2014 Redfield Family Christmas Letter

So... my stupid blog won't let me post pictures today.  Or ever anymore, really.  I should really look into that.  But today, no time :) So I will lead you from here back on over to Facebook, where I have posted the story of our year in a photo album with ridiculously long captions.  Because when you have a kid as cute as Libby... what good is any kind of letter without pictures? :)


https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10152916708944493.1073741839.597294492&type=1&l=26eec71b72


Merry, merry Christmas, dear ones!


"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests."
Luke 2:14

Just Breathe

The crazy started last week Wednesday.  The CURRENT round of continuous crazy, that is. It really seems in life that the crazy never ends, but we just trudge through an endless parade of slightly crazy, frazzled crazy, and CRAZY crazy.

So last Wednesday, we got an early morning snowfall that I had no clue was coming. I never take the time to check the weather, becauseI know if we’re getting anything major, my mother, who is glued to her weather app, will alert me to the initial forecast, any changes in the forecast, and then text me multiple times to make sure we’re all okay.  My mommy loves me :)

So Wednesday was, of course, Libby’s OT (occupational therapy), which is a 45-minute drive one-way on GOOD roads.  We also had shopping to do.  Three stores, four if we could work it out.  And we HAD to be home by 11:30 for workout.  We made it home by noon.  Oh, well :) Work out with Emily.  Eat lunch.  Make pounds and pounds of mashed potatoes, both sweet and traditional.  Fold the laundry.  Pay the bills.  Sweep up the dog hair.  Do it again a couple hours later because the dogs are idiots who keep shedding even though it is FRIGID outside.   Return e-mails to the bank, realtor, and insurance agent because we chose a completely ridiculous time of year to close on our house.  Finalize the Christmas card list.  Stew a little bit, because at some point this YEAR we really, really need to go meet with our new accountant and get ourselves in order before tax “season” begins, and time is slip-slip-slipping away.  Don’t actually DO anything about that issue, but do a few other things I can’t remember.  Also play with the baby.  Read books, push her in the swing, sing some silly songs, keep her fed, keep her happy.

I won’t bore you with my play-by-play of the rest of the week.  It was the same as any other week, except I *think* there was a national holiday in there? I kind of missed it.  Cooking, cleaning, working (plus 10 EXTRA hours on top of my normal schedule), shopping, working out, mothering, football-watching, and sleeping whenever possible.   Life is life.  It’s ALWAYS crazy, and extra-crazy as November sprints into December and we all steamroll our way through the cookies and tinsel and wrapping and massive migraines.

Fast-forward one week to Wednesday of a new week.  The day before had been JUST awful.  My mood, usually uplifted before lunch when I get my Insanity endorphin-rush, had just declined throughout the day from poor to sour to abysmal.  Wednesday started off JUST as well when I overslept for work by an hour and a half, but actually turned into a fabulously productive day when Libby showed herself to be in desperate need of an all-morning nap, and we got to stay home from the three-hour ordeal of OT and GET. STUFF. DONE.  Check, check, check.  New week, same story.  Christmas cards are now in the addressing phase.  Bills may have gotten paid last week, but the checkbook needs re-balancing again because Cyber Monday. More e-mails about the house.  More fretting about taxes (STILL no appointment made).  Dogs are still shedding. I’m still surviving on coffee. Blah blah blah.

One thing was different this week.  While last Wednesday was nothing but Mashed Potato Making Night, this Wednesday is the First Wednesday of Advent.  There’s church tonight! I am actually pretty excited, because I haven’t been to an evening advent service in YEARS.  We didn’t have them at our previous church.  And they are SO needed in the mad rush of December.  Just that one extra hour of peace and calm makes all the difference in the world. And so I rushed even more, and pushed even harder, because I had a deadline.  Libby had to be fed and pajamafied by 6:50 so we could make it to church on time.  Okay, so I didn’t get a shower, and the dogs’ supper had to wait, and zero dishes got done yesterday, but by 6:54 I was grabbing the keys and we were ready to go.

“Libby, let’s go to church, sweetie!” I announced as I lifted her from her high chair.  She grinned an adorable little grin, because church means music, and music is good. I pulled her carseat blanket over her head, and pulled her pajama sleeves over the cuffs of her mittens, because if I don’t she WILL pull off her mittens in the 28 seconds it takes us to drive to church.  I jingled my keys so she would know we were going somewhere in the car, and stepped out the door into a breathtakingly cold December night.

She gasped when the cold hit her face.  I thought she might cry, so I hustled to her car door.  Surprisingly, I heard giggles as I plopped her in her carseat. “What’s so funny, you silly girl? Are you excited for church?” Giggle, giggle. “CHURCH?” Giggle, GIGGLE.

I did some good thinking during those 28 seconds it took us to drive a block and a half to church.  I could learn SO MUCH from this kid.  Church is literally the highlight of her day.  I mean, I was excited, but she was EXCITED to go to worship.  Church is IT.  Her entire day was MADE by the fact that she got to leave the house and we went to church.  It’s so simple, really.  Why can’t my life be that simple?

Well, it can.  It doesn’t HAVE to be as complicated as I make it.  Yes, the list goes on and on, but that list will ALWAYS be there.  And it might not all get done, but that’s happened before, and we all survived.  Laundry doesn’t have to be folded before it’s worn again.  Sometimes it’s okay to just order a pizza for dinner .  The Christmas tree does not have to be all Pinterest fabulous this year:  1) because I don’t even Pinterest, and  2) because maybe I don’t even feel like putting it up at ALL this year and that’s okay .  It’s ALL okay. 

The one thing that is NOT okay, no matter what time of year it is, is losing that childlike wonder and joy when it is time to worship our Savior and Lord, whether it be an advent service, a family devotion, or a prayer to start the day.  THAT is where all my crazy begins – when I neglect the one source of true peace in my life. The Daily List may seem impossibly long and wildly unattainable, but it’s amazing how the rest of that stuff gets check, check, checked off some much more easily and joyfully when FIRST I make time for the one thing that is TRULY needful.

So today is Thursday.  The List is still there.  I need to get my butt to the Post Office today and buy stamps so I can get these Christmas cards MAILED.  It’s already December FOURTH, people, and I want this project off my kitchen table.  I want to get some painting done in the Packer basement, the dogs brushed so maybe they stop shedding so much, and my craft and sewing boxes finally unpacked (WHY this week do I feel the need to suddenly get this done?) I’m feeling energetic and motivated today.  I just know I’m going to crush it today.  I mean, I blogged already and it’s not even 10:00.  THAT is how great of a day it’s going to be.

But first, let me take a page out of Libby’s book.  Let’s start this day off with some time with Jesus.  I might not giggle and nod my head fervently as she does when I ask if she wants to read Baby Bible (well, I could try)… but I KNOW I will be filled up with everything I am lacking, and my awesome day will just be that much awesomer.  Just breathe, Mama.  Just breathe and keep it simple.

Birthday Girl: 3

Oh, my little honey pie.  Here we go again.  Another year older, when I feel like only a week has passed since the last one! So today you turn three.  Mind = blown.  Not really.  I know you don’t yet understand Mommy’s frequent use of sarcasm and figurative language, and I wouldn’t want you think my head has actually blown off my shoulders.  No, sweet pea, what Mommy means is that the very idea of you turning three REALLY stretches my brain, because it doesn’t seem possible that the tiny, chubby little bundle of smiles placed into my arms just yesterday is now the lanky, long-haired beauty who calls me mama.  Actually CALLS me mama.  Says the word.  It stops my heart.

(no, not really)

It’s been a tough year, hasn’t it, punkin? Our family went through a lot of big changes, and you had to meet a whole new team of teachers and therapists and helpers.  You had to learn new sounds and smells and meet all kinds of new people and, just because you’re getting older, you had to try new toys and skills and foods.  Mommy went back to work, and even though I’m still home with you all day, I’m much more tired than I used to be and sometimes I take that out on you. 

You did some pretty amazing things, though, in spite of it all.  You started walking all by yourself, and now you’re even working on climbing! You’re so much more patient and brave with new people than you used to be.  You know every word of your favorite books, and you turn the page all by yourself when you know that it’s time.  You got over your fear of the swing, and now it’s your favorite thing! You love to jabber, jabber, jabber, all day long.  Mom and Dad think the sound of your voice is just so pretty.  Sometimes you even sing! We hear you singing along with your favorite CD’s, right on the beat, and (almost) right on key.  And your rhythm! You LOVE to kick and clap and bang your hands to the beat of the songs you know so well.  You just amaze us every day.

Libby Joy, I know you’re frustrated sometimes.  I know your mind is ready to do so much more than your body allows.  You are a big-girl-three-year-old in so many ways, but in so many others you’re not even close.  You are so very smart, and smart enough to know that you want MORE.  Baby girl, when you are feeling sad like this, Mommy might give you a great big hug and squeeze you tight.  I’m not quite sure what has gotten you so worked up.  I wish I could understand what’s going on inside that pretty little head.  But when you feel me hug you close and smooch your cheeks, this is what I’m trying to tell you:

I want you to know that I am so proud of you.  Whatever has scared or frustrated you, I have every confidence that you will conquer it soon.  You are so tough, and you have so much determination.  You inspire your Mommy to push through things that I think are really tough, too, because I want to be as brave and strong as I know that you are.  And most of all, when I squeeze you tight, I want you to feel warm and safe and loved.  I love you so much, sweetie.  You are the light of my life.  I love you when I sing you songs and read you books and tickle your belly.  I love you when I do things you hate, like brush your teeth and wash your hair and make you eat.  I love you when you make me cry and when you make me laugh.  I love you all the time, and nothing can ever change that.  I will always be here for you, cheering you on and watching you grow, helping you along and learning from you.  Everything I give to you, you give me back times ten.  THIS is what I’m saying when I hug you tight and dry your tears: you, Libby, are the best gift ever.

And here I thought it was YOUR birthday.

I Couldn't Do It

Libby had to see her endocrinologist last week, and so I asked her Daddy to take a half-day and come with us.  In the six times we’ve gone to endocrine, Daddy was only unable to come one time.  It was a nightmare I do not care to repeat.  So we got an appointment time that worked for him, and off we went to St. Paul.  We packed the stroller, a bottle of water, a bottle of milk, a couple of her favorite CD’s, a few books, and a couple small toys.  All this for a 15-minute checkup and a blood draw.  But we come prepared because we know our kid in and out.

We know that, as much as loud noise is scary to her, she’s MORE uneasy with quiet that’s not really quiet.  Like the “silent” prayer in church, broken by sniffling noses and clearing throats and bags of cheerios being opened.  Or like a clinic waiting room, with phones ringing and computer keyboards clicking and doors slamming and other waiting patients trying so hard to be “quiet.”  At home we can play music to help her with this.  I’m not kidding, it is CONSTANT in our house.  I’m convinced we’re not doing her any favors by allowing her to listen to music 24/7 and not learn how to deal in a world where that’s not possible.  But I’m also convinced that those blasted kiddie CD’s are the key to my sanity and keep her happy and I’ll just deal with it later when she’s a little older.

So. Moving on.  Back to the clinic waiting room.  We know that we will have an uncomfortable, unhappy girl before we even begin the appointment, unless we plan ahead and bring her stroller and keep her in motion until we are called back.  So I walk in small circles at the reception desk as I check in.  I answer some of the questions over my shoulder.  I push and pull it back and forth with my foot when I’m asked to dig in my wallet for my insurance card.  Dad comes back from the restroom just as I’m wrapping up.  My turn to go.  There is not a chance we’d consider taking her in there with us, at least not before an appointment.  Bathrooms are SCARY noisy.  Especially multi-user bathrooms when Mommy can’t control the number of flushes and hand-washings and jet-engine automated hand-dryings she is exposed to.  So, no.  Before an appointment, public restrooms are a no-go.

I return to the waiting room just as her name is being called.  Next up is height and weight.  Evidently, now that she’s over two years of age, they no longer need her to be undressed for weight.  I pray a silent prayer of thanks.  Height and weight would ALWAYS start things off on the wrong foot because I had to lay her on a table covered in crinkly exam paper to undress her.  The sound.  The texture. Not a fan.  She would scream before we even started.  But today, all I have to do is take off her shoes.  Whew.

The measurements pass rather uneventfully (except that we FINALLY made it to 24 pounds – happy, happy, HAPPY dance!!!!!), but the next step of the nurse reviewing her chart and taking notes in the computer is not so great.  Another thing we are not a fan of: conversation.  Unless she knows that it is directed AT her, she is not a huge fan of people just talking in the same room as her.  Oh, and that stupid computer keyboard clicking and clacking again.  Poor sweet nurse has no clue that by doing her job – talking and typing simultaneously – she is leading her patient to the edge of a major meltdown.

We see the signs coming.  She begins to moan, louder and louder.  She’s on her feet standing against a chair, and she begins to rock side to side and cover her ears.  Her face turns bright red.  We know our daughter.  Once we lose her, there is no getting her back.  There is no talking her through it because she can’t HEAR your attempts to comfort her over the sounds of her own hyperventilating.  We know we need to cut this one off QUICK.

Music.  Let’s do music.  Oh, crap.  Those CD’s I brought are useless.  We’re not at therapy where they have a CD player in every room.  We’re at Children’s Hospital.  Quick.  Get out my phone and turn on some internet radio and pray we get a decent signal deep inside this giant concrete structure.  Oh, thank the Lord it connected and it only “buffered” for a few seconds and now Ed Sheeran is crooning away and Libby is INSTANTLY calm and smiling.

The nurse is amazed.  I’m not kidding, her jaw actually drops and I’m pretty sure I see her welling up.  She presses her hand to her heart and tells us that is the sweetest thing she has ever seen.  At least I think that’s what she said, because she has started mouthing her words instead of talking to keep from further disturbing Libby.  All I know is that she is clearly very touched.  After finishing her questions with Dad (who said he had a REALLY hard time understanding what he was being asked since she was only mouthing and hand-gesturing to him), she leaves and returns just a moment later with a gift for Libby.  A gigantic Blues Clues book for her to take home.  Libby’s never gotten a gift at Children’s before.  Just a lot of confused looks about what set her off into such a tantrum.  This time, because we get to know her better each day and we are also getting better at preparing for and managing her appointments, she got a gift because suddenly she is the most precious thing ever.  It is SUCH a sweet gesture.

So now the music is playing and we are alone in the room waiting for Dr. A.  We love her.  She’s really soft-spoken and hard to understand because she’s SO good at what she does and rattles off explanations and diagnoses so quickly our heads spin.  BUT she helps by drawing pictures and writing notes as she’s talking.  Upside-down, I might add, which is amazing.  Also, she’s the one who got Libby sleeping through the night FINALLY at age 2 ½.  So yes, we love her.

She enters the room, and doesn’t bat an eye at the music playing softly through my phone and the mess of toys on the floor as Libby plays her favorite game, “Find small noisy toys on the chair/couch/table I’m standing in front of, throw them on the floor and hear the funny sounds they make as they drop, and wait for someone to pick them up and give them back to me so we can start the whole process all over again.”  She greets us in her very soft voice, partly because that’s just how she talks, partly because she’s starting to know Libby so well.  She gets right down to business with the physical examination.  She takes off her super-cute high heels and plops down on the floor right behind Libby to look at her muscle tone and listen to her heart.  She does all she can to disturb her play as little as possible, and bobs her head to the beat of our music, not even questioning why we’ve chosen the One Republic channel on Pandora instead of the Disney one.  She know parents as well as she knows kids :)

After checking Libby over, Dr. A motions to Dad that he’s free to take Libby out for a walk in the halls if he needs to.  Now is the part of the visit when she and I talk and she draws me a bunch of pictures, and again there will be the sounds of the computer keyboard clicking.  She knows that’s not a favorite thing for Libby.  She knows that Dad comes along mainly so that he can get her out of the exam room and push her around the clinic hallways during this part of the visit.

Somehow today Libby is doing great.  We brought her favorite little ball, a hard plastic one with a little rattle inside.  She’s enjoying throwing it across the room and hearing it bounce off the tile floor, making a totally different sound from what she’s used to hearing when it falls on carpeting.  She’s focused on the ball and jamming out to Pandora, so Dad and Libby stay in the room for once. We discuss her meds and diet and how much water she drinks and if she’s peeing enough and how she’s sleeping and how teeny tiny she is, but HOORAY she’s finally made her way back onto those dumb growth charts that everyone gets so excited about.  Which – now that we’re back on it – I’m very excited about.

We wrap it up quickly.  I don’t know if her schedule is just that full, or if she KNOWS how things go with Libby Joy and she just always moves it along more quickly for us. Libby gets a hospital bracelet with a barcode for the lab.  They know not to put it on her because – you guessed it – meltdown. Instead they hand it to us and five different people caution us not to lose it during the arduous journey down to the outpatient lab which is literally one floor directly below the Endo Clinic. We strap Libby back into the stroller and I keep the music playing, burying my phone in the folded-up sun shade above her head.  People in the waiting room and elevator think we have a musical stroller, just like they always do at Target and at the park. Libby is smiling and dancing with her hands and feet, because she thinks we’re done.

In the elevator, I gently rock the stroller back and forth like I did in the waiting room.  Elevators are another Very Scary Thing for her.  Try closing your eyes sometime on an elevator and experiencing how it actually “feels” and then also try to wrap your head around being a baby with no concept of what an elevator is or why we are using it.  I can understand why it’s pretty freaky for her.  I say, “It’s okay, honey, almost done with the elevator” about ten times.  The janitor looks at me curiously.  “She just doesn’t like elevators,” is my simple, standard explanation.

We arrive in the lab and I hand off the stroller to Dad.  He keeps her moving while we wait because there are three other kiddos ahead of us, waiting to be punctured.  They will get stickers and/or suckers, or maybe ice cream on the way home, for being so brave.  Stickers are lost on Libby, nor would she have any clue what to even do with a sucker, and although she does like ice cream, she would have no concept of how it relates to having been stabbed in the arm.  But I digress.  I sign Libby in, and revel in a moment’s peace as I sit and wait while Dad pushes her in the hallway outside the waiting room so as not to disturb the other families with our musical stroller.  “How on earth,” I wonder, “would we ever do this visit without Daddy?”

Her name is called and we charge into the room on a mission.  We’re out of tricks and tools; there is no longer any way to keep her from screaming.  Let’s just get this over with.  We lay her down on the dreaded crinkly-paper-covered table. The whining starts immediately and there is panic in her eyes.  We have new lab techs every time. I see them automatically going for her right arm, but I stake myself out on that side of the table and ask them to try the left instead.  She has a large hemangioma smack dab in the inner crease of her right elbow, right where they would want to draw.  I hold her right hand and reassure her that everything is okay as they expertly wind the tourniquet around her tiny left bicep.  Her terrified eyes scream at me that this is NOT okay. Dad takes over stroking her head and whispering to her as I take advantage of her wide open, screaming mouth and check the status of those last two molars that have been taking their sweet time coming in.  Yup.  Finally the top one broke through.    Bottom one can’t be far behind. Tech #1 finally gets the needle in while tech #2 holds her kicking feet so that she doesn’t flail right off the table.  One time a rather pregnant tech tried to take that spot, not realizing what a kicker she would be.  Yeah, that didn’t last long.

Today’s draw takes a little longer than normal but still less than a minute.  As soon as the needle is out, we jump back into action.  Sweater goes back on, music is resumed, put her back in the stroller, and give her a nice cold cup of milk.  We know she’ll be fine once we start moving again.  The elevator ride back down to parking will be iffy, but she will be all smiles again by the time we get back to the car.  We leave the lab quickly, shooting apologetic glances at all the parents still waiting whose kids now look terrified after seeing a screaming baby emerging from behind the big, scary closed door.

Back in the car, she starts to scratch at the covering on her car seat.  She likes the sound it makes, and she’s reassuring herself that she’s actually back in the car seat and we’re truly done.  We pop in one of her favorite CD’s.  I had purposely pulled this one out of the rotation for the last week, so that it’s fun and special and really cheers her up after this appointment.  She grins from ear to ear.  We don’t hear a peep the whole way home.  The milk we gave her after the blood draw had Boost and a couple other things in it to jam-pack it with nutrients and calories, so that she can skip lunch and go straight to bed when we get home.  Getting to skip lunch is her “sticker.” The kid hates to eat.  She and I are way too exhausted to even attempt it.  She hugs her stuffed dolphin tightly, rolls automatically onto her tummy, and doesn’t move for the next three hours.

This appointment was a half-hour, tops.  Compared to other appointments we’ve experienced in the past, it went very, very smoothly.  But it didn’t go smoothly by accident.  It took a lot of careful planning and packing and practice, practice, practice at countless other medical appointments that went not-so-smoothly.  This whole experience at Dr. A’s office is fairly representative, though, of the careful planning and strategizing that goes into every facet of our lives.  People spend time with us in our home and observe how we have learned to modify around Libby, and say “I just couldn’t do it.  You must be exhausted all the time.”

Well, yes.  We are exhausted.  Isn’t any parent? Any HUMAN? :) But yes, you COULD do it.  Ask me three years ago, watching another family going through this, and I would have said the same thing.  But like anything in life, you learn and you grow and you just adapt, faster than you would ever have imagined you could.  Ask me TWO years ago, when she was already in my life, when I already knew that she was blind and we would have some big challenges, if I could handle the full reality of Sensory Processing Disorder that was heading my way.  Again, I would have said no way. 

Thanks be to our gracious God, specifically in this moment for revealing HIS plans in HIS time, not our time.  I can’t count the number of times while waiting to be a mom that I begged and begged Him to reassure me with a sign or a dream or some sort of glimpse into my future.  Can you imagine if He had? Even if He’d shown me a good day, a successful day, like the day this past week we took Libby to see Dr. A.  “Are you kidding me, God? Look at the bags under my eyes.  And clearly I’m not running anymore, I look terrible! What’s with all the bags and toys and snacks? How many hours did that take to prepare? MAN, that kid is shrill! What’s her problem? Why is she so upset?”

If I had looked ahead into the future and seen all that, I might have missed the part where I held her close and smelled her hair and admired her beautiful golden curls.  The part where I gave her a big, noisy smooch and she giggled.  The adorable part where she and her Daddy engaged in a five-minute conversation made up entirely of popping noises and the words “dooka dooka.” The part where I cried AGAIN when they stuck her with the needle, like I do every time, because I just love her so stinking much and I HATE that terrified look in her eyes.

I might have said no. 

We literally filled out a “checklist” of special needs as part of our adoption paperwork. We were asked to assess pages and pages of conditions and syndromes, and check “yes,” “no,” or “willing to consider.” I don’t think anything Libby has was actually on that list, it’s all so rare.  But to think I was actually in a position to say NO to the child who was so clearly meant to be mine from before time began.

This is our life.  We are SO VERY BLESSED.  The purpose of these 3000+ words today was not to solicit praise or pity or another round of “I just couldn’t do it.”  The purpose was to get YOU thinking about YOUR life.  Your kids, your work, your circumstances.  I know it’s hard, mind-numbingly so, and you might just cry if you actually sat down and thought about the details of what it actually takes to get through a simple, half-hour task.  Your present circumstances, set inside the framework of your unique life experience, are something no one else can fully understand.  You’re exhausted.  I just couldn’t do what you do.  If you’d been allowed to press “fast-forward” and view your life today, five years ago, you, too, might have said “no.”  But there’s a reason we don’t get “fast-forward” buttons.  Enjoy today as the gift from God that it is.  Today, hard as it is, is preparing you in some way for all the unknowns of tomorrow.  So that tomorrow, your “I couldn’t do it” turns into, “Yeah.  I’m doing it.  And I love it.”

The Last Set of Molars

There was a time I shed a tear or two or five minutes’ worth over the fact that I missed Libby’s first tooth.  There was a lot I missed in the seven months that passed before I held her, and as hard as I KNOW those early months are, and as grateful as I am for those seven extra months of decent sleep… you understand.  I’m positive none of you parents would trade away even the worst of days in exchange for missing entire months of your child’s life.

Then we brought her home and she cut a few more teeth.  It was not fun.  Not even a little.  Well, maybe a LITTLE but only because I had always wanted to experience that parent bonding thing where I go somewhere with bloodshot eyes and rumpled hair after a sleepless night and just be able to explain to another parent “Yeah, teething…” and not have to say another word but have them nod in complete understanding and agreement.

Until the eye teeth come in.  THEN nothing about it is fun.  Nothing about ANYTHING is fun.  Putting a (finally) sleeping baby to bed after a day of screaming is not fun because suddenly the house is quiet for the first time in hours and you realize the screaming is still going on in your head and probably will keep you awake all night.  You look at your spouse on the other end of the couch.  He is holding a beer to his lips but has been staring into space for about five minutes and his beer is still full.  He has either lost the strength to tip up the bottle, or has forgotten how swallow. Or both. Probably both. You would ask him, but he probably won’t be able to hear you over the screaming in your head.  You would ask YOURSELF why you EVER shed a single tear over missing the first tooth, but you might punch yourself in the face for even asking the question, so you don’t.

You’ve been there.  Maybe not teething.  Maybe not even kids! We’ve all experienced that thing where something we once LONGED FOR, just HAD to have, became sour and awful and instead we LONG for it to just go away and leave us in peace.

(I do not want my daughter to go away and leave me in peace.  I love her very much.  Just the teething thing.  She can live without teeth, right?)

So have you ever had the exact opposite happen? You suddenly realize that something you once considered sour and awful has become sweet and wonderful?  That happened to me when I realized in my late 20’s that I AM a pickle person.  I always thought I hated them! Then the Packers went to the Super Bowl (because that’s my frame of reference for everything) and we threw a party and someone brought a jar of these faaaaaabulous pickles that are all crisp and delicious and turned my world upside down.  Or maybe my pre-pickle days were actually the upside down part of my life and now my world is right side up.  That sounds better.  And also that way the juice from my delicious pickles won’t spill all over.

Libby still isn’t talking really.  She says “Mom” and “Dada” occasionally, but not on command, only when she feels like it.  So…. a perfectly normal kid in regard to obstinacy ;) Oh, and she DEFINITELY knows how to say “no.” She has also mastered screaming it and shrieking it over and over successively like “nanananananananananana!!!” Other than that, her speech development has been slooooooow going.  Boy, does she make some beautiful sounds when she sings and babbles and speaks to us in her own little ever-developing language.  But no English yet.

Sometimes I view speech as this far-off light at the end of the tunnel, and all these other developmental delays we are struggling through will someday magically resolve when Libby learns to talk and she and I can have a rational conversation about all the things that currently make her scream and cry for no apparent reason.  But then I spend like ten seconds with any other kid on the planet and remember that speech is not the big red Easy button from the Staples commercials.  Speech is not a magic fix like singing the jingle in the State Farm commercials. Speech is not…

I watch too much TV.

(And I usually fast-forward the commercials. Huh.)

Anyway, when I’m not making silly excuses or wallowing in self-pity, I KNOW that speech is not going to solve all our problems.  Because what do kids learn QUICKLY once they learn speech? They learn to MANIPULATE speech.  They listen to grown-ups play around with tone of voice and inflection.  They hear us lie and gossip and they hear awful words come out of our mouths, radios, and televisions.

So yeah, my kid is almost three and still doesn’t talk.  It will probably be years before she can tell me what hurts or that she loves me or what she is willing to trade in exchange for STOP SCREAMING. But this – now – where we’re at… I’ve come to not hate it.  In fact, I’ve kind of come to love it.  Everything she gives me is 100% honest, heartfelt emotion.   She is not playing around with me.  She kind of sort of knows about “lying” just a little bit because we play this game where I say “Where’s your tummy?” and she points to her head on purpose just to get a big, silly reaction out of me.  But other than that, she is honest and true.  And I figure it can’t HURT for her to have all this extra time to develop the gift of being straightforward.  Maybe we could ALL use a little extra practice with that ;)

I conducted an informal poll on facebook last week, looking for some other ideas about things people used to hate but now have come to love.  Hope you can relate to one or two – or just have a good laugh:

• Naps (yes, please!)
• Raspberry kool-aid *and I quote* “the original formula, not the stuff they now try to pass as raspberry” J
• High school choir concerts – how boring the rehearsals were and sitting uncomfortably on the bleachers waiting for the concert to end.  But oh, how we miss that music now!
• Another great one I must quote word for word: “My figure.  When we’re younger we don’t realize what we have.  Our skin is tighter, metabolism higher… and yet we could always find something to criticize.  15 years and 4 kids later, it’s hard to wrap your head around how different this body looks, and you regret how little you appreciated it before.”
• Coffee (another yes, please!)
• Running (for fun – gasp!)
• Being carded for alcohol purchases – that one was me.  Oh, how I LOATHED being carded at the tender age of 21.  How DARE they? Can’t they tell I am 21 and 2 days old? ;) Now I’m all, “Hey, I’m going out to buy alcohol, let’s leave the baby at home and put on a college sweatshirt and not make eye contact with the clerk in an effort to PLEASE get them to card me FOR THE LOVE. It’s kind of a fun game.
• The peace of taking a shower (from a mom of little boys)
• Girls  (from a guy who just celebrated his fifteenth wedding anniversary and means it in the funniest and non-creepiest of ways.  Had me a good laugh over that one.)
• Being alone (from a mom of TWO sets of twins under three *mom-brains exploding everywhere*)
• Cleaning the house - well, personally I still kind of hate that one but to each his own, RACHEL! :)

And let me close out the list by returning full-circle to teething.  Awful, dreadful teething.  Except, you know what? This is it.  This is THE LAST SET of teeth.  Once these cut through, when she gets crabby and irrational, I won’t be able to excuse it as “teething” as I’ve been doing for the last two years straight. When I look at that tear-stained, teething face, I KNOW she hurts and she’s not just having a tantrum and I’m able to handle those difficult moments with so much more grace and patience.  I almost kind of love teething because, for once, I have my kid all figured out.  And also she wants to cuddle.  All day cuddling. She’s never been much of a cuddler.  But MAN, she’s like the jaws of life these days the way she clamps onto us when we try to put her to bed.  She wants us.  She NEEDS us.  And this Mama heart needs her to need me.  This Mama heart is just eating up all those cuddles.  This Mama heart is feeling just a little sad about this being the last set of molars.

(And the answer is NO, I do not/will not ever need to fill the void by bringing home YOUR teething child.  But thanks J )

Being a Mom is Pretty Much the Easiest Thing Ever

Being a mom is pretty much the easiest thing ever.

Ha ha ha ha ha.

No, I’m not trying to use a sensationally ridiculous headline to generate lots of traffic to my blog after a four-month hiatus from writing any new material.  There are, in fact, a number of reasons I genuinely believe this to be true.  And many, many more reasons I believe it to be completely false.  YES, I know mothering, fathering, grandparenting, teaching, and generally the process of raising children is extremely challenging and for most of us who do it, we consider it to be the hardest thing we will ever do.  And in this week leading up to Mother’s Day, you have undoubtedly seen and maybe even read a long parade of posts about how impossibly hard it is to be a mom. 

I don’t disagree.  I’ve been there.  I’ve written That Post NUMEROUS times myself.  Like here and here and here.  It is SO hard. And the hard is good.  The hard grows us up, strengthens us, brings us closer to Jesus.  The hard times make the good times AWESOME.

There are things, though, that are just so easy.  So natural.  Such a blessing.  And on this day of days that we set aside to raise a glass to Mom, I (being the awkward introvert who gets twitchy with too much attention and is most comfortable speaking up from behind a computer screen) would like to turn that Mother’s Day spotlight on my sweet daughter, my incredibly supportive family and friends, and my Savior Jesus… all the ones who help to make Momming easy.  Or “easier,” I guess, than it would have been without them :)

The first thing that makes this whole Mom thing easier is that I WANT it.  There are many beautiful, strong, completely valid women in this world who DON’T want it.  Maybe not for now, or maybe not ever.  And that’s perfectly okay.  For me… I want it.  I’ve wanted it for a long time.  I believe that desire is a gift from God, just like any other gift He gives to some and not to others.  You NEED the want and willingness to get through some of those days that are just crap.  Heaven knows that want tore me up inside for the many years we were wanting but not receiving.  Many others I know are STILL wanting.  They are waiting for the right person to even start a family.  Or they are waiting for medical answers.  They are waiting to meet the face thousands of miles away that they already call “son” or “daughter.” They are waiting for the grief of miscarriage or infant loss to ease, enough to breathe again, enough to hope again.  We wait.  We WANT.  And it’s the WANT that gets us through.

Others don’t have to face that trial.  Their wants line up with God’s wants and bing-bang-boom, they fall in love and babies come along just as easy as can be.  And then they move along through their perfect lives and never experience an ounce of frustration along the way, right? Ha ha ha, once again.  I see you, “normal” moms, and I know that your life is far from normal.  I know your life is far from easy.  Yes, you were able to carry a baby in your tummy and I wasn’t.  But the differences stop there.  We all struggle.  We all fight day in and day out.  But we all WANT it.  And we’re all incredibly blessed.

When you want something, when you TRULY want it with all your heart and soul, you fight for it and you make it yours.  You live your life as if you have no other choice.  When God gives you the joyful gift of wanting to be a mom, it becomes your everything.  It becomes your focus and the center of your values and goals, whether it takes you two months or two years or ten years or an entire lifetime.  Your children may be biological, or adopted, or neither – just extra-special people that God brought as a blessing into your life to fill your Mom heart.  But no matter how we become moms, that WANT to be a mom is such a special gift.  It pulls us through a lot of dark, dark days and makes the fight a whole lot easier.

Speaking of making it easier… my life is filled with so many gifts from God in the form of dear, dear family members and friends who daily encourage me, pray for me, and show thoughtfulness and the love of Jesus in countless other ways.  Back five years ago when Tim and I were feeling that God-given WANT but had nothing to show for it, I held a lot inside for a very long time.  But each time I opened the door to my heart just the tiniest bit and let someone in, I was blessed far beyond what I could have imagined, with prayers and hugs and tears and glasses of wine.  And UNDERSTANDING.  That was the best part.  And it became easier each time to creeeeeak open the door to my heart a little wider.  As time went on I was blessed to share my own experiences with others who were hurting.  For a few, I got to be the very first one that THEY opened up to, and each time my own heart opened a little wider.  SO blessed.

Then we got Libby.  Oh, sweet Libby.  Oh, screaming, confusing, terrifying Libby.  She’s a baby.  They’re ALL a little terrifying.  She’s a little extra-terrifying simply because she’s a little extra-terrifIED, a lost and confused little sweet pea in a crazy and beautiful world that she can’t see even a bit of.  I have never been shy about how hard THIS stage of my life has been.  I had already opened up my soul throughout infertility and adoption.  I already knew that the amount of pain it takes to share one’s struggle with Christian friends is returned a hundredfold in GOODNESS and LOVE.  And so I share.  Sometimes more than I should.  Occasionally to educate.  More often than not, to gather words of support and encouragement.  Because I SO NEED IT.  And y’all never disappoint.  Today (which has been a pretty great day, don’t get me wrong) and especially those other days I just want to go back to bed and cry, THANK YOU for your words of encouragement and your jokes and your gifts of chocolate and alcohol.  YOU make this Mom thing easy.  I see little bits and pieces of the so-called “Mommy Wars” each day.  But I also see love and encouragement abounding, way more than all that other junk. I hope you see it, too, and I pray the Lord opens my eyes to ways I can help you by personally bringing joy directly to you.

And that sweet Libby face… that makes it easy.  Oh, she also knows how to make a lot of not-so-sweet faces (and noises and gestures and smells). But even after one of those days when I start counting the minutes to bedtime even before nap time, my heart swells with joy and love to look at that sweet face (with her eyes closed and snoring softly).  All jokes aside, she is my life’s greatest joy.  That smile, her shining curls, her belly laughs, her grit and determination in the face of struggles she doesn’t even know that she has… she makes LIFE easier.  Sure, she might make Momming harder some of the time… ahem, MOST of the time… but life? She truly makes it easier.  She gives me perspective.  She strengthens me.  She motivates me.  She makes me lose my mind but in doing so leads me back to Jesus, the only one in whom I can find it again.

God gave me this WANT to be a mom.  For a while, it hurt because it was intangible.  Slowly it stung less and less because He placed amazing people around me and guided them to encourage me.  THEN, finally, miraculously, graciously… He gave me Libby.  My job is to love her.

And if that’s being a mom… then being a mom is pretty much the easiest thing ever.

Letting Go

I started this post in November.  I came soooooo close to finishing it.  But inevitably I got called away or booted off the computer or horribly distracted by something else.  So this week I finally decided to finish it. For some reason I felt the need to add this disclaimer and make a big deal about it. Maybe because I start the post by saying that it’s Adoption Month.  Please know that I know that it’s no longer Adoption Month.  To most people, at least… in my world, it’s always adoption month :) Happy reading!

-Back on some cold (I’m assuming) and lazy (because I spent hours typing this and not cleaning the house or playing with Libby) afternoon in early-mid-November-

It’s National Adoption Month, for anyone that didn’t know :) There are beautiful pictures and quotes and stories flying around social media, and I especially appreciate those of you who have gone out of your way to send them directly my way.  This morning I watched some really touching stories on the Today Show.   I’ve been so caught up in mothering lately that I haven’t really spent much time in thought about ADOPTION.  About the actual process that brought us to where we are today.

As my blog is a direct reflection of my (often scattered) thoughts, it’s been quite a while since I wrote actual “adoption” post.  I’ve written lots about Libby and her unique challenges and general two year old problems.  And the joys.  Of course the joys :)  But in honor of adoption month, and the many of you who are in the process, considering the process, or are curious about the process, I’d like to go back there for the first time in a long time.

Generally my approach to blog writing is to wait until something is welling up in my heart, to the point that it’s about to burst and I feel I HAVE to write or I’m going to explode.  That’s why I seem to publish in “spurts.”  Some days (months) I’m just not feeling it. I’m just living life and my focus is almost entirely on the day-to-day.  During these times I might get a bit of a whim, and jot down some notes for a future entry.  But I have to be in a pretty hardcore MOOD to actually write and publish an entire post.  So if I look back and see the last time I felt THIS strongly compelled to share my feelings about infertility, it was Mommies-at-Heart written for Mother’s Day. That’s a long time ago! Which must mean that my heart, in that regard, has been pretty peaceful.  Content.  Maybe I’ve finally let go.

When something is bothering me, or I’m in the midst of a trial, it is my constant prayer that God would give me an answer or help me to let it go.  When He does grant that peace, it doesn’t come overnight.  It comes in little waves, as the hurt and anxiety lessen bit by bit.  Eventually I stop feeling that desperate need to let go.  I know I’m still not 100% healed, but I’m on the road, and I clear some space in my head for other things.  I can go a couple days without thinking about what had once been constantly on my mind.  Then a week.  One day I realize I haven’t thought about it for a month or two months, and finally, I can’t specifically remember the last time I about it.  And that’s when I know… I’ve let go.

Built into the essays and many steps of our adoption process was the requirement that we had “grieved” our infertility.  I get why they “require” that.  They want people who are serious about adoption.  They want people who WANT to adopt.  At the very least, they want you to put some serious thought into whether or not you have moved on from the dreams that have haunted you for years.

We thought we had.  We mostly had.  We wrote some pretty words and convinced ourselves and our social worker and pretty much everyone else who needed convincing that we had moved on.  But knowing you need to move on, and telling yourself that you have moved on, doesn’t always mean that you’ve actually, FULLY done it.  At times, the old feelings of jealousy and despair crept back to the surface. Now they carried an extra sting, more bitter than ever because I had been so certain I was over it.

Baby-naming was one of the things that would bring out the ugly.  In the final months of a close friend or family member’s pregnancy, I would start to get a taaaaaaaaaaad (that’s a large tad, which means “medium amount,” but flows more nicely than “medium amount”) territorial about baby names.  I could handle the pregnancy itself with just a touch of wistfulness.  And I was a Baby Shower Rock Star.  I had become a PRO at handling the awkward moments and personal questions.  But baby names… ooooh. Watch out.  Not that I ever bothered to TELL anyone “Here are the names that Tim and I have had picked out for our first children since before we were married.  Are they on your list? Would you consider saving them for us? It would mean a lot after all we’ve been through.” No, that would have been the rational, decent thing to do.  Instead, I would just keep all this baby-name anxiety and near-rage bottled up inside, sweating it out each time a new little one (whose parents were close enough acquaintances that double-naming would be awkward) came into the world.  I guarded those names FIERCELY as friend after cousin after sibling after friend continued to pass me up and crank out kid after kid.

These are names that represent years and years of dreaming about my own pregnancy.  These were to be our first children.  Sitting in a church pew the spring before I was married, I nearly jumped out of my seat when “Jackson James” popped into my head.  We had been thinking about names for months and this one was PERFECT.  I reveled in my cleverness for a few more seconds and then gave myself a silent yet stern talking-to about focusing on the sermon.  After all, this WAS the first time Tim, a first-year seminary student, had preached in church.  Later that day, I told him (not the part about losing focus during his sermon) and he loved it, too.  We never wavered in the years to come.  We dreamed of Jackson, a little blond boy with green eyes, mischevious yet strong and silent.  “Jack, Jax, or JJ” - I hadn’t decided.  

Our little girl’s name took a little longer.  It was settled sometime during the first year of our married life, but I waffled a few times over the years to other pretty names like Sadie and Nataly (I loved it with a “y”) and a few others I can’t recall so they couldn’t have been that great.  But we always came back to Kiera Leigh.  Eventually we settled for good, and only waffled on the spelling.  Tim was all gung-ho about “Kira,” something about Star Trek.  Don’t ask me.  I entertained “Kyra” for about a day and then realized it would probably be the most easily mispronounced version of the name.  I loved how “Keira” looked on paper, but was concerned about breaking the “i before e” rule… especially since our surname follows the rule.  So Kiera it was.  A little girl with brown eyes and pigtails helping me in the kitchen, who loves to read, write, and sing and has a big heart for puppy dogs.  “Kiki,” for as long as she’d allow it.

I know I’m not the only one.  At some point, most every mom dreams out her kid’s entire life before the little monster ever has a chance to live it. Once Real Life happens, some moms (and dads) are better at adjusting that plan than others.  When it comes to adoption, The Plan goes out the window by force.  You surrender all genetic control.  You agree that someone else will be your child’s first “Mommy.” Someone else will feel the kicks and hear the first cries.  Someone you don’t even know yet will be a part of your life forever, in a degree yet to be determined, in an ever-changing relationship that will sometimes hurt and sometimes heal  - for everyone involved.

There was nearly a year between the last time I filled out an adoption form or wrote an essay about how I had grieved our infertility, and the first day I held my daughter and kissed her sweet little forehead.  In an instant my thoughts flipped from “how will I love her as my own?” to “how could I NOT love her as my own?” and “how did I ever live without her?” I got so caught up in LOVE and mothering and baby showers and forging relationships with her birth family, that I had not a moment to even realize that I WASN’T thinking about loss and grief and people using “my” baby names.

Fast-forward a year and a half to November 2013.  I’m relaxing on the couch with a third cup of coffee because Libby decided to sleep until 11:00.  After watching live adoption finalizations out on the Today Show plaza, I enjoyed a quiet house and an hour’s worth of very pensive dishwashing.  It HIT me.  That moment when you can’t specifically remember the last time you thought about that thing that used to hurt you so much.  Wow, it had been AGES since I’d felt jealous or cried myself to sleep over the whole thing.  And it wasn’t because I was too busy, or too tired.  It was because I had let go.  It HAD to be.  Because the week before, when my cousin had told me her baby boy, due in December, would be named Jackson, I did not freak out in the slightest.  What I felt for her was 100% joy and pride and 0% possessiveness over the name.  Jackson (with a middle name of Lee, by the way, isn’t that the craziest?) would be hers, ALL hers. I was so relieved and excited that finally that dreaded moment had come, and yet I was feeling nothing but pure happiness for her. Somewhere in all the mess and madness and magnificence of the last 18 months of Libby, God has allowed me to let. it. go.

This post was a long time coming.  It is a farewell to Jackson and Kiera, the fantasy of our first children that we clung to, the shining hope that brought us through many bitter years.  They served us well.  They made us happy.  They helped us dream at a time when our dreams were all but stamped out.  But they are no longer our first children.  And it seems wrong to “save” the names for our future children, biological or adopted.  It’s like we’re pinning these huge expectations on them that go all the way back to our earliest years of marriage, when we were totally different people.  And it seems wrong to Jackson and Kiera.  They did a beautiful job and I will always love them for who they were.  And who they weren’t.

And it would be very, very wrong to Libby… almost like she wasn’t our first choice.  Oh, sweet girl, you are through and through my first choice, because you are GOD’S choice for my life.  And besides, wasn’t there also a story about the name Elizabeth?...

Tim and I dated for three full years before we got engaged, and it was another 20 months until we were married.  We had a lot of time together to plan our “future” before life actually became “our future.” But I KNOW it was long before we were even engaged, long before Jackson James popped into my head at the most inappropriate of times, long before Kiera Leigh had the spelling of her name finalized, that this most precious little exchange occurred:

“I really like the name Elizabeth… you know, for a girl someday.  It’s cute.  She’ll probably be cute like you.”

“You’re silly.  I’m not cute.  Hmmmmm…  Elizabeth…  Maybe.  I’ll think about it.”