How lucky we are...

Here I am – stealing a quote again.  This one comes from an interview with Julia Roberts that I read in a random magazine in the kitchen at work one morning last fall.  She said something about her relationship with her husband, but in reference to their kids, that struck me because I just thought it was beautiful:

'How lucky we are that we love each other so much that we burst into three pieces…'

I feel this way now.  You see, I know I've been gone an awfully long time (two months is an absolutely dismal level of neglect, even for me) but I have one very wonderful reason:

Colin and I brought our son home last month and ever since I have felt differently about this Julia Roberts quote.  I liked it before – but I understand it better now.  I understand the feeling of awe behind it – I feel it every day.  It's this overwhelming sense of gratitude when I look at Colin and realize that we are so blessed – blessed not only because we love each other, but because that love has created an incredible new life. 

We're both completely smitten and we comment often about how we already can't completely remember what life was like before Grady arrived.  Nor do we want to.  Our love has expanded beyond the two of us to include something much, much greater.

Everyone always says that the love of a parent is different and I think I'm beginning to realize why that is.  You see, every other relationship in your life is built around history – you love people because of who they are, what they've done for you or experiences you've had together.  But the love of a parent for a child isn't predicated on any history; there is no history.  They arrive in your life and you love them instantly, without hesitation, without reservation; they mean everything in that very first moment. 

Our first moments with our son were actually filled not just with that feeling of overwhelming affection but also with fear.  I waited nine months to hear my son cry out that first time only to hear… silence.  After a long and exhausting labor, the doctor told me he was just 'in shock' and would be fine – but that silence filled me up with dread.  They decided to take Grady to the NICU (which we had been assured in our birthing class 'very rarely happens – only in severe cases') but before they left, they laid him in my arms for only a moment.  All I remember is leaning forward, looking deep in those dark blue-grey eyes and saying 'Come back to me.  Please.  Come back to me.'  They took him from me, I looked at Colin and said 'Go with him' and then watched my whole world walk away.

In less than 30 minutes we knew he'd be fine but it took nearly two hours for him to make his way back into my arms.  Ever since those first scary moments, I have vowed (repeatedly) to never take a single second with my son for granted.  I love him in an overwhelming, heart-stopping way but the horrifying truth that I learned in that first moment is that there are certain things that even a mother is powerless against. 

We are so lucky, so incredibly lucky – and we must never forget it.

Lay the hours aside.

I've been trying to draft this post for weeks now but I've been having a hard time with it.  There's so much I want to say and I'm finding it difficult to put it all into words that seem to properly communicate what I feel.  But I've decided I have to try so I can get it out of my system and move on.

A few weeks ago one of my parent's good friends, Cecil, was diagnosed with cancer.  Advanced.  Already spreading.  The doctors told him there's really not much they can do for him and so he has decided against treatment and instead is enjoying the time he has left without worrying about trying to extend that time.

Part of me finds this set of circumstances incredibly frustrating.  How can modern medicine, which can transplant faces, rebuild or replace bones and give a premature baby life who previously wouldn't have taken a single breath – how can they not do anything?  How is that even possible?  How is it that with everything else we are now capable of, cancer continues to defeat us?

Another part of me finds Cecil's response, his acceptance of the news, incredibly inspiring.  He has chosen to end his life as he has lived it – on his own terms.  In a world that spends so much time grasping at every last opportunity to extend youth and life, I find his decision to be a sign of strength and resilience that I can't help but respect.

My great-uncle Frank received his cancer diagnosis about… seven years ago and he took a different approach but with the same goal.  He fought his cancer with everything he had in him with one singular focus – he wanted his grandchildren to remember him.  He lived for six more years and in the end, achieved his wish.  His grandbabies will forever have memories of the time they spent with him.  He, too, faced death on his own terms, molding the circumstances by his own choices, and I'm just filled with an appreciation for what that must take in and from a person – and what it truly means.

As a soon-to-be parent, I spend a decent amount of time these days wondering about my child, what his life will be like and where it will take him.  And, of course, I always wish for a long, healthy, happy life.  What parent wouldn't?

As I was thinking through this post the other day, though, I was wondering if maybe that's the wrong thing to wish for.  Maybe, instead, what I should wish for is that my son arrives at the end of his life, whenever that is, with the same ability to appreciate the time that he did have, whatever that time was, as Frank and Cecil.  Maybe what I should wish for is that Colin and I are able to instill in him the peace and strength that he'll need to carry him through even those times where it would be easy to give in or allow bitterness to enter his heart. 

It seems counterintuitive though not to just wish for the simple path – a long life.  But I want so much more for my son than just simple quantity.  I want deep, rich quality.  I want for him to be able to lay the number of hours aside and concentrate instead on what is in those hours – on the life he fills them with.  I want to be able to teach him there is more to life than just length.

I'm still frustrated.  I still can't comprehend how medicine can fail us even now – how it could only give Frank six years and can seem to give Cecil hope for even less.  But instead of dwelling on the negative, I'm trying instead to learn the lesson that both Frank and Cecil have to teach – to appreciate, to fight to remain in control of your life by your own choices, whatever they are, and to look at difficult circumstances not just in the easy way, but in whatever way brings you peace.

I hope I can figure out how to do that well enough that I can teach my son to do so himself someday.  When he has to.  I hope I can raise him up into a man like Cecil, who is one of the most tender-hearted souls I have ever met, and like Frank, whose quick, warm smile and ready quips I will always remember as the absolute pulse of life at every family gathering.

I hope.

Let go, laughing.

I know, it's been a while.  There's a lot of reasons why that is.  I've been... a bit emotional lately (understandable, I think, given the fact that I'm now 30+ weeks pregnant) and to be honest I just didn't really want to vomit emotional baggage all over this site. 

This is a tough transition.  An exciting one, but one that takes its toll emotionally and physically and wears me down until I'm unfamiliar to myself.  I'm thrilled beyond explanation that every day we get closer to welcoming our son, but this time in our lives has also been full of tough moments and hurtful ones.  What I have decided is that people are... not very good at watching their words when it comes to pregnant women.  Which really is nothing new, some people aren't good at watching their words around anyone, but let's be honest - a pregnant woman is a particularly vulnerable target.

I'm getting better about it.  I'm getting better at fcocusing on my baby and our future together and my loving husband who has been the best partner a woman could ask for throughout all of the ups and downs of this process.  I still have my moments, of course, but for the most part... I cry a little and then I move on.

I think part of the difficulty is that this momentous change in our lives is so incredibly OBVIOUS.  Strangers stop me in stores to ask me personal questions and give me unsolicited advice.  I'm a fairly private person so it's been particularly difficult for me to emotionally handle what feels like constant scrutiny.  I don't like being a bug under anyone's microscope!

But right now there's too much to be happy and excited about to let people get me down.  And it helps that I've figured out that I need to keep a few things to myself so that I don't have to always feel like my life is on a billboard that I'm wearing around my neck (or belly, as it were).  Sometimes walking this line means I feel alone - which I guess is ironic considering these days, I'm never alone, and there's usually a knee in my kidney or fist in my stomach to remind me of that fact.

You know, though, life is good.  Some things stink or don't go the way I hope they will or don't follow my perfect plan, but life is good.  We're now just 9 short weeks at most from bringing home baby, his room is everything I had hoped for and I spent this weekend with my family celebrating my grandparent's 50 year love story.  We have been blessed, both as individuals and as a growing little family, and I am grateful for that.

And I am grateful for all of you.  Those of you who care enough to read this site and are interested, even when I disappear for months at a time and reappear with an emotional ramble.  I am glad that I have this blog to turn to and I look forward to the day that I can return to it in earnest because I have returned to myself.

I hope that is someday soon.

You're one of my favorite people.

This is going to sound strange because of where that quote comes from (Kill Bill, Vol. 2), but every time I hear this quote I think of my brother, Mike. It’s one of my favorite movie quotes of all time – which, yes, I realize is weird – because it comes at a point in the movie where it is absolutely the last thing you would expect the character to say. I had a dear friend say it to me once, in college, during a particularly rough patch in my life where I was lamenting the fact that maybe, after all, I was just a bad person.

He smiled, knowing how much I love this quote, and said simply ‘You’re not a bad person. You’re a very good person. You’re one of my favorite people.’

I can’t entirely explain why this quote makes me think of Mike except for the very obvious answer that he is just that – one of my favorite people. My brother has the best dry-wit, sarcastic sense of humor and can make just about anyone laugh. He is also one of the most honest and straightforward people you could hope to meet – which is a quality that I respect and strive to emulate. He loves animals in an almost unconditional way and has this ability to feel an instant bond with any that cross his path (which, in our family, is often).

He is also very excited about becoming Uncle Mike in the near future and I feel blessed that my baby will have Mike around to look after him. Since very early on in our search for the baby’s name, we knew what his middle name would be – Thomas, after his Uncle Mike and also my paternal grandfather.

So, all of that essentially just to say that I am thankful every day that I have Mike in my life. He has taught me lessons about perseverance and honesty, valuing myself even with my imperfections and the true meaning of what it is to love someone in that way that makes your insides hurt when they hurt and makes you hope so much for what they hope for that you think your heart will explode.

To donate to the Autism Center of Tulsa, please click here.

For the past three years, I have tried to put all of that gratitude and all of those lessons into one day in honor of my brother – the Autism Center of Tulsa’s 5k Run. The race is now held in a park on the south side of Tulsa that has some pretty killer elevation changes (at least for an amateur like me) and when I find myself on the uphill side of one I try to remember all of the things that Mike has taught me…

That life is not always easy – but it is always worth it. That sometimes, even things you think should be simple can be very complicated. And that merely continuing to put one foot in front of the other is the most surefire way to get where you want to be.

I don’t even know that Mike would be able to tell you that he’s taught me any of that – in fact, I’m pretty sure he probably doesn’t realize at all the impact that he’s had on my life. I’ve never been very good at telling people things like that and I realize that I should, because who doesn’t want to know that they’ve impacted someone in a profound and personal way, just by being who they are? (I’m reminded here of some Wicked lyrics, but I’ll spare you.)

I would much rather try to SHOW people what they mean to me and my struggling through this 5k every year in my brother’s name is my attempt to say ‘By the way, I adore you, just so you know.’

Because I do.  I adore him.  He's absolutely one of my favorite people.

Say My Name

As I’m sure you can imagine, names are a frequent topic around our house these days.  Particularly… boy’s names.

That’s right.  That adorable profile with the tiny button nose you see there?  That’s my son.

I’m still getting used to the sound of that phrase as it rolls off my tongue and around inside my head.  My son.  There’s a lot invested in those two itty bitty words.

But back to names.  So far my main concern has been to find a name that’s unique without being weird; that won’t, by nature of its spelling, encourage strangers for all eternity to pronounce it wrong; and that hopefully won’t embarrass our dear child at any point in his early OR later years.

Yet, on my way to work this morning, I realized something else that needs to be considered.  I was listening to my music (too loud, as always) and singing to the baby (because he can apparently hear me now) and a lyric stopped me in my tracks.  In the middle of belting out ‘Set Fire to the Rain’ along with Adele (albeit, not as well as she does), it struck me like lightening.

“’Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name.”

For some reason, it made me think in that second how important someone’s name can really become to the people around them.  And some of this is tough to think of because, well, he’s still my son, but someday (if he’s lucky), some sweet girl will get shivers at the sound of his name.  Or it could bring her great comfort, or pride.  If he has his daddy’s striking baby blues, the combination of those eyes and his name could make her catch her breath.  There is so much… emotion that can end up being tied up in a name.

So of course it’s a big decision, and we’re definitely mulling it over with lots of seriousness (and a decent dose of levity).  We’ve already considered and discarded all sorts of options.  Right now we’re calling the baby a name we considered back before we were ever even pregnant and it’s striking a chord with me… so far. 

 We’ll give it a few more days and see if it starts to annoy me.

Mommie Dearest

It’s a charged word right? Mom. We all have some sort of image that pops into our head when we hear the word ‘Mom’. For some of us (the lucky ones) it’s an image of someone who has loved us, supported us, was there. For others, the image is not at all a positive one but instead conjures up negative memories of abandonment, rejection or even abuse. But we all have a reaction – an instant, unstoppable, personal response to the word ‘Mom’ (or, of course, it’s more formal root ‘Mother’).

I’ve been thinking a lot about this recently because, obviously, I’m now (well) on my way to becoming a mother myself. I was thinking about it again yesterday – when my own mom left to go back to Dallas after a quick visit to our house.

My thoughts center around the idea of what a mother is, what a mother should be and what I hope to be to my own children (specifically, the one in my belly currently making it difficult for me to sleep at night). And this weekend, when my own best example was pulling away, it came to me in probably the clearest (and yet also the most vague) terms I could use to express it.

I want to be the kind of mother that, when my own babies are almost 30 and leading their own grown-up attempts at life, they look forward to my visits like that deep, ragged breath after a good cry or the first, cool spring rain – that refreshing, start-over, feel-good-and-centered feeling that I get when I’ve been blessed with quality time with my own mom. I want my kids to know that no matter how old they get, there’s always going to be that sense of home with me – that sense of no-matter-what, always-be-there, man-I-love-you sense of belonging.

I would like to imagine that most mothers start out with similar hopes so the difficulty is figuring out how to get there. How do you go about the day-to-day things for the next 20 years so that the rest of their lives they know that feeling of warmth and comfort is there for them in you? If it were easy, everyone would do it, so there’s got to be something in there that I have to ferret out – and I’m quite sure, like most things, it’s different for each person so I have to figure out what it is for me.

No pressure, right?

I know already that one thing is true and that I won’t be able to hide it from this tiny person when they get here – and that is that I love them. In an over-the-top, giggle-in-my-cereal, giddy-schoolgirl type of way, like the best all-in-your-head love affair you ever had with the heartbreak kid across homeroom. I don’t know anything about them – who they’ll be, what they’ll look like or if they’ll someday break my heart. But I know none of that will matter. I will love them anyway.

One of the things that I learned from the sad loss of Daly-pup was that unconditional love can give you joy and hope and yet also heartache and pain – each made all the more crushing by the loss of that which you loved so much – but also that I wouldn’t trade a single day, a single moment with him to avoid what came later. I know that this baby will be all of that and more – love like I’ve never known, joy like I’ve never felt, and with that, the potential for the deepest pain imaginable. And already I wouldn’t trade a single second, a single tear-to-come. From the moment we found out I was pregnant – the mere fact that this baby is here, that is enough.

You always hear all of this about becoming a parent and I guess I always just assumed it or ignored it or glossed over it – but the reality is actually almost a little frightening. Like the first time Colin and I got in a real, lay-it-bare argument after our wedding and I had this scary ‘we HAVE to work this out’ realization and for a split second I felt trapped. I love this baby in a head-over-heels, completely-abandoned way and that love feels almost a little bit like tossing myself over a ledge and hoping there's a soft landing waiting.

In the end, what I hope for more than anything, is to be the best mom I can be. I know there will be rough patches, arguments and moments where I let this baby down (or vice versa). But I hope, thirty years from now, all that really matters to them is that sense of relief, of coming home, that they get when we're together. If I can create that for them, I will consider myself successful.

Every Rose Has Its Thorn

I know - gone for weeks and I return with a Poison reference. Forgive me. (Does it make it better or worse that it was actually inspired by a Miley Cyrus remake? Worse? Yea - I thought so.)

The truth of the matter is, I've been having a hard time writing lately and this quote is actually a good descriptor of my problem. You see, I love to write. I feel so much better, more like myself, when I'm writing regularly. It's always been that way and I am quite sure it always will be.

But there's a flipside to that love relationship with words. A downside. You see, I also need to write.

Doesn't sound like a downside necessarily does it? But it is. Its that need that makes writing hard for me at times. Near impossible. Borderline painful.

Why is that? Because I don't feel good when I censor myself. But I can't always say what I want. Sometimes I'm not ready. Sometimes what's on my heart just isn't something I need to (or want to!) share. But when I can't write what's right at my fingertips, I sometimes just... can't write.

So I figured I would start with this quote, and see what else comes out. And actually, it's really a pretty appropriate quote for a lot of situations, most notably even for today - Valentines Day. Of course, it's kind of a cheap observation that this quote is good for love because, well, it comes from a song about love. But still - it's a valid point. Marriage has been, easily, one of the absolute hardest things I have ever done. But, just as easily, the most rewarding.

I figure parenthood will be the same. Already, being pregnant has been both the most exciting time and the most frustrating. I'm thrilled at the idea of welcoming our child into our family but sick of being sick (and tired!). I can't wait to find out who our baby will be and what they will want in life but it seems like an eternity before they'll even take their first breath much less have a first conversation.

All of this, of course, goes along with the cliche 'all things worth doing are difficult' - which is really only partly true because I can think of several things worth doing that are quite easy (a pregnant woman scarfing down a corndog comes to mind). But seeing as I'm mostly just talking to myself to get through what some would call 'writer's block', just roll with the cliche, okay?

Forgive me for being negligent (and for coming back with this ramble). I promise, I'll be back to myself soon. Every day I feel more like myself than the day before and I hear that this next three months will be the 'easiest' in terms of how I'll feel physically. And I'm looking forward to that.