Near Miss

I wrote this a few weeks back and wrestled with whether or not to post it because really, I cannot think about this event without checking my pulse.

I've believed in Jesus since I was seven years old. As our relationship has deepened throughout my life, I have had several moments where I had a physical awareness that I was not alone. Moments that made no logical, scientific sense. Where I knew that He, the Lord of Angel Armies was present and I felt him.
I had another one today.
With The Dinosaur and The Angel being out of school, they've traveled back and forth to the office with me a lot this Christmas break. I know that it has been really boring because while most people are able to take vacation time around this time of year, being a family lawyer means that the holidays are a consistent hotbed for litigation. I can almost never gather more than a few hours away from the office during this season.
It really isn't too rough on them. I represent a lot of kids in my practice and one whole office is a dedicated play room. But for my two, they are definitely the outdoorsy type. Being in an office all day tests all of our creativity and ability to expend energy. Especially for The Dinosaur. He lives for our walks outside or running to the car for lunch. His quick little legs can bolt at just the crack of a door.
Today was no different. There were several other kids in the office today and he was dying for some fresh air. I knew it was going to be an early lunch. He needed to get outside. I rounded The Angel and the coats and my purse and all the "mom garbage" I think that I need. I had wrangled The Angel to put her shoes on, her coat and we were headed out the door. I told her just to meet me at the car when she got her stuff together. The Dinosaur was three paces in front of me, holding the door knob to his freedom, begging me to hurry up. I really was trying. I let him open the door and just as I have every day for almost three years each time he heads out, I shouted "Do not cross the parking lot!" My office does not sit in a busy area. There are not many cars during any part of the day. But I remind him at least three times a day regardless.
The air in his face and the pavement under his feet must have overloaded his senses because he never heard me. I was less than ten paces behind him when the whole world slowed. I remember the following details with specificity and horror. It must have happened in three seconds, but time suspended and I recall it all.
Black mustang.
Speeding.
The back of The Dinosaur's head heading toward our car.
His perfect stride of one foot pounding in front of the other.
Never stopping.
My voice screaming his name.
Me dropping every thing in my hands and running.
Him turning and taking one step back toward my voice.
The driver missing him by inches.
We were both hysterical when I reached him.
He jumped in my arms and screamed and cried and I screamed and cried.
The Angel missed the whole thing. Thank you Jesus!
I did not need a near death encounter as a reminder to hug my children today, but I'll tell you I haven't let either one of them too far out of my reach today either.
- Hugs n Love,
Lindsey

Stand Up & Accept The Rose

Four years ago, I sat in church and watched as a beautiful tradition unfolded for hundreds of mother's in our congregation. Pastor gave an impassioned speech about motherhood and how it was the world's greatest job. When he was finished, he then asked all the mothers in the room to stand and be presented a long stemmed rose. Ushers moved across the room, presenting women with flowers, commemorating their bringing a child into this world and bestowed the most amazing gift.
I cowered at the back of the room; a slumped, sobbing mess. I gripped The Hero's hand, as he placed his arms around my shoulders. While these women stood to be honored, I fought off the devil in my head.

Our test results had been given to us a few days earlier. Our chances for success in the biological family planning realm were laughable, but I found no reason to laugh. My body would never be able to replicate either pieces of myself, or more depressing, pieces of the amazing man I married.
That morning, I told The Hero I never wanted to go back to church on a Mother's Day. I just couldn't handle having such a visible separation of a life I wanted, opposed to the life I thought we would be forced to live. I was barren, both in the womb and in the soul. My heart ached as my eyes stared not at the women who stood, but the women who were seated. Maybe not all were longing to be mothers, but their presence in that moment confirmed that there was a silent, suffering minority on what is supposed to be a celebration day.

Fast forward to this morning: dishes every where and our house destroyed from toys, clothes begging to be folded and put away and yet we lounge in the glory of celebrating my third mother's day. My heart could not be more full and more grateful for the gifts I've been given. I truly am not worthy.

Infertility is a lying, stealing demon that personifies Satan at his best. It steals our dreams of family, kills our heart's motivation to be happy for those around us and destroys our self-esteem, our relationships and our ability to see the light ahead. While God knows that I understand how hard it is to be standing in an aisle full of Mother's Day cards wanting to throw them all on the ground, I offer you a challenge today.

Stand up and accept the rose.

Whether you are waiting to be matched with a child, suffering from the loss of losing a child, or simply standing at the edge of uncertainty of where to turn next, if there is a child living in your heart, you've already be named a Mother.

Stand up and accept the rose.

No longer allow infertility to stand behind you and whisper his lies. Don't let doubt and fear cloud a day that is meant to celebrate your heart as a mother. If you know there is a child out there that is for you, you may not know how they get delivered to you, but if you're praying for them today, you've earned that rose. When your pastor asks for mothers to stand and be recognized, place your feet on the ground and put your head up high and stand up. Accept the rose.

And if your congregation doesn't offer one, go buy one for yourself. A simple, beautiful resolution for you, that you will not let infertility undo you, you will let it strengthen you to stand and accept the rose.

Women Wednesday: Word.

I made a New Years' resolution last year.

I don't even remember what now.

It doesn't really matter.

Because like most New Years' resolutions,

I broke it two days later.

I know that because I wrote it in my journal.

I do that a lot.

Break things, I mean.

Promises, hearts (haha, right), social commitments, dates with my treadmill.

And even though I am a notoriously bad New Years' resolution maker,

there were definitely things that I wanted to change in 2012.

I thought about making a list.

But giving it's past performance, I thought against it.

I thought I'd discuss it with The Hero.

But when he said he really wanted to lose the six pounds he'd put on over the holidays

by the end of the month,

I bit my clenched fist to keep from punching him.

I reread some of my blog posts, journal entries and simply sought the status of my heart in 2011.

In all that reading, there was a theme that blared out in my words and heart: hectic.

So as I prayed and pondered over whether the only thing I would carry over from

2011 was my growing jean size,

I asked that God would reveal to me just a word that I could carry with me through this year.

There were several instances that confirmed that my word would be a complete about face from last year's pace.

2012 for me will be if nothing else:

INTENTIONAL.

Everything I do.

Every word I speak.

Every word I write/type.

I want Him in the middle of each step, each family dinner, every load of laundry.

I want to be conscious of every dollar we spend, saving more and giving more.

With each of the relationships I have, I pray for them to be more full.

To stop throwing things together and start knitting them in unity.

I long to seek a solid breath of life, instead of the raspy pant of busyness.

We will say "no thank you" to extracurricular activities and

cuddle on the couch for a little bit extra togetherness.

I want to wear my faith, instead of checking the box marked "saved".

I don't want to make new friends until I have dove head first into the ones before me.

(So if we know each other in 'real' life, watch out.)

While being intentional may seem slower, I pray it will not burn less passionately.

Hopefully, it will only burn longer.

I want to be a better spouse, bringing honor to The Hero.

A woman who respects his authority in our family,

and desires to make his home a place where he is at rest.

(I've read those verses about a nagging wife,

and The Hero's back won't take him living on our roof)

A home where we practice hospitality, cry when the need arises, dance when the music is good,

laugh when it's funny and pour grace on every square inch of what we've been given.

Because that is what He has done for us.

And because there is never enough grace.

I want to be a woman from whom The Angel can seek for a good example,

and from whom The Dinosaur will learn the difference between a lady and all the rest.

I want to eat less and sweat more.

I want to speak softer and write louder.

I pray our family creates memories instead forcing togetherness.

And I will expect more from you.

More discussions, more participation in the tough stuff,

more screaming from our laptops for kids who need us,

and exploring these Wednesdays for what they were originally intended:

for us to be INTENTIONAL together as women.

Perhaps being intentional will mean less of some things, and that's ok.

I am most excited about the depth of what is left.

So let's get started: INTENTIONALLY!

Women Wednesday: The Great Debate

The Hero and I had a really hard talk two years ago when we brought home The Angel and The Dinosaur. I'm sure lots of other couples have had the same one.

"To stay at home with the kids or go back to work?"

There is a part of my femininity that may be missing, because this wasn't a difficult question for me to answer. I practically ran back to the office. I had been practicing law almost five years when the kids came home, and I was good at it. Law school wasn't cheap and I amassed more student loan debt than The Hero's mortgage on his first house. There was no way we could afford for me to stay home. Spending three weeks away from the office also revealed another horrible character flaw: I am a work-aholic. I love it.

This may be why making and keeping new girlfriends has always proved challenging for me. It's hard for me to admit that I like being at the office. That my brain lights up and ignites best when legal theories and paperwork abound. And also I think many women I meet would only judge this career choice as a character flaw. They might believe that because I work outside the home, that I am not a good mom. And let's face it, I don't need any help beating myself up about my faults.

I also have much guilt over this new personality development. I often lament my failures as a mother, sometimes on an hourly basis. Maybe we all do. Most days as I pull away from daycare, I groan that I couldn't give my kids a better mother. One who hadn't spent most of her twenties vying for grades and racking up debt. But in my spirit I know that staying at home with The Dinosaur would leave us both unfulfilled and unchallenged. He needs WAY more social interaction that one mama can give him. The boy is busy and the more kids around, the more he loves it.

And you know what?

That's ok.

It actually feels good to say that out loud (or in print).

I may never stay at home.

But that doesn't mean I don't adore my mama friends who stay at home. Most of the time I want to constantly immulate them.

And that doesn't mean they don't love me, even trekking it to the office every day. Even when I don't return their phone calls for a few days.

Some times ladies, I think the debate about whether or not we are good enough, or doing a good enough job in motherhood and life in general, doesn't happen between us women,

It happens within ourselves.

Here's to learning to embrace the creatures God created us to be, with the love that He shows us, no matter where He calls us to spend most of our days.

1st Time A Coincidence

I'll be 32 in September.

Within that time frame, I can't tell you that I've ever wanted a tattoo.

It's not that I have a religious restriction.

Or a hesitation about "marking my body".

I don't.

I just never wanted to be in my 80s and look down and think

"What the hell was I thinking with that?"

"Tweety bird, really?"

"That's not spelled correctly."

Or,

"I'm not sure I can tell what that was supposed to be."

A group of friends and I were actually standing in a tattoo parlor

in OKC 2 years ago waiting to get variations of Africa.

The artist was ticked there were 10 of us.

And I don't think she gave a rip about Africa.

She was so rude, we all left.

Back around Christmas, a sponsorship letter arrived from K.

At the bottom of it, he had drawn an adorable flower.

I told The Hero I had found my tattoo.

He laughed it off.

"Baby, that's probably not just for you. It's probably just a coincidence.

He probably draws that all the time."

Maybe the first time.

But imagine my surprise when I opened up the mail yesterday.

Our first letter from K since Christmas.

And at the bottom:

So don't be surprised if some time soon,

The above image is inked on my body.

Happy 32nd to me.

Trail to Thailand: Doctors Appointment

Another accomplishment on the paperwork trail today.

The paperwork procedure leading up to our home study

has been quite lengthy this time around.

I don't remember so much prep work before our home study,

but then again, it may be me.

I think mommy hood has sucked out my brain.

The Hero and I went and had our physicals done by our physician.

Only one more stop this week (the kids have to visit their pediatrician for health updates)

and we can send off to our home study agency.

Then they will schedule us for a home study and come out

and see how much more insane we are than two years ago.

Praying to get it all done and sent off by Friday.

And that $1800 will appear in our bank account.

God will do both.

Me? Or Three?

Becoming a mom overnight to two toddlers was hard.

Since neither The Hero or I had never parented before,

there was/is/always stuff we don't know.

And parenting two adopted children has its additional set of questions.

But the one we are asking ourselves lately is

Is it me?

Or because he's three?

The Dinosaur has his nickname because well,

he's a Dinosaur.

A cute dinosaur,

but a dinosaur all the same.

Two was adorable, challenging because of

attachment issues, but we've come to the other side of those I believe.

We are outside of the terrible 2s and fledgling in the

horrible 3s.

Maybe I was drinking or fell and hit my head when I was reading all those parenting books

and getting advice from all my mommy friends.

But I really thought that they were called the terrible 2s because

there was an ending date.

The Dinosaur would blow out his 3rd birthday candle

and there would be a respite.

Ha!Ha!

I almost fell off my chair laughing.

The Dino better at three?

Right.

So mommy may look like this for awhile:

Until The Dinosaur looks like this again:


Come on parents, fess up,
what was your most challenging parenting age?

My Favorite Day Ever

Saturday, The Angel turned Seven.

I wonder how old she is in Angel years?

Since I don't know what a biological child experience is like,

all I have to go on is the here and now with The Angel and The Dinosaur.

There are days that I stare at her face and I wonder if she

even knows the depth of how much I admire her.

For her strength,

her laugh,

her outlook on everything,

and her ability to grieve for what she's lost

and still enjoy the present.

I am honored to share a house,

a life,

a love

with such a fighter.

I despise kid's birthday parties.

The planning,

the expense,

the expectation of outdoing the other moms on the block.

The unnecessary buying of gifts that you know will be returned

or never played with more than once.

Please hear me:

I LOVE BIRTHDAYS.

The cake.

The ice cream.

The singing.

The celebration of one's life.

An entire day about being selfish.

I want to teach my kids how to celebrate,

without the gluttony of entitlement and stuff.

We talked to The Angel a lot about what she wanted.

She only had three requests.

Dinner, with her entire family.

A new bike.

And everyone singing happy birthday

Loud.

Just for her.

We gathered everyone together.

The Hero and I bought her a new bike.

I covered our house in balloons

and pink and yellow streamers.

She got a new "sparkly" tank top

and new shorts.

We all sang Happy Birthday.

Twice.

Just for good measure.

We ordered her favorite cupcakes.

And made her favorite dinner.

And the grandparents overdid it with gifts.

Again.

The Hero built a bonfire.

We made smores in the backyard,

sat around the fire

and relished in the glow of her face.

As she "snuggied" in my lap

and I stroked her hair,

She smiled and told me

"Mommy, I didn't have a birthday in Africa."

"I know sweet heart."

"But mommy, it's ok. Because today is my favorite day ever."

"It is?"

"No. I guess not. Every day is my favorite day ever."

Dear Angel,

Thank you for being a daily reminder

of strength,

beauty,

love

and opening my eyes to the fact

that each day

should be my favorite day ever.

And as long as you are a part of it,

it will be.

Nothing Is Sacred

My transition to motherhood has not always been smooth.

Two toddlers as our first attempt at parenting is still laughable.

While doubling the laundry,

the noise,

the messes,

the food consumption

has all taken some adjustment for the Hero and I,

one thing has really been hard for me to grip:

My lack of privacy.

It's their complete disregard for boundaries.

If they are up, they expect The Hero & I to bounce right out of bed.

Even if it's Saturday.

Whether it's poking our sleeping bodies,

yelling from their beds,

or standing at the closed door to our room POUNDING!

Cooking dinner

better not include a quick taste test.

Without douling out tastes for everyone.

Even an innocent grape popped into my mouth

as we head out the door.

"Mommy, what you eating?"
"Mommy, I want one of those."

"Hey Mommy, you give [The Angel] dat?"

They don't care it's the only breakfast I've consumed.

If they are peacefully coloring,

molding play dough,

playing cars,

I may perform any mundane task.

But the moment I seize the moment

to read,

blog,

exhale on the couch,

or paint my toes,

all hell breaks loose.

Biblical proportions.

"Hey Mommy, what you doing?"

"Mommy, why you do dat?"

"Mommy, what's dat?"

"Dinosaur, stop talking, I'm talking to Mommy"

"Angel, STOOOOPPPPPP"

"Can you read this Mommy?"

"HEY Mommy..."

"Hey Mommy..."

"HEY MOMMMMMMYYYYY..."

Even the most private moments of my day are subject to interruption.

A trip to the restroom or shower must be

calculated,

always behind a locked door.

They are always having an even bigger emergency.

And nothing is sacred to them.

Not even the bathroom.

While I wouldn't take anything for them,

I'm considering a pair of ear plugs.

And a bigger lock on the bathroom door.

Over Infertility?

I told The Hero I didn't want kids.

On our first date.

He laughed and said I would change my mind.

I scoffed.

I had never wanted kids.

Babies didn't make me oogle (still don't).

I had big plans for us.

Money.

Travelling.

Complete days of total irresponsibility.

And absolute no sign of crayons,

Cheetos,

or crying.

It took three years.

For The Hero to be right.

Work wasn't as rewarding as the brochures made it look.

Money spends twice as fast when you have a little.

The Hero and I were happy and did enjoy days of total irresponsibility.

But something was missing.

He could sense I wasn't satisfied.

But when I told him I wanted kids,

he laughed.

He said it was the cute Asian toddler beside us on the airplane.

He said I'd change my mind when we landed in Mexico.

He brushed it off when I read "What to Expect When You're Expecting"

on the beach,

drinking a margarita.

But he almost fell off the bench when I told him

I felt like we were missing out on a different kind of happiness.

And that I hated the person I was becoming.

And I seriously wanted to talk about a baby.

He cried.

The Hero had been waiting his whole life to be a father.

He's that damn good at it.

I took it extremely personal when we didn't get pregnant.

I felt that my hard heart for so many years led to our infertility.

I felt I had failed my husband,

my family,

and my own gender.

I was unable to perform a task that millions of women accomplish.

Every day.

I got bitter.

I bit back tears at the arrival of birth announcements.

I went to work instead of baby showers.

I let the Devil convince me that I couldn't get pregnant

and that made me less of a woman.

Our adoption changed everything.

My kids are just that: my kids.

But every once in awhile that old bedfellow creeps back.

He starts to lie again.

I'm not good enough.

Our love is different.

They aren't my kids.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

Those fears are perhaps felt more often as we head toward adoption again.

An information packet came yesterday.

Asking us same questions as two years ago.

Had we worked past our infertility issues?

I stared at the question.

I asked The Hero.

He laughed.

No.

He offered up.

I stared back.

We haven't?

He smiled.

Infertility is a lie. We had a family without the biology.

God did that.

Infertility is just a liar.

And that's a big enough history to never get over.

Over infertility?

Never.

I'm just mad we spent so much time being sidetracked by him.

I laughed.

He's right.

He usually always is.

We'd always have issues with infertility.

It told us we'd never have a family.

It was wrong.

And I'm sure we would have discussed it more.

But there were two voices already screaming

"Mommy!"

"Daddy!"

Going All In

My last post detailed a hard weekend of parenting.

It wasn't easy to write.

I don't like admitting my faults.

I'm not sure that anyone does.

It's completely against human nature

and especially against American thought to say

"Hey, let me tell you all about the ways that I screw up on a daily basis."

But the more I reflected on all my parenting fails last weekend,

I realized that almost every aspect of parenting is hard.

It's supposed to be.

A continuous dance of move and sway

and locking eyes with your dance partner.

And learning how they respond to the music.

With you.

Doubling our family count with two toddlers was no cake walk.

And learning to parent in your thirties for the first time was like treating a red hot sun burn after a day at the beach;

it needed a lot of TLC.

But while I cannot say I desire the hard days;

I'm learning to take them at face value;

a moment to embrace a chance to learn,

do better

and stop looking for something easy.

If it were easy, I wouldn't care what kind of personalities my kids developed,

would let them juggle knives while standing on our kitchen table

and would disregard all sanitation rules

(ok, maybe not all).

I believe that the biggest challenge to being a parent is

choosing to parent

and choosing it for a lifetime,

especially when it's hard.

So Dinosaur and Princess,

be warned.

You have no passive mama.

She's a warrior.

And she's learning.

Just like you.

She will not give up on you.

She refuses to stop learning from you,

teaching you,

dancing with you,

and guiding your steps as much as she can.

She's in it for the hard days;

the crazy days,

the laughs,

the tears,

the breezy,

the hard.

It will not always be easy,

in fact, she'll bet on it.

but she's crazy about you.

And she's all in.

Forever.