The Day the World Broke

"Wait! Hand hugs!!"

I reach back and grab his thin, small hand. We squeeze our hands together several times in rapid succession while he unbuckles himself with his other hand just before the patrol kid opens his door. It's been over a week since we've gone through the drop off line at school so we almost forgot.

Our hand hugs.

He had the flu and missed the entire week of school. Dropping him off today from the car line I watched him as he waved to me through the window then turned and walked/bounced his way through the breeze way, stopping to chat with his beloved PE teacher. I just watched him in awe, forgetting for a few seconds that I needed to move up. Keep traffic moving.

But there he went. Seven years old. Into his other world of elementary school. First grade.

He exits the car and goes through his day without me. He knows nothing of the Connecticut shootings. Nothing of the twenty children his age who died in their classrooms just on Friday.

Twenty. Such a huge number. Unfathomable.

I often worry about him, wondering if he'll somehow struggle. He's afraid of the fire alarm during drills. I just tell him to be brave and do exactly as his teacher says.

It's never entered my mind to tell him what to do if a gunman ever enters his classroom and starts shooting kids. That's craziness.

But now it's happened. In a small town very far north and east of here.

But now it's happened...



The little one....Sunshine. Her hair beginning its transition from baby fine to soft sweeps of light golden brown. Soft curls forming at the nape of her baby neck.

She sat down on the floor and talked to me this weekend. The first time she's actually seemed to be telling me a story. Something mournful in her own language a year in the making.

A language that will disappear just as quickly. Replaced by words and common phrases. I won't remember her garbled little words. I try real hard but within a minute they're already gone.

A minute.


Help me hold on to my kids, Lord. Let me never take even a minute with them for granted. Let me never know the pain of laying a child to sleep under a blanket of earth. Let the strain of evil that entered Sandy Hook Elementary never visit us here.

One poster on a blog I read mentioned wondering about their socks. The little socks that held the feet of the children who died. Might seem an odd thing to wonder....but not really. To think of the details. A ponytail. A pair of beloved boots. A journal left behind. "I love you, Mama" in crayon.

Crayon.

A little boy who rode on his daddy's shoulders every day to the bus stop....

Twenty little lives ended. Twenty little hearts stilled. Twenty little voices silenced. Twenty little caskets readied.


Come, Lord Jesus. Come quickly.

Why I Don't Miss Facebook....

I left Facebook.

Yup. I sure did. It almost makes me feel like a superhero.

Almost.

Disappear from Facebook and you might as well drop off the face of the Earth....

I don't miss it. At all, actually.

I re-activated a couple of weeks ago just to pop on to see if I was missing anything.... I wasn't. Honestly, I could not back out of there fast enough. "Deactivate your account"? YES, PLEASE.

I'm not even sure what it is, really. I was just getting annoyed. And bored. Lost even.

Facebook can be a wonderful thing. But for me it became a huge distraction. I no longer have my iPhone glued to my hand. I no longer have a dedicated tab opened to Facebook, running in the background behind Word documents and Westlaw. You know, just so I don't miss anything. As a result, my office is clean and organized for the first time in years. That's not at all embarrassing.

Maybe I just felt like I didn't belong at the party anymore. Insecurity. Instead of sitting alone at the table off to the side, maybe I just decided to go home.

Home.

I like home.

I'm sure I'll go back to Facebook.....sometime. Maybe. But not now. And not soon.

I'm discovering my own life. And how much I love it. And maybe it's that I want to hold close what's mine and shut out the world for a little bit.

I take long walks everyday now. Yesterday, I sat in the lush green grass and played with my barefoot baby girl, quietly watching her little hands to make sure they hadn't picked up a dropped acorn on the sly.

For the first time possibly ever, I am someone's favorite. She will choose me over anyone. ANYONE. And I love it. It was surprising at first. Still is. But I relish it. When I pick her up she excitedly pats my shoulder with both hands, her face shining joy with two teeth. If someone else offers to take her, she looks at me, smiles, and excitedly pats my shoulder with both hands again. She chooses me. And every time she does it, she rebuilds a thin layer of confidence that's been lacking.

Why would I want to miss one minute of that for something on Facebook?

I wouldn't.

I Have a Thing About Cars

"I think I just found your next car."

It was back when those words could bring excitement instead of dread.

He had driven past it on the lot at Jordan Ford. Medium Wedgewood Blue. Low miles. The right price.

He took me back to see it the next day. Another salesman was pressuring ours, saying he had someone who wanted it if we weren't going to take it.

No one else was going to take it. It was mine.

We traded Jason's single-cab Chevy S10 for what seemed like bigger than anything we'd ever need. A 1998 Ford Expedition.

It was meant to be. We'd been talking about getting a bigger vehicle....the sole reason being that our dog no longer fit comfortably in either of ours.

He'd surged past 80, 90, 100 and then 120 pounds. Cramped into the back of my tiny Saturn or in the front of Jason's S10 just wasn't cutting it.

Fast forward 10 years down the road.....

That dog is old now. He can't jump up into the back anymore.

It went to the beach and sand bore deep into the carpet. It went camping and Jason packed every square inch of it. It showed a cedar tree who was boss.

It hauled lumber and lawn equipment, carried our two babies home from the hospital. A boy and then a girl.

And last night when Jason handed over the keys and counted the cash, I cried.

So long, old friend. Thank you. You were the best.

210,000 miles. And every last one of them worth it.

Eight

He stood a few steps before me. His hand that bore the scars outstretched, offering to take mine.

I don't want to. I don't know where you're taking me.

I stood there with my arms crossed, feet determined to stay planted on the ground that gave way beneath me.

I didn't trust Him. How could this possibly be meant for good?

Why are You allowing this to happen? What did I do wrong? Can't You just go back and fix it? Please?....

The little life that I had to let go of on July 28, 2004....I had no way of jumping forward to October 4, 2005 or December 8, 2011. And yet I consider all three dates to be dates of enormous blessing. Different, fortunately. I had to go through one to get to the others. And at the time, I couldn't see the joy ahead.

Through the loss of one tiny babe, I gained....so much. There is no trading here. And I can now say that I'm thankful. Thankful to feel beyond myself. Thankful to have learned to hold the hurt and then to tenderly release it.

I have been blessed. Immensely.

My blessings have names. The obvious....Wes and Sunshine.

Jason. Mama and Daddy. Jared. Anna.

My precious girls....Shonda, Mona, Gia, Melissa, Diane, and Kelli. We learned together how to circle the wagons and hold each other up like no one else can. We learned to smile again and laugh. To stretch the cords of friendship across time and across the country. We learned to share life beyond our great losses.

My most treasured friend of thirty-plus years. My April. I can't even find the proper words to thank you. For never giving up on me. For reaching down into the well of darkness and grabbing my hand and never letting go. You have a special jewel in your crown just for loving me.

Eight years. Eight full years have gone by. I didn't want to trust Him and walk in faith into the unseen tomorrow.

I didn't have to....

He carried me instead.




So. Very. Blessed.

The Littlest of These

He pulls off his sleep shirt, forgetting to remove his glasses, and slips another on. Going through the motions of another morning. His light brown hair brushes over the tops of his ears, in dire need of a trim. We brush teeth and comb hair and pull on socks and shoes, not in that order but each having its importance in the morning routine.

He's tired. I'm tired. Woefully lacking in sleep, I start another day. Pushing forward into this one while still dragging yesterday behind me. Drafting a plan of attack I already know will be revised ten times before it's scrapped altogether.

Lost in this race to live life quickly is a little boy. Waiting. To be guided. To be held. To be listened to. To be loved.

I can tell him I love him all I want. Calling it over my shoulder as I race off to whatever happens next.

It means nothing if I don't show it. Words ring hollow. Hugs on the way out the door smack of careless indifference.

I soothe myself by explaining that I do love him in action. I make his breakfast every morning. Warm and welcoming. I prepare and pack his lunch, sometimes with a short note on the napkin. Things he'll remember when he's older.

But what about the right now? I have to make this better. I have to give him something to hold onto. Something to say "Hey, you're still important." Something to make up for the brushing aside.

If nothing else, it is my profound duty as his parent to start his day off well. The world is waiting to tear him down. He needs to know, without question, that I am on his side. That I am cheering for him. That I will celebrate his victories, no matter how small. That I love him without qualification.

This morning as I walked him into school I witnessed a father berating his son in hushed tones. I have no idea what was said, but the look on his pudgy red face and the vacant look on his boy's face told me that this was not uncommon. He was holding his child, his CHILD, by the ears....his face only inches away....and the words spewing from his mouth did not convey love. Sometimes you don't have to hear the words to know what is being said.

My heart hurt for that little boy. I silently lifted him up to the God who IS love and asked for his day to be blessed with grace and for somebody to love him today. As much as I didn't want to, I prayed for the father as well because I know, without a doubt, that his disappointment and anger with his son is merely a reflection of how he sees himself.

Parenting is hard. But at the very least, the VERY LEAST, we must must must start our kids' days off with love. I have scarred myself with guilt over my own words of unkindness to my child. And everyday I have to ask for help from my heavenly Father. Help...and forgiveness. Freely given. Gratefully accepted.

Speak with kindness to your children. They're going to choose our nursing homes, you know.

Thank You

Want to sit down and cry. So tired. And yet so thankful at the same time.

Sunshine had a rough weekend. Some nasty little mosquitos dined on her precious and pristine baby flesh and she was left with painful and itchy red welts as a thank you gift. She cried out multiple times each night and mama never got more than an hour or so of sleep at any stretch.

For a few weeks now she has been waking up a couple of times (three or four times on particularly rough nights) to eat. I can only assume she's in the midst of a growth spurt, as I recently had to purchase the next size up in diapers. Sometimes she doesn't even want that much to eat, just wants to snuggle and be held while she drifts back off to sleep.

So each night I get up. On the nights when irritation creeps in I sniff her neck and let her wrap her chubby little hand around my finger and I'm reminded of those who would give anything for this privilege. And I say thank you. Sometimes I just whisper it over and over, until this little baby, this girl, settles back into sleep and I can take us all back to bed. But then sometimes I just hold her. Rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Because I can.

I've only learned recently to be thankful for my frustrations. Because many times those frustrations are actually blessings wrapped tightly, hidden from immediate view.

I've started to say thank you for everything. The big and the little. My family. Our jobs. Our house. Our cars. I literally thank God for my car every time I get in it. No joke. I felt utterly ridiculous when we bought it. It's flashy (in my mind). So very not me. But it was everything we had prayed for. Big, safe, the sort of deal we would have been foolish to pass up. So I just say thank you. For a God who loves me. Especially when I don't deserve it.

I thank God for the trials, the missteps and corrections, the unspeakable beauty that makes up my life. For His Son and His sacrifice. My Jesus.

I thank Him for my friendships forged through gut wrenching pain. I thank Him for doors opened and closed. I thank him for too much laundry, too many dishes, a house that I cannot possibly clean in one day. It means that I have much. I have more than enough.

I thank Him that my days are full. That I have a family to get up and take care of for hours before I go to work. I thank Him for the job I have had for nearly 14 years. I thank Him for a boss who claims that if I ever leave, he's going with me. I thank Him that said boss says this in front of clients.

I'm thankful for a mama who still takes care of me, trying each day to make MY life just a little easier. For her flexibility, her kindness, her wisdom and humor. That she loves me. That she's here.

I'm thankful for my daddy. My daddy who always greets me with excitement. My daddy who still works so hard. My daddy who is always smiling, who calls my friends not by name but mija.

I thank Him that I have breakfasts, lunches, and dinners to prepare. For bellies to fill and warm bodies to hug. For little people who make noise. So much noise.

And even if no one else says thank you, I will. Sure, I'll bitch about it just a little bit. But then grace and gratitude quietly walk in and I remember.

Tiny hands reaching for my face. MY face. Eyes gazing wide and wondering. Babbles that mean something very important.

Thank you for the gifts I can never repay.

Sugar Mama

It's clear I haven't blogged in a while. (And by the way, I hate the term "blogged"....it just sounds dumb.) This whole "dashboard" thing where I write my posts looks totally different and I don't know where anything is anymore.

I don't really have anything profound to say, so I'll just tell you a little story about what happens when you eat things you know you shouldn't.

So, I'm about to start this great little sugar detox. Why? Because I have a massive addiction to sugar. I love it. Actually, I don't really. I hate how it makes me feel, and yet I still eat it. In increasingly gigantic amounts. That's what makes it an addiction.

Anyway, I decided to trek over to Whole Foods at lunch and invest in some quality nut oils and also some coconut butter. See how I was being all healthy and stuff? Well, just wait. I had this fantastic thought that since tomorrow I shall begin the process of detoxifying my addicted self, I should go ahead and get one last little (big) treat in. I wanted an ice cream sundae. Or a frozen custard sundae....whatev. This is where things went horribly wrong.

"I'd like an unsweetened iced tea (yay!) and a LARGE turtle sundae (boo!), please." I gazed longingly at the sundae as it was passed to me through the drive thru window. My mouth may or may not have made slurping noises. I pray it did not. The sundae was covered with a handy little clear plastic lid and I could see that the sweet little drive thru chick had packed it as full of custardy, chocolatey, caramely (it's a word) and whipped cream goodness as was humanly possible. I blessed her lovely self and drove away.

What happened next I totally deserved.... I removed said handy plastic lid only to lose my grip on the container and FLIPPED THE WHOLE DAMN THING into my console's cup holder!!! Gooey goodness went everywhere.

Crap. Not that anyone was watching or would totally scold me for enjoyment of this sweet treat (except for my brother....I choose to think that's because he loves me), but I was completely overcome with shame. I just dumped a LARGE turtle sundae all over the front console of my car. I couldn't have opted for the small....that would have been all too reasonable and self-restricting.

So I frantically started to clean as well as I could....with the ONE napkin the establishment had provided me. Awesome.

I then realized, "Hey! I missed my clothes! Yay!!" Not a complete fail after all. The one napkin was used up quickly so I decided to just let the mess be until I could get home and clean it up properly. But then my husband would know what I did. (Note: my husband has never judged me for my enjoyment of sugar. He doesn't have a sweet tooth, but he's content to let me have mine.) I started to feel ashamed all over again. Mostly for being completely inept but also for the sheer volume of sundae that now resides in my front seat.

As if all of that wasn't enough, it was on the return drive to work that I realized I have truly lost all control. A nice blob of caramel had flung itself onto the steering wheel. So you know what I did? I LICKED THE STEERING WHEEL. Yep. Sure did. Right there in front of God and everybody.

Yeah, it's time to get a hold of myself. I apologize in advance to any of you who must encounter me during sugar detox. Dirty looks and sarcasm are near certainties. Foul language is probable.

And once I'm over my sugar-loving self, I'll go back to being lovely and charming and judgmental about the contents of other people's grocery carts. Looking forward to it!

Breaking

Why did that sweet boy have to die?

I don't know, friend. I don't know. He was so young. His life cut short by his own hand. He could not have known the grief he would leave behind.

I've often wondered if they truly know what they're doing when they do it. If they understand that it's permanent. To exit this world for the next prematurely.

It could have been different. Maybe. If he had known that "this too shall pass."

Sometimes I wish for my kids never to have broken hearts. Never to feel the pain of loss. Shield them from what really hurts.

But I've learned that there can be beauty in brokenness. When light hits the cracks, the soil of the broken heart brings forth new life. A new talent. A gift before unknown. Compassion.

When something breaks you can see what it's made of.

The folding of socks on a Friday night. July of 2004. So clear even now. I stood at the kitchen table. Folding them in pairs. White. All of them. The grief slipped in unnoticed. Knocked me down when I wasn't looking. We'd been told we could try again. In a year.

A whole *#@&$^! year.

I spent that next day sitting on my bathroom floor. Afraid. Afraid that if I left, I would take more than was necessary to dull the pain.

So I sat there. For an entire Saturday.

I'm not "there" anymore. I have grace. God gifted me with the most wonderful family. The most wonderful friends. My precious friend who has taken care of me time and time again.

Light hit the cracks. New ground was broken. Turned over. Fed and watered. It was long and it was difficult, but the promise of passage was fulfilled. Survival. Growth. Prosperity.

I am blessed. Doubly. I have new socks to fold. And new feet to fill them.

Be kind. This life is rough. It is also incredibly, achingly beautiful. Hang on. Don't let go before you get to see the beauty.

And help someone else. They might really, really need it.

Be kind.

Help Wanted

March. 1 and then 2....all the way here from December. How did it get like this? Each day bleeds into the next and before I know it they become weeks, months.

I can't keep my house clean. I can't make dinner on time. I can't seem to hold things in order without something spilling out and making a mess.

I was not born with the gift of organization. I wasn't exactly born a creative type either. I seem to stand in the carpeted hallway somewhere between the rooms of orderly and hot mess. And I don't feel like I particularly belong in either. I hold my bags on either side of me....carrying weight. The weight of the day. The weight of this week. The weight of what might happen if I don't choose quickly which room I want to stay in. For the night. For what remains of winter. For until my kids grow up and move away from me.

And that's it. My kids will grow up. "Babies don't keep."

This is why I write things out....to show myself what I can't see otherwise.

I'm more guilty than not of the I can't...the not right now....the I'm busy. Too busy trying to tidy up the inside to go and enjoy the outside. That could be a metaphor for living too deeply inside my brain and not moving my body so as to achieve a greater sense of whole. I won't get there by just thinking about it.

I won't make memories with my children, my beautiful children, by lamenting the time I spend doing laundry instead of playing ball or watching the same skateboard trick over and over or holding a chubby baby in my lap and watching her eyes light up as she babbles and coos in her just found voice.

My boy and I....we're struggling. Struggling to find our new place now that we have a new person. "I'm mad at you but I don't know why." I'm just amazed at his six year old ability to even articulate that. That hard place. That anger at something unknown. The what's broken.

He was sick when she was born. I wasn't there. It was his first taste of the "step aside, please....coming through." Sicker than he had ever been.

These hurts matter. And I didn't make it right. I'm trying. Maybe not hard enough. Maybe there's too much laundry. Maybe the floor's dirty. Maybe someone will stop by and see. Maybe I shouldn't care.

"Babies don't keep.".....

Ain't no Sunshine when she's gone....

She finally settled down and went to sleep as I rocked her in her newly painted room, her lamp softly glowing, lighting our last few hours before I would leave her and resume my "other" day job. I waited until her tiny mouth fell open and she let her head rest fully on my arm before I carried her into our room and strapped her into the bouncer inside the pack 'n play where she's slept since we first brought her home.

Exhausted and anxiously awake, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, resigned to the fact that tomorrow would be altogether different. Turning around I saw that she was now wide awake, staring in wide-eyed wonderment at the ceiling fan circling slowly overhead. Silly girl.

She woke me up with a loud and determined cry this morning just before my alarm was set to go off. I fumbled for my glasses, untucked her and carried her to her room to be changed and fed. Not liking to sit in her own soil for long, it turned out that all she wanted was a clean diaper and resisted my offer to feed her. With her content to settle back in to sleep, I was grateful for a few extra minutes myself.

This morning went incredibly smoothly. Looking presentable prior to six a.m. is something that has not happened in a long while. And I still managed to get hot breakfast on the table for the boys....and on time! My boy woke up with a happy face and asked me to hold his hand as we walked down the stairs together. I wrapped him in a blanket like I always do and set him in front of his plate. He asked for a cup of hot chocolate and I gladly complied. It's kind of rare that he is so sweet and agreeable in the morning. God must have known that I needed a gentle hand today....

After helping him into his new longer jeans and cinching the waist to fit and not fall down (thank God for little boy jeans with adjustable waists!), he pulled on his cowboy boots, kissed and hugged me goodbye and put on his jacket and backpack. He waved to me as he always does from his backseat window as he and his daddy drove away.

It was time. I had to wake her up, change and feed her, settle her in her car seat and go. She smiled at me and talked to me in sweet baby noises while I readied her bag with the last few extras I worried she might need for the day. Tears spilled over (mine, not hers) and I urged myself to hold it together. We drove the minute and fifteen seconds it takes to get to my mom's house from ours and I carried her inside, unloaded her gear, and prepared to leave my little girl for the first time.

I hate this. I know it's necessary. But I still hate it. I remind myself to be thankful for my good job, my good employer. And I remind myself that I have not one but TWO beautiful kids to come home to tonight. I am blessed beyond reason. Beyond anything I can imagine.

My mom texts me when I get to work to see if I'm alright. I tell her I am but am worried I won't be able to get my big ass new car out of the parking garage after work. She tells me "God would not have given you a big ass car if you couldn't!"....She's right. :)

And so we start life again....with a thankful heart for all that it holds, and a few extra prayers about the parking garage.


(As for the title of this entry, it's my sister's new tune to sing to Sunny. Sunny has yet to express approval.)