Sing, sing, sing...

My precious girl had her Christmas program today.

It was lovely, and funny, and sweet. I could barely see her through my tears.

And I wondered as I sat and watched and discreetly wiped my eyes- why does the sight of these little souls make me so emotional?

Because the songs they are singing are about my Savior. The One I know, the One I love, the One who saved me.

My path to Him has been quite broken, carved from rock and stone, wet with tears, trod with heavy feet and a heavier soul.

But these little ones- my sweet little girl up there singing- they are singing for the glory of a God they know and do not doubt. Their songs are pure, coming from a place of the most glorious worship- a place of belief.

Their hearts are open to the words they sing- "Silent Night, Holy Night..." Their minds find the wonder of the nativity, of the birth of the Christ child, lying calm and peaceful in the stable. They see Him in pictures, and hear about him in song, and to them he is as real as we are.

The room for doubt has not entered their lives yet. The cynicism we carry as adults is absent. It is pure innocent love, these little voices lifted to their heavenly father.

To be that trusting again...

We are to have faith like a child. But the world sometimes speaks louder than God does. His is a quiet form of communication. You have to be very still to hear Him. But the world, the world shrieks at us day after day, drowning out the whisper of the One we are longing to hear from.

But my daughter listens to that still small voice. There is room in her heart not taken up with the cares of adult life. There is room in her soul for God to sing.

And sing she did, today. Loud and with her whole heart.

"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed. The little lord Jesus lay down his sweet head..."

Sponsored by saltines and rum

Apparently I am sick.

I have been fighting it for days, because that's what I do. I tell my body to suck it up and ignore the impending doom set to crush me like an anvil to the head.

Yesterday my body ached and my throat was that rare mix of scratchy and fire-ridden. I applied enough Vitamin C to kill a small horse.

I woke up in the middle of the night soaked in sweat. Drenched. Lovely, right?

So this morning it was no surprise that I felt like a truck had run me over. The promptly backed over me..then run me over again.

My entire body hurts- from my hair to my toe joints.

My throat is no longer scratchy, but my stomach has joined the cause and is rioting to rival the wall street protesters.

It is preeeeetyyyyy. Lemme tell you.

So, I do what most moms do. I spent the morning getting on with it until I collapsed in a heap around noon. I asked Mark for help- something I rarely do in the middle of a workday.

I then took to my bed and tried to read but the words make me feel all gnarly and swimmy and the world spins when I look around too much.

So mostly it's me and my computer, cuddled up like a honeymoon couple.

If a honeymoon included digestion noises never heard of before and lots of moaning. Well, pain induced moaning.

Errrmmmm. Moving on.

Anywho, why am I telling you this? Because I can. And because according to WebMD I am close to death.

So my last wishes:

Make sure Lily gets my jewelry. Not now, but when she is, like, 20. As long as she is a amature 20 and won't hock it to buy a tattoo or run away with a dude named Biff.

She can have it when she's 30.

Make sure Sam doesn't join the cast of Jackass too soon into his sure to be illustrious daredevil career.

Make sure mark remarries. In like 10 years. And make sure she is hideous but good with the children. And that she can take care of wood floors...because God knows I can't.

I am requesting "Dancing Queen" be played 5 times at my funeral. At 70 decibels. And make sure the speaker is right next to Mark.

My sewing machine should go to somebody who loves to sew. Wait... It should go to somebody who loves me and will include it in a wall sized shrine to me. Complete with airbrushed pictures of me looking daunting and skinny.

Every year on my birthday, you should drink a head sized pumpkin milkshake in my memory.

Tell the girl at the gym that we all know she's cute. She doesn't have to wear cut off t-shirts and "Juicy" shorts to prove it. One day she is going to give one of the older men a coronary.

Tell Santa I suspect he isn't real.

And now, on with the sickness and groaning and gnashing of teeth.

Goodbye, cruel world.

Or, see ya tomorrow. Ya know, whatevs.

Bypassed

I have been fat since I was 10. I fell, broke my ankle, and discovered sweets all at the same time. It took me one summer to become addicted to sugar.

I ate every feeling I had from then on, burying it under candy, chocolate, cookies, sweets...anything. It comforted me in the midst of some supremely uncomfortable circumstances.

I was chubby all through my teens, leaning out a few times when food was scarce or rantioned from me.

But I always went back to sugar.

I ate through a terrible marraige- stuffing pasta and sweets through a bruised and bleeding mouth far too many times.

I never exercised. I never played sports.

I can tell you that I utterly ruined myself. Without question the body I am sitting in today is of my own creation.

But seven years ago I began to change everything. My eating changed, my habits changed, and I discovered the feeling exercise can give- that rush of endorphins, the heady sense of accomplishment.

I worked out every single day before my wedding. I woke up at 5, got to the gym, busted my butt for 2 hours, and went to work.

And I never got below 200 pounds. I was toned and fit and had the stamina of a teenager, but I was still fat.

My eating morphed more and more into healthy mode- chicken, veggies, fish, fruit.

I never lost a pound.

I got pregnant with my daughter. I walked all through my pregnancy. I got diabetes. I ate nothing but cheese and veggies the last 3 months before she was born.

I weighed 232 the day I gave birth to her.

I joined Stroller Strides.

I busted my butt.

I never lost a pound.

My bp has always been an issue, and it rose steadily until I switched meds. Then it would be good for a few months, and go through the roof again.

I got pregnant with Sam. I avoided gestation diabetes through diet and exercise. I gained no weight with him. The day I delivered Sam I was 208.


I nursed him, I exercised, I ate well.

I have been exercising consistently since he was born.

My weight has climbed to where I was when I delivered Lily.

Now, alot of people will say they eat well. Many people will say they exercise vigorously. But they don't.

I DO.

I have been to 6 doctors in the past 6 years. I have been vegan, done Weight Watchers, juice fasts, eaten nothing but fruit for days. I am up to doing cardio for one hour everyday, maintaining a bpm of 150-170 the entire time. I lift weights every day. I eat less than most people I know.

But here I am. In this body.

And I hate what I see in the mirror. I cry at the sight of my stomach and my thighs. I have broken down in dressing rooms, in bathrooms during parties, in bed next to my husband.

I hate my body. And I am trapped in it, despite my efforts.

I want to be a runner. But at this weight, my ankles and feet hurt so badly I can't walk the next day. I want to be able to run after my kids. I want to look into the mirror and smile.

I want to walk Lily down the aisle at her wedding. I want to watch Sam play pro football. I want to BE THERE for them.

And at this weight, with my blood pressure creeping up, I won't be.

I WILL develop diabetes. I may have heart disease. I may stroke out. I may leave my children when they need me.

And I cannot do that. I can't. I cannot do what was done to me.

So.

In the next few months I will be having gastric bypass.

And yes, I know. I don't look like people who typically have it. My BMI is barely on the cusp of making me a candidate.

But I can say to you today, with total honesty and transparency, that I have tried everything else. Everything. I am doing all of the right things, but not getting the health results I am looking for.

It is surgery. There are inherent risks. But the risk of me carrying 100 extra pounds for the rest of my life is much much riskier.

It is painful. Recovery can be hard. I am ready to face that head on, so that 20 years from now, I am still standing at my childrens side.

I am not looking for a quick fix, or an easy fix. After all, what can be easy about major surgery? What can be easy about turning your stomach into the size of an egg, having only clear liquids for weeks, and getting incredibly sick if you eat the wrong thing?

There is nothing easy about not being able to eat sweets ever again, or to radically change my relationship with food.

I am not doing this because I dont want to exercise. I am not doing it because I need something extreme to make me eat differently.

I am doing it because I have no other choice. It is THIS, or diseases with a hugh mortality rate 10 years from now.

And I am refusing to go anywhere. I will be here for my children. I will be here for my husband. If it takes surgery, pain, and recovery to do that, so be it.

My blood will never be spilled for something greater.

I could hide this. I could not tell anyone. I considered it strongly. There is alot of shame in admitting that you cannot conquer your own body.But I have done the hard work to get here- this is just one more tool to help me achieve my goal of being healthy for the rest of my life.

And,I am going to take you with me. I am going to write about it. Because, after all, you have been with me through everything. Through birth and death and depression and joy and a thousand discoveries.

Here's another path we can walk together. Care to join me?

Blessed

I have this friend.

She is so awesome. And cute. And sweet. And skinny. And smart. So I wanna hate her.

But instead I love her.

And she is having a baby.

Her second.

I was there when she found out for sure.

We squealed and hugged and cried and jumped around together.

She looked at me through joyful tears as she held the pregnancy test and said "Oh my gosh I am freaking out!"

And I knew what she meant.

Cause I've been there.

There are so many things I want to tell her. A thousand pieces of advice I want to give.

But the truth is, we all have to figure it out on our own. How to be a mother to more than one.

It is a sacred thing, this opening of a mother's heart. It comes in waves during pregnancy, between the busy-ness of caring for your older child and anticipating the one to come. There is less time for reflection or daydreaming about what life will be like with another baby because you are busy with your first. Time flies.

And then they are there. And you look at them and your heart just doubles in size. And within a few spare moments, it is as if there was never a moment they weren't there with you, or a part of your family.

It is amazing and wondrous.

You will watch your children meet and you will cry because it is your dream made flesh, right before you. You will watch your older child kiss your newborn and your heart will burst.

You will lie in bed with your hand on the baby in the bassinet and listen to the other one on the monitor and you will smile at the wonder that is your life.

You will nurse the baby while making lunch for the other. You will hold both in the rocker and read. You will hug them both while they cry and then cry yourself.

And there will be a day when you will be tired and frustrated and you will look at them both and think you are not good enough for either one. You will wonder if you can do this. You will be beside yourself and the day will seem endless.

But it's not. It's not endless. And you ARE good enough.

You will look at both of your children together one day, and they will be playing side by side, in that sweet silent companionship that can only be shared by someone of your own blood. You will watch them and know that long after you are gone, they will have each other. You have given them a profound gift- a companion for life.

Being a mom of two is a huge transition. It means less rest, more noise, more chaos. But by God's grace it also means doubled joy and laughter. It means your family is one bigger, one stronger. It means you grow as a mother, as a child of God, and as a person.

It is another step on the journey of parenting, one that is momentous and huge- and so so worth it.

St Mary

Shades of gray lie stroked by the winter sunshine. Wooden pews lined like soldiers, gleaming with lavender oil, creaking with age. The granite altar lies bare of ornament. There is no sound but my breathing. No color but from the windows, stained with pictures in garish colors.

She stands. Veiled in marble. Face soft and peaceful. Feet bare and elegant against her pedestal.

She is the essence of all I long for.

Her presence is a soft as a whisper, as loud as my heartbeat.

I bow my head, and I FEEL her. The smell of roses fill the air. Her veil makes a velvet sound as her arms come around my small and cold form.

She is. I know this, as much as I know I have hands. She is.

I have felt her since I could know love. I have seen her against the back of my closed eyelids countless times.

She has led me, haltingly and with terror, to God.

She has slipped my small and bloodstained hand, my ragged edged fingers, my perfectly manicured nails, my bare knuckles, my wedding ringed hand...all into His.

She has cradled me, held me, and wept with me.

She has seen me deny my belief. She has seen me turn my back.

And still she comes into my dreams of blood and screaming and brings the scent of roses.

She is at my back as I pray. She bows her head with mine.

She has watched as the void of mother has been filled by earthly women- Aunt, friends, mother in law.

She has always been the balm to my wounded child's heart.

Many nights I still dream of her. I walk, barefooted into a grotto of stone. Roses grow wild along every surface. It is twilight. My heart aches like an animal trapped in my chest. I long for things I don't even know have words. The deepest of primal things. The most sacred of bonds.

I long for mother.

And she is there. I run. I become smaller as I take each step, until I am Lily's age.

She does not smile. She only stares into my eyes. I feel known. I feel tears, hot and terrible at the knowing.

And after she looks at me, after she sees all that I am- every mistake and lie and sin, she opens her arms.

She wraps me in her arms and veil. I am encompassed by the oldest and deepest love I have ever known. One that recognizes that in the end I am only that small girl, staring up into her marble likeness and weeping bitter salt upon her feet.

Her head arcs into mine, placed softly onto my own. She rocks.

And when it is over, the tears and the need for her, she stands and takes my hand.

And together we go to God.




"O Mary, mystic rose, whose lovable heart, burning with the living fire of love, adopted us as thy children at the foot of the Cross, becoming thus our most tender Mother, make me experience the sweetness of thy motherly heart and the power of thine intercession with Jesus, in all the dangers that beset me during life, and especially at the dread hour of my death; in such wise may my heart be ever united to thine, and love Jesus both now and through endless ages. Amen "
Prayer of Intercession to the Immaculate Heart of Mary

A rant.

I am annoyed. Extremely.

By this sign. Yeah, that seeimgly innocous saying.

A saying that I am supposed to look at and say- "Well good for you. You put your kids before the housework. Your house is a mess but your k ids are all smiles. Awesome."

I call BS.

My job is my kids, yes. But my job is also my house. Because that is the environment they live in.

Isn't part of being a good mom making sure their home is clean? That they lay their heads on clean sheets, bathe in a clean tub, wear clean clothes? That they eat from a clean kitchen?

They are not mutually exclusive. They can go together, and do, in this house.

Ring my bell. Come into my home. You will see that it is clean. Not perfect, but clean. There are a few crumbs and dishes and laundry in the dryer. There is dog hair on the floor and markers and cars scattered throught.

But no sticky floors. No dirty oven. No messy kitchen.

And where are my kids when I am cleaning? Playing. By themselves. *gasp* Or watching a movie. By themselves. *double gasp*

You know what else? Taking the time to clean makes me a better mom. I can THINK better in my house when it is picked up and clean. I am happier and calmer. I can give more of myself to my children.

So, I am a good mom with happy kids. And my house is really clean. Because that is my JOB, and I am good at making time for both.

And if you have sticky floors, and a messy kitchen, that's FINE. But don't assume that just because my house is immaculate I am neglecting my kiddos.

Rant over.

Dust

The Kansas sky rolls by the window, blue shot with heavy gray clouds. I press my face against the seat, my back to the shallow murmurs in front of me. I can hear my belongings rattling in the trunk, my clothes still on hangers, my stereo braced tight against a suitcase filled with pictures.

My tears fall freely at times, and then dry up with no warning. I have no control anymore of when they come.

The car slides left, pulls to a stop. I hear my brother get out and open my door.

"Hey, sis. We are making a pit stop. Need anything?"

I shake my head. I feel weightless and burdened all at once.

He looks off into the distance, his jaw twitching. His blue eyes tell more than his words ever could.

He doesn't know what to say to me. I don't know what I want to hear.

My skin still holds the mark of her hands. My shoulder aches from blows. My skin is stretched tight over a body that doesn't know how to move without remembering. My mind has leveled out and shut down.

I want to scream. I want to never talk again.

I have nowhere to go. I am at the mercy of whatever family member draws the short straw to rescue me from my mother again.

This time it is Troy who stands where others have stood.

I cannot make words come. I cannot say anything other than "Thank you.", words that seems so small against the sacrifice of driving hundreds of miles, leaving your own children behind, to rescue your sister from foster care. Again.

I am ashamed. I am broken.

He closes the door softly, and walks away with his shoulder hunched against the wind.

I look out from the window. The words lie like sleeping dogs in my mind-

"Where are you, God?"

Just a week ago I had been to church. I had sat in sunday school with other 14 year olds. I was told God was like the wind- an unseen force. I had rolled my eyes like everyone else but in my mind I prayed it was true.

Unseen.

But real.

I step out of the car, watching only my battered shoes as they carry me across pavement into grass and brush. I look up into a sky as wide as any I have seen. The blue stretches end to end over me. The wind buffets me, pushing my clothing aside, pulling my hair to hide my face.

"I can't do this God. I don't know where I belong."

The wind pushes harder against me, pulling me front to back. Dust swirls.

"If you are here, if you are real, show me. Help me to know."

From the distant highway it rose up. Taller than me, clouded in swirls.

Dust.

It rushed to me, covering me there on that lonely place. Coating me with grit and dirt.
It made my eyes sting, made me cough.

I got back in the car.

My tongue found lips coated in dust. My figers held it in their grooves. My hair was pearly gray with it.

Proof of wind. Proof of the unseen, seen. Seen and felt.

My eyes ran with more than dust as the wind rolled by my window.