My Longest Year

Baby Book: I love how little kids think their parents can do ANYthing

I remember going through a crocheting-spell (you know, two kids and a small business ago).  At the time I think Evyn thought I could make anything out of yarn.  It was incredibly sweet that she thought I was so amazing that I could just whip up a - desk - or pants - or whatever - out of yarn. 

She's six now.  And I literally catch myself tearing up a bit when it hits me that she will just keep growing up.  Not be so little...naive...innocent...someday.

Tonight the girls asked me to sing them to sleep.  So I spent a few short minutes on each of their beds.  I had a migraine this morning.  And I'm just not that talented, so I was actually laughing inside as I was singing to Evyn and thinking to myself, I wonder if she notices how terrible of a singer I am?  I mean the girl loves Taylor Swift.  Isn't it sweet that she still wants to listen to Mommy sing, too?  I kissed her on the forehead and started down the ladder to her bunk as her sweet little voice popped up, "Mommy, you should be on a stage.  I'm not kidding.  You should sing on a stage."  It made me giggle. "You should sing on a stage because I think other people would love to hear you, too."

Besides thinking what a sweet, thoughtful little girl I'm raising, it was another reminder of the power of words to encourage and lift up. 

Sidenote: I have known about blog books for a while now but recently found a fairly easy version to use, so my apologies in advance if you dear readers must endure some "listen to what my kid said" posts.  I normally post those to Facebook.  But since they've not made it very easy to archive statuses into a journal, I guess I'll be posting those here.  I can't count on my brain to recall it all for me, and really, I have to have memories like this For Keeps.

Published! (see p. 76) Flour Power: Flour-Sack-Turned-Market Bag

Honestly, I've actually been published a couple of times, and for some reason have never shared.  But this time I promised myself I'd post it...

See how it's all pixelated?  That's because it's a crappy cell phone picture. Who cares?  I'm published!  This is a Sew News special issue that comes out once a year and has a bunch of cute sewing tutorials (mine included, ahem - did I say turn to page 76 yet?).

Here's my oldest, modeling my project for me.  It actually takes me back a little...

 

 

a christmas visit (a sweet little slideshow)

We tend to hoard James' vacation - in part because we just don't have the TIME for him to take it and partly because we enjoy using it at Christmas time to stay at home and spend our days in pajamas with coffee and the kids, or catching up on little projects around the house.  This year I decided to use a few days to go visit my grandparents.  We don't live near family and it's pretty difficult for me to get away without dragging the kiddos with me. 

I did some work while I was there, and also took some time out to take some pictures of my mom (who met up with me) with her parents. 

You may remember they both broke their hips within a week of each other, and that was the beginning of the decision to move permanently into Assisted Living.  It's been a real trial for them...I am grateful that they can afford a good place (save your pennies, folks!).  Grateful that my mom can visit them as frequently as she does (although I know it's not easy for her to with a business of her own to run).  And grateful that they have surviving family members in nearby Kentucky who have been working tirelessly to help them get their affairs in order.

From what I understand, they have good days and bad days.  Both of them have struggled with bouts of depression while they adjust to this loss of independence.  And both of them are now entering stages of dimentia. It's harder to converse with them now, and that alone is saddening.  I wanted to capture a mostly-lucid visit with them so I brought my camera along.  It was a little harder than I thought - since they spend a lot of their time sitting and not doing much. ;)  But we had some fun moments, and I've learned to be just as grateful for moments as anything else.

(ps. You'd have to know Grandpa to appreciate the creamers and toilet paper and box of harmonicas...he has spares of all of them in his walker tote...)

Music credit: Ingrid Michaelson The Way I Am

Grace

he made it.

I wish I had a quarter for every time I thought that.

The day he surprised me after his first tour in Iraq - he drove all night from DC to get to me in NY (even got pulled over by a cop, but was let go when the cop, apparently worried about his disheveled appearance, asked where he was coming from - "Baghdad.").  I'll never forget that feeling in the early morning when he crawled into bed and hugged me tightly.  I can't describe what that meant to my mental health - I had started grieving his possible death as soon as he left on Valentines Day; I was bombarded with images of war and uncertainty all day at the television station where I worked; and I went to bed in tears every night as I drifted off to the general's debriefing on CNN, and woke to the same every morning.  Then, there he was, holding me, and I breathed all that anxiety out.  He made it.

He had come home for an unexpected family emergency so there was no hero's welcome.  But he was home.

***

The day he called me from his second tour.  Since he was on a small ten-man team and fairly busy with the job at hand, we didn't get to speak often, but when we did it was at length.  At the end of one conversation he mentioned it - almost as an afterthought - "Oh yeah.  I got a bronze star."  Not a small prize, but I was proud of him.  What an accomplishment.  He made it!

Usually an honor of that caliber comes with a somewhat elaborate ceremony.  It was sent to us in a padded envelope in the mail.  James didn't seem bothered.  But I was.  He had braved a pretty dangerous mission for that star.

***

And I cannot describe the wave of relief when he called to say he was in Germany, on his way home.  Evyn and I arrived at the airport, excited to finally welcome him home.  It would be a fairly plain scene - no Army band, no large group of soldiers and families.  His team had left as detachments and came home equally singular and almost unnoticed.  I wish there had been the pomp and circumstance to match the amount of hell he and his team had been through.  But I was just so grateful he was home.  This was a tour he himself was most unsure about.  But he made it.  The whole team made it. Uninjured.  Alive.

***

He's in the Guard on weekends now.  Our life is a lot more calm and predictable.  But I know it bothered him that he left as a Captain.  Before he dropped his papers, there were talks about his track to Major.  He never said it, but I know he was thinking it would have been nice.

And here we are.  Tonight he came home from drill with this:

There's a shinier one on his beret.  But after everything else, this seems fitting. ;)

Congratulations, J.  You made it. 

Peace for M.

If you have kids you might already recognize the scene: Ash with a Strawberry Shortcake boo-boo ice pack, bought in such a hurry it still has the plastic tag on it.

Yesterday I was at Target, with all three munchkins.  And the two oldest ones were carrying on in the store as usual.  Flitting and dancing and twirling about without a thought or care to how far they'd gotten from me or how inconvenient they were making it for everyone else to get around them.  I love that they have imaginative spirits, and that they dance to some music that only exists between them.  But I get totally annoyed - I can't keep track of them, and they need to learn a little self-control.  It's Target, not our back yard.

So when I finally laid down the law and insisted that they return to the cart and stay out of the middle of the aisle, and they came running back to me, I should have anticipated it.  Three feet before she got to the cart, Ash tripped and fell. Right on the slim, shiny bar at the bottom shelf of the cart -a hard metal whack that fit perfectly in the crook of her nose between her eyes.

This picture doesn't do the damage justice.  She screamed and cried and within seconds the space between her eyes was swollen and bruising.  We ran to the pharmacy for aspirin and an ice pack, and she sat in the cart bravely. 

I started panicking.  What if there was some weird detrimental vein in that spot?  Here I was nonchalantly shopping for school supplies and maybe she was about to pass out, or had a brain trauma, or some crazy thing that I was now cursing all those urban legends for putting in my mind.  I had nausea from the anxiety.  I called my friend with the accident-prone child.  She said I should call the doctor.  Now my heart was a little bit quick.  I called my friend and pediatrician.  And as it turns out, God does care about the small things.  Doctor Lisa was in the store.  So a few minutes later, there we were.  An office visit in the baby aisle at Target.

She's fine.  Probably.  We'll know after an official visit in the morning.  But that's not the point of this story.  In fact, I'm not sure there is a point.

Because several hours later, I received word that a childhood friend of mine was watching her daughter die in gut-wrenching, horrific pain from an accidental overdose of medicine used to treat her cancer.   

I tried to convey it to James between sobs.  Ten times the proper dose.  Fried her kidneys.  She's in excruciating pain.  Her mother is watching this.  Can you fathom it, James?  We have to pray for their peace.

From her journal yesterday: "Sweet Lord have mercy on us."

And this morning: "Makiah's spirit left her body this morning." 

She was five.

I panicked at a bruise.

What never-ending ache must these parents be feeling?

I don't have a sweet close to this post.  Just this: I believe in empathy.  I believe it's necessary sometimes to try to imagine someone else's pain.  Not just to remind you to appreciate life or hug your kids tighter.  In fact, I'd go so far as to say - if all you get out of someone else's hurt is a reminder to love your own life/family/blessings, you are missing out on some of what God would have for you.  Not to torture yourself.  But to be an intercessor.  Honestly, I don't even know everything that really means or entails but I know it's part of God's calling for us.  And it starts with empathy.

To weep with the hurting.  To bear some of their pain with them.  For our daily prayers to be only for someone else sometimes, that they might be blessed - whatever that looks like - be it relief from debt, joy in their day, or strength and peace for their dying daughter.  

You don't know little M.  I've never met little M.  But I'm weeping in grief and prayer for all that lies ahead of them...and God would love to hear our prayers for them tonight.

we.

You would think exiting the Army would boost a marriage instantly.  In some ways, it has.  But our relationship has also suffered in all kinds of ways we couldn't have imagined.  We have a beautiful life, some really great friends, and three marvelous children.  But getting out of the Army exposed all kinds of holes we didn't know were there - that we had missed or overlooked while enduring the stress and chaos that war, deployments, and moves brought on.  Those years in the Army were a constant rush - hails, farewells, new friends, goodbyes, deployments, missions, ftxs, some new exciting or awful place around the corner...there was an almost predictable ebb and flow of activity that kept us constantly distracted. 

And now here we are.  Sometimes feeling less connected than ever, even though we are always within inches, feet, or just a few miles of each other.  Weird, right?  We get very little real time together.  So we hired a babysitter for Saturday.  And have spent all week looking forward to it.  And last night I finally picked up a piece of paper that had been floating around the girls' room for several days. 

Evyn has this incredible visual memory, and these days they take shape on paper.  I asked her about this one.  "It's you and Daddy holding hands outside," she smiled.  I looked at her quizzically.  I couldn't remember the last time we'd held hands anywhere.  But she insisted - "You and Daddy were outside, and you were holding hands.  I remember.  I don't remember what day, though." 

What a serendipitous, sweetly packaged little gift from God this week.  

And Evyn requested I hang it on our door, so we can look at it and enjoy it. 

would you look at that...

You probably think this is an ordinary picture of a sleeping baby.  But, for me, you are looking at a picture of my mental health.  If that sounds like a joke, I assure you it's not.

You see, we are coming up on what some were expecting to be Meltdown No. 2.

When Ashlyn was this age she did not take naps.  And she did not sleep for long stretches at night.  That probably seems reasonable to most people - after all, most babies grow out of that.  But for me it was devastation.  On and off for years now I have suffered anxiety, largely due to something called "catastrophic thinking."  The long and short of it is that when I am overtired, and in an anxious state, my thoughts race to the extreme.  "Always" and "never" become my vocabulary.  And it spirals from there.  When Ashlyn was this age, I was just sure she was almost never going to sleep through the night or take a reasonable nap.  I got little sleep, and, coupled with anxiety, I started to think the marathon of sleeplessness and her unpredictable schedule would never end.  And one day I just cracked.

Thankfully, my small group of new friends rallied around me, my mom came to visit, and James took off work so that I could get better.  And in a relatively short amount of time, I did.  At the same time, Ashlyn started sleeping mostly through the night and started taking naps of an hour or more.  It's hard to say if I would have gotten better so fast if she had continued to be difficult, but I have a feeling I would have still been anxious if her schedule hadn't improved.

Fast forward to the day I found out I was pregnant with Surprise Baby.  I could not picture a third baby - it was not a family dynamic I had experienced or thought that I wanted.  And even once I accepted - even started looking forward to - our sweet third baby, there was a shadow that loomed over the joy whenever my husband and friends talked about the baby.  Frankly, they were all waiting to see if I'd crack again.  

And here's the thing: if Cam wasn't a sleeper, I just might have.  I remember one of the few evenings he had a difficult time getting back to sleep after a bottle and I could feel the irritation and racing thoughts welling up almost instantly.  I pushed them back, remembering that even if he was a repeat of Ashlyn's tendencies, it would eventually be okay.  But I was hoping and praying that I wouldn't have to work so hard just to keep my head in a reasonable frame of mind.

God thought to have mercy on me.  Cam is going on 11 weeks old (you'll notice I thought he was three months old last week - you lose track of time when your family turns into a small daycare).  He sleeps from 8 PM until 4:00 AM most nights and has even gone to almost 7AM several times.  He takes two 2-hour naps a day and when he's awake, he's content and happy to just look around.  It is nothing short of amazing for me and a huge answer to prayer.

I didn't take this picture just to capture how sweet Cam is, with those beautiful lashes and daddy's cleft chin.  I took it to remember to thank God for giving me a break.  At times it seemed downright selfish to have asked God for a sleeping baby - when some just want a healthy one.  But to me this is a perfect reminder that God isn't just for miracles.  God is in the daily, the every day, the mundane, the small.  And I'm grateful for it.

"because I have three"

That's what I want to get put on a t-shirt or tattoo on my forehead.  It would explain away so much...like why my hair looks like this. Or why there are about 13 coffee cups in my minivan right now.  Or why I am showing up a good 15 minutes later than usual (which is already 15 minutes late) to my daughter's preschool.  Or why I showed up to Ashlyn's Mother's Morning Out with a plastic Walmart bag in lieu of a "real" diaper bag (we have several of them - where ARE they when you're heading out the door, though?).  Or why my house looked like this yesterday (yes, these are all from the same day):

 

I have several friends who are currently pregnant with #3.  And I want to invite them to my house for a sort of "walk-through" - you know, like the schools do for little preschoolers who are about to enter Kindergarten.  A sort of "here's what you can expect" open house for would-be moms of three children.  I want them to come over and watch me feed the baby with one hand while prying a medicine bottle out of the two-year old's hands with my other hand while talking to Customer Service at the electric company while gesturing at the five year old with my head to please get me a diaper.  I mean, if a trip to Walmart isn't birth control enough, a trip to my house is a close second.

I am actually really enjoying my three.  Honestly.  I can tell I'm really going to love it.  It's just kinda noisy and hectic and messy. 

And beautiful.

those blue eyes

I think I was about twenty when I met James.  My car had been hit by a deer (yes, it is my contention the deer hit ME) and had already been in the shop for two weeks.  I was at the mercy of my roommate's social calendar if I wanted to do ANYthing.  I'd just painted my nails, and she was about to make the 25-minute drive to her boyfriend's house and wanted me to tag along and meet his roommate.  Ew, a blind date.  Blech.  "No, my nails aren't dry," I whined.  She rolled her eyes and after several back and forths ("he's really sweet, and cute, and we already told him you're coming; he wants to meet you..." etc after etc), I finally agreed to go. 

Half an hour later, I was staring at the white door of a run-down apartment complex, waiting to see what this guy was really like.  I'll skip to the end first - we didn't click at all.  He was quiet (too quiet), reserved, very Caucasian (the kind that doesn't tan), and quiet. We really didn't like each other.  Looking back, he recalls that I was cute.  But too loud. And direct.  Not very girly.  But something I do remember from that first night was the moment he opened that grungy white door - how very blue and twinkly sweet his eyes were. 

There is nothing super important about that moment, except that now I remember it as the first moment of a night that was really UNspectacular.  An evening we really don't remember much about, but that changed our lives forever. 

I can't tell you how many times I look at my little girls (eta: and sweet Cam) and there I am again - my future husband at the door.  It makes me smile.  How two people at one point in time had NO clue that 12 years into the future they'd share a history of loss, war, several moves across the country, two children, and another pleasant surprise on the way...It tickles me every time.