Tag Archives: motherhood

The gift of reassurance

A lot can change in eleven years. Many of the very somber scars of my heart have occurred in the last decade. But I want today’s blog to be more upbeat. The most celebrated event of our lives was the birth of our baby (who despite all of our best efforts, at ten, is no longer anywhere close to being a baby). Of course, there have been a few other changes, like our remodeling our home, gain a few pounds, lose a few pounds, trips to the hairdresser suddenly becoming more necessary, and instead of chasing toddlers, keeping up with teenagers.

Another difference compared to my life eleven years ago is the way I am able to interact with friends and family on a daily basis. Accepting the inherent dangers, the advent of social media has been a game changer for us. While definitely insignificant compared to the birth of our last child, keeping up with friends and family has revolutionized my world. While we do have cousins a little over an hour away, our parents live more than four hundred miles from our home. Sometimes, my best long-distance “connections” are no farther than a finger swipe away.

Last summer, I came to the realization that our baby girl hadn’t taken her trip to Chicago. Since our Boy Wonder is now a senior, I knew the clock was ticking on how much longer she would even be little. We checked the calendar, cashed in an Amtrak travel voucher, and packed our bags. A big send off by Sister and Sally Gal and I pulled out of the driveway. Sister’s parting words were, “Take lots of pictures and keep us updated.”

All Aboard!

Throughout our travels, I posted snippets of our adventures. If it was a new and novel experience, a photo was snapped to document the memory. Don’t get me wrong! The point of the trip was to be with my little girl; so, I only shared highlights with my corner of the world.

Who knew that Kit dreamed of working as a valet at Union Station?

Kit and Sally are ruthless card sharks! Ruthless I tell you!

Eating breakfast outdoors was nothing compared to eating in the middle of skyscrapers.

I drew the line at bringing the stroller this time, but trust me walking like this takes a long time by any definition.

Most of the comments were ones about my ridiculous ideas, but one comment completely caught me off guard. While not these exact words, I interpreted the message to be: I hope she appreciates all of this. Why is it that we can have hundreds of supporting comments and uplifting messages, but one small negative interjection can stop us in our tracks? Sucks the joy right out of you. Last year, I received my first hate mail on this blog, and believe me it was vile. At first, I was shocked, then saddened, then really saddened that someone could be hurting so badly to write hate mail about a blog in which I talked about the support we received when Reed died. In the end, I just wanted to find this person and give them a really big hug. I didn’t, but if you know me, that is exactly what I wanted to do.

My transformation didn’t happen instantaneously. The words ate at me for a long time. I actually talked to my pastor about it when our families were having supper one time. The same blog that elicited the vitriolic response was the one that opened the doors on my readership and in the end, tens of thousands of people read it. My sweet pastor gently explained how I would never please everyone and the positive comments far outweighed the one person who was clearly hurting. Just let it go, remembering I share my story to help people.

Which is exactly what I did with that comment on Sally’s gratefulness, I let it in and then I let it out. Or did I? God knows my thoughts, my doubts, my fears, and my hurts. As we were riding in the taxi to the station to head home, I snapped this picture.

The absolute best moment of the whole trip!

Of course, this was after we were two blocks from the station, the first time, and realized I had left my phone sitting on the counter at the hotel. The AMAZING and MOST UNDERSTANDING driver ever let me use her phone to call the hotel, waited with my child on the street while I ran in, and still got us to the station on time. Can you say huge tip and a hug?

Anyways, after I snapped the picture, completely unscripted, my baby girl looked into my eyes and said, “Momma, I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough! This was the greatest trip of my life! Thank you, Momma, for buying me this baby, but mostly for taking me on this trip! I love you!”

God knew . . . as I wiped away tears. God knew that the comment stung what I would like to think is my very tender heart wrapped in a tougher than I have ever expected it would need to be exterior. He also knew when he created this little (and grateful) girl the exact words of reassurance she would say that would forever melt my heart. I am abundantly thankful that he did!

Wherever you are today, may God use someone’s words to whisper into your heart!

The Rhythm of Little Boys

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For much of my childhood, I only knew a world of boys. I had a brother and two male cousins, who were my playmates. Don’t get me wrong! I loved being a girl, but I also learned to play baseball with the best of ‘em. A fact that wowed my kiddos the first time they saw me in a batting cage.

When expecting our first child, secretly I hoped for a boy. Thankfully, God answered that silent prayer with a red-headed bundle of energy, followed twenty short months later by a whopping curly-headed ball of all things boy.

Our house was strewn with balls, fire trucks, Rescue Heroes, swords, and dinosaurs for years. There were wrestling matches, amazing bouts with imaginary dragons and other bad guys, and an occasional jump with a homemade parachute. Happy were those days, and I couldn’t have been more proud.

In defense of my daughters, I just never pictured myself being the mom of girls. I am so thankful that God’s thoughts are so much greater than my own, because I couldn’t have been more wrong. However, if you’ve ever met my daughters, they are about the toughest girls I know. Pretty with flowing long locks – but packing a gritty fortitude willing to go to great lengths to get to the best fishing hole.

Yet, sticking with today’s title, my thoughts are on all things quintessentially – boy. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

The heartbreaking truth about little boys is that they don’t stay little forever. The days of trying to get one to sit still long enough to eat more than three bites at a sitting are soon replaced by empty milk cartons lying on the kitchen counter.

A friend, who is like a sister to me, placed a picture similar to this one on her Facebook wall awhile back.

I know she was making a statement about life with a preschooler, but all this momma could do was cry. Those days are mostly over for this mom. Even though the Boy Wonder is a pretty good sport about playing with his baby sister and younger cousins, no matter how much I ~~beg~~ ask him, he won’t make his signature sound effects for Master Splinter of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fame for me – EVER.

While I don’t miss the dirt, I do miss the sounds that only come from the imaginations of little boys.

A few days after my pity party, I attended our church’s ladies mini-retreat. Think: quilting mostly, with a smattering of other crafting going on. In came a friend with her sewing machine AND her young son. The only open table was the one behind me. She set to piecing a quilt while he got busy with his Thomas trains.

Barely perceptible over the hum of my sewing machine, I heard the melodic rhythm of putt-putt-puttering that my knee-high neighbor thought his trains should make. Just like I take every opportunity to breathe in the smells of newborn heads, I allowed my fingers to take a break so my ears could hear the symphony of noise at my feet. Eyes closed, I soaked in every moment, transported to the days when my boys did the same. His momma was never the wiser about the gift she had given me that day. Little boy noise wrapped up like the perfect gift.

I have never been one that savors change, and I am going into this my-boy-is-too-soon-a-man, kicking and screaming. I am watching friends at church speak truths to their graduates knowing that life is short (like Reed’s) and time is precious (like what I have left with Sawyer in our home).

As much as I fervently desire that my knack for growing zucchinis would result in a little boy or two sprouting in my cabbage patch. I’m afraid that train (like my little friend’s) has left the station.

I have learned, though, that God truly means he delights in giving us the desires of our hearts –even if I didn’t get the chance to birth enough kids to field a baseball team. Time and time again, he hears my faint cries, providing opportunities where other mommas bless me with coveted time with their precious little ones – noise and dirt included.

My awareness of God’s blessings began during a reunion with our former nanny whose littlest one was only four years old. In the first hour of our relationship, I learned that not only did he love superheroes (just like my boys did and do), but also that he was an expert in walking backwards (his words not mine). It was the next morning that stole my heart, causing me to long for days gone by. I received a call on my way to church from my new little buddy who wanted me to know that he was heartbroken because he forgot to tell me that I was his best friend. No words just tears as my heart melted!

A little later, a mom who truly needed help came into our lives. She brought a baby boy who needed someone to watch him while she worked nights when her husband was stationed far away with the military. It was a time that I will cherish forever. Looking in from the outside, it would appear we were blessing them. Hardly! Each night I put to bed and was awoken by the most amazing little boy!

My big guy and the baby of my heart.

A last minute need for a sitter, results in amazing snuggles for an evening or an afternoon, complete with giggles and the kind of slapstick humor that only little boys find funny. Moments that remind me so much of Reed’s love of the ridiculous. I relish every second!

A trip showed me that anything and everything can and should be hauled in trucks, as I watched my cell phone go on an epic journey around the family room. Fits of giggles pursued when I discovered this tiny tot had more experience in selfies than this auntie. Ripples of laughter poured out like blessings.

My most recent favorite of these God-appointed moments was while serving as an extra adult on a class field trip. A little buddy spotted me and yelled out, “Kandy, check this out!” I couldn’t wait to see his accomplishment. My heart swelled as I realized among all the adults present, he chose me to share in his perfect moment. Big boys rarely ask their mommas to do this, and it was one more chance I had to relive the glory days of mothering little guys.

For the mothers who wonder if they will ever pick up their toys (especially after embedding another Lego brick in her heel), if they will ever hit the toilet bowl and not the seat, if the dirt track by the front door will go away, or if they will ever have quiet moment again, the truth is sobering. The answers to those things are yes, most likely yes, probably not if you own dogs, and sadly – very sadly – yes.

To the mommas of these little guys, thank you for sharing them with me. You have no idea what joy each of them brings to my life. Little boys grow up taking their dirt and sound effects with them, leaving mommas to wonder where the time has gone.

Hug them tight! Encourage their imaginations! Overlook the mess!

Oh yeah . . . bring on the noise – that joyful melody of life!

Why it matters

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The radio ad where the small child talks about how it feels to be a fish out of the water struggling to breathe resonates with me. A few times a year, I struggle to breathe. Every muscle in my body aches as I try so hard to cough and wheeze, fighting for every air molecule I can suck in.

Of all the monikers I use to identify myself – wife, mom, teacher, friend, cheerleader, super-hero (okay a girl can dream) – asthmatic isn’t the one I love to share with people. Frankly in a world that has grown infinitesimally smaller with the touch of finger, why has talking about our health (especially that of the women in our lives) become something of a taboo?

Don’t get me wrong, I have a couple people in my life that my husband refers to as Internet M.D.’s. These are the people who look at themselves or their children, search the Weirdest Symptoms in the World web superhighway, and diagnose the frail and ill with Black Death or some other far-fetched malady. Some of these people go into graphic detail on all the symptoms that plague them.

Typically, however, we don’t share all that ails us with others.

As moms, we are supposed to have everything together. Our children, our spouses, and I daresay, society is counting on us to be well. So when we aren’t, we put on our big girl pants, tough it out, and move forward behind the veneer mask of “Everything’s fine”.

Photo by Lil’ Sprout Memories

I really did NOT want to write this blog because does this really matter to anyone other than me and my immediate family. (Remember: I like to think of myself as superhuman, and by writing this blog I expose the world to one of my forms of kryptonite.) I have put off sharing since August/September, when this all took place. Then a tragic ending happened to a family with whom I have had loose connections over the years, and I decided that God really wanted me to share my experience.

No one is to blame in this story, and that is not the purpose for writing this.

After recovering from another month long battle of bronchitis, I developed a severe sinus infection a week after my visit with the allergist. Following my asthma check-up, I was given some medications to hopefully calm my struggling airways. So when this sinus infection came in with the stealthy flank attack of a ninja, I shared my revised medication list with my physician’s new nurse. A round of antibiotics was prescribed, and I went on my way . . . to hopefully heal.

Only that’s not what happened. I began sleeping twenty hours a day, I gained 15 pounds in fewer than that many days, and I was an emotional wreck from missing out on life with my family.

I have suffered a few bouts of the blues in my life; so, I begrudgingly went to see my doctor again thinking this must be the cause of my troubles. She did not agree with me and ordered a series of blood tests. I didn’t receive the results until a few days later while watching my son’s football game. My liver panel was through the roof. My son had mono over the summer, and I relayed that information over the phone. I thought it was highly unlikely since I had mono my senior year of high school.

It wasn’t that, nor was it a myriad of other things.

The next two weeks were a blur as my waking hours were spent taking more blood tests each one for more and more dire situations. If I were a cartoon, any liquid going in would have come out through all the holes in my arms. I was terrified. Your liver is one of those organs that you never think about until someone tells you have something wrong with yours. I became more tired, gained more weight, and generally felt lethargic at best.

In one lucid moment, I felt God telling me to think. In my heart, I didn’t think I could have any of the conditions/disorders for which I was being tested. So in that brief state of alertness, I thought about what had happened over the course of the summer. I did travel to a region of the country I had not been before, but that puzzle piece didn’t seem to fit in the bigger picture. Eventually, I hit the mother lode. New medications! I did some searching and Voila! Two of the drugs I was taking should not mix and had fatal interactions in some people. I just happened to be a part of the group for which those meds had bad reactions.

The first thing I did was thank God for pushing me to think outside of the box and for not allowing me to give up. Secondly, I called the doctors. One agreed with me, and the other’s nurse thought it was crazy. I went with the one who agreed with me and stopped all medications. Lo and behold, a few days later, I felt human again. The weight came off, the energy levels returned, and most importantly my liver regained its healthy levels.

I was fortunate. The family mentioned earlier was not, and my heart hurts for them.

Moms – our health MATTERS.

I don’t care if you work in your home or out, have home births or hospital ones, breast-feed or bottle feed, vaccinate or opt-out, homeschool or send your kids to school, have television or don’t, vegan or not, or any other divisions that can separate us as moms. I. DON’T. CARE. ABOUT. ANY. OF. THAT.

But, I do care about you. If something feels wrong in the care and keeping of you, don’t hide what you are going through. It just might save your life. Tell your doctor, tell a friend who will look for answers with you, or at the very least contact an Ask A Nurse program in your community.

You are important.

Your health is important.

Take good care of you!

Your kids need you and so does the world.

We’re back

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When my boys were little, one of their favorite movies was a dinosaur classic. We’re Back was where the dinosaurs return from the dawn of time, through the miracle of time travel and some brain grain, to live in modern times. When the dinosaurs romp down the streets in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade singing, “Roll Back the Rock”, it didn’t matter what I was doing because Reed would beckon me to come and dance with him. I could be covered in flour or soap suds, but to him, it didn’t matter.

Getting our boogey on down, we would rock with the best of them. Holding his sweet little hand in mine, we would stomp and swirl, shimmy and giggle while a chubby cheeked toddler would laugh watching us. That, my friends, is pure joy – when you lose your adult inhibitions and get lost in your preschooler’s loving gaze – knowing at that moment you embody motherhood at its finest. You want to savor those moments forever.

Until the day, you don’t . . . which is exactly what happened to me this past year.

You lose your joy.

When you lose your happiness, you find quiet comforting. There I said it. I was sad. Heartachingly, gut-wrenchingly sad. Distraught. Overwhelmed. Frenetic. Chaotic. Heartbroken and sad.

It didn’t happen overnight. No, I would say it took about five years for it to crescendo into deafening silence.

There were many things that happened that literally ripped my heart in two. What feels like a never ending saga with the tragedy in our family played a familiar role, but so did a myriad of smaller things. Seasons in friendships changed, a health scare that frightened me, doors closed, dreams diverted, and quite simply the chaos of good intentions and overconsumption had brought a sense of darkness to our doors.

The hardest part about all of this was this was the first time that I wasn’t alone in my sadness. The floor opened up and swallowed us all. It is hard to be a cheerleader for a broken spirit of team.

In the fall of the year, I no longer felt like a cheerleader, let alone a candidate for Mother of the Year.

In the aftermath of our family’s darkest day, I had a conversation with someone who asked me some of the most unbelievable questions. I think she was blown away by my answers, but one such response summed up a large part of my sadness. When asked, “Other than the obvious things, what thing makes you the most heartbroken about your life right now?” My heartfelt reply was, “Being a red-shirted freshman.” I wanted to play in the game of life, and due to our circumstances, I simply could not.

Now here I was all these years later, and I had those same misgivings with a twist. With all the distractions and disruptions, I had forgotten how to be me. The authentic Kandy was tired. Worn-out. Exhausted. I wasn’t the mom I wanted to be, and that was breaking my heart. I had lost my joy, and I thought that at this juncture all these years later, we should be feeling better not worse.

But this is where the story starts to change. I retreated and clung as tight to God as I knew how. About the same time as my forced sabbatical, back into our lives came a friend who knew those days of dancing with little boys in the basement. Gently, she reminded me what joy looked like.

Poked and prodded by her love and the love of several others who picked up the cheerleading banner, I became encouragingly dogged in my pursuit to let go of expectations that were boxing me in, of old hurts that kept me a prisoner in my own doubts, and of chaos that didn’t fulfill us. I looked for the little things. Guess what? God showed me they were there the whole time. Making time for the little things, clinging to His promises, and reclaiming the things I enjoy were all beginning steps to understanding what I had allowed to steal my joy in the first place.

Just like catching my breath when encountering that first blast of arctic air, joy was something that I needed to clasp my hands and heart around as well.

During the bench-warming sad place, I communed with God to revisit the concept of joy. It was time well spent.

For this New Year, our family sat down and decided to follow through with the concept of a one word theme based off a devotional by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes organization. We had a family meeting where I offered that I thought “joy” might be a good word. One of our children enthusiastically concurred. What she said next spoken years of wisdom, belied by her actual age. “I agree with Mom. You know, sometimes because of our family’s story, we simply forget what joy is.” After a few murmuring assents, the vote was unanimous as we proclaimed three simple letters to be God’s cleansing tide for our souls for the next year.

We are going to search out and find joy in our lives, making it our battle cry. I don’t think Reed would want us to be perpetually sad, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that God never wanted us to lose sight of joy in our lives. It simply happened.

You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace Isaiah 55:12 (NIV)

Why family photo shoots go to new heights (or lows) with our family. Photos by Inspired Portraits

Just like that movie title – We’re back! And who knows?

You just might find us dancing in the basement somewhere along
that path.

To laugh or to cry

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I recently shared that my oldest daughter had to undergo an extensive surgery due to injuries she received in our family’s darkest day. The part about this story that is so upsetting is that we had no idea that she had even hurt her nose. Sadly, my children are not the only ones who are continuing to find injuries that no one knew or even thought to check. These are the ones that can be seen on CT scans and X-rays, but there are a myriad of hurts that cannot be detected by modern technology.

This surgery which involved a septinoplasty and turbinoplasties (three of them) were to allow our girl to be able to breathe again – literally. For all these years, she had a non-functioning nose which was susceptible to sinus ailments and headaches. Erin’s dream is to play basketball for the glory of God above all else. As her momma (and one of her biggest fans), I was moved to tears this year when one of her specialty coaches told her that she believed that God gave you basketball as a platform, now go out there and shine your light for him.

Despite being a coach’s kid, I never played basketball. Tennis was my love, and I cannot for one minute, imagine playing that sport or any land sport without the ability to breathe through my nose. Honestly, I do not know how she has functioned all this time.

When the cause of her troubles was discovered, some things (aside from struggling for air in games) did start making sense. Food is just something she eats, not enjoys. She could never smell if there was an odd odor in our home. The icing of this ridiculous cake was when her baby sister explained that the different color candies tasted different, and she thought it was a joke.

Yesterday, she went for her first post-operative surgical appointment. I won’t divulge the gory details, but let’s just say for a squeamish girl, she was a little shell-shocked at the size of the stents removed by the surgeon. He asked if her expression was one of horror or disgust (as in if she wanted to kick him). Her one word answer, “Yeah”, quietly uttered, said it all.

The fact that her mother wanted to examine the stents (because she is after all a science teacher) probably pushed the envelope a little too far. Just one of the many things that will cause her embarrassment in her lifetime!

Her surgery, while definitely necessary, was somewhat radical for someone so young. This was her shot (pun intended) to get back to living and to experience life with some modicum of what everyone else does. In the back corners of my cerebral matter, I had to wonder if it was going to be worth it.

As we walked out of the hospital that day, I asked her if she could breathe better. She said that indeed she could, but she just had to get out of there. Thinking that she was still mad at the doctor, I joked that he could probably take it. She further explained that it was the hospital smells that were making her gag.

Did she just say what I think she said?

Later we walked into a store to pick a prescribed item, and her response was priceless. “Whoa! Smell overload!” I took a big inhale and realized she was right but I had just learned to tune that sensory overload out. But for her, it was like she had awoken from an olfactory coma.

Over the next few days, she has shared realizations about foods actually have tastes, smells that really bother her, and memories of how the hospital smell brought back memories of her brother’s stay in intensive care. Of course, her sister, who seems to have inherited my love of science, conducted an experiment by having her try each of the six flavors of Smarties, and yes, now she can discern a difference.

With each new discovery, we laugh, but a part of me wants to cry because of all she has missed. It has been over five years of having a deadened sense. From the early evidence, I would say that the surgery was more than worth it.

One day, while home playing nursemaid, I was reflecting on everything that has evolved from the firestorm our lives have been. To laugh or to cry played around in my head, partly because I felt that I had let her down. How could I not have known? During my devotion, God gave me a small glimmer into an analogy on this very concept.

He reminded me that sin (anything that keeps us separated from him) has the same effect on our spiritual senses. Whatever it is might start off rather benign. I have to believe that Erin could smell in the aftermath of the crash. But over time, our soul becomes desensitized to the effect it is having in our life. One day, we wake up and a myriad of other things have happened that simply do not make sense, and we are often left wondering where God is.

Wow! I was not expecting that answer when I was cuddled up, asking him to insulate my family and to help us get through this chapter of our story. Choosing joy. This seems to be a theme that time and again, God is pounding into my soul, and many times I AM my biggest stumbling block.

A little later, I had an overwhelming sense that laughter was indeed what he wanted from us. Not laughing at our circumstances, but laughing through them. And yes, that might mean, laughing at a budding scientist, using her big sister as a guinea pig. It may mean laughing when our girl realizes that not everyone smells pleasant following a grueling game.

The more we laugh, the more we are reminded that the Creator of laughter delights in our joy!

I am utterly and completely thankful that he does!

Psalm 30:5 Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (AMP)

One of my favorite things about Erin is her ability to laugh with her whole spirit. Captured at our family photo shoot, this picture explains what I mean perfectly. Portrait by Inspired Portrait Photography.

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Tag Archives: motherhood

The Rhythm of Little Boys

Why it matters

We’re back

To laugh or to cry

Psalm 30:5 Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (AMP)