Stool Samples on New Year's Eve

When I worked in the music business in my past life, one of my favorite things to do with my co-workers and friends (Thanks, Danny and Todd) was to come up with our faux album titles – because we are all stars in Nashville just waiting for our shot – might as well have our titles ready to go.  It ranged from “Tacos in the Fellowship Hall” to “Getting Waxed at 2pm.”  I coined one of my son’s album titles tonight – “Stool Samples on New Year’s Eve.”

We’re in the hospital again.  He’s got wicked belly pain flaring back up, so they’ve got teams of wonderful doctors running more tests – from Gastrointestinal to Infectious Disease.  I started to get all broody about spending the end of our 2014 this way.  I could easily pitch a fit about the fact that we spent way too much of our Christmas season in a hospital.  But I won’t.  Am I sad? Yes.  Am I angry? Yes.  Am I going to let it ruin me? No.  I’m still learning the art of letting myself feel but not letting it suffocate me.  So much happened in 2014. So much cool, crazy, beautiful stuff.  And also some hard, painful, awakening stuff.  It's interesting how it's a metaphor with my son's belly issues. We've got to do a serious gut-check and clean out anything that doesn't belong so we can move forward with a clean start - you know, check your crap.

Here’s what happens when you hit a threshold of disappointments - you grow up.  I can’t have a celebration cocktail toast with my husband and cuddle with him at midnight.  He’s with Wendy at Vanderbilt Children’s collecting stool samples, and I’m at home with Wilnes and Woody trying to maintain normalcy and explain why brother is in the hospital again.  I had a dream that after our boys came home, life wouldn't be so hard and sad anymore.  But our sadness wasn't limited to 2013.  And thankfully our celebration is not limited to tonight.  The joy does not have to be reserved for this particular holiday. There is always an appointed and right time for everything (check out Ecclesiastes 3). And now is not our time to party.  Now is our time to feel the growing pains. It is time to let go of our plans and expectations, to feel both the hardship and beauty of parenthood, to sit with complicated unanswered questions, to lean into struggles and trust we are not alone.  And maybe next week (or next month), we’ll get a hot date night. 

So on this eve of 2015, while Todd is entertained by our boy’s magnesium-induced colon flush and I fold a third load of Christmas travels laundry, I am both grief-filled and grateful.  The grief reminds me I am no longer a young newly married woman to be whisked away for a night of dancing and fun to close out 2014.  I'm grieving the loss of independence.  And it’s okay to grieve what I miss.  At the same time, I am gratfeful for the opportunity to be someone’s mama.  I’m grateful to be stretched outside my comfort zone. I am grateful to be amid the hard lesson of releasing my plans and expectations.  I am grateful for the men in my life.  I am grateful I have a whole new year ahead to continue doing life with them and find another night to light sparklers, wear funny hats, and dance to Iggy Azalea.  I am grateful for answers currently being explored regarding our sweet boy's health. I am incredibly grateful for a completed family.

Friends, what are you both grieving and grateful for in 2014?  You are not alone.

Mom Confession Part 2 - "In Recovery"

I cannot describe the amount of guilt and shame I have felt the past week.  After my last post about my “doctor mom” inadequacies (click here for a refresher), it all spiraled – his health, my shame, and our sanity. 

I am writing from Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital where my son is sleeping peacefully beside me in his Santa hat.  He got out of surgery 3 hours ago. They found abscesses in his belly, so there are now tubes draining out some mean ol’ bacteria.  We don’t know what caused it right now.  We are here a few more days for further tests and to make sure all the bacteria is cleaned out.

For the last week I have been telling my sweet boy that “this is just a virus” and “it will all be over soon” and “just eat or drink something” and “it’s okay to fart and poop yourself.”  I even went as far as to say, “Buddy, they aren’t going to cut your belly open again.”  Shit. Why did I say that? I’ll tell you why – because I believed it. I believed it was just a virus and that he was okay, and I desperately wanted my kid to not be afraid of the trauma he had already endured in Haiti (if you didn’t know – he had an appendectomy in Haiti right before coming home – potentially the source of these abscesses).  But I lied.  I didn’t mean to, but I did. I spent the last week convincing him and myself that he had a stomach bug that was being exacerbated by his fear and trauma.  And to be fair, that happens sometimes. It’s possible.

So now that I’ve admitted my mistake, it's important to remind myself I’m still a good mom. I may have misunderstood and misdiagnosed.  But I never stopped loving, caring, and looking for answers.  There was a reason I felt so tired, stressed, frustrated and lacking that “nurturing” mom piece. I literally had no possible way to ease the pain he was feeling. And as a parent, that is brutal.  I listened to my son cry out in pain “why, Jesus, why” for hours on end. I had nothing left to try – doctor visits, liquids, oils, meds, walking, breathing, sleeping.  If it was an option, we tried it.  So of course I was spent.  He was spent.  We were powerless.  I’m stubborn anyway, but especially for thinking I can fix something – and on my own.  So on Wednesday when he looked up at me with his tearful tired eyes and said, “mom, are you mad to me?” I knew it was time to let go. I was trying too hard.  Of course I was mad - mad that I couldn’t help my son. I said, “Buddy, I am mad -  not at you, but at the sick in your belly. We are going to call more people and figure this out.”  And with another call and dr visit, a CT scan was ordered, and here we are. 

I am painfully limited. And so are you.  I am also enough.  And so are you.  God did not make us to have all the answers. We cannot do this alone.  So even though my shame spiraled, it does not have power over me.  It is teaching me humility and humanity. I am doing the best I can do as a mama, and I am learning from my mistakes. I can use the guilt and shame as an opportunity to beat myself up OR I can use it to notice how I might want to do things differently next time.  The latter option is so much more compassionate.  We are all going to poop our pants as a parent (again, see my previous post).  I am cleaning up my mess as we speak.  But the reality is that I did do my job as a parent.  I got him to the help he needed. I persisted.  I didn’t give up.  I found answers I didn’t have.  I would like to go back and un-tell my son they aren’t going to cut his belly open again.  I can’t.  But I can use this opportunity to ask his forgiveness and model human imperfection and grace – possibly one of the most important lessons we will ever teach. 

Someday Wendy and his brothers Woody and Wilnes will read this and hopefully know how much their mama cared and how hard she tried – even though she messed up a lot. 

And hopefully you read this knowing you are not alone in your parenting shame. Hang in there, friends.  Let yourself rest in recovery.

Mom Confession

I have been at home with a sick child for the past five days.  You might be thinking a lot of things – like “Oh, bless his heart” or “Oh, it must be good to have a mama caring for him.”  Here’s what you don’t say out loud – “Oh, I bet you are tired of waking up in the middle of the night and cuddling" or "I bet you are ready to start seeing clients again." And I don’t care to admit it either.  But I’m going to admit it.  For the sake of all other moms out there struggling to admit their shameful inadequacies, here goes nothing…

I’ve heard other moms talk about cuddling their sick child, making soup, rubbing feet.  I’m doing those things, but somehow it feels like I'm missing something.  I know it’s important.  Heck, when I think about being a sick kid I wanted those things. I want those things as an adult!  But as a human, I’m painfully limited.  I make soup with frustration that my kid is home from school another day and all my plans are shot to poo.  I cuddle with thoughts of “Dear Jesus, please don’t let his germs jump on me and brew a demon in my belly too.”  I rub his feet thinking, “Please make this end soon.”  Ugh – are you still reading?  Are you thinking what a terrible and selfish mom I must be?  Me too.  It’s embarrassing. I’m a therapist for crying out loud! I help people! I have compassion! I nurture!  AND I’M HUMAN.  So are you, dear sister.  So call a friend. Be honest. Tell her that all you want to do is punch something because the monster in your kid's tummy keeps waking him up in the middle of the night.  When I said this to my friend today she was thankful I was honest with her.  She said when she has tried to admit this vulnerability to other friends, “the blank stares were enough to send her running for cover.” Oh dear.  C’mon friends, let’s be in this together.  We are all wired differently. I may feel completely inadequate at the nursing part, but here’s what I can do… I just taught my kid to take deep breaths and talk to his belly. He’s so pent up with gas and is afraid to fart.  He said, “Mom, I might poop myself and break my underwear.”  Legit fear.  So here we go…deep breath in. Deep breath out.  Now tell your belly it’s okay to fart.  “C’mon belly, it’s safe to fart.  If you poop yourself it will be okay. We’ll clean up the mess.”

Y'all, it's not warm and fuzzy, but it's working.  And that’s the kind of mom I am.  I’m owning it.  So what if I’m following my kid around disinfecting him and everything else with OnGuard oil (this stuff is amazing for keeping his fever down and keeping the rest of us from getting sick too – click here for more info and message me if you need some!).  I'm the mom I've heard other moms talk about.  But I love him so big.   I'm a million kinds of blessed to have him and his brothers in my life and to be given the job of being their mama.  I’m doing a good job.  I’m enough.  So are you!  If we do this all wrong and poop ourselves it will be okay – we can clean up the mess.

 Sweet sick little Wendy pictured with his elf he named Jason Derulo.

Get out of the Traffic

I’ve got 99 problems, but tasking ain’t one.  I get things done.  I fight hard to make things happen.  I pushed in labor for 4 years.  I am proud of my commitment to accomplish hard things. And I’m also tired.

I am an Achiever (type 3) on the enneagram personality assessment (find your type here by clicking on the FREE RHETI Sampler).  Quiet makes me panic.  My to-do list gets longer and longer.  It's a total high to scratch finished items off.  I strategize daily how I can make more happen. And I often lay my head down on my pillow at night with shame about all the things that aren’t done – there ready for my attack in the morning.  I believe, somehow, that if I can do and be more, I am more valuable, worthy, and lovable.  Doing keeps me seen.  Performing keeps me loved.  Achieving keeps me worthy.  I think.

Here’s what those things also do.  Doing keeps me busy. Performing keeps me disconnected from myself.  Achieving keeps me tired.  Yet it terrifies me to let go of my plan or throw my task lists in the recycling bin (because hey, if I’m going to get rid of them, let’s make good environmental choices, right?).  I just almost shat myself thinking about not having a list.  Without the list, where is the direction? Without the performance will people still love me?  Without the achievement, will anyone even notice me anymore?  My constant question is “If I don’t do it, who will?” So I even keep accepting tasks that aren’t mine to do. And sometimes it flows over into other people’s tasks. I seem to think there are better ways for them to perform too.  My poor children are going to know how to most efficiently load a dishwasher – as if there is a blue ribbon for the most beautifully stacked bottom basket.  Seriously? 

I am not ashamed of who I am. I am coming to accept that my personality naturally tends me toward perpetual motion.  AND I am coming to accept that I don’t have to let it cripple or harm me.  How can I (and you) embrace the way I am beautifully made, yet be mindful of where it may be getting in the way?

The verse “Be still and know I am God” (Psalm 46:10) has always brought me much fear and shame.  “Be still” – ugh, I feel like I’m doomed to fail immediately.  But God, I don’t know how to be still!  When I read on to the “and know” part, there is a slight hint of freedom and a longing to understand more.  In the same way we have to parent our very different children differently, I believe God does the same thing with us.  He knows that if he asked me to just “be still” I might have a full-on temper tantrum.  So in my searching of this verse in other translations, I found in the Message, “Step out of the traffic! Take a long, loving look at me, your High God…”  YES, that’s it!  That’s what I feel God inviting me to do – get out of the traffic.  Take a new road.   It’s okay to keep moving as long as I’m more aware of the direction I’m heading and the signs I’m following.   I don't have to stay on the same internal busy highway I take every day.   And I don't have to be the one always in the driver's seat. When I can take a long loving look at God, whether I’m doing the dishes, playing a game with my kids, or breaking it down to my favorite hip-hop music, I can stop relying on my own human strength.  I let go.  I release my tasks, actions, and decisions from being obligations.  I can trust that my movement is for restoration, not expectation.  While there are certainly times that literally “being still” has its benefits, I don’t have to expect myself to be able to do that well all the time.  I can let myself be in movement – out of the traffic, toward the place where my soul meets Jesus and lets me be loved.  One of my favorite things to do is walk in my neighborhood down to this little river.  Each time I reach this place, I stop and take a deep breath, stretch my body, and give gratitude.  I’m not physically still, but my mind and heart find a quiet place of trust in that moment. 

~Does your personality welcome or resist physical stillness?  Why?  Try not to shame or judge your answer. Just notice it. 

~What does “be still” mean for YOU?  Is that scary? What could it mean instead?

~How/what do you “know” when you find this “stillness?”

I Voted.

I voted today. This was my first time to vote in many years. During the Presidential election, I was sick to my stomach about going to the poll out of fear I would choose wrong.  What if my vote loses? What if my candidate wins but then does a bad job? What if people knew how I voted? Would they still like me?  Is this my only shot to have a voice? So many questions! So I just didn’t vote. I still regret it.  Fear can be crippling at its surface.  But when I get to the root of my fear, I know it’s really about possibly being rejected for being unworthy, different, wrong, or not good enough.   When I can face that - when any of us can go there - healing begins. 

So today I walked right in – proudly, calmly, confidently – and checked those boxes.  I didn’t ask myself any of those questions or have any of the same fears as before.  I trusted my choice and opinion.  I gathered information beforehand and asked myself what was important to me. I didn’t look at people’s yard signs or poll my friends to make a decision. Although many of the signs in the yards next to me felt like they were screaming, “you’re wrong!” But I didn’t care. It doesn’t phase me like it used to when I notice I might be different.  I embrace the beauty that my neighbor and I both get to have an opinion and vote. 

Here’s my point.  We hear all the time how important it is to speak your own voice. But do you even know what your voice is saying?  Is it overpowered by all the voices around you – and it’s so loud you can’t hear what is really YOU?  Before fighting the fight, know what you are fighting for…and why.  And go into battle confidently knowing you never really lose when you honor yourSELF.  

Black and White

It is often suggested that we not see things so black and white. There is always much gray in the middle. Or there are so many other colors in the spectrum.  Most days I get this idea - even embrace it.  But on this day, I couldn't help but recognize the beauty of the extremes.  

I watched my boys walk with their cousins through a corn maze.  It is rare that I think about the color differences in our family. I just know they are my kids, and it doesn’t cross my mind until we are curiously inspected by others.  Then I remember, oh yeah, we are a different color!  But the day I watched them walk with their cousins I realized how beautiful that difference is - how complimenting our differences can be.  It doesn’t have to be about different being wrong or weird – but different being normal.  I thought about how some children are born into families and how others are placed into families – both offer gifts.   We can celebrate our differences, embrace them, walk together in them, let them glow in the light of each other.

This picture reminds me of more than color and race.  It makes me think of religion, sexuality, politics, choices, opinions, personalities.  It reminds me that black and white are necessary in order to have a colorful world.  We are all beautifully and wonderfully made, and we are all just trying to walk the crazy, twisting, maze of life together.    

Quiet

It’s quiet.  I can hear myself.  Today the quiet doesn’t scare me anymore.  I remember the days it did - the four long years that the quiet was so loud it rattled my insides.  I longed for laughter, music, voices, boy noise to fill my home.  And it is finally here.  But right now my favorite men are at work and school, and it is quiet again – the peaceful reassuring quiet that comes just before the school bus comes around.  This quiet says, “I’m here, but not for long.  How do you want to use this time before it’s not quiet anymore?”

I have whiplash from the complete jolt that happens when you go from no kids to 3 kids.  And not just 3 kids – 3 big kids.  We aren’t changing diapers or rocking them to sleep.  (I grieve we didn’t get to do that with them, though).  We are packing lunches, talking to teachers about classroom struggles, trying out for sports, learning English, explaining that what just happened to them was a “shart,” and other fun boy things.  We went from silence to full-on adolescent boy clamor. And it’s beautifully chaotic.

So in this moment of quiet I asked myself what I needed. What am I not getting to do that I used to do when there was so much quiet?  The answer - write.  I love writing. And before it was about all my sorrows that came with the quiet.  And ironically now it’s more about how to find some solitude – a sense that I haven’t gotten lost in my sons’ laundry baskets.  My intention is never to complain or have a “poor pitiful me” attitude. My intention is always to connect.  Because life just gets hard sometimes, and I believe someone out there feels what I am feeling – or has, or will.   And a big thing I’ve learned for myself is that I just need to know I’m not alone.  When I let even a little vulnerability out, even if it’s Debbie Downer messy, I might want to run straight to my shame shack for letting you see it, but in the end I always feel better being out of hiding.  I connect.  My mess doesn’t feel so consuming when I realize I’m part of a bigger group of souls who have their hands raised waiting on someone to call on them and say, “Yes, you with the quivering tired hand, what do you need?”

So I’m writing again when I can.  I have resigned myself to the fact that it won’t be as much as before, but I can let it be.  And I’m excited that part of the writing will be a book. It may flop.  It may not ever make it on a shelf, but I’m writing it, because the precious few moments of quiet invite me to feed a part of me that is ready to tell a story and come alive.  

Some thoughts for you…

~Maybe you have lots of “quiet” in your life right now?  How do you notice you spend this time?  Is it too quiet?  What is the “noise” you are looking for?  How could you begin to invite or notice it?

~Or maybe it’s really noisy in your life right now.  How can you find some pockets of quiet? And what would you do in those invaluable moments?

~It’s easy to fill up quiet with more noise that isn’t fulfilling.  Or on the flip side, filling up with more quiet can be draining and lonely.  Both quiet and noise have their pros and cons. What are those pros and cons for YOU? They are different for everyone. 

Finding Your Rhythm

I wandered toward the drums like they were the call of the Sirens.  I noticed the great crowd of people who had been drawn in the same way.  As I got closer, I felt my muscles relax, my curiosity peak, and my body begin to dance.  The immediate sight I saw were all those on the “outside” of the circle – the spectators. Some stood still.  Some moved ever so slightly – the “I hope no one sees me” dancers.  As I moved more inside the circle, there it was – the most beautiful vision of all kinds of people joining in rhythm.   I saw all colors and races of people dancing together, laughing, moving. Some had dreadlocks.  Some were smoking.  Some delighted in their children jumping and giggling.  Adults and children with disabilities joyfully clapped and swayed. I felt kin to each person through the music.  We were all invited to play  - by these men and women who simply brought their drum to the circle and started making sound together.  There was no sheet music, no script. Someone started a beat, another joined, until everyone’s individual rhythm blended to make beautiful harmony.  Some even brought their drum to play, but stayed outside the circle until they felt ready to join.

I was moved by the music, but more by this picture of life.  Every different type of person was represented here.  No one was arguing. Everyone was being uniquely himself or herself, and it blended beautifully. No matter who they were or what they were doing, we had all come here to be part of something bigger.  To watch, dance, play, move, or just be still.  Everyone wanted to connect and still be themselves – even if they hadn’t found their rhythm yet.  I asked myself, “What is my part here? How am I moved?  What am I drawn to?”  Then I realized I was smiling, laughing, and dancing with the precious older couple standing next to me. Sometimes the answers don’t have to be so forced – sometimes you just notice the rhythm that is already moving you.

You may not like drums. You may not care about dancing. But you can always be a participant in the circle of players, and your piece matters.  Where are you in the circle?