On this, the last day of 2014, I consider what matters.
At this moment, I am on a medicine called Triazolam because in about half an hour, I go to my dentist to end the year with not one, but two root canals. During one of those, he will remove a stainless steel cap that has been over my molar for over a decade, nearly two. There may not be a tooth under there. Who knows?
Teeth matter. I should stop abusing them with soda and sugar.
Triazolam matters. If I wasn't on this, I wouldn't be able to go through with dental appointments.
Vision matters. Without it, I wouldn't be able to function well in the world I live in. Right now I can't seem to focus on anything further than the computer screen. If I do venture a look at the tv, I find myself asking which one is the real tv.
Perspective matters. The way we view an object or person is essential to the way that we treat them. Lately I find that I have been treating most people, and some objects, with remarkable amounts of disdain.
Disdain - feeling that someone is unworthy of your consideration or respect.
I've not often thought of myself as high amongst men, but I am guilty of thinking that others are the lowest among then. I am a Judgy McJudgerson. You should read the post I wrote on our way to MT. You will know in an instant the bitterness and hatred I feel in my heart.
Disdain matters. Because it's the exact opposite of what my God would teach me is correct.
God matters. In recent months I've allowed myself to fall into a passive relationship with Him. He's kind of like that brother I super love but don't often speak about. God has once again become a "Maybe you should stay over here and I'll just be doing my own thing" type of God.
God matters, because without Him, I am the ultimate dill weed.
Here's that thing I wrote on the way to MT for Chistmas:
I got off facebook a few weeks ago because I noticed myself being filled with rage at some of the things I was seeing. That isn't necessarily the problem of the poster, but the reader. So I deactivated for a bit. the reality is, though, that facebook is the easiest way for me to communicate to my east coast family. And so I signed on once more.
Not five minutes later, I saw a picture: It was a Christmas tree. It was presents. It was one particular present. And then I saw red.
Stories from the man's childhood are typically tragic and usually connected with an object of some kind. I don't think I need to speak again about the Legos. There was another story he told me, about a beloved stuffed animal, a favorite present: a giant dinosaur from The Land Before Time.
It was cherished. It was loved. And, for no particular reason, it was unceremoniously tossed for the sake of convenience without regard to the feeling of the owner, a young boy who'd already had to experience more tragedy in his few years on earth than some people experience at all.
I'm no stranger to favorite childhood toys being pulled from your arms and thrown away or, in my case, tossed into a fire. I had a favorite Cabbage Patch doll. Her name was Esther Lyn. She was one of those "preemie" dolls with a bald head, and she smelled like baby powder. I remember one year for our churches Harvest Party, I dressed up as the biblical Esther, but I carried my doll with me and told everyone that I was "Esther Lyn."
That doll was with me when my parents split up, when we moved from Texas to Virginia, in a time when I, as a young girl, couldn't fully comprehend what was happening to my family.
Then one day, a few years later, we joined a homeschool group that mistakenly believed that inanimate objects could be possessed by demons or have demonic influence. One night, we went to our friends house for a bonfire, where instead of wood for burning, it was Care Bears and My Little Ponies and rock and roll albums, and secular books. It was troll dolls, and board games and movies. It was cabbage patch dolls.
It was Esther Lyn.
One of the many differences between the man and me - he acknowledges what happened and moves on. Not so for me. I am still standing at the bonfire, feeling the injustice done to innocent ones who don't understand. I feel it for myself and I feel it for him. It's a burden I have no right to carry and I should let it go. But I look at him, and imagine that he was the age of my own children when it happened and I was not much older as well. Letting it go becomes much harder with that perspective, especially when no one has any remorse or regret.
There is a verse in the bible that says by showing kindness to your enemies, you will heap burning coals on their heads. Part of me wonders if I can find it in my heart to be kind to my enemies one day.
Because I want to watch them burn.
My word for the New Year is "Active." I want to be active in all areas of my life, but spiritually is the main one. Passive faith is not where it's at, obviously. It hasn't worked for me all year.
I want to actively be a better person than the one in italics, and the only way I know how to do that is to actively pursue the God who is Love and not just wait for a miracle change without actually working toward it.
Pray for me this New Year, and I shall do the same for you.
Happy 2015.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
High Horse of Sign
This is all from my personal experience and it's my personal opinion, so if you disagree that's ok.
You'd be wrong, but that's ok. Pay attention. We are leaping right into it.
And then learn sign language.
You'd be wrong, but that's ok. Pay attention. We are leaping right into it.
If your child is born deaf, learn sign language. If you want your deaf child to talk, learn sign language.
If you make the decision early on to get a cochlear implant for your deaf child, learn sign language.
If you ascribe to the idea that deafness is a disease that should be cured, get an attitude adjustment.
And then learn sign language.
Here's a small way learning sign language will improve quality of life for you and your deaf child: You will be able to communicate with them from a ridiculously early age and you will be able to understand each other.
Highlight and underline the above sentence. Underline it again. Add multiple exclamation points to the end.
When we found out our daughter was deaf, we started learning sign immediately. I didn't think that was anything special, it merely seemed like the logical step for us. I'll admit there was also a bit of stereotyping - she's deaf and deaf people sign. I'll also admit that behind the drive to learn sign was an all encompassing fear that something would happen to my baby and she would have no way to communicate it to us unless we spoke what I consider to be her native language.
Pretend you have been dropped into Japan, and no one speaks your native language. They only speak Japanese. It would be pretty frustrating trying to accomplish anything. Now imagine you can't hear.
A deaf child needs a language foundation on which to build all other language. If you as a parent fail to provide that, you will only cause your child to work that much harder in order to try to keep up, or in truth catch up, with their hearing peers. This is a mans world, so the song says. Yes, and for the majority it's also a hearing world. Give your deaf child the best chance to thrive in it and give them the gift of sign language. There isn't a downside to doing so. Only good things can come from it.
Hello? Only good things can come from learning sign for, and teaching it to, your child. By contrast, not teaching your child sign can have some very real consequences. They will have to work extra hard to speak a language they can't hear, and then will also have to learn lip reading to get what you are saying. And yes, that is a learned skill. It's not some magic thing that just happens. People still to this day tell me, not ask me but tell me, "Oh, but since your daughter is deaf she can read lips." Uh, no. She can't. And how is relying on that even ok? For God's sake, stop trying to do everything else except learn sign, accept the fact that your kid is deaf, embrace the uniqueness and go with it.
I'm not saying it's easy. Ok, actually, when your child is young it is pretty easy. Learn the basics. The basics will take you pretty far. I'd be happy to teach you the basics myself. I know family signs, food signs, colors, shapes, numbers, articles of clothing, animals, occupations, weather, office supplies, and a litany of other signs I would be more than happy to show you. I'm not the best, but I did learn, and am still learning, from the best.
Just do it. You'll never regret it.
Trust me. I'm a doctor.
Pretend you have been dropped into Japan, and no one speaks your native language. They only speak Japanese. It would be pretty frustrating trying to accomplish anything. Now imagine you can't hear.
A deaf child needs a language foundation on which to build all other language. If you as a parent fail to provide that, you will only cause your child to work that much harder in order to try to keep up, or in truth catch up, with their hearing peers. This is a mans world, so the song says. Yes, and for the majority it's also a hearing world. Give your deaf child the best chance to thrive in it and give them the gift of sign language. There isn't a downside to doing so. Only good things can come from it.
Hello? Only good things can come from learning sign for, and teaching it to, your child. By contrast, not teaching your child sign can have some very real consequences. They will have to work extra hard to speak a language they can't hear, and then will also have to learn lip reading to get what you are saying. And yes, that is a learned skill. It's not some magic thing that just happens. People still to this day tell me, not ask me but tell me, "Oh, but since your daughter is deaf she can read lips." Uh, no. She can't. And how is relying on that even ok? For God's sake, stop trying to do everything else except learn sign, accept the fact that your kid is deaf, embrace the uniqueness and go with it.
I'm not saying it's easy. Ok, actually, when your child is young it is pretty easy. Learn the basics. The basics will take you pretty far. I'd be happy to teach you the basics myself. I know family signs, food signs, colors, shapes, numbers, articles of clothing, animals, occupations, weather, office supplies, and a litany of other signs I would be more than happy to show you. I'm not the best, but I did learn, and am still learning, from the best.
Just do it. You'll never regret it.
Trust me. I'm a doctor.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
So Your Kid Is Deaf...
She is my firstborn child.
When she was born, it was amazing. I just remember feeling joy, like nothing I'd ever felt before. A few weeks later, a nurse would say to me, "You don't know what love is until you have a baby." That was true for me.
During her very first physical by her pediatrician, 24 hours after she was born, the doctor noticed that her ear lobes didn't match. I had been doing nothing but staring at that sweet little bundle of joy so I was surprised I hadn't noticed.
"They don't match," the doctor said, "but don't worry - it doesn't mean she's deaf."
The minute she said that was the minute I knew. I felt it in my heart, an absolute. She was deaf.
Her subsequent failure of the newborn hearing screening, and the failure of the next five tries, was confirmation. I remember talking to my mother and being so upset with the nurse, who kept assuring me it was fluid in her ears and once it cleared out, she would pass the test and be fine. I was angry with her for having me come in every few days to test her hearing when I knew she would never pass that test.
My husband was in denial a little longer than me. A mother knows, they say. But a father must discover it for himself.
"Look. She startled at that. She heard you close the door," he would say, or "She heard you clap your hands." She was two weeks old and we were getting ready to see fireworks on the fourth of July. He was standing on the street corner outside our apartment, holding her, when a fire truck passed so close he could have reached out and touched it. The horn blew, and he jumped.
But she didn't. When he walked in the door, he looked at me, and I will never forget the look on his face. It was like a multitude of emotions passed over his normally stoic demeanor in flash. And he said, "I think she's deaf."
There is no history of genetic hearing loss on either side of our families, as far as we know. And when there isn't a clear reason, you don't know where to place the blame.
My mother blamed immunizations, particularly all the ones my husband and I received while we were in the military. Other blamed the fact that I had consumed alcohol before I found out I was pregnant (I found out at four weeks).
I'd been reading through the gospels at the time, and came across John 9:1-4. Jesus is passing by a man who was born blind and His disciples ask him, "Who sinned, the man, his mother or his father, that he should be born blind?" Jesus answered, "Neither him nor his parents sinned, but that the work of God should be revealed in him."
She was born exactly as she should have been. She was born to bring Him glory.
Unlike the story, however, I did not expect miraculous "healing." She was deaf, but I didn't feel like there was anything wrong with her. When she was six weeks old, we took her to church for the first time. The pastor preached a sermon about bad things happening, but God being in control. Toward the end, he began to list the struggles that some of the congregation was going through. People struggling with broken bones, with surgeries, with cancer, with the death of loved ones. And in the middle of the list, and in front of everyone, he points at us.
"Their child was born deaf, but God is in control."
I'm glad God had come to me earlier with His own message before I heard that one. My daughter's lack of hearing was being lumped in with cancer and death. Afterward, people who had never spoken to us before came up to tell me how "sorry" they were. It was eye opening for me, because I'm pretty sure I had done that to my own friends who had kids with special needs, never realizing how that might make them feel. It certainly didn't make me feel good.
Having a deaf child isn't cancer, and it isn't death and it isn't even within the realm of "bad things." In fact, I feel incredibly blessed. A whole world has opened up to me that I probably would never have experienced otherwise. There is a whole subculture I get to be a part of. There is a whole language I have gotten to learn.
She is my firstborn child. My life didn't begin until hers did.
When she was born, it was amazing. I just remember feeling joy, like nothing I'd ever felt before. A few weeks later, a nurse would say to me, "You don't know what love is until you have a baby." That was true for me.
During her very first physical by her pediatrician, 24 hours after she was born, the doctor noticed that her ear lobes didn't match. I had been doing nothing but staring at that sweet little bundle of joy so I was surprised I hadn't noticed.
"They don't match," the doctor said, "but don't worry - it doesn't mean she's deaf."
The minute she said that was the minute I knew. I felt it in my heart, an absolute. She was deaf.
Her subsequent failure of the newborn hearing screening, and the failure of the next five tries, was confirmation. I remember talking to my mother and being so upset with the nurse, who kept assuring me it was fluid in her ears and once it cleared out, she would pass the test and be fine. I was angry with her for having me come in every few days to test her hearing when I knew she would never pass that test.
My husband was in denial a little longer than me. A mother knows, they say. But a father must discover it for himself.
"Look. She startled at that. She heard you close the door," he would say, or "She heard you clap your hands." She was two weeks old and we were getting ready to see fireworks on the fourth of July. He was standing on the street corner outside our apartment, holding her, when a fire truck passed so close he could have reached out and touched it. The horn blew, and he jumped.
But she didn't. When he walked in the door, he looked at me, and I will never forget the look on his face. It was like a multitude of emotions passed over his normally stoic demeanor in flash. And he said, "I think she's deaf."
There is no history of genetic hearing loss on either side of our families, as far as we know. And when there isn't a clear reason, you don't know where to place the blame.
My mother blamed immunizations, particularly all the ones my husband and I received while we were in the military. Other blamed the fact that I had consumed alcohol before I found out I was pregnant (I found out at four weeks).
I'd been reading through the gospels at the time, and came across John 9:1-4. Jesus is passing by a man who was born blind and His disciples ask him, "Who sinned, the man, his mother or his father, that he should be born blind?" Jesus answered, "Neither him nor his parents sinned, but that the work of God should be revealed in him."
She was born exactly as she should have been. She was born to bring Him glory.
Unlike the story, however, I did not expect miraculous "healing." She was deaf, but I didn't feel like there was anything wrong with her. When she was six weeks old, we took her to church for the first time. The pastor preached a sermon about bad things happening, but God being in control. Toward the end, he began to list the struggles that some of the congregation was going through. People struggling with broken bones, with surgeries, with cancer, with the death of loved ones. And in the middle of the list, and in front of everyone, he points at us.
"Their child was born deaf, but God is in control."
I'm glad God had come to me earlier with His own message before I heard that one. My daughter's lack of hearing was being lumped in with cancer and death. Afterward, people who had never spoken to us before came up to tell me how "sorry" they were. It was eye opening for me, because I'm pretty sure I had done that to my own friends who had kids with special needs, never realizing how that might make them feel. It certainly didn't make me feel good.
Having a deaf child isn't cancer, and it isn't death and it isn't even within the realm of "bad things." In fact, I feel incredibly blessed. A whole world has opened up to me that I probably would never have experienced otherwise. There is a whole subculture I get to be a part of. There is a whole language I have gotten to learn.
She is my firstborn child. My life didn't begin until hers did.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Temptress
When my husband and I were dating, his father's wife became very upset about the fact that he and I were spending time...alone. *gasp* So she called my mother one day and told her, "Your daughter is a temptress."
By definition, that word means "A sexually attractive woman who sets out to allure or seduce someone."
I was nineteen years old at the time. I hardly felt like a full grown woman, much less a sexually attractive one. Want to see what I looked like for the most part?
That. That is what I looked like. I was constantly wearing that hat (it was my favorite hat that I stole from my brother), and other than switching out the tee shirt for tank tops, what you see is pretty much all you'd get with me.
In response to the temptress remark, my husband said at the time, "You must be the worst temptress in the world, cause it's not working."
Gee, I wonder why. Don't you want me, baby?
I remember the very first picture I took when I was trying to be deliberately sexy. Want to see that one? Brace yourself. It's about to get naughty.
Oh my gosh, what a whore!
The sweetest part is that I sent this to him while he was in Iraq the first time, and he taped it to the back of his field journal and carried it around with him for seven months. He came home and married me, so maybe it worked after all and he really did succumb to my seductive powers.
Right...
I've never forgotten that remark. You'd have been hard pressed to find a girl less sexy than me. For as worldly wise as I pretended to be in front of some of the people I hung out with, I was totally faking it. I knew almost nothing and even if I did have some knowledge of how these things worked, I never thought of myself as desirable in almost any way, much less physically desirable.
I don't know why I'm thinking of that right at this particular moment. Maybe because the anniversary of our first kiss (11 years ago) is today and I was thinking about how young and innocent we both were. I look back on those times and occasionally wish I had more working knowledge, but I'm happy I didn't have more experience.
You know what I mean?
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
How To Read a Romance
This is graphic. Reader discretion is advised.
A conversation between my sister and me this morning:
J: "Um, have you ever read a non-christian romance?"
Me: "Yes, yes I have. Why?"
J: "Um, because I just read my first ever 'mystery romance' and it had quite a few sex scenes and I was shocked. I'm wondering if they're all like that or did I pick up a porno?"
After inquiring what she had read and then reading an excerpt from the book, I regretfully had to inform her that all romance novels were written that way.
The leap from Christian romance to regular romance can be quite jarring. Thank the Lord she didn't pick up an "erotic novel." That stuff is whack.
I remember going to a seminar for our homeschool group when I was in my early teens and hearing about romance novels. They were a big "no-no" for two reasons: One, the obvious sexual content and two, that reading a romance novel will breed discontent in a relationship by causing you to expect things that won't necessarily happen.
Now, initially you could say the latter is a legitimate worry. But you will find that what happens in the book can happen in your relationship. You just need to know the language of romance.
Here's a few lines from a romance and what they actually mean.
"He felt weak and brutal all at the same time, desire pumping through him."
He's turned on and wants to procreate.
"He had to have her or die."
Ok, seriously, this guy is horny. And dramatic.
"Pulling her against him, he kissed her."
That one explains itself.
"She yielded completely, offering her body."
She gave up on trying to get any more sleep and just goes with it.
"She pulled him closer, as he took her with blunt, insistent pressure."
Might as well get it over with. He's already knocking at the door.
"He thrust into the luscious heat."
His penis has now entered her vagina.
"The rapture was severe, absolute. He made no effort to prolong it."
Two minutes in heaven is better than one minute in heaven.
You see? If you've ever had sex, you've enacted every naughty scene in a romance novel. If you haven't, well...doesn't it sound like fun written out in plain english?
Bonus: Anatomically correct terms are never used in classic romance. Instead you will read words like "member" "length" or "rigid length" "hardness" "instrument" "manhood" for a guy parts and words like "silk" "wetness" "heat" (with or without the words "luscious" "wet" "silk" "smooth" or "the" before it) "sex" "essence" for lady parts.
Hope that was helpful. You're welcome.
A conversation between my sister and me this morning:
J: "Um, have you ever read a non-christian romance?"
Me: "Yes, yes I have. Why?"
J: "Um, because I just read my first ever 'mystery romance' and it had quite a few sex scenes and I was shocked. I'm wondering if they're all like that or did I pick up a porno?"
After inquiring what she had read and then reading an excerpt from the book, I regretfully had to inform her that all romance novels were written that way.
The leap from Christian romance to regular romance can be quite jarring. Thank the Lord she didn't pick up an "erotic novel." That stuff is whack.
I remember going to a seminar for our homeschool group when I was in my early teens and hearing about romance novels. They were a big "no-no" for two reasons: One, the obvious sexual content and two, that reading a romance novel will breed discontent in a relationship by causing you to expect things that won't necessarily happen.
Now, initially you could say the latter is a legitimate worry. But you will find that what happens in the book can happen in your relationship. You just need to know the language of romance.
Here's a few lines from a romance and what they actually mean.
"He felt weak and brutal all at the same time, desire pumping through him."
He's turned on and wants to procreate.
"He had to have her or die."
Ok, seriously, this guy is horny. And dramatic.
"Pulling her against him, he kissed her."
That one explains itself.
"She yielded completely, offering her body."
She gave up on trying to get any more sleep and just goes with it.
"She pulled him closer, as he took her with blunt, insistent pressure."
Might as well get it over with. He's already knocking at the door.
"He thrust into the luscious heat."
His penis has now entered her vagina.
"The rapture was severe, absolute. He made no effort to prolong it."
Two minutes in heaven is better than one minute in heaven.
You see? If you've ever had sex, you've enacted every naughty scene in a romance novel. If you haven't, well...doesn't it sound like fun written out in plain english?
Bonus: Anatomically correct terms are never used in classic romance. Instead you will read words like "member" "length" or "rigid length" "hardness" "instrument" "manhood" for a guy parts and words like "silk" "wetness" "heat" (with or without the words "luscious" "wet" "silk" "smooth" or "the" before it) "sex" "essence" for lady parts.
Hope that was helpful. You're welcome.
Monday, June 23, 2014
The Last Child
The newest one is so tiny to me, the smallest baby I've had. I call her Baby Gollum, because her limbs are so skinny and she is constantly spreading her hands out really wide. Also, she gives crazy eyes quite a bit.
The reference might seem mean, but it's actually appropriate considering I was thinking of The Hobbit the moment she was born.
I'm a huge fan of Lord of the Rings, the movies and the books. And I liked the first Hobbit movie. But while I was watching the second, The Desolation of Smaug, I couldn't help but think that Sauron's Eye looked like a giant, flaming vagina.
That image is what having a baby feels like.
Earlier I had posted that I wanted a natural childbirth, but knew I wouldn't be able to do so because I was being induced, and God knows the contractions created by pitocin are painful to the extreme, for me anyways. Well, as fate would have it, I got my natural childbirth regardless.
Never again.
Hear me: Never again.
Two and a half hours into my induction, I asked for an epidural. The contractions were coming one on top of the other with no break and I was actually crying from pain. Contrary to what the man thinks (his view is that I have the lowest pain tolerance on the planet because when my appendix burst I told him I felt like I was dying. Turns out it was septic and I was dying, but he still views me as overdramatic), it actually takes a lot for me to cry from pain. So at 0545 I asked for an epidural. At 0615, the anesthesiologist came in to give me one. First I had to endure the five minutes of questions, which I could barely comprehend at that point.
At 0620, he told me to sit up on the bed, hold onto a pillow and curl forward. He began prepping my back, and though I know it was in my imagination, I swear he was whistling a tune while he painted me with iodine, taking what I thought was his sweet old time about the whole process.
Suddenly, my water broke. For two glorious seconds, I felt absolutely no pain. And then...
There are no words for how I felt. Pain upon pain and sheer, bloody panic.
My sweet nurse gently reminded me, "You have to hold still, ok?" while I am the child from every horror movie, crawling up the walls like a human spider, with my head on backwards, yelling like a banshee, "I CAN'T! Must push NOW!!"
The anesthesiologist said, "Alright, sweetheart, just lie down." Sweet nurse said, "I'll go ahead and check you." There was no lying down, there was no sitting. There was only levitating on pain. My nurse did check me and actually sounded really surprised to find a baby's head.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "You're at a ten and there's the head."
Shocker.
All the while I'm yelling over and over, "I have to push, I have to push, I have to push, I have to push!" They didn't even get the bed broken down. My doctor came in, told me to take a breath (seriously?) and then said, "I'm here, you can push." I did, and what flashed into my head in that haze of pain? There was no focus, there was no lamaze breathing, there was no guided meditation or rainbow relaxation or any of the hypno-birthing techniques I'd practiced religiously for the last three months.
There was only Sauron's Eye.
They say childbirth and babies are a miracle, and they are. But I think the real miracle is how one moment your body is splitting as wide as the Grand Canyon while something that feels like the size of Jupiter is trying to push itself out, but the next moment when that baby is finally out all that pain disappears the millisecond you see them.
So her birth was the most painful experience of my life, to date. But just like every woman says after she has a baby: Totally worth it. If there is a next time, though (don't count on it...), I'm going to numb the Shire before anything else comes out of the Hobbit hole.
Hopefully I didn't ruin Lord of the Rings for everyone.
The reference might seem mean, but it's actually appropriate considering I was thinking of The Hobbit the moment she was born.
I'm a huge fan of Lord of the Rings, the movies and the books. And I liked the first Hobbit movie. But while I was watching the second, The Desolation of Smaug, I couldn't help but think that Sauron's Eye looked like a giant, flaming vagina.
That image is what having a baby feels like.
Earlier I had posted that I wanted a natural childbirth, but knew I wouldn't be able to do so because I was being induced, and God knows the contractions created by pitocin are painful to the extreme, for me anyways. Well, as fate would have it, I got my natural childbirth regardless.
Never again.
Hear me: Never again.
Two and a half hours into my induction, I asked for an epidural. The contractions were coming one on top of the other with no break and I was actually crying from pain. Contrary to what the man thinks (his view is that I have the lowest pain tolerance on the planet because when my appendix burst I told him I felt like I was dying. Turns out it was septic and I was dying, but he still views me as overdramatic), it actually takes a lot for me to cry from pain. So at 0545 I asked for an epidural. At 0615, the anesthesiologist came in to give me one. First I had to endure the five minutes of questions, which I could barely comprehend at that point.
At 0620, he told me to sit up on the bed, hold onto a pillow and curl forward. He began prepping my back, and though I know it was in my imagination, I swear he was whistling a tune while he painted me with iodine, taking what I thought was his sweet old time about the whole process.
Suddenly, my water broke. For two glorious seconds, I felt absolutely no pain. And then...
There are no words for how I felt. Pain upon pain and sheer, bloody panic.
My sweet nurse gently reminded me, "You have to hold still, ok?" while I am the child from every horror movie, crawling up the walls like a human spider, with my head on backwards, yelling like a banshee, "I CAN'T! Must push NOW!!"
The anesthesiologist said, "Alright, sweetheart, just lie down." Sweet nurse said, "I'll go ahead and check you." There was no lying down, there was no sitting. There was only levitating on pain. My nurse did check me and actually sounded really surprised to find a baby's head.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "You're at a ten and there's the head."
Shocker.
All the while I'm yelling over and over, "I have to push, I have to push, I have to push, I have to push!" They didn't even get the bed broken down. My doctor came in, told me to take a breath (seriously?) and then said, "I'm here, you can push." I did, and what flashed into my head in that haze of pain? There was no focus, there was no lamaze breathing, there was no guided meditation or rainbow relaxation or any of the hypno-birthing techniques I'd practiced religiously for the last three months.
There was only Sauron's Eye.
They say childbirth and babies are a miracle, and they are. But I think the real miracle is how one moment your body is splitting as wide as the Grand Canyon while something that feels like the size of Jupiter is trying to push itself out, but the next moment when that baby is finally out all that pain disappears the millisecond you see them.
So her birth was the most painful experience of my life, to date. But just like every woman says after she has a baby: Totally worth it. If there is a next time, though (don't count on it...), I'm going to numb the Shire before anything else comes out of the Hobbit hole.
Hopefully I didn't ruin Lord of the Rings for everyone.
Monday, May 19, 2014
It Might Be Ok
If all goes as planned, today is my last day of living here with the kids on my own. At some point tomorrow night, the man will arrive...and he won't be leaving.
This will be the first time in our entire relationship that there isn't a deadline for him to be gone. This will also be the first time in four years that we will be living in the same residence. To say there is going to be a much needed adjustment period is a gross understatement. We are going to have to learn to live with each other.
Literally.
Prior to yesterday, though, I was sitting here in a panic thinking that because it's not going to work out the way I want to, then it's not going to work out at all. Everything is despair. Earthquakes will tear apart the west coast. Stars will fall. The world will burn.
And then it hit me: It's going to be ok. Just because things aren't going the way I want them to doesn't mean that all is lost. It just means I'm not getting my way, and I have to deal with it.
This is a good perspective to start cultivating before the man comes home, so today will be spent with much introspection...that, and a lot of 24 (season 5) and coffee drinks.
The exclusive "my way" is about to become non-existant. And it's going to be ok.
I think.
This will be the first time in our entire relationship that there isn't a deadline for him to be gone. This will also be the first time in four years that we will be living in the same residence. To say there is going to be a much needed adjustment period is a gross understatement. We are going to have to learn to live with each other.
Literally.
All my emotions on this subject can be whittled down to equal parts happiness and pure terror. I've been living exclusively my way for almost our entire marriage because we've spent more time apart than we have together. And especially the last six years, since the oldest was born, I've been focused primarily on raising the children. Now I'm not going to be the only parent in the household.
Weird.
Yesterday, I had an epiphany. I might have had this epiphany before, but it came to me again because obviously I forgot it at some point: I'm a linear thinker. Either it works out or it doesn't. There is no other option.
I realized this while pondering my upcoming delivery. I have had to accept the fact that this baby probably will not come on her own before my scheduled induction. This means I won't get the labor and delivery that I have been planning for (a natural, non-medicated birth). I know some women who are induced still manage to go the natural route. I am not one of those women, sadly. There was a world of difference between the natural contractions I had with my daughter, and the induced ones I had with my son. After seven hours of the latter, I had to ask for an epidural.
Yesterday, I had an epiphany. I might have had this epiphany before, but it came to me again because obviously I forgot it at some point: I'm a linear thinker. Either it works out or it doesn't. There is no other option.
I realized this while pondering my upcoming delivery. I have had to accept the fact that this baby probably will not come on her own before my scheduled induction. This means I won't get the labor and delivery that I have been planning for (a natural, non-medicated birth). I know some women who are induced still manage to go the natural route. I am not one of those women, sadly. There was a world of difference between the natural contractions I had with my daughter, and the induced ones I had with my son. After seven hours of the latter, I had to ask for an epidural.
Prior to yesterday, though, I was sitting here in a panic thinking that because it's not going to work out the way I want to, then it's not going to work out at all. Everything is despair. Earthquakes will tear apart the west coast. Stars will fall. The world will burn.
And then it hit me: It's going to be ok. Just because things aren't going the way I want them to doesn't mean that all is lost. It just means I'm not getting my way, and I have to deal with it.
This is a good perspective to start cultivating before the man comes home, so today will be spent with much introspection...that, and a lot of 24 (season 5) and coffee drinks.
The exclusive "my way" is about to become non-existant. And it's going to be ok.
I think.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Emotional Sadism
The words in the title were (allegedly) used to describe me.
The word "sadist" means "someone who enjoys inflicting pain on others, most often for sexual gratification." It can also mean "deliberate cruelty."
The person who said this is someone I don't communicate with or associate with on any level. And the reason for that is because "sadist" is one of the words I would use to describe them.
So much irony...
Considering the source, the words don't have much of an effect, except in one way that surprised me: those words didn't hurt me, but they hurt the people who love me.
That got me thinking and I had a major epiphany: I could get on social media or use this blog to talk about every nasty thing this person has ever said or done, to me and to others close to me. I could write things that would make you sick to read, talk about things that would make you sick to hear.
But it wouldn't make a difference to this person at all, and it would accomplish exactly one thing: it would inflict pain on the people who love them.
And the ones who love me and them are the same people.
I've had to ask myself this: Is my level of hate for one person greater than the love I have for the ones around me? Because if the answer is yes, then let the dirty laundry be aired. Let the secrets be shouted from rooftops. Let the dictionary of unsavory terms be used.
No. In fact, God forbid I ever get to the point where I trample on the feelings of loved ones just to make a point about someone I don't love an iota.
I've come dangerously close. I've looked into the faces of loved ones and said, "Why can't you just admit what they are? Why can't you just acknowledge that they're pure evil?? Don't you care about that at all?"
How ugly I must have seemed in those moments of confrontation. How could I ask them to face someone they love and see only the monster I see? It doesn't hurt the monster, it hurts them.
Would I gain satisfaction from proving my point at the expense of pain to others?
Wouldn't that make me a sadist?
The word "sadist" means "someone who enjoys inflicting pain on others, most often for sexual gratification." It can also mean "deliberate cruelty."
The person who said this is someone I don't communicate with or associate with on any level. And the reason for that is because "sadist" is one of the words I would use to describe them.
So much irony...
Considering the source, the words don't have much of an effect, except in one way that surprised me: those words didn't hurt me, but they hurt the people who love me.
That got me thinking and I had a major epiphany: I could get on social media or use this blog to talk about every nasty thing this person has ever said or done, to me and to others close to me. I could write things that would make you sick to read, talk about things that would make you sick to hear.
But it wouldn't make a difference to this person at all, and it would accomplish exactly one thing: it would inflict pain on the people who love them.
And the ones who love me and them are the same people.
I've had to ask myself this: Is my level of hate for one person greater than the love I have for the ones around me? Because if the answer is yes, then let the dirty laundry be aired. Let the secrets be shouted from rooftops. Let the dictionary of unsavory terms be used.
No. In fact, God forbid I ever get to the point where I trample on the feelings of loved ones just to make a point about someone I don't love an iota.
I've come dangerously close. I've looked into the faces of loved ones and said, "Why can't you just admit what they are? Why can't you just acknowledge that they're pure evil?? Don't you care about that at all?"
How ugly I must have seemed in those moments of confrontation. How could I ask them to face someone they love and see only the monster I see? It doesn't hurt the monster, it hurts them.
Would I gain satisfaction from proving my point at the expense of pain to others?
Wouldn't that make me a sadist?
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Those Damn Legos
Somewhere in a house in Virginia there sits a pirates bounty of Legos that belonged to the man and were one of his favorite childhood pastimes.
Understand something: the man almost never complains or laments about anything. For a guy who has been through so much in the course of his lifetime, for a man who has experienced things we can only imagine in our most nightmarish dreams, he says very little in the way of regret.
But over the course of our almost ten years of marriage, I have heard him lament the loss of those Legos more than once. And it sticks with me.
It sticks with me because, in a roundabout and twisted way, I am the reason he will never see those Legos again.
When the man married me, he had to choose between me and the Legos. Not in the way you might think - I don't have an irrational hate of Legos...unless I step on one in bare feet and then yeah, hate takes control. But aside from that, I am pretty fond of them myself.
No, it's because he had to choose between me and who the Legos are currently with.
I mentioned a while ago that I realized the enormity of the man's love for me by how much he must personally sacrifice to be with me. I was speaking of more recent years but the truth is he has always had to sacrifice to be with me. I daresay that some sacrifices are much easier than others, but that doesn't mean that the repercussions of such decisions don't have some weight.
Losing those Legos is the weightiest of all. In fact, it might be the only real thing about the situation that bothers him, as much as he lets anything about material possessions bother him.
That stash of unattainable Legos has suddenly become the perfect metaphor for our changing relationship.
There is nothing he and I can to do to get those particular Legos. There is nothing he and I are willing to do to get those particular Legos, because it would mean compromise in areas we will not ever compromise in. But just as we have had to reset and readjust our life together, and just as we have had to rebuild our relationship piece by piece, I am bound and determined to build him a collection of actual Lego pieces to go along with it.
I love the man more than anything. And I am going to show it, brick by colorful brick.
P.S. Um, so yeah if you have any loose Legos lying around or you want to know what to get me for Mother's day, my birthday, baby shower, anniversary, Christmas and every other holiday you can think...now you know.
Understand something: the man almost never complains or laments about anything. For a guy who has been through so much in the course of his lifetime, for a man who has experienced things we can only imagine in our most nightmarish dreams, he says very little in the way of regret.
But over the course of our almost ten years of marriage, I have heard him lament the loss of those Legos more than once. And it sticks with me.
It sticks with me because, in a roundabout and twisted way, I am the reason he will never see those Legos again.
When the man married me, he had to choose between me and the Legos. Not in the way you might think - I don't have an irrational hate of Legos...unless I step on one in bare feet and then yeah, hate takes control. But aside from that, I am pretty fond of them myself.
No, it's because he had to choose between me and who the Legos are currently with.
I mentioned a while ago that I realized the enormity of the man's love for me by how much he must personally sacrifice to be with me. I was speaking of more recent years but the truth is he has always had to sacrifice to be with me. I daresay that some sacrifices are much easier than others, but that doesn't mean that the repercussions of such decisions don't have some weight.
Losing those Legos is the weightiest of all. In fact, it might be the only real thing about the situation that bothers him, as much as he lets anything about material possessions bother him.
That stash of unattainable Legos has suddenly become the perfect metaphor for our changing relationship.
There is nothing he and I can to do to get those particular Legos. There is nothing he and I are willing to do to get those particular Legos, because it would mean compromise in areas we will not ever compromise in. But just as we have had to reset and readjust our life together, and just as we have had to rebuild our relationship piece by piece, I am bound and determined to build him a collection of actual Lego pieces to go along with it.
I love the man more than anything. And I am going to show it, brick by colorful brick.
P.S. Um, so yeah if you have any loose Legos lying around or you want to know what to get me for Mother's day, my birthday, baby shower, anniversary, Christmas and every other holiday you can think...now you know.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Everything I Have Built
I'm having a lot of anxiety about the labor and delivery I will go through in a few months, and it has nothing to do with fear of physical pain.
When I gave birth to my son several things happened that, when I think about them today, still feel as sharp as a knife to the heart. In fact, I cannot think of the overwhelming joy of giving birth to him without also feeling the overwhelming devastation that came with the circumstances surrounding his birth.
Imagine doing the most important work you will ever do in your life and feeling simultaneously like the most unimportant person in the room.
It started months before I went into labor with him, and it continued months afterwards. I felt small and insignificant and like what I said, or did, didn't really matter. If I'm being totally honest, I still feel that way and I have to keep telling myself that what I feel isn't the truth.
But it feels like the truth.
Those four words in the title of this post were part of a sentence that has rocked the fragile foundation I'm standing on, and brought up every old feeling and fear I've spent almost three years trying to bury beneath layers of "get over it" "move on" and "let it go." This morning I realized that the only layer I really need is "forgiveness."
There is nothing harder in this world, or more necessary, than forgiveness. With me, it goes something like this:
"Oh, certainly I forgive you. But I will never, ever, ever, ever forget what you've done. I'll carry it with me forever so that you will never be able to hurt me this way again. I'll keep this all to myself so that when you wrong me, I won't feel the slightest hesitation about wronging you in return."
So, basically I don't forgive you at all.
Another word for "forgiveness" is "absolution" which means "a formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment." I need to absolve people from my own personal guilt trips and passive aggressive punishments, and from statements like, "well based on past experience I can only expect..."
Here we will transition into the all powerful word of the year: Love.
In 1 Corinthians 13 (the love chapter) verse 5 says that love is "not self-seeking, is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrong."(NIV)
Love is forgiveness and forgiveness is love.
I'm a writer with the memory for wrongs suffered like an elephant. Not only do I have a mental list of every wrong you've done to me, chances are I also have a physical list (in the form of a journal) somewhere that I can refer back to in case I forget. I like to think of myself as "made in the image of God" in this aspect. He also has a list.
The only difference is He's already forgiven me for everything I've done up to this point on the list and everything I haven't gotten to do yet. We love because He loved us first. We forgive because He has forgiven us first, and fully. I'm glad He doesn't say things to me like "Well, chances are you are going to screw up again cause you did on such and such a date..."
My point is that if I want to love like God, then I have to forgive like Him too.
I should probably go ahead and start layering that new foundation with forgiveness so it can harden into a love so sure that no fear can creep through.
When I gave birth to my son several things happened that, when I think about them today, still feel as sharp as a knife to the heart. In fact, I cannot think of the overwhelming joy of giving birth to him without also feeling the overwhelming devastation that came with the circumstances surrounding his birth.
Imagine doing the most important work you will ever do in your life and feeling simultaneously like the most unimportant person in the room.
It started months before I went into labor with him, and it continued months afterwards. I felt small and insignificant and like what I said, or did, didn't really matter. If I'm being totally honest, I still feel that way and I have to keep telling myself that what I feel isn't the truth.
But it feels like the truth.
Those four words in the title of this post were part of a sentence that has rocked the fragile foundation I'm standing on, and brought up every old feeling and fear I've spent almost three years trying to bury beneath layers of "get over it" "move on" and "let it go." This morning I realized that the only layer I really need is "forgiveness."
There is nothing harder in this world, or more necessary, than forgiveness. With me, it goes something like this:
"Oh, certainly I forgive you. But I will never, ever, ever, ever forget what you've done. I'll carry it with me forever so that you will never be able to hurt me this way again. I'll keep this all to myself so that when you wrong me, I won't feel the slightest hesitation about wronging you in return."
So, basically I don't forgive you at all.
Another word for "forgiveness" is "absolution" which means "a formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment." I need to absolve people from my own personal guilt trips and passive aggressive punishments, and from statements like, "well based on past experience I can only expect..."
Here we will transition into the all powerful word of the year: Love.
In 1 Corinthians 13 (the love chapter) verse 5 says that love is "not self-seeking, is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrong."(NIV)
Love is forgiveness and forgiveness is love.
I'm a writer with the memory for wrongs suffered like an elephant. Not only do I have a mental list of every wrong you've done to me, chances are I also have a physical list (in the form of a journal) somewhere that I can refer back to in case I forget. I like to think of myself as "made in the image of God" in this aspect. He also has a list.
The only difference is He's already forgiven me for everything I've done up to this point on the list and everything I haven't gotten to do yet. We love because He loved us first. We forgive because He has forgiven us first, and fully. I'm glad He doesn't say things to me like "Well, chances are you are going to screw up again cause you did on such and such a date..."
My point is that if I want to love like God, then I have to forgive like Him too.
I should probably go ahead and start layering that new foundation with forgiveness so it can harden into a love so sure that no fear can creep through.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
A Naughty Song
I was having a discussion with my sister today about Christian music. I really love Christian music for the most part, and I listen to it almost exclusively these days. But one thing that bothers me is when I hear a song and I'm not quite sure if the artist is speaking about God or their lover. Tossing around the word "Lord" in a song does not a Christian song make, you know what I mean?
So in order to prove this point, I told my sister that I was going to write a raunchy "Christian" song. This is just for sillies, although feel free to take it and serenade your intended with it on your wedding night if you want to. The inspiration came from the "naughtiest" book in the Bible, Song of Solomon.
A Christian naughty song - by me!
Baby, it's our wedding night.
We've done everything just right,
And waited till we're wed,
Before we both went to bed.
And standing here looking at you,
I can tell your nervous too,
Cause soon two shall be one,
We're like the Shulamite and Solomon.
Is it wrong if I tell you publicly?
That I want to know you biblically?
So if you're a gazelle, I'm the hunter
Chasing after you because I want ya.
If you're a garden, I'm Peter Rabbit,
Whatever your fruit, baby, I've gotta have it.
Your navel is a goblet and I'll do what's implied,
Thank God He put you in my life,
Especially for tonight.
Baby, when I look at you,
I can feel our love shine through.
Climb under the covers,
We're about to become lovers.
And I'm not sure quite how this goes,
But we'll let the Bible tell us so,
I'm a wall and my breasts are towers,
Baby, you can climb those things for hours.
Is it wrong to tell you publicly?
That I want you to feed amongst your lilies?
So if your mouth is wine, then I'm a lush,
Clearly you're vintage that God didn't rush.
If you're a vineyard, I am it's keeper,
Oh, your sweet grapes makes my love grow deeper.
And in the garden of nuts, and I'll do what's implied.
Thank God He put you in my life,
Especially for tonight.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Love, But More Mature
Valentines Day is tomorrow. I actually really, really, really like this holiday even though it's what my oldest brother calls a "Hallmark Holiday." I like that there is an entire day devoted to love. I don't look at it as just a celebration of romantic love either. I choose for Valentines Day to be all encompassing, a day to celebrate whoever you love, and whoever loves you...
...unless they're a creepy stalker or something. Then yeah...no.
And now, a mushy story.
A couple weeks ago I was reading back through the journals I kept during the years the man and I were just starting to get together. I've known him since I was fifteen years old, but I didn't think of him in "that way" at first. When I turned eighteen, he was in the Marines already, stationed over in Bahrain in 2002. I kept bugging his sisters, who were friends of mine, about him. How was he doing? What was going on? (I was worried about him because American troops were now in Afghanistan and I know nothing of geography) They finally got so sick of it that they gave me his email address in October of that year so I could ask him myself. I wrote him, and he wrote me back. And you can figure out the rest.
In May of 2003, he was scheduled to come home on leave and I was a nervous wreck. The more I learned about this guy, the more I felt like he was someone pretty amazing. I knew we were friends, but I doubted he felt more than that for me, so I was an emotional mess trying to figure what I felt for him. A couple weeks before he came home, his sister and I were out shopping and she started to describe the kind of girl her (and some of her family) always pictured him to be with. Someone blonde. A bombshell. Basically she described the exact opposite of everything that I was/am (though I didn't know it then, I definitely had some bombshell assets I could have been playing up. Curse my sheltered childhood!)
In that moment, when she was speaking those words, I felt just like Jane Austen's Emma: "It darted through her with the speed of an arrow that no one must marry Mr. Knightley but herself!"
When I saw him for the first time that May, I was shaking like a leaf. I was afraid he'd be able to see my feelings all over my face. The honest truth is that I was crazy about him.
The honest truth is that I still am.
As it turns out, he was in love with me too. He told me a few weeks later in June, just before my 19th birthday, in a lovely letter that I still have. That November we got engaged, and the following August, after he got home from his deployment, we got married.
Sometimes I wish we could go back to those early days of marriage, but the truth is that even they weren't easy. Six months after we got married he was deployed again. In fact, we've spent more time apart in this relationship than we have together. And even for all the struggles we have been through, and all the hurt I felt, and all the things that have happened between us, I am still that fluttery, head-over-heels in love with him...but I think it's finally changing.
Half of the problems we've had in our marriage have been because he and I aren't really on the same page. And so begins the struggle of wanting him to see things MY WAY, damn it, because if you saw it MY WAY you'd probably stop acting like such a tool! And I can't tell you how many times I've asked him why he won't just get rid of me. Why do we even bother trying to go on with this charade??
His answer: Because I am committed to you.
I hated that answer so much, I wanted to slap his face every time he said it. "I don't want your commitment, I want your love!" I would say.
Then one day, not that long ago, I grew up and *light bulb* realized that his commitment to me is real love. I have to face the fact that even though he doesn't feel butterflies for me, he stays true to me. He doesn't write me love letters anymore, but almost never denies anything I ask of him. The truth is that expressing almost any emotion is no longer easy for him, but he tells me he loves me every day now because I need to hear it.
I've come to realize the depth of his feeling by the enormity of what he must sacrifice in order to be with me. It would genuinely be easier for him if he could just be solitary. But he chooses to stay true to his commitments he made to me almost ten years ago, even though it's hard and it's sure to get VERY hard here in a few months when we start living together for the first time in four years.
When I said earlier that I think my love is changing, I meant that I'm beginning to realize the value of his love for me, and I am choosing to love him in the same way: because I am committed to him. Not a love based on action and reaction, but one of every day I choose to love you no matter what because I promised to do so before God and 11 people.
I never stopped loving the man. I just love him for real now.
Gee, if that isn't a reason to celebrate tomorrow, I don't know what is...
...unless they're a creepy stalker or something. Then yeah...no.
And now, a mushy story.
A couple weeks ago I was reading back through the journals I kept during the years the man and I were just starting to get together. I've known him since I was fifteen years old, but I didn't think of him in "that way" at first. When I turned eighteen, he was in the Marines already, stationed over in Bahrain in 2002. I kept bugging his sisters, who were friends of mine, about him. How was he doing? What was going on? (I was worried about him because American troops were now in Afghanistan and I know nothing of geography) They finally got so sick of it that they gave me his email address in October of that year so I could ask him myself. I wrote him, and he wrote me back. And you can figure out the rest.
In May of 2003, he was scheduled to come home on leave and I was a nervous wreck. The more I learned about this guy, the more I felt like he was someone pretty amazing. I knew we were friends, but I doubted he felt more than that for me, so I was an emotional mess trying to figure what I felt for him. A couple weeks before he came home, his sister and I were out shopping and she started to describe the kind of girl her (and some of her family) always pictured him to be with. Someone blonde. A bombshell. Basically she described the exact opposite of everything that I was/am (though I didn't know it then, I definitely had some bombshell assets I could have been playing up. Curse my sheltered childhood!)
In that moment, when she was speaking those words, I felt just like Jane Austen's Emma: "It darted through her with the speed of an arrow that no one must marry Mr. Knightley but herself!"
When I saw him for the first time that May, I was shaking like a leaf. I was afraid he'd be able to see my feelings all over my face. The honest truth is that I was crazy about him.
The honest truth is that I still am.
As it turns out, he was in love with me too. He told me a few weeks later in June, just before my 19th birthday, in a lovely letter that I still have. That November we got engaged, and the following August, after he got home from his deployment, we got married.
Sometimes I wish we could go back to those early days of marriage, but the truth is that even they weren't easy. Six months after we got married he was deployed again. In fact, we've spent more time apart in this relationship than we have together. And even for all the struggles we have been through, and all the hurt I felt, and all the things that have happened between us, I am still that fluttery, head-over-heels in love with him...but I think it's finally changing.
Half of the problems we've had in our marriage have been because he and I aren't really on the same page. And so begins the struggle of wanting him to see things MY WAY, damn it, because if you saw it MY WAY you'd probably stop acting like such a tool! And I can't tell you how many times I've asked him why he won't just get rid of me. Why do we even bother trying to go on with this charade??
His answer: Because I am committed to you.
I hated that answer so much, I wanted to slap his face every time he said it. "I don't want your commitment, I want your love!" I would say.
Then one day, not that long ago, I grew up and *light bulb* realized that his commitment to me is real love. I have to face the fact that even though he doesn't feel butterflies for me, he stays true to me. He doesn't write me love letters anymore, but almost never denies anything I ask of him. The truth is that expressing almost any emotion is no longer easy for him, but he tells me he loves me every day now because I need to hear it.
I've come to realize the depth of his feeling by the enormity of what he must sacrifice in order to be with me. It would genuinely be easier for him if he could just be solitary. But he chooses to stay true to his commitments he made to me almost ten years ago, even though it's hard and it's sure to get VERY hard here in a few months when we start living together for the first time in four years.
When I said earlier that I think my love is changing, I meant that I'm beginning to realize the value of his love for me, and I am choosing to love him in the same way: because I am committed to him. Not a love based on action and reaction, but one of every day I choose to love you no matter what because I promised to do so before God and 11 people.
I never stopped loving the man. I just love him for real now.
Gee, if that isn't a reason to celebrate tomorrow, I don't know what is...
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Happy New Year. I Hate Everything.
I'm going to preface this post by saying that I am completely mental at the moment.
I am afraid I don't make a very good pregnant woman. The part of my personality that likes to hold onto hurts (real or imagined), bottles them up and then waits for an unsuspecting victim to uncork the lid and set off the explosion...yes, that part is amplified times a thousand when I am pregnant. No joke, I actually catch myself plotting revenge on whoever perpetuates the smallest of slights. I want to make a My Little Pony episode reference here, but I'm afraid most of you won't get it, unless you have a five year old daughter, or relative (or you are part of the Brony subculture).
"You laugh at me, I WRATH AT YOU!"
There. I couldn't help it.
Anyway, for some reason, I find myself taking out a lot of the irrational feelings I have on my house and the city I live in. I don't know if it's because I was pregnant and unhappy when we moved up here and so I just feel echoes of my past emotions, or if there is another reason, but I occasionally wake up feeling like I'm living under the dome here and I HAVE to GET OUT!!
This holiday, I got my reprieve. I escaped my house and my city and all my illogical hate of it. I spent about eight days (broken up) on the other side of the state, in the house where my husband lives, he and his two roommates. For half the days, all was well...ish. Then, as I was awakened from sleep at 0120 in the morning by the sounds of Call of Duty and two drunk Marines in the room below me, I was struck with a sudden realization:
I hated it there too. My word, will ANYPLACE or ANYONE ever be good enough??
About the only thing I really and truly love right now are my children, born and unborn. Everything else is teetering on the edge of my loathing. I decided a few months ago that my focus for this year was already going to be love, but after having spent the last days of 2013 in a silent rage, I've decided my focus should probably be Love with a capital "L."
By that I mean God. With a capital "G."
1 John 4:7-12 (NASB) 7 "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. 8 The one who does not love does not know God, for God is love. 9 By this the love of God was manifested in us, that God has sent His only begotten Son into the world so that we might live through Him. 10 In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.11 Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. 12 No one has seen God at any time; if we love one another, God abides in us, and His love is perfected in us."
This is the "reason for the season" and the Greatest Commandment all rolled into one. And these verses are my verses for the next year (and beyond, really).
When I think of Jesus dying on the cross, I think of Him coming to earth in the "olden days" and dying for those people's sins. I know He died for mine, but I never really put it into a modern day context. What I mean is, I hate everything right now. And Christ died for it.
His sacrifice isn't history, it's current. He died for a world filled with terror, and hate, and fear, and evil. He died for terrorists, peacekeepers, murderers, healers, adulterers, fornicators, the chaste, drunkards, the sober, thieves, liars, the truthful, politicians, corrupt governments, the one percent, the ninety-nine percent, democrats, republicans, gay, straight, pro-choice, pro-life, pro-gun, anti-gun, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Atheists, black, white, yellow, orange, purple, brown, green, pink, the people you love, the people you hate, EVERYONE.
Right now.
Currently.
He has a banner over all of us, and it's love.
And here's to hoping that as I grow, that Love (and love) will in fact conquer all.
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