on the finer points of self-control and listening, all was temporarily calm.  And even though I had taken away his beloved bike and scooter, imprisoned him in his room for over an hour, and yelled and threw a tantrum myself – my precious boy Will crawled into my lap, cupped my face in his hands and said, “Mommy, you are the prettiest mommy in the world.”

Mikey soon followed, not to be outdone by his older brother, and he showered me with “ten kisses, mommy – hold still!”  His sweet, sticky lips bombarded my face with the affection only a son can have for his mama.

I guess I’m doing something right.  Not everything – not by a long shot.  But my boys are loved and know how to show love.  And that’s a starting place.  Now, if I could just get a handle on the potty talk and spitting… I will tackle that tomorrow.  For now I bask in the glory that I have survived to fight another day for the minds, hearts and souls of my little boys.

Category: Motherhood  One Comment
17
Oct
Bed Rest: lessons learned while laying down

I need to vent. Bed rest sucks. Sure it sounds nice when you are running around doing errand after errand, cooking, cleaning, organizing, paying bills, disciplining children…  You think to yourself, “Ugh, what I wouldn’t give right now for a good virus to wipe me out and give me an excuse to take to my bed for a few days, or even weeks! Nothing too serious — just enough to be legit.”  I will admit to a healthier phase of life when that thought would cross my mind.  I have a whole other blog post lined up to discuss the pros and cons of spending all day languishing in bed.  Stay tuned for: “Top 10 Best and Worst Things about Being on Bed Rest” (and, yes, for those who faithfully follow my blog and are anxiously awaiting more Townsend family poop stories, you will not be disappointed!).  But, that is not what today’s post is all about.  Today, I attempt to reset my cranky self and dabble in the theological and philosophical lessons attached to forced slumber. (I apologize ahead of time for the stream of consciousness writing…It’s where my head is right now.)

In my oodles of spare time during my current jail sentence to bed, I figured out that in the past 11 years I have lost an entire YEAR to bed rest. This does not include the many shorter stints my illness has forced me to bed for hours to days a time.  Now that’s re-gosh-darn-diculous.  My 5-year-old son once told me, “Mommy, I HATE your naps.”  You’re preaching to the choir kid.  Don’t get me wrong – I love my soft bed and the temporary retreat from severe pain, nausea and weariness that I get as I sink into my u-pillow.  But I, like my son, hate what it takes me away from and the fact that my time lying down is not optional but intrusive, unpredictable and disruptive to those I love most.

Ironically, a funny thing has happened over that year spent in bed.  I found out that my life’s most meaningful classes do not happen in college or graduate school (despite their $100,000+ price tag) but unfold when I am forced to lie in bed and do…nothing.  What a topsy-turvy realization for an overachieving, performance-is-everything academic.

Lesson #1: Control.  I’m a control freak.  Well, a recovering control freak.  My 12-Step meetings don’t happen in a church basement with watered down Kool-Aid and cookies but in times of solitary confinement to my bed.  Attendees?  Just me and God. This is where God and I wrestle for control.  Control over my body.  Control over my surroundings.  Control over the way people perceive me and act towards me.  Control over my schedule. Control over my future.  Everything.  I, like my biblical control-freak brother, Jacob, go a few rounds with God. He seems to take pleasure in pinning me down until I agree to surrender control of my every waking moment.  (We seem to do this every period of bed rest. What can I say – I like routine.)

Surrender.  The most powerful lesson I think we as humans can learn.  It’s why this blog is entitled “Surrender the Day”.  Unless we master the art of holy surrender of our every breath to “Thou who is higher than I”, life is an endless unwinnable wrestling match.  It’s a frustrating, exhausting, sweaty, stinky, and sticky mess.  And, you get yourself in awkward positions and are stuck wearing an outer shell that doesn’t ever fit right and makes those around you uncomfortable (seriously people, who made up those wrestling uniforms?).  I’ve discovered the more we surrender our daily plans, emotions, thoughts, relationships and future to the One who designed us the more us we become.  Authenticity and peace are rooted in an identity surrendered wholly to God.  All I have to do is show up and see what God has in store for me on any given day – and if that includes bed rest, so be it.  He can work with that.

Which brings us to Lesson #2: Identity.   Unlike all the other stuff we tie to our identity and worth, God is unchanging.  For most of my life I have defined myself by what I did, how much I accomplished, how many people liked me, how many accolades I could acquire, and what other people told me I was.  The problem with that is that this gave me a shaky, unpredictable foundation.  My worth was tied to how I felt that day.  My feelings tied to other people’s actions and my ever-flawed performance.  While I had some high points, it was a dysfunctional way to live.  In the quiet moments in bed I felt the insecurity in living this way.  When all the “doing” was pulled away, I didn’t know who I was or how to “be”. All that was left was an empty shell of unmet expectations.

In the beginning of my journey with chronic illness, this emptiness would overwhelm me and I would spiral into depression.  As dark as this time was – it was profoundly holy.  When everything we think we know to be is ripped away, the grace that waits in that void is life-changing.  It’s here we are forced to wrestle the “big questions” we spend our lives being too busy purposely avoiding. Are you there, God?  Who am I without all my “doing”?  Why did you let this happen?  What’s the point of this life?  If we are courageous enough to ask, and to look, I have discovered that peace will come.  Some answers will appear out of the darkness. Some like a thunder-clap and others slowly ascending up through the fog. Some questions will sit unanswered but we will be able to stand in the tension of the unknown.  Hope begins to rise.

Now each time I find myself confined by my illness and the “doing” has stopped and the questions come…I don’t fall into the deep depression as much.  More often I fall into grace – a Grace that can handle my questions, my tears, and my disappointment.  A Grace that has never failed to show up and remind me I am not in control (and that is good!).  My only job is to surrender.

And so, surrender I do.   To my bed rest…my pillows…my “uselessness”.  To whatever He has for me this day.  Because that’s the point, really.  To show up.  To be ready.  To be His.

Category: Adversity, Chronic Illness, Faith  Tags: , , , ,  Leave a Comment
28
Sep
…the next right choice

I was reading through an old journal and found an entry that I wanted to share.  My past self got into a time machine and slapped some sense into my present self Back to the Future style.  Let’s read…

“Just make the next right choice.”

This phrase has become my mantra.  In my eating disorder days I was trapped by the “all-or-nothing” lie and it ruled my every waking moment.  I was either perfect or a failure.  Things were great or awful.  I excelled or I didn’t try.  “Good enough” was a phrase I despised with every fiber of my being.  My days had one shot and one shot only.  Once I screwed up — in food, exercise, school, relationships — my day was a loss.  A big “FAIL” stamped on it.  So, I would spend the remainder of that day in turmoil, apathy, or – at worst – self-destruction.  I was so overwhelmed at trying to get back on track (whatever that means) that I was paralyzed.  THEN I learned the power of one single choice.

Every moment in our lives involves choice.  Sometimes emotions spiral and we don’t feel like we have any choices; but that is a lie which paralyzes us.  Somewhere along the way I finally understood that God made us capable of choice.  Always giving us a way back to His Will.  It is not always pretty, but it IS there.  Right now at this very moment I can choose to pray…I can choose to reach out and make that call…I can choose to eat the meal and make a healthy choice for my body…I can choose to confess that sin and turn from it. 

I have been given the divine gift of the power to choose. I am not a machine.  I am not soley ruled by my instincts.  I have a mind of intricate thoughts.  I have a discerning soul.  I have a window to God that can show me the next illuminated step should I quiet to look for it.

Thank you, Lord, for the power of choice…to do the next right thing.

 

I needed that reminder this week.  My next right choice right now? Sleep.  Sweet sleep.  The rest of life can wait until the morning.

Category: Eating Disorder, Faith  One Comment
21
Sep
Delusions of Grandeur

Due to my training as a psychologist, I can’t help but do my own diagnostic psychological evaluation in my head when I see a person whose life is in personal upheaval.  I try to “leave my therapist hat at the door” but it is inextricably a part of me.  (Much to my husband’s chagrin.)  Lately I feel the need to do one of those evaluations on myself.  I have been suffering from what we psycho-babble linguists like to call “delusions of grandeur.”  I have used this diagnostic characteristic in psychological batteries for case studies, clients… I’ll stop there to not get myself in trouble with any of my friends and family.  If you google this term you will find many  descriptions, but my favorite (and one that most describes my problem) is “fantastical beliefs of one’s own supernatural powers.”  (See my red superhero cape?)

If you walk in my door you will see a neat checklist entitled “To Do Before Duke.” On it are 15 or so (not so small) items I deemed last Monday were necessary to accomplish in the upcoming weeks before I go in for my next blood patch and am relegated to weeks of bed-rest.  My list disregards the fact that I can’t be upright for more than an hour at a time without severe motion sickness, pain, and fatigue – hence the aforementioned trip to Duke Hospital’s Chronic CSF Leaks team who will once again attempt to plug my saggy, leaky brain. Each task looks simple enough, but requires many steps, lots of energy, and a person who can keep her head vertical.

Last week was also the first week of school for my boys.  In my delusional state I prepared an AM and PM routine list to perform each day. Iron and lay out clothes and pack lunches the night before. Get showered and dressed before the boys each morning. Switch the laundry and load and unload the dishwasher each morning and night. Be calm.  Prepared.  Unhurried.  I intended to institute the no television before school rule.  Breakfast at the kitchen table as a family.  And so on. Seems manageable, right?  Well, as life tends to do – our week trended towards chaos.  It started calm and orderly and ended with tears and tantrums (and that was just me!).  Monday I had excited, clean-cut, neatly dressed boys and by Friday I had bed-head, wrinkled clothed boys who were sobbing over torn special leafs and unfinished cereal bowls.  I pretended my life was predictable and that there were no bad pain days, sleepless nights, or normal fatigue of a new routine.  In reality, I couldn’t move most mornings without my medications working their magic.  I was too exhausted and nauseas to wash my face at night, let alone do chores.  My kids were kids – emotional ups and downs and all.  And, I’m afraid it may have been at least three days since I have washed my hair.

My impressive checklist next to the door?  After the first week, not one item was checked off.  But, perfection is my enemy.  My delusional goals have tried to mock me; but, hey, I got the kids to school every day.  Everyone was fed mostly nutritious meals.  No one went around naked.  And you could still walk around my house without tripping every two feet.  We made it to all appointments.  And I never puked on anyone.  I’ve decided to declare last week a winner and be a little nicer to myself this week.  God has no use for my delusional or perfectionistic self.  That woman is downright unpleasant.  Cranky.  Self-centered. Mean. To herself and then it spills out onto others.

Yesterday, as I lay in bed, I cried out to God “I give up! I can’t do it. Lord, I trust You know what is on my plate and will give me the ability to get the important things done.  You write my list.  You set my priorities.”  Funny thing is that in the past 24 hours I’ve gotten more done, served others, loved and laughed and coped with my pain effectively.  Hmmm…wonder what would have happened had I consulted with God BEFORE I made that list?  The tasks may not have changed, but my superwoman alter-ego would have stayed in the phone booth.

Be nice to yourself. I am ordering you to fail a little, drop some balls, take a nap, leave your list undone, and breathe… I give you permission. God only asks us to look to Him and do the next right thing.  And that right thing may be to let go of that cruel list you’ve made yourself and surrender to His.

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps. ~Proverbs 16:9, NLT

Category: Adversity, Balance, Chronic Illness, Faith, Motherhood  One Comment
19
Apr
Help Wanted: Mindful and Motivated Mommy

“Mommy, here’s a sticker for you! It’s your reward for cleaning up my poop.” -Mikey

Ah, the glamorous life of a mother.  No fancy accolades, trophies or prestige’s titles – just stickers…for cleaning up poop.  (I figured we’d keep going with the poop theme.) I love the sticky kisses, spontaneous “I love you Mommy”, and cuddles from little boys.  Many days these moments keep me motivated to push forward.  Too bad that today is not one of those days.  My list is long but my motivation is short.  My attention span – zero.  My discipline to deal with the bills, medical insurance appeals, phone calls, household chores, etc…nil.

So what’s a girl to do?  I am sitting at my kitchen table dreaming of bedtime tonight.  My fluffy pillows. Clean sheets.  My teddy bear (yes, I still have one). Aaahhhh…it’s the stuff of paradise. Can I get a witness?!!!

Stop it! Don’t encourage me! I need to snap out of it. My lack of discipline on days like today astounds me.  ME?! I used to be so neat, orderly, structured…my lists were always “ta-done” and I took pride in my check marks.  I once landed a job because I had a list of questions for my would-be boss written in a bulleted list with small squares to check. That kind of organization and compulsive listing must indicate a good employee, right?  Well, if someone followed me around now – I might get fired.  Or at the very least put on “a plan”.  I can’t even muster a to-do list today.  Let alone my cute little check boxes.  Sometimes to get me started I will write down (and check off) things I’ve already done to motivate myself.

Let’s try it: (pretend the dots are check marks in boxes – grrrrr…can’t figure out how to make WordPress do that!)

  • Get out of bed.
  • Brush teeth. (Scratch, that. Haven’t gotten to that yet today.)
  • Clean up Mikey’s diarrhea (From the contents of his poop I discovered that he ate numerous gumballs when he was unsupervised. So that is what he was calling jellybeans! I guess it’s better than the Lego.)
  • Frantically clean for the cleaners.  (Ladies, why do we ALL clean before the cleaners come?)
  • Answer e-mail to friend I stood up over the weekend. Apologize profusely.
  • Feel guilty while cleaners clean my house.
  • Fold part of the laundry (as an excuse to watch Say Yes to the Dress on the cable television I have been              promising I will cancel for about a year now).
  • Feel guilty for watching television.
  • Lay down to take a nap.
  • Get up in 5 minutes.  Will-power, girl. No nap yet!
  • Wander around my kitchen to decide if I should prep the elaborate meal I promised my husband.
  • Realize I needed 8 hours in the crockpot for it and it will never be ready by dinnertime.  Spaghetti it is.  Wife: 0
  • Rinse the poopy pjs I threw in a disgusting pile this morning and start my daily load of laundry (which I do but never quite getting around to putting away).
  • Eat poptart.
  • Realize I should have eaten poptart before cleaning poopy pjs.
  • Admire my clean house. Remember I forgot to pay cleaners. Poop. (Trying to train myself not to say “crap” as my son has picked up on that word and I will soon be getting a call from his Christian pre-school to discuss appropriate language in the home.)
  • Look at pile of paperwork. Place head on table with arms over head. Maybe if I hide it will go away.
  • Ignore paperwork. Begin blog post.

So that’s about my day thus far.  I could blame it on my headache.  Sinus medicine.  Fatigue.  But, I’ve managed to work through all of that before.  I think it is partly because, as I said in my last blog post, I am hopelessly inept at staying in the moment.  Being present.  Mindful.  I’d make a horrible Buddhist.  Even Yoga drives me batty.  All that focusing on your breath just seems like a waste of time to me.  There are too many things to do to be Zen!  But, then a day like today comes and I can’t seem to get started on any one thing and I think maybe part of the problem is that I am not fully present in the task before me.  I’m not thinking about the clothes as I fold the laundry or the precious children who wear them.  Nor am I using it as a time to pray for my husband as I roll his socks.  If I did then maybe the task wouldn’t be quite so arduous. I don’t take one piece of paper off the pile and focus on it.  I don’t breath.  I hold my breath and tense my muscles.  What if I breathed thanks?

“Thank you God for the gift of medical insurance. Thank you that on this date, at this time, You provided the care my family needed.  Thank you that I have internet to check my balance and a working phone to call for clarity.  Thank you that I have the professional background to understand how insurance companies work.  Thank you for this keyboard to type my letter of appeal.  Thank you for the gift of words.  Words that communicate.  Words that solve problems.  Words that have the power to heal.”

What if?

For the past thirty minutes I have found joy in writing this.  I haven’t thought about what energy it is taking or how many other things I need to do.  I have just been present.  Communicating with you and finding bits of myself amongst the words.  Thank you for sharing this time with me.  Thank you for being in this moment.  I’m going to go find my next moment.

  • Finish blog post.
Category: Uncategorized  One Comment
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