Dear Preemie Mom

Dear Preemie Mom:

I see you. I see you, scared and confused, as you have to leave your baby behind in the hospital because he was early and he needs a lot of help. I see you taking notes as the doctor explains all the machines and sounds that surround your tiny, sweet baby. I see you trying your hardest to take it all in - all the medical jargon, all the dates and times and schedules - but your eyes keep wandering back to your baby in her isolette as you wonder when you will be able to hold her.

I see you driving to the hospital day after day, determined not to miss a second with your little one. I see your shoulders slump as you prepare yourself for another long day of visiting your baby and then leaving him behind once again.

I see you as you get to take your baby home - a time filled with such joy and excitement, and also a little bit of fear. You wonder if you will be able to take care of her like the doctors could. You wonder if you will be enough.

I see you a couple months down the line, rejoicing over having your baby with you at all times but becoming frustrated that your baby needs so much attention all the time. Doctors, specialists, therapists - it seems like your life now revolves around when the next appointment is and how long it will take you get there. You try to remind yourself that you should be grateful, because your baby has had to fight harder than most to even make it this far. But that doesn't always help your frustration. Sometimes it even adds to it. Why did your baby have to fight so hard? Why did this happen to your family? You ask yourself these questions every day but no answer seems right.

I see you at the birthday party for the child of a friend, a child who was born around the same time your own child was due, before they came so early. I see your smile, which is genuine, but it isn't the same smile it used to be. Because while you are happy for your friend and her child, it hurts to see how behind your own child is, and what a long way he has to go.

I see you crying late at night, wracked with guilt and worry and anger. If only you had been able to keep your baby inside a little longer...if only you had insisted the doctors take a second look at the scan... if only you hadn't had so much caffeine or sugar or whatever else you think could have contributed to your baby's prematurity. I see you blaming yourself, wondering what you can do to right this terrible wrong.

I see you decline invitations to playgrounds, to lunch, to so many places that first year. You're so afraid of your little boy getting sick. The doctors told you that this first winter was crucial, that you should not go out unless you absolutely had to. So you sit alone with your baby, knowing that it will all be worth it in the spring.

I see you carefully pack your diaper bag - yours isn't always like other people's diaper bags. You need a lot of hand sanitizer, extra oxygen tanks, some masks that keep germs away. You venture into the grocery store like a soldier approaching a battlefield - assessing risk, wondering how quickly you can finish your task, praying that when you leave, everyone will still be healthy.

I see you stammer and flounder when someone asks you how old your baby is. You know if you give the real answer that there will be so many questions, and you are tired of questions. But to you, giving any other answer feels like a disservice to your child, like you aren't acknowledging all of the hard work she put into coming into this world. So you split the difference - sometimes you tell people the real age, and sometimes you don't. It changes every time you are asked.

I see you wondering if you are the kind of mother your baby really needs. You think that someone else would be much better suited for all of this. All of the therapy and special arrangements that have to be made - you think you aren't cut out for this. You don't know how you will make it through. You look back to the life you had before - maybe you used to work and now you have to stay home. Maybe you want to stay home but you have to work. Either way, it is not the life you planned for yourself. It is not how you imagined having a baby would be.


I don't have answers for you. I wish I did. I want answers for me, too. But I want you to know that I see you. I see you, and you are not alone.

Sincerely,

A Preemie Mom

MOPS

This weekend, I had the honor of speaking at a meeting for MOPS, an organization for moms with kids ages birth to kindergarten. It was such an amazing experience! I had a great time there and everyone was so welcoming. Special thanks to Hannah for asking me to come! A few people asked me to share what I spoke about here, so this is me, doing what you want. Enjoy.

And if you thought this post was going to be about cleaning...No. I don't clean.

Let me ask you a question: What do a dictionary, my favorite pair of boots, and a box of baby wipes have in common? They are all heavier than my son was when he was born.

On February 22, 2013, I woke up to what I expected to be an ordinary day. The first thing I did was shower and shave my legs, which should have been a sign that this day was going to be a weird one, but I didn't think much of it at the time. I was 26 weeks pregnant with my first child and was heading to my monthly check-up at the OB's office. We knew were having a boy, and we knew we were naming him Joshua Michael. Michael, after both our dads and my husband, and Joshua, because that is one Biblical dude you don't want to mess with.

I drove to my appointment, hoping it wouldn't take too long so I wouldn't miss too much work. I was saving up my vacation days for maternity leave that I was supposed to start in June and didn't want to waste any time. Plus I had leftover chicken fingers in the car that I was planning to eat on the way to work because that's how I roll. However, Joshua had other plans. After I arrived at my appointment and had been examined, the nurse realized that I was developing pre-eclampsia, a condition that is dangerous for both pregnant mothers and unborn babies. She sent me to the local hospital. I called my husband on the way there, trying to act like it was no big deal and that he should only come if he reeeaaally wanted to. He really did, so he and my mom met me there.

When I got there I was more annoyed than anything. I knew everything would be fine and I just wanted to get to work. And my chicken fingers. But everything wasn't fine. They checked on Josh and realized he was barely moving, he was too small, and he wouldn't respond to anything. So I was sent to another hospital, one that specialized in helping premature babies. At this hospital, they found that not only was Josh small and unresponsive, he was rapidly growing worse. A doctor came in and did an ultrasound and explained to us that it seemed like the umbilical cord was not giving Josh the nutrition he needed - basically, it was only working about half the time. They said I would have to stay in the hospital and they would need to check on him every day for a while. I didn't understand part of the scan and asked the doctor to show me again. And while he was explaining it to me, he noticed that now the umbilical cord had stopped working altogether. Unless Josh was born that night, he would not survive more than a few hours.

Have you ever gone down the steps and missed the very last stair? It's so surprising, so unpredictable, and a jolt of fear goes through you that is so deep and sudden that it takes you a minute to recover, even though you are okay. That's what I felt like. When they told me Joshua would be born that night, it felt like I was missing stair after stair and no one could catch me.

I was rushed to the operating room for an emergency c-section. It was so surreal. I felt like I was watching my life on a movie screen, like I wasn't really even part of it. At 7:08 in the evening, my son Joshua was born. He weighed one pound, seven ounces, and was 12.5 inches long. He was smaller than this Beanie Baby. I could have fit him in my shoe. But the doctors advised against that. The doctor brought him to me, told me I could give him a kiss, and then took him away to the NICU, where they would work for hours to save him.

My son was in the hospital for 115 days. He had dozens of blood transfusions, was on a ventilator for several weeks, and had a level two brain bleed. During his time in the NICU, he developed a blood infection, had both of his lungs collapse multiple times, and stopped breathing on several occasions. I didn’t get to hold him until he was two weeks old. It was a terrible, difficult time in our lives. But God is good, and on June 17, when he was four months old, we finally brought our boy home. Today he weighs eighteen pounds, is trying to walk, and has the biggest ears I have ever seen.

The first few months with Joshua at home are still sort of a blur. He needed to see a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, a physical therapist, an audiologist, an optometrist, and basically any other doctor that ends in “ist.” He was on oxygen at all times and we had to cart his tank and monitors with us wherever we went. And let me tell you, there is no graceful way to unload an oxygen tank from a minivan. None. Don’t even try it. Just accept that you will look ridiculous and move on.

At night, Josh had to be hooked up to a machine that monitored his heart rate and oxygen levels. My husband and I were regularly heard asking each other if we had remembered to plug the baby in. It was stressful, but we didn’t know any other way. We just did what we needed to so Josh would be happy and healthy. And after a while we fell into a routine that, while not exactly easy, was at least doable.

When Josh first came home, my husband and I decided we would wait for several years before discussing any more children, if we even decided to have another one at all. That was the plan that we thought we best for our family. But have you ever heard the saying "We plan and God laughs"? Well, God is still laughing over what happened next. When Joshua was barely seven months old, we found out that we were expecting our second child. We were floored. I took about twenty tests just to make sure I hadn't gotten it wrong. It turns out it's pretty difficult to mess up peeing on a stick and we determined I was indeed pregnant.

I was not excited. This was not our plan. At this point, Josh was still on supplemental oxygen and monitors and saw a specialist of some kind about once a week. I had been laid off from my job just before Josh came home and we had moved in with my parents. We were barely keeping our heads above water. Long story short, another child was not ideal for us at the time.

I know I sound cold. I promise I'm nicer to my kids when I talk to them. Most of the time. But I was panicked. With Joshua, everything had gone wrong. What if the same thing happened again? What if this baby was born even earlier? What if she needed oxygen and specialists and was sick? I didn't think I had it in me to do all of that again. Everyone around me told me God had it under control, and I knew that He did, but I still worried about what that meant for my family.

We found out we were having a girl this time. After a fairly uneventful pregnancy, our daughter Jenna was born on May 29 of this year. She was perfectly healthy and we were able to come home after only a few days in the hospital. Just like with Joshua, I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.

But Jenna also kind of scared me. Not like she was scary-looking or hid in my closet at night with a Freddie Kruger mask; just that she was so totally, completely…normal. There was no monitor attached to her so I could check her heart rate. She didn't need to see any specialists and had no breathing problems. My entire experience with babies until Jenna was born had consisted of hospitals and cardiologists and oxygen tanks and physical therapists. To be able to take her with me to the grocery store, to not have to worry if someone got too close to her at church, to put her to bed without taping a little monitor to her foot - this was all brand new territory for us.

And then the comparisons began. I want to state first that I love my kids equally. I am so proud of both of them. Josh has a pretty significant developmental delay but he works really hard to catch up. And Jenna smells like strawberries, which I appreciate. But it was hard not to separate my children into a "failure" and "success" category. I never realized how behind Joshua was until I saw what Jenna could do. When she grabbed for a toy at two months - something Josh hadn't done until he was almost a year old - I called my husband and told him our daughter was a genius. I tried not to compare, but with every milestone that Jenna met, I would mentally put her in the "success" column and then wait for Josh to do something so I could put him the success column, too.

And after a while, I started to resent Joshua. I know. I am the mother of the year. I was just so tired of dealing with everything. I was tired of explaining our lives to people. I was tired of smiling politely while people informed me that my son was a little small for his age, and they wondered if I was concerned about it. I was tired of working so hard for the tiniest victories that other people got to take for granted.

Are you familiar with Debbie Downer from Saturday Night Live? She was a character that always brought down the mood of whatever room she was in. Any time someone would say something happy or encouraging, Debbie would counter it with something incredibly depressing and ridiculous. Her statements were accompanied by a sound effect that went something like wahhhh, wahhhhhhhh.

I always loved the Debbie Downer skits. But even though the skits were funny and not meant to be taken seriously, it felt like Debbie Downer was following my family, waiting for something good to happen so she could bring us all down again. With every issue Joshua faced, I heard the wahhhh, wahhhh in the back of my mind. He finally started babbling! Yay! Except he should be saying at least ten words by now so we should focus on that. Wahhh, wahhh. He finally learned to hold his own bottle! Wow! Except by now he is supposed to be using sippy cups and we need to take the bottles away. Wahhhh, wahhh. You get the picture. I was so frustrated that he was still behind after all of his hard work, and I started to be angry with him for not catching up faster. And then I compared him and Jenna more and more, to the point where I would write down when Jenna reached milestones just so I could compare to when Josh met the same milestones. It was like a I was keeping a scorecard of my children’s accomplishments.

It took me a while to realize that I was even doing it. And then it took me even longer to realize why I was doing it. Why did I feel the need to compare my children? They are so different in so many ways it would be like comparing an ostrich to an alligator.  I knew that comparing was pointless and would ultimately only hurt me and my kids, but I still felt the need to keep score. I think a lot of us are familiar with that feeling. As moms, we are constantly surrounded by people who are judging our choices and making us feel like we can't even blink without causing permanent damage to our child's psyche. Just look at the arguments between mothers, more fondly known as the mommy wars. We argue about eeeeeeverything. Whether it's where our babies sleep or what kind of surface they will poop on, we find a way to make sure that everyone knows how wrong their choices are. And when we run out of things to argue about, we rehash the original arguments over and over again.

Isn’t that crazy? Just look at how angry we get with people we barely know. Half the time it’s people we have only talked to on the internet. And I am as guilty as the next person of getting sucked into a good cloth versus disposable diaper debate. It’s funny because before I became a mother, I swore to myself I wouldn’t get worked up about stuff like this. I only had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. But I was sure I could rise above such petty and insignificant arguments.

And then I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory. And the next thing you know, you’re typing in all capital letters on Facebook to some idiot who thinks that people who use strollers are turning their kids into serial killers while your husband begs you to just walk away from the computer because you’re starting to turn red and the children are scared.

Don’t pretend it hasn’t happened to you. None of us are immune to the mommy wars. It sneaks up on you suddenly, usually over something you didn’t even realize you cared that much about. I remember one time I was in a debate on Facebook over the cry it out method of sleep training. I was halfway through typing a really long paragraph when I suddenly wondered why in the world I gave two flips about which sleep training method a stranger from Canada was using. I couldn’t think of a good answer, and it dawned on me that maybe I was arguing just for the heck it.

Which brings me back to my original question: Why? Why do we do this? Why do I compare myself to other mothers? Why do I worry about what my friends think of the way I raise my children? Why am I online at three in the morning making some poor girl cry because we disagree on which brand of formula is best?

I thought about this for a long time. I felt like the answer was right under my nose but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And then it came to me: Guilt.

I don’t know about you, but I have never been less confident in any decision I’ve made than I am in the decisions I make as a parent. Every little choice causes me to worry. For example, my son has recently gotten into the charming habit of throwing his sippy cup off his tray, a past time I’m sure many of you are familiar with. Every time he does this, I wonder what I should do next. It’s like my brain suddenly kicks into overdrive with all the possible responses I can give and the possible consequences they can have. If I get angry at him for throwing his cup, he’ll know it’s bad and he will stop. And then he will resent me for yelling at him and never be able to make friends and he won’t do well in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could ignore him when he throws his cup and he will see that misbehaving does not get him attention. And then he might try even harder to get my attention because he feels so ignored and he will start lighting dog poo on fire and leaving it on people’s doorsteps and then he will vandalize the school gym and won’t get into a good college and have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could pick the cup up and give it back to him, showing him that he has a second chance to do the right thing. And then he will probably learn that none of his actions have consequences and he will never learn manners and will disrespect his teachers in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

See what I mean? I know this struggle is something we all deal with. It’s silly but it’s also serious. My kids are so young that right now I have ultimate control over their lives. I decide what they wear, what they eat, where they go, who they see. And while the control freak part of me likes having that security, the worrying part of me finds it overwhelming and terrifying. I am far from perfect. And honestly I find myself wondering why in the world God would give me two children, one of whom requires a lot of special attention.

And because I feel so unworthy and unable to make these decisions, I look to other mothers to see how they are handling it. That’s how the comparisons begin. I see that Sally Smith is using cloth diapers and I read about how they’re better for the environment and better for babies’ skin and I start to feel really guilty because my own poor kids are in disposable diapers and if I am going to use those I may as well just dress my kids in garbage bags because it’s basically the same thing. And then I start to resent Sally because who is she to tell me how to diaper my kids? My kids are very happy in their disposable diapers and they have pictures of Mickey Mouse and Big Bird on them and those guys have educational shows so I am educating my kids by putting them in disposable diapers. And before I know it I hate Sally Smith for her judgmental ways and for making me doubt myself and for her stupid opinions on her stupid diapers.

That might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. In the scenario I just described, no one judged me. No one tried to make me feel guilty. It was my own guilt, my own insecurity, that turned a simple observation into an argument.

And please hear me - I am not trying to shame you or blame you for feeling bad when someone judges you. I know that some people are just itching for a fight and go to great lengths to make others feel bad. I know there are bullies in the world who just want to hurt other people and more likely than not, we’ve all run across at least one.

I just think that mothers are easy targets because we are already constantly second-guessing ourselves. And that’s truly where I think the mommy wars come from. The worry that we are not enough for our children, and the guilt over not giving them our best. Even the bullies that have hurt you or told you you’re a terrible mother because of a choice you made - I would bet that they are feeling pretty lost and insecure themselves and just want reassurance that they are doing okay with their own kids.

But I’ve got some good news. It won’t sound like good news at first, but trust me; it’s good news.

We are not enough. And sometimes we won’t be our best. But we serve someone who is always enough and who only gives His best. It isn’t up to us to be perfect. God has promised us that though we will mess up, He will be there to guide us back on the right path.

That can be a scary thought. But it can also be a relieving one. It isn’t up to me to be the best mom on the planet. I don’t have to worry that because I made the wrong decision my child will be permanently unhappy. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it so amazing to know that the very creator of the universe is investing His time into our children, and that he is allowing us to be part of that?

Don’t get me wrong - I am not giving you permission to stop raising your kids. When little Timmy asks you for some breakfast, I am not suggesting that you stay in bed and tell him that God will be along to butter his toast in a few minutes. God has placed with us the task of raising our children and teaching them and loving them. But he didn’t just drop these kids off on our porches and run away. He is there with us, protecting us, redirecting us, showing us that though we are still sinners He still desires us.

When Hannah asked me to speak today, at first I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I had much of a story to tell. But over the last few weeks God has shown me so much truth that has set me free. I still struggle. I am still tempted to keep a scorecard for my kids. But now that I know the reasons behind it, it’s not so scary to deal with. I am able to enjoy my family more and rest in God’s promise of redemption for me as a mother, daughter, sister, and so much more.

And now I can compare my kids in a much more wonderful way: I can look at their different personalities and gifts, not as a way to decide who is doing better, but as a way to celebrate their unique identities. My son Josh is a thinker, like his father. He never does anything without deliberate consideration and planning. But he likes to giggle. And he loves people. He would sell me online in a heartbeat if someone gave him a hug and a pop tart. He likes to pretend but he is too excited to keep it up for very long so any games of pretend usually dissolve into giggles pretty fast. He is my strong boy, a living example of the way God works all things together for good. My daughter Jenna, though only five months old, is already much more of a drama queen. She feels every emotion with all of the power her little body can muster. She is impulsive and moves from toy to toy, trying to gather all of them in her hand at once. She is slower to give a smile but once she does, it’s always worth the wait. She is my passionate girl, a living example of God’s faithfulness to His people.

Those are the comparisons I want to focus on. Those are the things I want to remember in twenty years when my kids are in school (or living in a refrigerator box) and I am reflecting on their lives. Those are the things I want them to remember when they have their own kids and struggle with wondering if they are doing a good job raising them.

I will make mistakes. You will make mistakes. It’s inevitable. But I can sleep easier tonight knowing that our Heavenly Father makes no mistakes, and that He loves my kids even more than I do.

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. 

Do You Want Fries With That?

Well, Obama won. I'll be honest and say I was disappointed, but them's the breaks, right? I will be praying for him to make wise decisions as he leads our country. I encourage you to do the same - regardless of your opinion of Obama, he is still our President and we still need to care about our country. 

However, that doesn't mean you can't have a little fun with it, too.

This morning when Daniel told me Obama had won - my dedication to my country is second only to my dedication to my pillow so I was fast asleep for the results - my first thought was, "Okay. Just four more years. We can do this."

And then something occurred to me. What will Obama do after his next four years are over? I mean, he has kids, who I am assuming like food and shelter. And he doesn't appear to have any kind of magic wand or leprechaun to provide him with resources. So what will his next job be? **Disclaimer** I know there is probably an answer to this. I don't care about that answer. Mine is more hilarious.

I like to picture President Obama walking into a Barnes & Noble in about 4.5 years. He will walk up to the counter, straighten his tie, and say, "I'd like an application, please." A bored teenager will hand one over to him without looking up from his Angry Birds game and Obama will sit on a nearby couch, filling out his application, wedged between George W. and Sarah Palin.

Just picture it. For the section about his former jobs he would have to put "President of the United States of America." That's awesome. 

Then, of course, the interview process would be next. Still wearing his best suit, he would sit down with the manager of the store - a guy named Bobby who wasn't even eligible to vote in the last election because of his age - and proceed to answer some of the typical interview questions:

Bobby: So, Mr... How do you say it?

Obama: It's Oh-bah-mah.

Bobby: Right, sorry. So, Mr. Obama -

Obama: It's President, actually.

Bobby: Sorry?

Obama: It's not Mr. Obama; it's President Obama.

Bobby: Listen, Mr. Obama, the first thing you need to know to work here is that we are all team players. There's no room for any superstars here. May I continue?

Obama: Sorry; of course.

Bobby: What do you think qualifies you to work here at the B & N?

Obama: Well, I have great leadership skills.

Bobby: Can you give me an example?

Obama: Uh - well, I led a country for eight years.

Bobby: Mmhmm, I see. I noticed that you also wrote down that you had your last job for a while and then it suddenly ended. Tell me what happened there.

Obama: Well, that job had predetermined time limits. You can't work there for more than eight years in that position.

Bobby: Mr. Obama, we don't like the word "can't" around here. And we don't like excuses. It sounds to me like the job got too hard after eight years.

Obama: No... I mean, they made me leave. I didn't have a choice. It's the law.

Bobby: So you're telling me you were fired.

Obama: NO. I knew it would not be a permanent job when I took it. That is how the job is set up.

Bobby: Okay. Is there anything else you want to add?

Obama: Just that I also love the work of J.K. Rowling and Stephenie Meyer and would be a great help to shoppers in the teen and young adult section.

Bobby: Great. We'll call you.

AAAAnd scene.

Tell me that wasn't the best thing you've ever pictured.

Good luck and God bless you, President Obama. And if you get to work at Barnes & Noble, call me. I applied like a million times in high school and need to know what I was missing.

"And then I got to see the BREAKROOM. Boom. Obama's back in action."

The Awkward Bathroom Encounter

Yesterday, I was at church for a meeting. I was participating and laughing - oh, the laughing - when suddenly I realized I had to... you know. 

I had no choice. It was time for The Awkward Bathroom Encounter.

Women, you have all endured this. You find the bathroom and realize with some horror that it is for one person at a time only. And the door is shut. And as hard as you try to see if the light is on under the door or listen for any sounds while also keeping an eye on the hallway because if your pastor sees you crouching by a bathroom door he will report you and then you won't be able to go back to your meeting, you just can't tell for sure. So what can you do but knock?

But this isn't just any knock. This is the most stressful knock in the history of time. What if someone is already in there?

For me, that's the worst feeling. I don't want anyone to think I am rushing them, like WHY HAVE YOU BEEN IN THE BATHROOM FOR THREE MINUTES DO YOU HAVE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY OR WHAT. I am merely gathering information - if someone is in this bathroom, I will move on to the next one. All women learn this around the same time they master the art of the ninja kick in order to flush the toilet. And yet I think all women also fear hearing a voice from the other side of the door, saying the dreaded words we hate: "Someone's in here right now."

ABORT, ABORT. MISSION FAILURE.

It's not easy being a girl. All men have to do is walk into the restroom and give a manly nod because no man's bathroom is for only one person at a time, and if it is it will be available in .23 seconds since that is all the time they need. Men. 

In case you are not as familiar with this process, I have broken it down for you, step by step, in the list below. Enjoy:

The Plucky Procrastinator's Guide to The Awkward Bathroom Encounter:

1) Realize you have to make a sacrifice to the porcelain throne soon. Ignore it because you don't have to go that bad and you can wait.

2) 30 seconds later, realize you cannot wait one more millisecond or this will be first grade in Mrs. Bishop's class all over again.

3) Locate nearest bathroom. If in school, you're in luck! Most of those are multiple stalls. If you're at church or K-Mart, prepare yourself. 

4) Investigate thoroughly. Is the door shut because someone is on the other side or because the door is heavy and always swings shut?

5) It's because someone is on the other side. Duh. 

6) Stand straight, take a deep breath, and knock a solid three times. No more, no less. 

7) If no one answers, hooray! Open the door slowly, like you might if you were diffusing a door bomb while on roller skates. 

8) If "someone's in here," proceed to verbally vomit all over them with your apologies and explanations. 

9) Run away to the next bathroom, praying the first person didn't recognize your voice, doesn't have a child in your class, and is not leaving the bathroom any time soon.

10) Blog about it. 

Awkward Encounter-ers, form a line to the left. 

The One-Upper

Have you ever been in a conversation where you say something so innocent, so non-confrontational that you are thinking of high-fiving yourself for your awesome conversation skills, only to be brought down moments later by the one person who just had to "go there"? 

I have.

And so have you.

We have all come into contact with this person. We have all rolled our eyes, held our tongues, and utilized stress balls as a direct result of this person.

So who is this person?

It's the One-Upper. 

Sound familiar? Sure it does. This is the person who, upon hearing that you think it's hot outside, immediately says, "You think THIS is hot?? I used to live inside a volcano. You don't know hot until you've lived inside a volcano."

Oh. Em. Gee. That makes me want to pull my hair out.

Or how about this one: Do you ever complain about something to a friend, only to have him or her say, "That's terrible! That's almost as bad as the time I was attacked by a rabid mutant squirrel and lost all of my limbs." Dude. I am just looking for a little support, here. Sorry about your limbs, though.

Here's the thing: When I say it's hot outside, or rainy, or silly, or rainbow-y, I am not throwing down the one-up gauntlet. Really. It is not a challenge. It is not a judgment. It is not a hat. I like hats. I wish it was a hat. It isn't me accusing you of being a moron because you clearly don't understand your surroundings.

I am just making a freaking observation. 

Now, there are times when the One-Upper's attitude can be useful. For instance, if a smarmy butt-face that you know says something like, "I beat all the levels of Mario Kart in two hours" and then smirks at you, it's perfectly acceptable to say, "Oh, really? Took you that long? I did it in ONE HOUR" and then walk away in slo-mo to the rock song of your choosing.

But in general, regular, everyday conversation, no. Just no. And this includes all your basic social media, texting, smoke signals, etc. It's hard to resist, I know. When you see someone on Facebook complain about how hard math class is when you've just had a baby, or run a marathon with one leg, or fought off a manic zebra with only your wits and your trusty jackknife on you while simultaneously reciting the pledge to the flag because you are that dedicated to being an American AND you save a Girl Scout Troop from certain zebra death, it is hard not to write something, anything, to talk about your day and subsequent awesomeness.

That's why you have your own Facebook/MySpace/Xanga/Word Document. Highlight your glories there. Don't go deflate some college kid who has no idea what life is really about.

You don't want to be the One-Upper, anyway. In person it's annoying, but over texting or Facebook you just sound sad. And then people shake their heads and say things like, "Poor Susie. Still obsessed with her volcano. We'll pray for her. Bless her heart."

Listen to Kristen. She knows more than you things.

Come and Worship

I, Kristen "The Great One" Eleveld, have a confession to make: I don't like singing praise and worship songs. That's right. I said it. I said and I meant it and I'm here to represent it unless it made you mad.

It's not the praising or the worshiping that I dislike. I just don't really get into singing. I feel bad about that because every good Baptist is supposed to sing (but not dance). But I missed the gene somehow. I'm not what you would call a "good" singer or "talented" or "someone who does anything but mouths the words most of the time." I mean, I'm not Scuttle. I'm just not Ariel.

Don't look at me; I've got nothing to do with this.

But any time I try to explain this to anyone, I get the Look of Abject Horror. You know the one: Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, sharp intake of breath. Occasionally their hands go to their hips, or, worse, their chest (which in Southern means, "Ohhhh... I'll pray for you."). They sometimes take a step back. A head shake is almost always present. The top three responses are as follows:

1) "Oh, but you're such a good singer!" I'm not saying I'm good or bad. I just don't happen to like it regardless. I am also good at algebra. But I don't do it for fun.

2) "But it's praise and worship. The songs are about God. How can you not like them?" If not liking a song about God is enough to get me in trouble, well, then, don't get me started on 104.7 The Fish (The Fish Atlanta dot coooommmmmmm). It's not the content of the song. It's the singing.

3) "Maybe if you thought about it this way, you would get something out of it." Ahh, so I just need to rethink my strategy. ... ... ... ...nope, still don't like it. Look, it isn't what I am singing or why I am singing or how I am singing. It isn't the praise and worship team or the song choice or the key. I just don't enjoy singing as a form of worship.

Some people will never get that. It's hard for "music people" to get that while I can listen to the words of the song and believe them and worship in my own way, I just don't like to sing that much.

I'm not a total heathen. I get a ton out of other forms of worship - writing, reading my Bible, dramas. For some reason, the writing and the dramas tend to get left by the wayside. Not on purpose and not out of malice. But it's never the praise and worship time that gets left out of church weekends. It's not usually the band that has to worry if all their hard work is for nothing. I hope I'm not sounding judgmental because that is not my intention at all. I just think there needs to be a balance. I think the kids who want to be in the youth program who can't sing should still feel like they can still be a part of something. I want to be able to read the words on the screen or in the hymnal and worship through the lyrics in my own way, even if I am mouthing the words. I want to be able to tell someone I get more out of watching skits than I do from listening to music without getting one of these:

Bless your heart. 

I am definitely all for people who love to worship through singing. My BFF Jen loves to worship that way. My sister-in-law is all about singing and I know she gets so much from it. Sometimes I wish I did, too. But I am content with worshiping in many of the other ways that are just as wonderful to God.

So how about you? Singing or no singing? No judgment either way. Unless you're wrong.

Deep thoughts by K-Veld

Fair warning: This is about to get deep. Like, deep. Okay, maybe not deep enough for italics. Read it, and if you think it's deep enough for italics, let me know.

Ahem.

I have been struggling with something lately. Between my mom going in and out of the hospital so often for awhile, and my friend passing away earlier this year, and just the general stresses of life, I have gone through a very... unprayer-ish time in my life. I felt like praying to God for anything was kind of useless, because it seemed like He was going to do whatever He had already planned on anyway. I felt like I was blaspheming by thinking that, and I wanted to stop. But I couldn't get it out of my head. I wanted to pray, and to keep up the faith that I had known all my life. I have been a Christian for 16 years - I should be able to get over this bump in the road. But I just couldn't do it. It got to the point where I would start to pray, but I felt so defeated that I just got a few words out and then stopped. Daniel would pray for both of us, me telling him what to pray for in the hopes that God would hear Daniel even if He didn't hear me.

Then I began to wonder if I had done something to make God not listen to my prayers. Was I not faithful enough? Had I not prayed enough? Maybe He was mad because I didn't read my Bible enough. I tried to fix all the things that I thought could be the problem, and I tried to pray again. It still didn't work. I felt so far from God, and far from everything I knew. My whole life is based on my faith. If I had a question before, I just asked my parents or my pastor and it was answered. But now, I couldn't even think of the right way to ask the question, let alone find an answer. This had never happened to me before. I wasn't the one who questioned her faith. I was the one with answers, with the ability to show people the silver lining, the one whose beliefs weren't shaken even when her mom got cancer or her dad lost his job. To have that taken away from me was so completely terrifying and confusing that I didn't even know where to begin to return to my previous way of life.

I finally sought counsel from a very wise friend of mine. We shall call her Q. Her name doesn't begin with Q but I think it's mysterious and James Bonds-y and I like it. I told Q all of these things, and we talked at length about what I had been praying for. I was waiting for her sympathy, a pat on the shoulder, maybe a violin or two playing in the background while a sad kitten walked by. Instead, she thought for a moment, and then asked if maybe I was being selfish with my prayers.

I was completely stunned. And offended. I was ready to walk away and never speak to her again. But we were in Starbucks, and I hadn't finished my drink yet, so I stayed. I <3 Starbucks. I argued with her, asking how praying for my mom to be well, for my dad to find a job, for my friend to recover could be selfish. Those were prayers for other people. And I wasn't asking Jesus to give me a pony, or to make it so my husband got a 1000% raise just because it would be nice to have extra money. These were legitimate, life-and-death prayer requests. I didn't expect God to say yes to every single thing I asked for, but I thought maybe He could give me a couple of these.

Q then gave me some invaluable advice: God doesn't see things the way we do. You can go ahead and let out a "duh" if you would like to. We rate things: kicking a dog is bad, stealing is worse, murder is even worse, lying is not so good, punching your friends is mean, and streaking is discouraged. But God doesn't see sin as bad, kind of bad, or worse: It's all the worst. Sin is sin. Whether that means you tell a lie to your boss or shiv a guy in prison, sin is always sin. I have always known this. I think all of us do, even though we forget it. But here comes the part that I totally did not think of: The same goes for prayers and prayer requests.

When we pray to God, He hears us. He hears every prayer. We pray to do well on tests, or for someone to get well, or to get a promotion. And none of that is bad. But, once again, we rate things: In our minds, praying for a friend to be cured from cancer is probably one of the most important things we can pray for. It was to me. I thought that surely that was something God had to say "yes" to. But as much as it hurts us to lose someone, and as much as God hurts when we hurt, He doesn't rate things like we do. All of our prayers matter to Him. But not all of them get a "yes," no matter how much it would mean to me or to a friend or family member. I wanted my friend to get better because it was sad and painful to see him go - but him staying was not what God had planned. My prayer requests were for earthly things, even though it didn't seem like it at the time. That's the thing about all of the requests we bring to God: If they don't work for His good and in His timing, they don't work. This is something that we as humans can't always wrap our minds around - some things will just always hurt us worse than others, because we can't see the big picture. Losing a friend will always hurt worse than stubbing my toe. And not having a prayer answered the way I want will always be hard to deal with. But if I take things to God in prayer and leave those things with Him, instead of taking them back to fix myself, I don't have to deal with the hurt and sadness and confusion by myself - God is fighting that battle for me.

I'm not saying we shouldn't pray for sick friends or people in need. Praying is how we communicate with God. We should continue to speak to Him, thank Him, and come to Him with our requests - remembering that He loves us too much to say yes to whatever we ask for. Does that make it easier? No. Seeing a loved one hurting will never, ever be easy. That is one of the sad parts of this world. But God is so far above and beyond this world that once we get to heaven and see how the plan all comes together, we will rejoice over the times He told us no.


Happy Thanksgiving!