Isaac has a juicy butt? I didn't ask, either should you.....

“Isaac has a juicy butt, Isaac has a juicy butt!” Zach streaks past in nothing but what God gave him on the day he was born.

Isaac is streakin’ right behind, laughing in hilarity!  He has no idea what a juicy butt is, but Zachie is running and yelling out his name- so, that’s fun!

Zach, exasperated, collapses to the laminate floor with a thud. “Ouch!”

Yeah, learning that floors hurts isn’t just a lesson we’re learning- it’s literally a brand new lesson every day.

Everyday we discover, things that were hot yesterday are still hot today. Everyday we discover jumping from the couch, to the ottoman, to the floor and misjudging our landing hurts.  Everyday we discover, throwing toys will get mommy just has mad as yesterday and cleaning up, and depending on the veracity and target- a red bum may follow.  Everyday we re-learn all the sames of the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that.  And today it’s just as surprising as the first time we learned that lesson.

However, what is retained and forever proclaimed, are butts.  Zachie and Isaac have discovered their butts and the lovely things that these funny parts produce.

No one ever tells you the things that kids not only will say, but to the extent that you literally live it everyday.

Oh, sure- you know kids say the darndest things! And you know they have antics and manipulations with those sweet face, those big eyes and the sweetest words, motivated by their little desires.  And you know they can be goofy and silly and giddy with a never ending supply of energy. This is strange, because as you raise these children, you also discover, they don’t eat! So where the heck does this energy come from?!

But what you don’t know is how weird and bizarre your world is going to get.

“I win! I beat you!  Hahahahaha!”

Oh, a game! Yes. A game. My boys play games. Do your young children play games? Like, oh, Chutes and Ladders? Hungry Hippo?  Maybe some version of Jenga? 

They do?! That’s nice.

My boys play bath games. Like who can pee first. Who can pee the most. Who can pee on the other.  And no one warned me how to address these moments. 

“Stop peeing on your brother!”

“Get out of the trash and stop eating the paper!”

“Who put all the hot wheels in the fish tank?!”

“Who pooped on the kitchen table!?”  (Yes, this is what happens when you are trying to do dishes for a second and suddenly everyone is screaming and there’s poop on the table.)

The culprit was Isaac. For some reason, in 5 seconds flat, he climbed on the table. With sheer glee, I can only imagine, he ripped free from his diaper and did what only comes natural to Isaac.

I know it was him, because his little naked butt went haulin’ down the hallway.  All the while, Zachie screamed, “Poop! Poop! Poop!”  He’s very helpful.

I see families out and about, walking all Brady like around town. Their sweet children dressed to the nine.  Obedient, pious and calm.  I’m ashamed to say, I may have asked these people what their secret is.  

“Benadryl?” I inquire.  They stare at me, I can tell they are eager to get away from me and my feral children.

“I a race car!”  “Zoom, zoom like Bolt”  And off he goes! I take them to a Children’s Christmas party.

Zachie spends the entirety of it racing laps around the facility.  Literally, this is all he does.  Santa gives out a surprise arm in one instance, swooping up Zachie.  Briefly, he is stunned into some sort of shocked adrenaline letdown; however this is brief, his eyes shine bright, he let’s out a loud,

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!” 

And he is released, he sprints away.  Isaac desperately tries to keep up, his little legs scrambling in futile effort and spends much of the time slamming into the hard cement floor.

I hear the “Ohh, noo!” “Oh, dear!”  And I see there’s an expectation for me to dramatically kneel to my child’s side and whisk him up with kisses and “Poor baby!”

Isaac falls 15,000 times a day. He falls into the floor, the wall, the couch, the bed, the toilet, the tub, off the bench, into the frig, against the rails, off of the choo-choo.  So when Isaac falls on the hard cement floor, I fail to impress the other parents. I just sit and watch if he cries. If he cries, I’ll get up.

“Hehehehe,” He giggles, and flies towards the bathrooms. 

Ok, I get up and dash towards him.  He beats me in.  Luckily before he can crash land, he stretches out his little hands and uses the toilet to keep himself upright. Nice.

And Zachie is still racing laps.

And we go home.

Sometimes I bring them to McDonald’s. Really, not to eat; more to exert energy in a town there are few places for little busy bodies to be cured of Cabin Fever.

We race laps there too. Well, Zachie does. And as he often does, he misjudges the height of the climbing platforms and rams into one.

“MOOOOOOM!”

I come to investigate the results, “Are you okay?”

“My bones are dizzy”

I have no idea how to heal or confirm the validity of dizzy bones.  So I give the only advice I can really only give, “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. Shake it off.”

And he does! And he’s off again!  As it turns out shaking it off cures a number of Zachie only ailments; blood that hurts, arms that feel bad, eyes that are sad and of course, dizzy bones.

Meanwhile, Isaac is not interested in McDonald’s play place, nor is he interested in a toy or anything else kid designed. Isaac is interested in the trash receptacle and the fact that there’s a door that opens. This is worthy of much time and tantrums to get to. 

Luckily, I've got my handy back up plan! “Isaac, look! Chickens!”

Have I mentioned that Isaac loves chickens?  He LOVES chickens. “CHICKENS!”  Isaac also thinks all birds, including Seagulls, are chickens.

There are “chickens” flying around McDonald’s parking lot.  He runs to window to watch them, he scrunches up in sheer joy and signs contently, “Chickens.”

A lady smiles at him and says, “You all have chickens?”

I say, “No, he just really like chickens for some reason.”

“Oh.”

And of course, since we’re out at McDonald’s and it’s usually chaotic on some level, someone must poop. There’s always gotta be poop, otherwise, you’re not going out in public properly with my boys.

And then, we go home.

At home, I am learning what I sound like.

“You check your attitude!”

“You being rude!”

“I gonna spank your butt!”

'Relax, Jen!' You may be thinking. But this isn’t me. This my Zachie.  Lately, he has taken the roll of disciplinarian of Isaac. 

I remind Zach that I am in charge of the discipline around here and that he should have patience with his brother, “He’s still learning, Zachie, You need to be big helper, his teacher.”

“Humph,” Zachie hates that idea.” I NEVER play with you again, Igee (family pet name for Isaac).” And he storms off.  Never is about 5 minutes in this house.

Isaac, in a fit of smiles and anticipated tickles, charges down the hallway.  He’s pretty sure someone is chasing him. No one is chasing him.  He squeals anyways, and of course, who can resist, we all chase him.  Zachie is playing with his brother again.

They have retreated down the hall to play in their room. 

They emerge after a few minutes racing their trucks, barreling full force toward the kitchen.  They have for reasons unexplained, stripped.

“Isaac has a juicy butt! Isaac has a juicy butt!”

I look up at Marc as they circle and I wanna ask, but I’ve learned- asking isn’t always a good idea.  Isaac doesn't mind being accused of having one, who am I to question what it is?

“Ok, boys! Calm down time, time for movie!” I round them up.

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,” Isaac has decided.

“I hate Thomas! NO!” Zachie has decided.

Oh no! They've developed ….. personal taste!  

Hangin' out with Trouble Makers!

I only know girls. That’s not true. I used to only know girls. It’s all that had been around me. I grew up with my mother, my sister and myself, the house of gals!  I grew up with girl cousins.  I had boy cousins too and played with them, but I gravitated towards my girl cousins. There are a lot of girls in my family. My grandparents had 3 girls, mom and my aunts.  My grandfather’s brother had four girls, my second cousins.  My cousins started having babies, more girls.  OK, they had boys too, but at first, it was the girls. And now the cousins’ babies are growing up having babies, and yep! Girls!  My best friend had two girls. Then my sister had two girls.  I know a lot of girls that like to go on and on about how they only had guy friends not girl friends, cause some how that made them cooler and more down to earth or blah, blah, blah, something, something. But I had a ton of girl friends and I’m still pretty sure I’m as cool as I think I am in my own head.  I had some guy friends, but again, I gravitated to my girl friendships. I got girls, girls made sense to me.  The world of boys was foreign to me and I just steered clear of getting messy.

I didn’t want to have children, forever! But sort of always knew, if I did, I’d have a boy. But I didn’t have to worry about it, forever! Because I wasn't going to have children.  This is why you should never depend upon yourself and your own knowledge. You know nothing, least of all the future- and God loves to prove that! 

When we first decided to foster, with the hope we may adopt our own (yeah, I’m skipping the whole how I came to want kids bit), I just knew it would be a boy and that petrified me. I knew dolls, I knew Barbie and My Little Pony and I knew Jem and The Holograms.  I knew how to play house and even though I bit mine, I know about painting nails. I’m not all girly and frilly (clearly, if you've met me) and know little about pretty hairdos or make-up, but I get that girls dig that stuff and can support it.  I get the emotional breakdowns over things that will pass quickly (like sixth grade and boys at the dances), I get having crushes you’d just die for that don’t know your first name and I know secrets between best friends are precious gifts (Just ask mine –we know too much about each other and I think its an unsaid agreement, what we know, we take to the grave).  And I know the, you know, physiological stuff.  The boy “stuff’, was a different world that I didn’t want to delve into!  What did I know about boys?

Boys were loud! They were disobedient and challenging! Boys destroyed stuff! They ran around and yelled! Boys were violent and mean and bullied!  Boys played rough and fought, wrestled and completed. Boys fart and laugh, Boys burp and laugh, Boys tell rude jokes and laugh.  Boys didn’t listen or follow routines or instructions. Boys were trouble! No! Boys were Trouble, capital ‘T’!  Raising a boy! That was terrifying.

I think I've mentioned a time or two, I’m hard headed and don’t take in learnin’ the easy way.  God always has to give it to me the hard way to teach me right!  God gave me boys.  Boys! And how fast does a girl knowing momma fall in love with a trouble makin’ boy? 

Oh, instantly!

They called us and told us they had a trouble maker in the hospital! He was sick and cried a lot. He was in pain and struggle to cope with what his little body had been dealt. He wasn't doing so swell and lots of tummy trouble. He’d be a challenge and we’d have hard work with this one.  He’d come with medication, he’d come with charts to fill out and scores to keep up with.  He’d come with tremors, sensitivities to noise and lights, vomit and wailing.  He’d come sleepless and uncomfortable. It wouldn't be an easy road, do we want in?  Psht! Bring it! We were there that night.  We walked in and there he was! Screaming in his bathtub- just awesome! Just perfect! Just what God had order- a beautiful boy for us, Zachie.

Oh, then trouble maker number two blew on to the scene.  Willful and loud and demanding! He decided he had enough of a small little space and wanted out in the worst way, but a little too soon.  But he wasn't scared; he knew he was strong and ready for the world.  9 weeks early, he had us around his teeny, tiny pinkie- Special rooms, special beds, special meds, special food, special tubes, and special large medical bills.  My favorite answer to give when a doctor asks, ‘How long has he been sick like this?’ is “Well, he was born two years ago, so let’s see…yeah, two years.” And they look at me like I said at punch line and I say, ‘That’s my final answer.”  But he came on the scene with the strength of prayers on his side- just awesome! Just perfect! Just what God had order- a beautiful boy for us, Hurricane Isaac.

And now I know boys.  I know boys are loud! But it’s giddy, fun and wonderfully infectious! And full of adventure!  They are oriented to try hard and please, and so anything that challenges them they’ll proudly proclaim, “I win, I the best!” And they’ll fall into your arms for a big hug and kiss.  They destroy everything in their path because it’s what it was created for! Block towers raise high over heads, train tracks weave in and out of furniture! Piles of blanket forts and trucks lined up as long as rugs!  It’s all for the sole purpose for the ‘bad guy” to destroy! But not to worry! Spider-man will come along soon and avenge them all!!!!!  Boys are sweet, helpful and so large in their loving!  They say I love you with grins of ketchup.  They kiss you all over your face with the peanut butter lips.  They hug you with a wind up run across the kitchen floor.  And yes- boys fart and laugh, boys burp and laugh, boys tell silly jokes and laugh.  And you know what, momma’s laugh at it too!  Boys are smart and learn so quickly, just give them the energy to do so!  Don’t make a boy sit! Don’t make him confided and still!  He’s a boy, let him move! Boys want to please you and say sorry so fast when they know they've wronged you.  Boys are awesome. No! Boys are Awesome, with a capital ‘A’! 

And all the hard stuff, the disobedience, the learning of lessons by all parties and trouble times where it gets a little tough.  Well, that’s all kids, boy or girl.  They love me not because I’m perfect at being a mom of boys, but because I’m their mom and they never have to doubt my love.  And I’ve got a super hero to back me; Christ is there with every painful prayer.  And the physiological stuff, well…we’ll figure it as we go, besides I’m pretty sure Marc’s got it covered.  Besides, I have more pee stories in this head of mine then I ever thought possible.  

My boys have given me my awesome new life. Every day they give me a new story to tell!  And I think that will be a focus for a while of this blog.  Their joyful, often hilarious stories these boys write on my heart.

I am a momma of boys and it’s all I know! Girls are scary! What the heck would I do with a girl!? How terrifying!

And before you ask, yes, we are done! Two boys are good for me!  Really, I’m done.  I know this! We’ve decided this!  You hear that God, don’t go provin’ any points, ok?

Please?

I feel like I just invited a new kind of trouble…………………………………………....

Anyways, enjoy the stories to come!  Zachie and Isaac are about to make you laugh a lot.  I know, I live with them!

Why?

“Why?”

I look at her hard.  She know my answer; she just won’t give to me!

She watching that road again, back and forth, back and forth.

She looks at me, “What, baby?”

I soooo exasperated with her lately!  But, I was feeling gracious.  “Ugg, I said why?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know. I really don’t know him.”

That making no sense and that not real answer.  I gotta come from a different angle to get somewhere on this situation.

Momma driving me to school.  Such a loooong drive, but I pretty good about it. I help her out to make the time past.  Tell her funny stories, yell out once in awhile make sure she still there and occasionally I get hungry and feed me a nose goodie.  But come on!  Momma! Pouring rain and once again you all crazy and silly goosey rushing to get some gas in this big truck.  But look, a man! He walking in rain! Look! Why? 

So, again, I say,

“Momma, why?”

I can see she decided too, I old enough to know now. I four, after all. 

“Well, baby.  He probably had to get something at the store and doesn’t have car.”

Ok! What?  She holding back and really, this is getting crazy- just explain to me already.  I sweating to death back here, because Momma always turns the hot air on and forgets how high it is blowing on me. I been in the car for ever, ever and ever. So long waiting! I hungry! And now there’s a guy in the rain! And what did he buy? Why he not have a car? Why? 

“Why?!”

“I don’t know”

“But why he walking? Why he buy? Why is him car gone?”  Come on, Mom! Work with me.

“Baby, I just don’t know, I don’t know him.”

Really?  Again, with the irrelevant and not useful information. She always doing this, you know. I see this world, I see how old she is, I look around and see a lot happening here. And that a problem, I don’t get it.  She gets it.  She has what I need; The story!

“But him car is gone. Him wet.  Him sister died?”  I grasping here, Lady. I trying to work out the details, problem solve this one. This just not clicking here. Why there be  man in rain. What he buyed at store? Chocolate? May he likes plane and bought plane? I like planes. I have black ones. Sometimes they zoom fast and sometimes they crash.

“Why him crash his black plane?”

“What?”

Wait. “What?”

“No, Zach. You said something, what?”

“What, mom?  Silly goose.”

She smiles at me. She is a silly goose.  “Ok, Zachie. We’re almost to school, ok, Baby?”

NO! The man in the rain. He walking. What happened to him car?

“But mommy, car all gone. He go in store? Why? Why he in the rain? Did his sister die?”  Maybe she did.

Nothing.

“Why?”

“Did his sister die? I don’t know, hun, I don’t know if he had a sister.  Sometimes people walk in the rain and not everyone has a car.  Cars are special gifts.”

I have idea! “You give him your car?”

“No, hunny, we need our car.”

“Why?”

“Ok, Zachie.”

I can tell! This is it! Finally the answer!

“You see that man. His name is Bob. He was living with his sister, Jane. But she got sick and died. He didn’t have a lot of money and needed money, so he sold the car for money.  So, now he had money but no car and he needs food. So he was going to walk to get food. On the way to get food it started to rain. So that’s why Bob’s in the rain.”

“Ohhhhh! Ok, mommy.” She such a silly goose, why not just tell me to begin with.  She makes so hard on herself sometimes, she knows I four and I can know things now!  His name Bob.

“Why?”

“What, huh?”

“Why he name Bob?”

“I don’t know, Zach.”

Really, Momma.  Here we go again.

A Cold November Night, perfect for burying the dead.

There is something haunting about winter nights, isn’t there? Driving home on a November night, just winding quietly and silently by myself, noticing the whiteness of the world glowing all around me in my little Maine haven of wilderness.  I see nothing but endless memories, and the odd feeling I just want to pull of this road.  I want to step into the cool night, have that crisp wintry, residual autumn air fill my lung. I see the fresh, hard snow leading brightly in the night into untouched fields of where my mind wants desperately to roam. But why?

Do you know this feeling? Have you travel down that back road? Have you seen how gorgeously lit the world is in the stillness of a winter night with a large moon?  Haven’t you just wanted to walk into the void of it, hearing your foot steps be the only sound crunching heavily across this sea of frozen-ness and just lose yourself in it- this world, this life, this place where time has seized?

I sink back down in my thoughts and all the silly fears I have piled up, year after year after year.  I can climb the greatest heights and peer over without a gasp.  I see whatever little uninvited creature scurry petrified across my path and my only response is a vague annoyance that I have to deal with it.  I go through trauma that punches my guts and you won’t see me shed a tear.  I can speak to crowds of endless rows, hear my voice boom across the plateau of faces and it doesn’t unnerve me. 

But if you shut the lights out in my world, I shut down.

I’ve stood in a stairwell when a blackout came unexpectedly, and screamed until my husband came to help me down.  I’ve spent nearly my entire adult and mostly married life alone at night.  I keep blinds closed, I keep lights on. I sleep with the soft glow of television reminding me, there is light and I am not alone. I just don’t do dark; dark has always gripped me in ridiculous ways. I am the grown girl that will trample paths to the light switch. I am the grown girl that thinks bad things of only imagination lurk right behind me, ready to pounce.  I am the grown girl that’s always letting everyone know how brave I am about everything, that is so afraid of the dark.

So, who do I think I am? Where do I get the nerve to this impulse?  Just what do I think I’d do? Pulling over in the dead of night, crunching my path through this cold night and just sit all by myself in a white field, with the only company a big moon a zillion miles away from me.  What bravery do I possess for such craziness!?

Oh, but these memories! These memories drive me to such places. Often times, I don’t wanna remember me. But these nights, I can’t let them go. I hold fast to them, allow their force to push forward. Sometimes, I’ve forgotten how much I’ve aged in 15 years. I look into a mirror and I’m thrown off.  Where is twenty-one? Where is she deep inside there? The youth, the strength, the brashness, the sexuality, the crazy, the drunk, the angst, the loud, the beauty, the deceit, the pride, the contempt, the hell, the out of control, the endless?  Where did she go, cause this girl standing here now, who is she?  When did she age? When did she transform? When did she wage a war? She clearly won, cause holy, the scars are everywhere.

So, sometimes, yeah. I wanna stop my car and run fast as I can down to that lonely, frosty field.  I want the haunted night of cold whipping wind to just consume me. I want to remember. Everything. The hell, the fun, the dizzy, the insane.  I have memories that would make you choke back your distaste for me.  And it’s hard to say that out loud. You might even hate me, if you knew me then. You wouldn't recognize me, and you’d leave me in that field with my empty pursuits and bruised ego.  If you knew me and didn't leave a bad taste in your mouth; well, then you must've loved me for a long time and must’ve wished at some point I had done some things with myself that was a little more worthy.

I waged a war and the thing about wars. Wars have story. I share my stories cause at some time, you might be ready for war and you might think you can’t survive it, but you can- just don’t expect it to always look pretty on the other side. Just worth it.  My war is something I pushed deep inside and I spill out little antidotes here and there about what it was like to be me then and be me now.  And there’s a very few minority that know me on either side of the battle.  I have no idea what they must think now, other then when I see them- they still hug me and tell me they love me- and I know I love them with my whole heart too.  My war resulted in throwing out the sins I committed and facing them head on. Not with a twenty-year old heart of hell to give and pride to prove. It was facing sins and admitting I committed them. It was saying out loud I did bad things. A lot. I hid behind my youth, my beautiful, naive smile that could fool a shrewd judge of character, I hid behind the right words and the all consuming alcohol that I voiced like it was gospel, truth that you must hear- never hearing the fool spew senselessness.  Alcohol.  Someday, I really wanna talk about alcohol and really explain how evil it is. Because it is.  And don’t throw that stupid word disease at me.  I’ll spit back at you.  I’d never say I was an alcoholic, I won’t ever say it.  I just say, there were points in my life. I was a pretty crafty, functioning drunk. I have too much experience on too many sides to fall victim to handing over their choices, my choices, living through their hells and my hells to the likes of eliminating my free will or my responsibility.  God knows better and so do I.  Nearly every evil deed I readily and knowingly committed was drowned purposefully down with some vile bottle.  Sins that weaved wrenching, claw scratching memories.  War is not an easy thing, physically or spiritually.  My war left me collapsed and weeping for what I had been and done, not standing prideful, tall to exclaim, “Hey, live and let live.” What a stupid, destructively damning saying that is.

Oh, these dark nights! Memories of wars, waging through me!  I am battered and worn down by who I was and how much I’ve worked to never see her horrid face in the mirror again. Maybe that’s my urge to purge it all into that field. This dark, frigid night illuminating its truth on everything, urging me to run out into the field.  Escape mirrors of looking for her and the legacy she carries deep inside of me. I want to bury her dead. She is useless! She served nothing but to torment me with the memories of the sins I committed. And boy did I commit some sins.  It’s easy to say, we’re all sinners and be done with it. Like we wiped a little dirt off our hands and cleaned up some. It’s another thing to face your fear of darkness- you! You, Jen. What dark thing you were, what you did and the wretchedness you can’t shake off.  Yes, I am forgiven. I can’t bleed enough emotion to make it worth His blood.  And that is the exact point.

But I need that field tonight. I need no mirrors. I need not my warm house or this oversized car. I need my lonely, November field. I drive now, hard and purposefully. I need to pull this truck off the road. I need to get a little brave again with Him at my side. Cause the war is won, not by my strength, but His endless mercy. She is dead, Jen. Take the shovel- bury her and let it go.  You keep saying to yourself, claw out the memories. Claw them out, so you don’t have to remember who she is anymore, what she did, how she did it. So you don’t have to look into that bathroom mirror, shock that she’s not standing there anymore. For dead girls don’t reflect images.  

The Feel of Salvation

I am a small person against the backdrop of this universe

I crush up my cruel thoughts and feed them to my cruel sins

I am small and in-between the cracks of what this is and what that will be

The ground has hardness to it, when I take my small steps

            I crush the ground as I crawl along, unable to sneak up

                        Unable to sliver silently by with my crushed thoughts and cruel sins

I spread it all out on this ground and grind it up to show I have a hard heart

I given what I’ve got

            I’ve gotten so small; I’ve forgotten how to stand

Seeing myself near the pavement, pressing against the cool night concrete

I remind myself, man made this

            It’s hardness, its nowhere-ness,

It’s cruelly cut through the natural world to bring us to more man made stuff

I sprawl out and weep, I cry, I pray

            Well, I wish this humanness in me would just leap out and run

                        Pound itself against the pavement

                                    Run hard and fast, furiously away with my cruelness,

Crushing out my sin

I am only this small person

I am staring straight up on the dark street,
Forgetting that the street light still shines on me

Forgetting blood seeps into everything,

It seeped in before I crammed myself into the cracks

            Blood had drenched me long before what any of this is

And what any of this will be

Pressing my arms out, I grope the ground for leverage

And find the serenity of soft flesh, strong and un-remorseful

Without my efforts I feel lifted and tilted forward.

I dared not look, I might evaporate

I dare not speak, I might scream out

I finally stood, on his playing ground

He stepped back, and hurled his strength at me

I thought I’d feel bruised, punished, banished

But I looked hard at the ground

I saw nothing but the blood, its might crushed hard against the cruel thoughts

The cruel sin that had pull so hard at my shaking hands

It seeped away into nothingness

He spoke, so softly

            “I did this for you long before this road was poured.”

                        “Now walk, child, and lay in this place no more.”

The questions life produces, what's that sticky thing on my sock and how to love a zoo.

There I was, in the bathroom, looking up and asked the age old question I always ask.

"Why is that there?"

'There' was the wall hanger, 'that' was an empty plastic Wal-mart bag.  There that was, just hangin' out on a coat hangar in the bathroom- doing nothing much and not really makin' any sense as to what it's purpose being there was.

"Why is that there?"
"Who put this here?"
"What's that doing out here?"
"Who put that out there and what's it doing and why would you do that?"

I am the poster child for stupid questions. I know this because every time I ask the questions, my family stares at me like, well, like I just asked a stupid question.  Typically I'm thought of just naggin', just patronizing, just startin' trouble where trouble didn't need startin!  But the truth is, really I am genuinely curious. I'm always scratching my head at stuff around here. I'm always confused. I'm always truly baffled at the decisions of how this home is in this state.  And really, how does this stuff end up where it does!

Let's just take a moment now. This is my home. I work relatively hard at it.  I try, really I do.  If you walked in now, there's a moment of normal-ness, but hang out for a while- you'll start to notice "the weird stuff".

There's an empty plastic bag in the bathroom hanging out on a coat hangar.  There's an old disposable camera on a small wall shelf with picture decals.  There's a bottle of hand lotion from some Christmas gift set tuck away in a corner of the frig and wall.  I find coffee mugs everywhere, half drank and varying degrees of age. I find them in the bathroom, on counters, on window sills, outside in the middle of the yard, on logs, on the back of anything with a flat surface.  There's underwear everywhere.  I don't know why.  I don't know why underwear is under the couch, on the couch, hanging off the couch, I don't know why it's in the shoes or even inside the playhouse in Zach's room. There are boots in the potty. There are sneakers in the drawers in the living room.  Sometimes I find packages of pasta in the toy box.

So, I have questions.  Lots.

But this is my home.  And the plastic bag, just made me laugh at myself. Have you ever really thought of your life and how your home functions.  I do.  I am.  Everyone has a way of explaining their lives. I do this with my day, my husband does that and the kids have this or that today.  We go to this, this is how we discipline, this is what we read, this is what we like, this is how we love dinner or special occasions.  But that's the general sweeping outlook of home and life.  I'm talking about the little stuff, the tiny fragments of everyday and every details that is literally your life.  The questions all around that make up home.

I use to really enjoy housekeeping and cleaning, honestly!  When it was the two of us and no kids and full time jobs, I had a safe handle on it.  But the kids came, I started to stay home and I entered a hilarious war zone I never imaged.  You know the slogan "You may have won this battle, but we'll win the war!!!!"  Well, I sort of have the opposite strategy for tackling this place.  I'll never win the war, so I win some battles.

Oh, I'm not throwing my poor boys under any "momma's got it so rough" buses.  Heck, a lot of my questions, the answer lays with me.  "Jen, why did you put the bottle of lotion on the frig?" "Jen, why did you leave the laundry folded out on the couch for two days, so little boys could flail through it and wave underwear around at each other, the dog, the cat, on top of the hot wheels?"

This house operates on the energy level of today.  I have little pet peeves and little anal retentive battles of organizing and keeping it all together.  I can not stand doors opened- not frigs, not cabinets, not drawers, not nothin'!  This is one of the battles I set out to win, I'll spend all day shutting things.  I try to make sense of my cabinets.  I have a cabinet for plastic ware and lids, I have a cabinet for dishes and bowls. I have a cabinet for food and even one for the pots and pans.  But just because I have these ideas, doesn't mean my household shares my affinity for keeping it that way. I find plastic ware with the pots and pans. I find the peelers, the mixing spoons, the can openers in with the flatware.  And the dishes and bowls! Oh, just forget it!

Once I tried to be really helpful! I had a questions!

"Huh, why are the bowls out of order?'
"Why are there large bowls on top of small bowls on top of various sized plates?"

Yep, I know-stupid questions.  I thought I'd be helpful and have a small demonstration on how to properly stack and organize plates, bowls and such.  I was wrong.  And the strangest fight of my marriage ensued.

So, this is my home. Its got a little rhythm to it, and a splash of insanity.  There are toys everywhere, despite my long day of picking up and putting away.  I wouldn't eat off my floors. No, really don't! They have hair all over them, something sticky lives in the corner and half the gravel pit is scattered about my place.  Random items have random spots, such as the lotion.  Things just get placed quickly down when running after a two year old that's about to dive bomb off the table on to the end table. And there that item sits, slightly forgotten, mostly un-cared about.

I don't like cooking. I don't pretend to and I doubt I'll ever bother to really care to try.  So, it's a safe bet you'll find nothing stewing, prepping or marinating in this house for any sort of meal on any given day (maybe once in a great while or if Marc's home to prepare us something yummy); however, if you open my microwave- you will open the gateway to love.  Splattered love of an assortment of meals all prepared for the nutriment and adoration of my family.  And please don't question what's in the frig, some questions I don't even ask.

I have Facebook, I'm privy to so many lives and in it I find I have no idea how so many live! I see snap shot of completed projects, of little children sitting sweetly in clean bedrooms, beautifully adorned tables, matching drapery and living room sets in freshly made over spaces!  Floors so clean I'd eat off them! I hear great moments of chores completed, task list check off! Photos of deliciously groomed gardens and landscaped lawns! I see order and routine to the extreme degree I could only dream of such things truly existing. An alternate universe where rooms gleam with detailed attention and shimmering shine.  I look around my house and all I see is my humble little war zone.

I see boys.  I see pets, I see my absent mindedness and my attempted projects.  I see my husband's whirlwind search for a pair of clippers.  I see Zach's curiosity of what happens when you unroll all the paper towels.  I see Isaac's desperate need to have everything tipped over or upside down.  I see plastic bags hanging out with no plan to be useful.  I see questions, endless questions of why? How? Where? When? Who?!

But I love my questions, I love them because they have so many answers.  They answer the questions to how my home breathes, lives, functions and gets about day to day.  Battles, ladies and gentleman, battles of love is how you run your household.  Don't even bother to try win the war, that's about as successful as living in a dream of getting your own way and having clean floor to eat off of and matching furniture.  Just find a battle you can win, ask some questions and prepared for the blank looks and the feeling you might be a little dense.

Just enjoy the joy that you live in a zoo and your its keeper. Besides, who has time for all the routine, order and cleanliness when there's an riveting game of hide-and-seek and tickle monster afoot!


(And yes, the plastic bag is still hangin' out, I'll get to it. Eventually.)

Us

He was so nice.  He smiled down at me, jumped up and bounded down a few steps to introduce himself and shake my hand. 

I was twenty-two, full of myself and taken back by his friendliness.  I had just returned from my excursion in Colorado and was moving into my mother’s apartment.  She lived downstairs and he lived upstairs.  I can’t remember my disposition to him, knowing what and who I was back then- I’m sure I was friendly enough, but my sincerity would've been skin deep and I’m sure there was coldness to my response.  But he was Marc and he didn’t care. He’d be charming and friendly despite me.

I lived downstairs for nearly a year. We didn’t hit it right off.  I was loud, brash, reckless and wild with my youth.  I was vain and did foolish things I don’t dare or care to confess this go around for a story.  This story is about Marc, not my dark and sordid tale of how I spent my teens and twenties. 

This is our love story and how I never could or would stay away from my best friend.

After nearly a year, we did spend a few evening out with friends together, enough so the ice was broken and we at least had more then one passing conversation.  In honesty, I had developed a small crush on my upstairs neighbor, but I didn’t pay much attention to it.  Mostly, I hated his loud, screaming music.  I thought his friends seemed immature and obnoxious when they’d visit (although, in time, I grew to adore and love most of them) and I probably, actually, frankly thought there was someone out there better for me.

Boy, was I wrong. God knew the truth. I wasn't too good for Marc, he would be too good for me. But he’d love me anyways.

I remember being angry and drunk.  I remember feeling alone and mad at my life.  It was two am. I was sitting by myself in my apartment and I thought I heard movement in the upstairs apartment. Maybe he’s up, I thought.  I stumbled upstairs and knocked on the door. I didn’t know what I thought I’d say or how he’d react to me standing there, but he answered.

And this is my line.

“Can I come inside and watch some anime with you?” 

Yep, that what I said. 

He smirked at me, “Um, sure.”

Marc and I weren't Christians. We didn’t make good decisions. I spare you details of what sort of lives we had lived.  Let’s leave it at this- I’m sure Marc was thinking it was his lucky night to have his drunken neighbor come up to his apartment so late.  I didn’t know what I was thinking; I just knew I didn’t want to be alone. I sat on his floor and he started the movie.  He was sitting on his bed; I was lying on the floor with a pillow. And that was the end of me that night; dead asleep, probably snoring.  I’m sure Marc fell asleep thinking, “What was that?”

I woke in the morning and went home. And that was the first night of us.  So a few days meander on…..

It was sunny and crisp outside. I was probably hung-over, but I enjoyed being up early. I was hanging out my wash when Marc came home from his night out.  We talked for a bit and he asked me to breakfast with him.  We walked to the Coach House Restaurant. I watched Marc consume large quantities of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon. It made me feel sick just watching it, but he was so nice. And this started our history.

We had our honeymoon period. We spent countless days together, we laughed a lot, we camped all the time, we had our wild nights together- spending too much money and drinking ourselves into stupid memories. Marc thought I had a spontaneous side, as one night he looked at me and said, “Hey, there’s a show in Boston, let’s go now!”  And I said, “Sure!”  We hoped in my ’94 Chevy Z24 and found ourselves in Boston having a blast. We camped out on the side of the road on the way home; cops came by in the morning to tell us we needed to be on our way (ah, memories!).

Yeah, it takes time to get to know someone. Marc learned, I’m not spontaneous at all. I’m barely adventurous and I have nervous breakdowns if my life has no routine.  But he loves me anyways.

Marc and I were wild and selfish.  We were both immersed in a culture of alcohol and wild nights.  We handled each other’s personalities and differences terribly.  We could be cutting and cruel to one another.  We were young, immature and defiantly independent.  We had worldly views that skewed our thinking “Me first, then maybe you.”  We misunderstood love as a feeling, not the act of sacrificing.  We split up several times, both us engaging into destructive patterns at times and making painful choices that should have destroyed any chances of renewal, let alone even friendship.

But at the heart of each of us, the idea of not having each other always proved to be too painful. That was unbearable.  Through tough times, long break ups and miserable memories; somehow, we held on to the friendship. It like knowing you can’t let go of family, our love was blood to us- necessary for our life.  Between the hard times, we had genuine and honest times. We knew how to have fun with each other, we knew how to listen to one another and though we struggled, we knew how to care for each other.  We poured ourselves into each other, so when the bad times struck (and boy did they strike)- the work we had done wasn't lost.  At times, we may have lost the romance or physical side of ourselves, but at the heart of it- the friendship was strong and survived.  And you’re darn right I have thanked and thanked and thanked God for that. I won’t share Marc and I tumultuous times.  They were painful, wrong and nasty.  They’re our memories- we've forgiven them and let them go- and in the past is where they belong. They did nothing for us then, and they’ll do nothing for us now.

The road to us has been long with a lot of crazy, but a lot of beautiful too. The worst of the years were behind us as we pushed into fifth and sixth year, we settled into a groove of being us.  We married in 2006 and I’d love to share a great proposal story with you- but I think it goes something like me telling Marc I was planning a wedding and Marc say “Ok, sounds good!”  It was just us, flowing with life with me in control doing my will and my way- Marc just being himself- loving me and letting me do my thing.  My thing- rarely was there stopping it. I did what I wanted, when I wanted and however I wanted.  I loved Marc, sure. I loved our marriage, sure. But I loved me more.  After all, aren't I suppose to? Isn't that what our culture teaches over and over and over. Love yourself, love yourself, love yourself- so I did.  Some would argue that my behavior and decisions are a reflection of how I didn’t love myself- being that destructive and abusing alcohol at times- I didn’t love myself enough and therefore made bad choices for me. That’s a bunch of crap. I just flat out refuse to shovel in spoonful of that garbage. And if you feel like debating, I’ll spare you some wasted time- I won’t.  I loved myself just fine, therefore I didn’t love Marc properly or our marriage properly.  But God would change that. And change it in a blink of an eye- or as fast as a simple prayer.

I had a bad night. A night I don’t really talk about, but I drove home to Marc at 5am.  My father had invited me to church the day before and I said I’d go. I wanted to go, and I’m not even sure why, but it had been pressing on me a lot back then.  I still justified myself a lot and certainly held on to a lot of wrong views of what I should be as a good person, a good wife and have a good marriage.  Humility has never come easily to me, so when God needs to teach me a lesson on learning his righteousness- typically he’s got to beat it in me a bit-I’m a stupid learner.  But he was about to save not just me, but Marc and our marriage.

I drove home and Marc heard me say what I had said a trillion times before, “I’m not drinking anymore.”  But he didn’t realize I meant it (heck, I didn’t realize). He didn’t know God was about to bless my life and take away evil from it.  I went to church that morning and life as I had lived it for 31 years died.  I went to church and heard God. I didn’t respond to Him immediately. I was still a controlling and self-loving worldly girl. But I started to hear Him.  And I wanted more of Him, despite my defenses and despite my justifications and anger- I suddenly wanted Him.  I’d be mad about what I’d hear at times, because it cut me to the core and I had to acknowledge some damning truths that I simply never faced before.  But I committed to study, committed to Church and I committed to not walking away from God without giving Him his fair shake at me. After a few weeks I was broken down, hadn't touched a drop of that evil drink and was desperate for God to change me. I found myself just on my knees confessing it all out loud and begging for Christ to forgive me and take over. He did. God answers.

Where was Marc? Well, he was sitting back and watching me. He saw me changing, it may have even scared him a bit- this wasn't the Jen he’d known for so long. He humored me in it, but later confessed to me that he had been thinking about divorcing me. To put it bluntly, he didn’t sign up for being married to a “Jesus freak”. But he’s Marc and he loves me anyways.

Out of whatever sort of love and support he had for me, Marc started to go to church with me. He started to listen too and he started to hear from God. He couldn't believe it. How does an atheist hear from God? He didn’t get it. He had doubts, lots. But you know, when God calls you- it’s sort of tough to turn back. And God was calling Marc.  He met with a pastor, who guided him and was patient with Marc’s doubts and questions.  And before I knew it, my Marc was the Jesus Freak. Amen!

It took us time. I had to learn to unlearn myself. I had to shed the control, the brashness. I had to learn that I wasn't righteous and submitting. I had to learn that this word love we say so much, has little do with feelings and all to do with submitting and sacrifice. I use to think submit was losing myself. I didn’t realize submitting was an act of loving, simply saying I trust you and know you love me- so therefore, here is my heart- I submit it to you. I didn’t realize it was a gift.

God build our marriage new. Marc and I learned to give up on the evils, sin and world that had damaged us for so long and give into the Word of God. And our lives were blessed for it. We grew strong and the tumultuous years of our youth became like recalling a bad novel you read eons ago- you have a faint memory of it with bits and pieces, but overall, you don’t recall it and it wasn't worth remembering anyhow.  The thing that had held us together for years, our friendship became the root of what makes us, us!

Marc has always been nice. He’s always smiled at me, mostly given me my way. He’s never given up on me, even when he should have and no one would've blamed him.  He’s held my head in bad moments; he’s held my hand in blessed memories. He’s driven across the country with me. He’s taken his time to get to know and care about who I’d turn out to be. He’s helped shape my world and cultivate my personality.  He’s loved me and shown me how beautiful I am to him when I’m at my worst and feeling pitifully low.  He’s listened to me scream and seen my face distort with anger and rage. He sat there and been my friend. He’s left me at times, when I needed to be left- but he always came back to me. 

Genesis 2:23

The man said,

“This is now bone of my bones
    and flesh of my flesh;
she shall be called ‘woman,’
    for she was taken out of man.”

One flesh, this world might scoff at the idea of this. Melding two into each other creating one flesh simply doesn't fit. It may look for the individualism, the self-identity and the self-love. It may say “Don’t lose yourself in someone else” “Hold on to who you are.”

Well, I know who I am, I love myself just fine and as far as my identity, I have this to say- You take away Marc- you no longer have Jen. I would be someone else. I don’t want to be someone else. I like this me, for Marc is the very best part of who I am. 

Sharing a poem I wrote for Marc about 5 years ago or so, when we were first saved.  

Marc

Love

To re-define, dirty words changed to become amazing

Submit

I saw bondage, destruction, I saw the lose of self

I saw wrong

Love, is nothing short of the glory of submitting

I trust 

My God

My Faith

My ability to break bondage

To overcome destruction

Realize, it was never about “self” You can not have “self” and have Love

The lighted path come from death of “self”

            The “me” of it all led to him not worth a name,

            Glorifying self simply means deception of Grace, 

                 It’s a cheat,

                      Its bad journey on such a beautiful moment.

           

Can’t you cry? 

     Can’t you just die? 

He did

            Humbly, patiently, heart broken.  

He ripped open the beautiful moment, pouring    

     His blood over the likes of us.

And through Mercy, We are here.  

Right here, unworthy and so small

I have become US

One flesh

I love

I submit

I trust

YOU

You are my husband, I adore

God cleansed me to see

I belong on my knees

I belong bent and backwards

My will was silly and trite, 

     Full of contempt and drunken hell

          My will was the end of us.

God broke me to open my eyes, This is how you love.

He lifted my sight, 

     Showed me him through the love of you.

The True Story of Hurricane Isaac

I used to have thoughts that were dark and chilling of my son.  From the thought of him prior to conception, from the moment I knew I was pregnant, to knowing it was sustaining this time, his birth that terrified me in ways that make me stop breathing and even when I finally brought him home, so tiny and fragile.  The thoughts I would push deep inside and cringe. I pushed them down so far that when they would come up, they make a girl that doesn't cry, weep horribly.  The darkness and chill were a forest of fear of his death, that was planted firmly inside of me and grew monstrously.  He wasn't going to make it; I’d think about his death in so many disturbing moments, they’d seize me.  What mother thinks this!?

Well, a mother that never wanted to be mother a decade ago. She didn’t think she’d be any good or she’d want that burden, that constraining responsibility.  So she lived a life that wasn't good and wasn't constrained to prove her own point.  A mother that finally turned her life around in a meaningful direction and saw what she had been denying herself, she suddenly wanted so badly.  A mother that craved that child she never thought she’d want only to find it so hard. And then to miscarriage, and miscarriage, and miscarriage, and miscarriage, and……miscarriage. 

I had the deceptive thoughts ever growing in my private forest of fear,“Well, you lived the life you lived, you reap what you sow!” or “Maybe this is God’s way of proving a point, you didn’t want one, so you don’t get one!”  Oh, that was nothing but self-pity and foolish pride sulking in those thoughts, but those were the thoughts that seeped in, that festered and started with the fear of what I don’t deserve.

Miraculously Zachary found his way into our lives; and with it God’s peace that He wanted me to be a mother.  And his story is written, this story is Isaac’s and how I coped with my fears of his dying.

February 2012, I found out I was pregnant.  I smiled and shared with Marc.  But I knew better!  My sixth pregnancy, so what?  Just another one to cry about in a week or two; Marc and I knew better then to share, you don’t share this good news.  You don’t share it because deep down, it’s not good news, it will be sad news and people will just feel sorry for me. I didn’t want their pity, their tears, their words, their reassurance and its sounds awfully self-defeating, but I didn’t even want their prayers.  I didn’t want their looks, their words “It will happen when it’s meant to be” “I’d have a kid for you and give it to you” (yeah…cause getting pregnant is sooooo easy, we just can pop out a spare and gift wrap it for you) “Oh, I’m so sorry, how many times now?” 

Can you taste my bitterness? Can you just hear my anger?  Oh, I was angry, but it was my dirty little secret I kept firmly and secretly hidden in my dark little forest.  God had a lot of work to do on me. I’d smile my Christian smile and say my Christian words, like I was suppose to.  I've had to swallow some shallowness, some selfishness and have learned the hard and wonderful way; trusting in God means ALWAYS! Even when it hurts, even when it’s not seemingly fair; trusting in God means, he has a plan for you in the midst of the anger, the hurt and the pain.  It’s so easy in the rear-view mirror.  I didn’t know about Zachary. I didn’t know that God had hand pick a little boy to be our little boy and I didn’t know my heartache month after month, year after year was part of God’s awesome plan to point us towards fostering and adoption. And now, I thank God for those years of anger and disappointment- they were the hard road to a miracle. He knew His plan and it’s all that matters.

So I was pregnant, so what…….

Well, week by week by week I was okay! The baby was….okay!  I have a genetic mutation that helped explain a lot of the miscarriages, it also meant I was at risk and so was Isaac.  So I got a lot of doctor appointments. A lot! And I got a lot of ultrasounds, a lot!  Which was beautiful and expensive.  And, oh, there it was- the fear.  I would sit and fidget and be me in the doctor office.  I would talk too much, think too much and I would pace laps in my forest as I pretended to read my 'Reader's Digest'.  My thoughts circling in my head like vultures biding their time with prey, ‘I’m going to go up there’, I’d look up the stair case, ‘and he will be dead. I will be carrying a dead baby.’  These were my thoughts. 

But he never was. He was gorgeous and healthy and growing and busy!  And he hurt me a lot! I was un-com-fort-able!  I also lost my appetite. Which was kind of wonderful, I lost twenty pounds in my pregnancy.  Being overweight, that was good news.  My doctor had no problem with this as long as I was healthy and the baby was thriving- which he was!  And, dare I say it- by my 20^th or so week.  I started to trust, I started to let go, I started to smile and enjoy that I was pregnant and having a little boy. 

Nine weeks later, I was just so casually and calmly talking to Zach’s speech therapist out in the lobby.  It was one of the few times Marc’s schedule allowed him to come.  Again, looking back, how God provides us with what we need when we need it!  And, well...hmm, I looked at my husband and he looked at me and I gave a look that clearly said, “We gotta go now!”

Out in the car, I explained,”Um, I think I peed myself, but I didn’t. Huh.”  Marc looked worried and confused, so off we went home.  I stood up and oh-no! I was soaked.  I wanted to cry, the fear! The baby is dead, he’s dead. Why am I soaked!?  I didn’t know what it meant or was or what I suppose to do!  I called my doctor, who said little but urged me to rush in as fast as I could get there.  We did! Poor Zach, he was flown off as fast as possible with kisses to daycare and we zoomed.  I was scared and called a friend who went through something similar.  She reassured me it was okay, probably my water broke and the possibility the baby was coming early. 

I wasn't ready, no! He wasn't ready! 29 weeks and there it was, that hated awful thought…he’s dead! I had to urge myself, silently and aggressively “Trust, Jen! Trust! Trust! Pray, pray and pray and pray and pray!”  And I did! I could feel God just tighten around me as panic seized me. Over my fear, I heard Him, over and over “You are okay, the baby is okay.” The doctor reassured me yes, the baby was fine, but my water did break and I was losing fluid.  I’d have to stay in the hospital to be monitored, to stabilize and to give Isaac some much need time.  He was still just so small.

I was scared that first night; so very scared. And I cried a lot, as I just soaked through everything all night long.  I didn’t dare to move, to get up or even to turn over. I just laid there- alone and sad and scared. And that dreaded thought…..oh it was always there haunting me. But I prayed over it. I ignored it and tried very hard to give it no power.  Isaac would be fine. I was told this OVER and OVER again.  By doctors, by nurses, by friends and family, by my husband, who worried over me. I was told by God, over and over “your son is fine.”

So I relaxed and I stabilized. I received medication, steroids and care.  Isaac thrived in that short little stay, and my fluid became stable again. I laid in the hospital bed for hours, then days then weeks! 2 weeks- I didn’t do much but online shop, come up with “to do” list for poor Marc, work on devotionals and journal and okay, I even caught up on some ‘Pawn Stars’.  I even dared to be bored.

But all dull things come to an end, as much as I became a little stir crazy, I wasn't in a rush to have Isaac come so soon; however, he other plans.  When my water broke Hurricane Isaac (no really!) hit land the very same day.  At 31 weeks, I started to feel pain and if memory serves me the weather was menacing once again.  I hadn't realized the weather would be a prelude to life with my temperamental little Isaac or the next year would be submerged in a daily hurricane, with the constant need to shield against the storm of thoughts and struggles, clinging at times to God’s assurances and strength.  They were monitoring me and could tell I was contracting, but nothing was showing up on the monitors.  Every time I’d contract, Isaac heart rate would plummet and I would free fall back into the thoughts of fear, “Please, God, don’t let me give birth to a dead baby.”

Looking back now, I hate to see where my thoughts went, how much they snuck in and nested inside of me.  Every scary or unknown variable was amplified by the thoughts of Isaac’s death. I try to ignore them, but they had an ugly way of always resurfacing.  My doctor was the best and very assuring.  He was always there gently reminding me, baby was fine! But he knew Isaac had to come, NOW!  I had lost fluid and now with every contraction Isaac was being squeezed and constricted.  And I was rushed in for emergency C-section, the awesome (and I can’t shout their praises enough AWESOME) NICU team was there on stand by, fully prepared for Isaac and I.  I’ll spare you any details of the surgery because frankly, I was an emotional basket case and my memories of the event are drowned in fogginess and anxiety stricken coma, where I was there, but not really there.  I remember Isaac crying. It was loud! And it blew me away; I didn’t think he’d make a sound.  Isaac not make a sound, ha! That’s like saying I don’t talk. He was alive! And wailing! Loudly!  I saw him for a brief moment I barely remember except there’s a picture to prove I met him before the NICU team and my husband whisked all 3lbs of him away and I melted away.

I don’t know how to write the next bit. I don’t know how to talk or properly explain the roller coaster ride of the NICU.  It was horrible and wonderful. It was lonely and supportive. It was quiet. It was alone time and lonely time. It was watching my baby, barely touching him. It was caring for him in 3 hour intervals for 15 minutes and watching nurses know what to do with my child more then I did.  It was tears and prayer and tubes and machines and machines and machines and machines. It was alarms that meant food was done; it was alarms that meant my baby was getting cold, but not really because he was snuggled tiny against my skin for just a little while. It was alarms because my baby’s heart rate just plummeted down and so did his oxygen and blood pressure. These are normal, these are called Brady’s, and this is what happens to little babies that shouldn't be on the outside.  He lived in a plastic bubble, and I couldn't hold him.  He had his eyes shielded because he was living under a constant light because his biliruben was too high or low or I can’t remember, but it seemed to last forever.  People bought me preemie clothes. But that was useless; preemies don’t wear clothes for a while.  They can’t, literally their skin can’t handle it.  You can’t stroke your baby; I was told it would feel like raking my fingernails down my infant.

I sat alone in the NICU a lot and left crying every night because when other mothers bring their babies home, I left my alone. EVERY NIGHT, I left my child.  EVERY NIGHT for nearly 2 month I didn’t get to bring my baby home. And for almost two months, my baby laid in a hospital.  I sat in a big over stuff chair, alone. Alone with thoughts, alone watching him have Bradys and struggle to learn to feed. Alone, just waiting for my 3 hours, so I could hold my baby for a little bit. Not too long, it was too exhausting for him. Everything was exhausting- too exhausting to feed, too exhausting to bathe. Everything for Isaac was exhausting.  And I learned to hold my baby for a little awhile and not stroke him. But I learned how to apply comfortable pressure on his feet. I learned to live with alarms; Bradys, tubes and nurses became my source of strength and champions.  But I was petrified of my baby and the thoughts, this is just a little while and something will happen. I will lose him.  The nagging, horrid thoughts of losing Isaac were just uncomfortable, but normal part of my dark corner of my racing brain.

I did bring Isaac home.  Isaac was, as hard as it all was, a healthy preemie that did well.  He thrived in the NICU, it took time and patience and so many prayers, but he always progressed.  And then, they said, “You can go home.” Just like that, I took my baby home.

So talking about the NICU is hard and there are loads more I could write, but maybe another time.  The next part is even harder.

I would love to type how wonderful and blessed the next year was.  But the truth was it was the hardest year of my entire life.  For the first several months of Isaac being home, I was gripped in fear. I barely left his side in fear of his death.  After being on machines so long, and my dependency on their telling me what was happening to his little body- I just didn’t trust that it was all alright.  Isaac and I planted ourselves in the living room for the next 4 months. I barely slept on the sofa and he barely slept beside me his bouncer propped up.  He had major eating and digestive issues. He was stiff, rigid and miserable.  At six months old he could barely roll and was a very unhappy little baby.  I was a very hormonal mommy.  He was inconsolable and rarely soothed.  In the weak moments of my stormy year the terror of losing him clutched my mind.  And there were the bad nights. The nights I wish didn’t happen, but they did and they are the realness of living in a hurricane. The nights of anger and exhaustion walking away from him in his nursery in hysterics, as I’d be on my knees in the kitchen screaming and crying out to God to give my life peace, as poor Zach desperately vied for my attention, cried out for me.  And at times, I know I was not a good mother.  I’m glad to say my truly weak moments were few and far between, but when they hit me- they were not fond memories of the mother I wanted and prayed to be.  I’d scream out for silence, my voice boomed against every wall of my house.  My poor children cry out for me.  I could type this out with my tears as I share the look on Zachary’s face one time as he hid under the table, as I was yelling at the ceiling that I didn’t have it me anymore that night for anyone. But in the bad moments, there was born beautiful memories and absolute victories. 

I think of that year like a forest fire.  Fires rage and destroy large portions of land, but in that destruction is renewal and the chance of a new creation.  The fire raged that year inside of me because of the necessity to create newness in me.  God needed a way to show a strong willed, controlling, self-righteous and at time tyrannically girl that she needs to trust Him, to find His peace, His joy and freedom in Him.  He needed to catch my mind on fire to burn out all the thoughts of fear and death that had gripped me.  In every hour of desperation, I clung to him and he raged war on my mind destroying the evil grip of thoughts that I had given too much power.  The power of death and pain, the power that God was punishing me and I was simply reaping what I sowed, the thoughts that I didn’t deserve Isaac and his life was nothing but a cruelty that would be ripped from me.  In those bad moments of me on my knees, I felt God gain His ground inside of me.  The hurricane whipped through the house- raging between my weakness and flesh-driving tantrums, my infant screaming his pain, my needing, challenging non-verbal toddler would find the eye of the storm and finally stillness.  And the beauty of laughter, growth, forgiven and kisses would engulf us as I’d pick up Zach and smother him in kisses and ask him humbly, “forgive me?” And my precious, gentle-spirited boy would wrap himself tight around me, kiss me and show me the power of God’s love in his ability to always forgive me.

I wouldn't want to end with the impression that I was a depressed, hormonal lunatic mother that lived life daily with unhappiness, sorrow, anger and rage with relentless feelings of death of my son was inevitable.  That would be inaccurate and a completely wrong impression.  This is simply a tale of the struggles I went though when it was hard because that is the truth- there were very hard times and God had to help me pull out of my own hurricane I allowed swirl around for a that year and have victory in Him.  That year was also filled with the anchor of my husband willingness to be the man that took my emotional garage I’d spew out and not lash back, but simply love me back.  It was a year of watching Isaac overcome such obstacles and become an amazingly happy baby that outgrew his digestive issues and eating issues, catching up in leaps and bounds. He became smiley and my dark thoughts that had lived with so long, simply disappeared. I began to cherish Isaac and the hope of his beautiful life.  Zachary’s heart grew into this sweet soul that gave me so much joy, that I could not tell him enough in one day how much I loved him and how much he blessed me.   

I didn’t want to be a mother.  I spend so many years not wanting it, then when I wanted it. I foolishly thought it would be easy.  I thought wanting something equaled being good at it.  I wasn't born with the natural instinct to be a good mother.  But God changed that in me and through him I'm learning I can be a great mother.  He didn’t come at me with proverbial goodwill wishing imprinted on decorative pillows.  He didn’t pat me on the back and say, “Good luck.”  He didn’t say trite and passively useless kind words to make me feel better about whom I was as a person. No, God is stronger and more vested then a funny commercialized version of himself that's trying to sell me the product of God. He did the hard work in me and wage war against the evil that had planted a forest in my brain.  He didn’t do anything silly with me. He literally picked me up, threw me head first and hard into a raging hurricane my version of motherhood.  Now, when I’m on my knees in prayer to Him on my kitchen floor I don’t scream at the ceiling. Instead, I speak softly and humbly, always mindful to start with “Thank you.”

And Isaac is in his room playing choochoo and Zach is on the couch giggling at me.

Loving Zachie

Feeling nostalgic this evening, as all parents do when they little people have yet another birthday.  It is hard not to flip through the pictures, maybe a journal or just looking at them and wonder how to slow down time a bit.  Zachary has just had his 4th birthday, while that is still years away from him marching out the door to lead his own life- I am no fool to how fast time can fly.  It took a blink of an eye for four years to get here, how quickly will all this feel in 14 years!

I made my little guy a book to introduce to him the idea he is adopted.  There will be NO stigma in this house about "the adoptive child".  Adoption and birth to me are one in the same. It is a new life coming into a family bringing in new love, challenges and joy.  I will talk with utter love and openness about his adoption as I would about the day Isaac came into the world.  To me, there is no difference. God loved them both and answered our prayers for making us a family.  If you'd like to read the book, just click "Loving Zachie" and let me know what you think.  I've already printed it and had it shipped, so yes! I know there's a typo- it just authenticates it was done by Mommy!

I thought I'd share the book and a link that I love looking back at time to time.  For the day that Zachie was adopted was news worthy! Can you figure out which guy is our little guy?! http://wabi.tv/2011/11/07/seven-children-adopted-as-part-of-adoption-day/

I won't pretend getting involved with DHHS, adoption or opening your home to help a child in whatever capacity is easy or for everyone.  That's just too simple of a statement.  It's darn hard.  It can be scary on many levels.  You may question your ability to love properly, to financially get through it, you may be torn about your level of attachment and handling it.  You may look at your home and think its too small or not accommodating.  For that matter, you maybe very comfortable and very set in your routines and frankly, you're not sure you can give that luxury up.  You may even think its not worth it, you can't help or fix "these" (and boy do I hate that term) children, "these" children are beyond help and you can't take on the risk.

There are validation in these thoughts, fears and situations.  But there's also a major problem- many of the reasons (not all, but many!) are harbored in selfishness.  I'm sorry to say that, but its simply the truth.  It's usually a hard thing to look at but it comes down to what "YOU" feel about the situation and how you don't want the hard stuff to effect you.  I can't work on that for you, only God can soften you or work that out for you and your family.  And yes, this is truly not for everyone- and that's ok; however, there are too many people not willing to get uncomfortable.  There are too many people looking the other way. There are too many people too uninformed.

And there are so very few people taking these children in.

"These" children are just children.  Look at your own child- think of them born drug addicted. Look at your own child and imagine abuse, neglect, underfed, passed around and simply feeling forgotten.  Think of your own child as any child simply needing what you give them.  And think of of how many are out there and how few help because .......well....because...........you fill in the blank.

I hate to get preachy on this, but its worth getting preachy on it from time to time- if a few hearts that have been questioning it- suddenly decide maybe its worth exploring.  I look at my Zachie, and think of the heartache and scared nights, and I'd do it again, and again, and again, and again, and again.  I didn't need to work on my fears, God handle those.  We just had to be blessed at the privilege of Loving Zachie!