I'm So Pretty

I recently got some new make up, courtesy of an Ulta gift card and a mom who loves to help me spend my Ulta gift cards. If you're not familiar with Ulta, it's a beauty/make up store that has a ton of different brands of make up, shampoo, hair accessories - basically it's a one-stop-shop for all your beauty needs. I love it there. And, no, this post is not paid for by Ulta (but if anyone from Ulta is reading this, you're welcome and also I need some free eyeshadow).

Last night, I was getting ready in the bathroom while Daniel played with the kids. I began to put my make up on, and, like always, I began criticizing the way I looked. At first I kept it to myself, just noticing my dry skin, my round face, the way my nose looked. I eventually became so frustrated that I said out loud, "I cannot beLIEVE how ugly I am right now. I hate how awful I look." Daniel, who is a saint, told me that I was wrong and that I looked lovely.

As much as I appreciated his words, that wasn't what made me stop complaining. It was the sound of Josh laughing as Daniel tossed him the air that stopped my next words from coming out of my mouth. I looked into the living room, and there was the rest of my family, playing together and smiling. And both of my kids had just heard me say that I was ugly, and that I hated the way I looked. I mean, they probably didn't hear me say those actual words. Josh was very busy being wrestled with and Jenna was trying to fit her whole hand into her mouth, so odds are good that they never even knew that I was there. But my words still horrified me.

I know that seems like an over-the-top response to something that wasn't a big deal. But in that moment, I realized how much I complain about my looks, my skills, my life. And maybe my kids don't understand that right now, but they will. They will hear me say that and understand my words sooner than I realize. And I don't want that.

Recently I was watching Jenna play with one of her favorite toys, a stuffed monkey from Aunt ShonShon. As I sat next to her, watching her laugh and giggle over something that really was not that funny, I found my mind wandering to the future. What would Jenna be like as a teenager? Would she still be my smiling, happy girl? Would she be feeling the pressure of friends, classmates, and commercials to look and act a certain way? Would she like the way she looked? The thought of my beautiful little girl thinking that she was ugly broke my heart. I don't want that for her. I don't want it for Joshua, either.

I want both of my kids to know that their beauty has little to do with their appearance. I want them to know that to be a truly beautiful person, you have to start from the inside and work your way out. That they do not have to prove anything to anyone in order to obtain self-worth. That they may not always feel their best, but that as long as they are trying their best, everything will be okay. I want them to know that bad haircuts are a rite of passage, and instead of focusing on their bangs, they should focus on the friends they have made and the blessings that they have. I want them to realize that they are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that no matter what their eye color is or how much they weigh, they are loved and valued.

But how I can teach my kids how important it is to value themselves if I don't value myself? If Josh and Jenna hear me tell them that it's what's on the inside the counts, and then turn around and call myself ugly, what kind of message am I sending them?

So I have decided to stop saying things like that. More importantly, I am going to try to stop thinking things like that. Don't get me wrong - make up isn't evil. I still love Ulta (and am still waiting for my eyeshadow, AHEM), and I will continue to wear make up like I normally do. I know it is equally important for my kids to know that eating well and living a healthy life is something that will benefit them, and I will continue to encourage them to do that. But in this house, there will be no more complaints of being ugly, of being fat, of being unworthy of other people.

Nothing I can do or say will totally stop my kids from feeling down about themselves at some point. I know that. But I also know that the most important lessons in life start at home, and if I want to teach my children anything, first I have to believe it for myself.

The Pain Olympics

We are all Olympians. We can't all swim fast or ski over those bump things or remember the words to our national anthem, but there is an Olympian in all of us. The kind of Olympics we participate in are not the kind that you see every four years, though. These are the kind of Olympics that we participate in on a regular basis, daily or at least weekly for most of us. I am talking about the Pain Olympics.

I've written here before about my disdain for the One-Upper - that person in your life who just has to go one better when it comes to crazy stories or bad experiences. We all hate that person. But when it comes to the Pain Olympics, we all are that person.

You have probably listened to a friend talk to you about some problem and while you feel bad for them and listen attentively, a small part of you is thinking that you would kill for the "problems" this other person is telling you about. You don't wish them any ill will but you secretly wish you could tell them what you've gone through, to show them what true problems look like. You might not speak up but you think it and it starts to lead to some resentment.

But some people do speak up. Some people wait for your sentence to end just so they can one-up you with their life experiences. They tell you that you should thank your lucky stars that your only issues are the ones you just described because that sounds like a cakewalk compared to their own lives.

If you are one of those people, stop it. That's enough out of you. I will pinch you. If you are not one of those people, play on. 

It goes the other way, too. I meet a lot of other parents who have had kids in the NICU or who have medical/development issues. Sometimes we have a lot in common, but when they find out how early Josh was, or how much he is working to overcome his delay, they get quiet and start to explain that they know what they have gone through can never compare to what we went through.

Honestly, I hate that just as much. Not because it bugs me, but because it isn't fair. It isn't fair that because their child wasn't quite as premature that they have to feel like they can't complain. It isn't fair that some people feel like someone else's experience was somehow better than their own because it isn't identical to what they went through.

When my mom found out she had breast cancer, I cried to Daniel that I was upset, and also guilty for being upset because all signs pointed to my mom being totally fine and there were people in the world who were in war zones and being kidnapped. I don't know why my mind went there; I'm sort of a weirdo. But Daniel told me something that has stuck with me ever since:

Pain is not relative.

I love that because it's just so true. You can't compare pain. There is just no way. When Josh was born at 26 weeks and we spent 115 days in the NICU, that was the worst thing that ever happened. When my friend's son was born at 37 weeks and he unexpectedly spent two weeks in the NICU, that was the worst thing that ever happened. When my dad got laid off from his job, when my mom was diagnosed with cancer, when my best friend broke her leg in a car accident - they were all the worst. Not because they were all horrible things that no one will ever recover from, but because in those moments, it mattered the most to them and the people who love them.

You can look at our situation: Josh was really early. But he never had to have surgery like my friend's son did. But he has a more significant developmental delay than a lot of kids. But I know another woman whose child will never overcome his delays. But Josh has so many doctors and so many health issues and it isn't fair. But at least we live in a country where he can get the help he needs, unlike many other children around the world. I could do this for hours. Sure, someone could "outdo" me when it comes to life, but does that make my experiences any less painful or any less meaningful? No. Not even a little. 

Should you still look for the silver lining in tragedy? Sure. Should you leave this post all depressed because I just told you your life was the worst? Well...I would hate that, but do what you will. But just remember that in the Pain Olympics, there are no winners. Because that isn't the point. If you are only listening to someone else talk about their problems so you can one-up them, you need to re-evaluate your friendship skills. But also don't feel like your problems are no longer worthy of being complained about because you think someone has it worse. It isn't a competition. It's just life. Life is complicated and fun and exciting and scary and painful and great and everyone learns that in their own way. No one wins. No one loses. Just listen and be a friend and know you're not alone.

I promised you a happy post after my last one. And you believed me. You fools.

Butseriously, the next one will be soooooo happy. I promise.

The Space-Toddler Continuum

Let's get one thing straight: This post is not about science. I don't do science. Tried it once; didn't like it. So if you came here for science, please talk to my husband instead. That guy knows science.

If you came here for cute pictures of my kids, here you go:

Don't be ashamed if that's the only reason you're here. They are pretty adorable.

But if you did, indeed, come here for a blog post, please keep reading. However, I feel obligated to warn you that this isn't one of my funnier posts. I will post a funny one later to make up for it. Just for you. Kisses!

**Disclaimer: I am super proud of Joshua. Like, super proud. He does amazing things. He works harder than anyone I know. I know his delays are only temporary and that he will catch up. He has come a really long way in his short little life and I admire him for his tenacity. Even on days when he is giving me toddler 'tude, I am reminded that it was this same stubborn personality that got him through the toughest days at the NICU.**

I put that disclaimer up because this post is, more or less, a big, long whine and I just want people to know that I know those things.  So - on to the show.

I wrote before that recently I had found myself starting to resent Josh for all of his issues. I knew (and know) that none of this was his fault, that it wasn't anyone's fault, but I was angry and I wanted someone to blame. So I picked my toddler. Classy. But, honestly, I don't resent him anymore. Once I realized that was happening, I started to figure out why I was angry, why I was looking for something to blame, why our situation suddenly frustrated me when it's nothing we haven't dealt with for (almost) the last two years.

And as I've watched Jenna grow and change, I think I've solved the mystery: I am stuck. I am stuck in a time warp of sorts, where things and people and circumstances progress at a regular rate, all except for Joshua.

It's kind of like taking a trip to Narnia. You guys know I love me some Narnia and look for pretty much any excuse to work it into this blog, but in this case it really, actually applies. In case you haven't read the books/seen the movies/have done both and still think I'm reaching, let me explain: In the story, four kids travel to a magical land called Narnia by means of a closet in a stranger's house. Yet another reason you shouldn't go through strangers' closets, but anyway... The kids stay in the magical land for years and years. They start out very young when they arrive and by the end of the book, they are adults. When they decide to go back home, they are surprised to realize that almost no time has passed at all in the real world. Maybe a few minutes at the most. They have become children again and no one is the wiser.

That is what I think of when I think of our lives with Josh. Daniel and Jenna and me, we're all living in Narnia, living our lives and progressing at the "normal" pace. But Josh is still in the real world, and every time we go back to check on him, not much has changed.

If you have kids or nieces or nephews or ever saw a kid once at the mall, you're probably familiar with the most common piece of parenting wisdom in the entire world: "Enjoy it; it goes by fast." This makes mothers everywhere roll their eyes, even the ones who say it to others, because, really, is there any statement that's more obvious?

But lately I find myself discovering that it doesn't go by fast for everyone. With Josh, for instance, it hasn't gone by fast. I mean, yes, the days and weeks have passed so quickly it's hard to believe that he will be two soon. But looking at his development, where he is in therapy, well...it's hard to believe he will be two soon.

Recently Josh was evaluated by a team of therapists and tested at about a 12-month level for development and skills. This was progress from his last eval, which was great news! But I think my frustration comes from the fact that it took him nearly two years to get to this level. Two years of hard work for him to still be behind. And that is just difficult to deal with a lot of the time. Because it doesn't mean that in another month, he will test at a 13-month level. He just doesn't follow a timeline like that.

Does that make any sense at all? I don't want to sound like I'm disappointed in Josh or that he is doing something wrong. Neither of those things is true. But one of the perks of being a parent is the joy you get from your kids and the way they grow up. Joshua will be two in February. He doesn't walk yet, he doesn't really say much, and, honestly, I don't get as much interaction out of him as I would a "typical" two-year-old. Do I enjoy him and love and cherish the interaction we do have? Absolutely. I freakin' love that kid. But because of the way he progresses, it's like he's growing up at half the regular pace, and that gets hard sometimes.

For babies born prematurely, doctors and specialists and parents adjust their age for milestones and expectations. This means that since Josh was born a little over three months early, he isn't expected to meet the milestones of his actual age, but those of the age he would be if he had been born on his due date. So right now he is 21 months and gets evaluated as an 18-month-old. However, that all stops when he turns two. In theory, preemies catch up by then and there is no longer any need to adjust their age. Obviously, Josh won't be caught up, but they will still stop adjusting his age.

I have been looking forward to Josh's second birthday ever since they told us that he would probably catch up by then, way back when he was still in the NICU. I didn't wish my time away but I was excited about being able to give a simple answer for his age and to be able to pretend that he was just like every other kid. That won't happen, and while that isn't the end of the world, it still bums me out. His therapists say that when he turns three, he should be much closer to being caught up. So now I guess we wait for three. Unless it's four. Or five. Or never.

Toddlers are supposed to toddle. They are supposed to run around and climb up things and push over the baby gates and flush things down the toilet. Those things are frustrating and I don't think other parents have it easier, but I really want Josh to flush something down our toilet. Not because I relish the idea of either going after or missing whatever he flushes, but because it means he will have walked in there by himself. He will have figured out how the toilet works. He will have had the wherewithal to sneak around, find Daniel's watch (I'm just assuming...), and use his planning skills for evil to create a mini-disaster. All things that he should be able to do right now. It's weird to want that, but I do. I want him to yell "NO" at me and say "uh-oh" when he drops something. He has a few words but he rarely ever says Mama or Mommy. And I know he loves me, but I just wish he could tell me. He's almost two. That is how it should be.

And please hear me - er, read me - when I say that Joshua "should" be doing something, I don't think he's doing anything wrong. I know he is really trying hard to learn and grow. I know that all kids develop at different rates and that Jenna could struggle just as much in spite of being born on time. I know that this will pass, and it won't be our lives forever. I know that I will look back on this post and laugh about how dramatic I am and how much of a Debbie Downer I can be. But right now, I am here, stuck in some kind of space-time continuum where everything changes but it doesn't change. And the more I see other kids his age or younger progress and then pass him up, the harder it is to keep up with our little time warp.

I almost didn't write this post. I didn't want to bum people out, I didn't want people to think I am super depressed or upset, and I didn't want to have to justify my feelings to anyone. But one of my greatest comforts since Joshua was born has been reading blogs or articles by people in the same situation and knowing that I'm not the worst mom in the world for feeling like this. So I am going to post it, and tell people about it, and hope that maybe it will help someone else who is dealing with this. Maybe not exactly this, but something close enough that you can relate and know you're not the only one.

And since this was a bummer post, I'll end with something hilarious: A joke!

- Knock, knock!
- Who's there?
- Interrupting cow!
- Interrupting cow wh--
- MOOOOOOOOO.

Huh. I guess that one doesn't really translate in print. Oh, well.

On Your First Birthday

Joshua, today is your first birthday. How is that possible? It seems like there is no way a year could have passed since I first laid eyes on you, but I have checked and rechecked and re-rechecked the calendar and apparently it's true. I still have trouble believing it but I guess the calendar wouldn't lie... it is from Chick-Fil-A, after all.

As this day has been approaching, I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say to you. I thought of telling you the story of everything that happened, but you already know it - you lived it. I thought about imparting some deep wisdom to you, telling you the secrets of life that would help you as you grow. But it turns out I don't know that many life secrets and some things you just have to find out for yourself. So I thought for a while longer and decided I would tell you some things that I learned over this year, things that only you could have taught me. 

See, I am not what you call a "researcher" or a "planner" or "someone who is ever ready for anything more than five minutes ahead of time." I leave that to the more sophisticated people around me (who are constantly texting me to ask if I am running late yet again). And I wasn't worried about being prepared for parenthood. I might be a last-minute person but I do good work in that last minute and I knew everything would work out fine if I stuck to my tried-and-true method. 

Imagine my surprise when I found out that the last minute to plan had arrived much faster than I expected. I think that was the hardest part of finding out you would be early - I was just starting to wrap my mind around the fact that I would be a parent. It still seemed surreal. And then suddenly I was going to be a parent in a matter of hours. I remember from the moment the doctor told me you would be born it was as if I was watching my life unfold on a giant screen, like I was aware of what was happening but so sure it couldn't be real. I even told your dad that, moments before you were born - "Maybe this is just a dream," I said. He assured me it wasn't and offered to pinch me to prove it but I declined. Don't let him pinch you, either. 

And then you were there. Less than two hours had passed since we had found out how sick you were and how much you were struggling, and there you were. You didn't cry, because your little lungs didn't work very well yet. The doctors had told me not to expect you to cry because of how early you were but that was the only thing I knew about babies - they cried when they were born. I was sure you would cry. I kept asking your dad why you weren't, and finally concluded that the doctors had done something to prevent you from crying so you wouldn't be upset. What can I say; I was on a lotttt of drugs, man. But I remember every moment after that with vivid detail. Dad got permission to snap a picture of you and show it to me. He watched them work on you and Dr. Manar took a minute to explain what was happening, and then he came over to explain it to me. I heard the words but they still didn't seem real. Dr. Manar brought you to me and said I could give you a kiss. I did, right on your little nose. And then they took you to the 2nd floor, where we would spend the majority of the next four months. 

So my plan not to plan didn't exactly work out, but, really, no amount of planning could have prepared me for this. And I think that is the biggest thing I have learned through this last year: Plans fall apart. Nothing is perfect. God's plan is different from my plan and His plan is the one you want, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time. For all of my lack of preparation, I still like to be in control. I like to know what's going to happen and what my role will be. When you arrived, I didn't have any training. I never took a class. I didn't know how often to change your diaper. I had to learn on the job. But even if you had been born two weeks late, that would have still been true (although the diapers might have been easier to use - yours were reaaaaally small). That's what parenting is: swearing your kid will never watch television and then five years down the road having the Disney Channel schedule memorized and sighing in relief when it's time for Mickey Mouse. 

I discovered that no matter how hectic things got, I could handle it. Some days were a lot harder and some days were pretty easy. But for you I could do anything. I could learn medical terms and ask questions even when I was afraid and accept help from people that I had never met before. You were a pretty solid motivation for putting my own doubts aside and working hard for you, to make sure you had everything. 

I learned just because something isn't the best, that doesn't make it the worst, either. There is a whole world of in-between where things can just be okay. I tend to work in areas of black or white, never grey, but you showed me that when it comes to parenting, especially parenting a NICU kid, grey is pretty much your life. 

You taught me that it's okay to question God. That it doesn't make me less of a Christian, mother, or person. That God not only understands our pain but feels it right along with us. There were days when I opened my mouth to pray and nothing would come out. I was too mad, sad, plaid, whatever, to form any words. And I wondered if that meant I wasn't as much of a Christian as I thought it was. But that's not how it works. God knows my fears and doubts before I do and asking Him questions is okay. 

I found out that there really is a silver lining to every bad situation. You made for a pretty spectacular silver lining. I could (and still can) sit and just watch you for hours, silently cheering every time you moved your little hand or peered up at me with one eye. It was those moments, the tiniest victories, that filled my heart with joy and love for you. You helped me make friends with other parents who had kids just like you, kids who struggled and lived in a world of doctors and specialists and medicine, kids who I now get to see grow and play and who I am so excited for when they accomplish something. The parents became a part of our family as we grew together and rooted for each others' children, taking genuine delight in every good update. These are the people who are in the "club," who know the frustration and anxiety of being a NICU parent. 

You showed me that a total stranger can show the biggest kindness. You helped me see that I was surrounded by friends and family who love me and would do anything to help. You revealed the amazing skills of the NICU nurses, whose kindness and patience with both of us made all the difference in the world to me. I learned that no matter how bad things got, I was never alone. Someone was always praying for you, even someone who had never met you and never will. It is the people who prayed on your behalf, who dropped off gift cards and hugs, who sat in the waiting room for hours and hours - these are the ones who I will never forget, because they made it possible for me to find the strength to continue even when things seemed too tough. When I think of how your grandparents drove overnight in a storm to see you, how your other grandparents stopped by nearly every day to check on you, how your aunts stayed up late to talk to me all night and how your uncles volunteered to help us move and prepare for you to come home, I know without a doubt that our little family is loved so, so much. 

Joshua, you made me a mother. You changed me from someone who thought she understood what unconditional love meant to someone who knows exactly what it is. You have filled the last year with love and laughter and joy and smiles. Yes, there were sad moments, but I wouldn't trade a single one of them. You have taught me so much in only a year and I hope that I can teach you something during your lifetime to repay the favor. Daddy and I love you so much and we are so grateful to know you. Here's to the next year of life lessons from our favorite micro-preemie. 

The Question Game

As you have heard before, I went to the illustrious Berry College (LETS GO VIKES) for two years. Since there isn't much to do at Berry besides count deer and go to church, we had to find other ways to entertain ourselves. So my friends Marcy Jo and BFF Jen invented a game for us to play. I actually can't remember who came up with the game but it definitely wasn't me so it's gotta be one of those two.

We called our game the Question Game. It's exactly what it sounds like: One of us asks a question and we all answer. Not complicated. It's like a really tame version of Truth or Dare without the dare. We played it pretty much every time we went out to dinner. Marcy Jo always had awesome, deep questions that made us search our souls. Jen's questions were always exciting and fun. My questions were along the lines of, "If you could be a cloud, would you be a fluffy cloud or a REALLY fluffy cloud?" Real thought-provoking stuff. But it was fun and we enjoyed our game so much that we still play it when we get together (hint hint, Marcy Jo!). We even have a book that has questions in it for when we get lazy. We are SERIOUS about our fun.

It had been a while since the last time I got to play the question game, so a couple of weeks ago I explained it to Daniel and asked if he wanted to play. It was easy for me - I cheated and used the questions I'd been asking Marcy Jo and BFF Jen for the last eight years. Daniel played very well in spite of the many physics questions he asked me before realizing that was a dead end.

Then one of us - I can't remember who - asked what was by far the most interesting question of the night: If we could change what had happened over the last few months, would we?

I thought I knew the answer to that one. I was ready to say yes, absolutely, of course I would change it, no question about it.

But as I thought about it more, I realized that wasn't true. I wouldn't change it. I hated it. But I wouldn't change it.

I believe God has a plan. I have always believed that. But over these last few months, I started to wonder how this could be part of any plan. Why did it happen to us? Why did we have to stay for so long? Why did God allow our baby to go through so much?

I still don't know the complete answers to any of those questions. But I still believe things happen for a reason. I believe in God's plan and while I might never understand why things happened the way they did, I know it was part of a purpose. Jeremiah 29:11 says, "'For I know the plans I have for you,' says the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans for a hope and a future.'" Hebrews 11:1 says, "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."

Those two verses really say it all. God has a plan. I have faith in His plans. That doesn't mean I can comprehend them or that I even like them. I wanted to make the plans myself; I wanted to tell God how things would go and then let Him make it so. But faith doesn't work that way. True faith is understanding that you probably won't ever understand, but the only things you have to know are that Jesus died on the cross for you and God has a plan for a hope and a future for you.

The funny thing about this whole experience is that I never thought Joshua would die. It crossed my mind and it freaked me out, but at the end of the day I knew he would live. I realize now that that is how I kept my faith. Even when I couldn't pray, even when I thought God had abandoned us, He was still giving me peace and comfort without me knowing it. He was faithful to us. Joshua is home. He took a long and winding road to get there but he made it. And I can't look back on this experience and think it was coincidence or bad luck or anything other than God's sovereignty being shown through these struggles.

And now, I wait. I have waited a lot for the last few months but this time it's different. Now I am waiting to see how God uses what happened to us to reach other people, to show that He is still God even when things are bad.

So here's the deal: Jesus died on the cross for you and for me. God sent His son to take sin from us so we could worship with Him forever. If you don't know that Jesus is your Savior, don't wait any longer. Talk to a pastor, talk to a friend, talk to me if you want. God has incredible plans in store for you - don't miss out on them.