Saturday, January 24, 2015

sometimes we eat fast food

Sometimes I feed my three-year-old daughter McDonald’s. And by sometimes, I don’t mean occasionally or rarely. I mean about once a week. And what’s worse? I eat fast food about three times as often as she does.

Writing those sentences just now gave me some serious anxiety. Because in a world of Paleo diets, organic freezer meals and green smoothies, I feel like I might as well have just told you that I feed my family drain cleaner. And some of you are probably thinking, “Well, she’s not too far off!”

See, therein lies the problem...

Read the rest of the post here!

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

why i donate my breast milk

My body is horrible at making babies. Like…horrible. I haven’t had a period without medical intervention since 2006 and even that was a random slip-up on the part of my stubborn ovaries…like when a kid forgets that he’s angry and accidentally smiles.

But with a combination of divine miracles and a suitcase full of fertility drugs, three children have been born from this broken body. And once those babies are out, my body rallies. It’s like my breasts are the people-pleasing older siblings of my unruly ovaries, saying, “We’re so sorry about their behavior. Let us make it up to you.”

Read the rest of this post here.  

Sunday, January 18, 2015

how to talk about your miscarriage

First of all, I am just so sorry that your baby died and that you are now facing such sorrow. The grief that comes after a miscarriage can be hard to talk about, even with your closest friends. But if you're anything like me, after I lost my first baby at 19 weeks, I was desperate to talk about him. So I just starting telling his story. 

I muddled through many painful conversations, but it was an important part of my grieving process, and I learned a lot along the way. So if you are feeling the need to speak out about the loss of your baby, but you don't know how to start, here are some gentle ideas from someone who has been there...

Read the rest of this post here.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

one thousand and ninety-five miracles

My brother was born with trouble in him. Mischief. He was also born with a fabulous sense of humor, a heart for people who are hurting, serious physical strength, great communication skills, an obsession with all things sports, and an extreme motivation to succeed once he sets his mind to something. But looking back at those early years, the trouble and mischief I mentioned...I have to admit that that's what sticks out in my mind.

And being the older child, a people pleaser and overall goody two-shoes, that little brother of mine caused me a great deal of stress. Even as a young child, I remember feeling responsible for him, like another parent...or maybe like a parole officer. I was probably only five years old, pleading with him to obey the babysitter. A few years later, I was bribing him to behave on the school bus. 

I ran interference between him and the neighbor kids when he played pranks on convincing the girl across the street that moldy bread was actually delicious. Behind his back, I defended him continually to older kids whom he wasn't afraid to pester.

He was the kid in the preschool Christmas program who, instead of singing, was shining a flashlight in the eyes of audience members. He was the kid who pretended to be asleep and fell out of his chair the first day of kindergarten...and the second...and the third. He was the kid who told my deepest, most embarrassing secrets to my friends when they slept over at our house.

But what started as funny little pranks and silly mischief eventually got more stressful. Looking back, it was no big deal. Just kid stuff, but it made me nearly sick with worry at the time. I remember him getting in trouble at school for passing a note to a friend that had swear words on it. As my dad talked to him about it in his room that evening, I laid on my bed and cried and prayed and prayed and cried. 

He developed a bad reputation among teachers and the parents of his peers. He was friendly, a great athlete, smart and so funny, but he was trouble. And at a very small, strict, private school, it's easy to dig yourself a hole. And once it's dug, there's no way you're getting out. It pained me to see him sitting alone at the lunch table every day for some silly thing he did months before. It broke my heart when his friends' parents wouldn't let him come to their houses. And it made me angry too. I just wanted him to be better...and sometimes hope would flash by and I'd think that things were turning a corner, but then they would just get worse. 

As Brad was entering high school, my dad got laid off and was out of work for eight months. Brad's best friend moved away. He switched schools. Tough things happened in his friend group. He did his very best to cope. He fought off the lies that get thrown at teenagers about what will make them feel better, but like so many young kids, he could only fight so hard for so long. He skipped more than a third of his classes in high school. It was only by the grace of God and one kind-hearted teacher that he even graduated. I can picture him right now in his cap and gown, standing with his friends for a picture. I can see that photograph in my mind's eye...and I know that he's high as a kite.

Because by high school, drugs had entered his life...our lives. And the power they wielded was terrifying. Devastating. Watching him spiral downward into harder and harder drugs was like watching someone slowly die. I will not attempt to tell his stories here because they aren't mine to tell. But I can tell you what it's like to be the sister of an addict.

It is the most physically painful, emotionally exhausting, mentally excruciating, spiritually trying thing that I have ever experienced... 

...because one night he went missing and I laid on the living room floor and yelled at my dad to "FIND HIM!" and to "DO SOMETHING!" But there was nothing to be done. So Andrew and I drove around the city, looking for his abandoned car, certain that he was dead.

...because my parents came home from visiting him in the hospital one night and my mom collapsed in the entryway, just laid there with her face on a shoe, sobbing seemingly endless tears of heartbreak and grief.

...because the entire process of writing a letter to read at my brother's intervention, sneaking into his dorm room, stationing my husband outside the window in case Brad tried to escape, reading the letter to him, and watching him cry made my entire body ache with sadness.

...because treatment gives you hope. And relapse steals it. And treatment gives you hope again. And relapse steals it. And then you stop hoping.

...because he was homeless a couple of times. Just for a few days each time but when that homeless person is your brother, even a few moments of homelessness feels like way too long.

...because when you are just the sister, you have absolutely no power. You have even less power than your powerless parents and you feel angry with them all the time for all of the things that you think they are doing wrong, all of the ways that they are not saving him.

...because seeing him so skinny made me so sad.

...because it's so hard to go to Alanon and Naranon meetings and family therapy.

...because I didn't trust him. Not with anything. Not for two seconds. I hid my money and my stuff because I knew that addiction turns people into thieves.

...because holidays and vacations were always sabotaged.

...because there were fist-sized holes in the walls of our home.

...because for years, he didn't have a personality.

...because people would ask me what my brother was doing, whether he was in school or working, and I'd have to make something up.

...because he got kicked out of treatment one time and was driving home, across the whole country. And my dad called me and told me that we needed to prepare ourselves because he didn't see how Brad would possibly ever make it home alive. I knew he was right. And I made peace with that. I remember thinking that if Brad died, he would be in heaven with Jesus and would no longer have to fight this impossible battle, and I felt relieved at the thought.

But he made it home. And he kept using. There were times when he did better. When he got a job. When he took some classes. When he made me mix CDs of encouraging music after my miscarriages. But nothing ever lasted. I lost hope for him and faith in him. 

And then Harriet was born. 

He came to the hospital with my parents and held my tiny, vulnerable daughter in his arms with the most astonished, adoring look in his eyes. He fell in love with her. He just kept commenting about how strong her little hands were, how tightly they wrapped around his finger. He couldn't believe it. 

And one month and one day after he became an uncle, he went into treatment for the last time. I have no idea what happened in treatment, what made it different from the times before that. But I know that God heaped miracle upon miracle on my brother's life. I know that his brain and his heart were transformed. I know that the iron grip that drugs had on his life was grace. 

And my brother came home...healed. People email me after reading my blog sometimes and ask me how I can believe in God. And I want to put one hand on their cheek and with the other hand, point at my brother and whisper, "Because of this. Because lives do not change this way without Christ. Because what you see here isn't just a man who is clean and sober. What you see here is a life made whole."

Because of the trust and generosity of a saint named Steve, my brother got a job. A good one that he has kept ever since. And he fell in love. He fell in love with a girl named Alyssa who supports him and celebrates his sobriety with every part of her heart. She sunk into our family like she had always been part of it. She laughs at my dad’s lame jokes. She delights in my children. She loves our dogs more than we do.

And slowly, slowly I started to hope again. And to trust him again. And God continued to heap miracles on his life. God restored our joy. God rebuilt our family. 

And this past August, my brother and Alyssa got married. They asked me to be the only bridesmaid, the maid of honor. And they asked Harriet to be their flower girl. The wedding was a small, simple service at Andrew's parents' cabin, the place that we celebrated his sobriety anniversary every year...a sacred place for us.

After the sweet ceremony, we all sat down under a lovely canopy and ate Alyssa's mom's famous chicken lasagna off of her grandmother's treasured china. My dad gave a short speech and he cried. He just kept saying how all of this...every part of it...was a miracle. How Alyssa was a miracle for our family. How we never, ever would have thought that this day would come. A day that was a celebration of love, yes. But also a celebration of redemption. A celebration of healing. A celebration of a girl...and her family...who risked everything on this boy who loved her and opened their arms and their hearts as wide as they go to the brother of mine whom so many had rejected in the past.

And then it was my turn to say a few words. So I turned to Brad and Alyssa and I said this...

I can’t even tell you how joyful and honored I feel to be here today, standing up there with the two of you, witnessing the creation of a new family, the tangling together of two beautiful journeys to create one story – a story about redemption, acceptance, love and blessing.

I know that the two of you have worked hard to prepare for this day and for the shared lifetime that will follow. You have spent so much time together, adventured together, seen each other at your best and your worst. You know each other so well. You’re best friends. But, Alyssa, you have three brothers, and I’m sure you’d agree that sisters have a special window into who their brothers really are, deep down. So I want to share with you a few words about Brad and who he really is at his core.

But for starters, if I can just give you some advice...don’t play practical jokes on him. You will never, ever win. We have all tried, but every time we think we’re about to best him, he throws it back in our faces. Like the time he gave me a piece of candy with an ant in the middle of it. Or the time he hid a nice tall glass of milk and a pile of shredded cheese in the back of my closet. Or the time he suspended my dad’s electric toothbrush just centimeters above the toilet water. Or the MANY times we’d be on vacation, all sleeping in the same hotel room and the alarm would go off at 3:00 am.

Also, he’s an adventurer. You know this from your camping and kayaking and hunting, I’m sure. But did you know that at age seven, he took apart an entire bed and used the wood to build a boat that he then sailed in a nearby pond we called “Diarrhea Swamp?” Or that at age five, he bungee jumped…off the balcony in our home?

But the main thing I want you to know is that this man…your husband…is a warrior. I want you to know that he will fight for you. He will fight for your family. He will fight for your children. He will fight to keep good things in your life. And when our fallen world knocks on your door, he will not stand down.

I can tell you all of this because I have seen him nearly defeated. I have seen him journey-worn and battle-scarred, face down in the dirt with the enemy’s boot pressed into the back of his neck. I have seen him struggle to stand…and fall again. But that’s the thing about Brad – he never stops fighting. Like I said, he is a warrior. I have seen him come from that low, down-in-the-dirt place and somehow, against all odds, find a way to get back up. To look hopelessness directly in the eyes and refuse to back down. I have seen him battle against the lies this world throws at us about who we are and what we’re worth. And I have seen him win. I have seen him live this victory every single day. And so have you.

And I think that even back then, of course he did it for himself, but really, I think he did it for you. For the hope of you. For the dream that someday something as wonderful as you would come into his life.

And Brad, if there’s anything in your life, anything in this world, worth fighting for…it’s her.   

I know girls. I am a girl. I am raising a girl. I lived with six other girls in a tiny apartment with one bathroom and no kitchen. And I can tell you this…Alyssa is a rare find. She is a woman to be treasured and cherished. I mean, you’re a cool guy, but seriously…you got really lucky. And so did we. Alyssa’s unshakeable character, generous heart, kind spirit, and gracious, humble nature didn’t happen by accident. They are the result of twenty-some years of God’s good work in her – molding and shaping her, fashioning her heart after His own. I feel incredibly blessed to be gaining her as a sister. I can’t even imagine how fortunate you must feel to be able to call her your wife.

I cannot wait to see all that the Lord has in store for the two of you. Today marks the start of a remarkable adventure. Love you both.

I look at these pictures of my brother with his lovely wife...the same little brother who literally worried me sick for twenty-some years. The brother whom drugs tried to steal from us. And I cannot get that word – miracle – out of my head. Because every day since January 11, 2012 has been a miracle…straight from the loving hands of a God who never gives up on us. A God who gathers up our brokenness and turns it into something beautiful, something redeemed. Today, my brother celebrates three years clean and sober. One thousand and ninety-five days. 

One thousand and ninety-five miracles...and counting.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

i resolve to stop being my child's paparazzo

We're the only ones on the icy hill and she yells "wahoooo!" as our sled speeds over the bumpy snow, further into the unbroken surface than any of the other tracks, before tipping us lazily onto the frozen ground. She calls the hazy red sky “an ocean of sun” and finds the pure white half moon behind cloud wisps. Our eyes are fixed on the heavens and just a second later, they're scanning the earth for tracks. 

We find two sizes of dog prints. One small enough for us to say with confidence, "A dog's been here." And the other so strangely large that we pretend they're bear prints and my eyes skim the thin woods around us just to make sure no massive blobs of black are bumbling about. Just to make sure these truly are the footprints of a neighborly Saint Bernard. 

Read the rest of this post here!

Monday, January 5, 2015

go ahead, ask if my twins are natural

Every time we go to Costco, I count the twins. So far, the record is seven sets in one trip. Seven sets of twins in one store at the same time. It's like families find out they're having twins and immediately decide that along with a double stroller and a gargantuan nursing pillow, they also need to stock up on mega boxes of corndogs and huge vats of cottage cheese. Or maybe it's the fact that if you go to Costco on Saturdays, you can feed lunch to your entire family by way of free samples. Or it could be the extra large carts. But I suppose it's probably the cheap wine. 

And it's not just Costco, of course. Now that I have a set of my own, I'm realizing twins are everywhere. And despite the fact that having two babies at once is a rather common occurrence, the novelty factor remains. And people are curious. Strangers ask whether my boys are twins, then whether they're identical. They tell us we have our hands full. And then the brave ones...or the ones who don't care about being politically correct...ask if they're natural...

Read the rest of my here!

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

the gross kind of mom

What kind of mom am I?

The gross kind.

It's true.

I have no idea how I got this way. Maybe I was born with it. Maybe I've developed it over the years, like a well-practiced skill. Not sure.

The other day, I saw this post on Facebook - "What is your parenting super power?" Or something like that. The answers were actually pretty interesting. People said things like...

Getting my kids to love vegetables.

Making fabulous bento boxes. (I still have no clue what that is. Just a partitioned tupperware? How does putting food in a partitioned tupperware count as a superpower? Puzzling.)

Sewing unique Halloween costumes.

Planning Pinterest-worthy parties for kids.

What's my parenting super power? That's easy.

Handling gross stuff. Like a boss.

Earlier I said that I have no idea how I developed this super power, but I process things through writing, and I just had an epiphany. About ten minutes ago, Gus projectile vomited about two meals' worth of food all over the floor. Guess who cleaned it up. Yep, Murphy. If I'm the Batman of gross parenting, Murphy is my Robin. He's right there to back me up. The smellier, the better.

And not only that. If I'm the Karate Kid of yuck, Murphy's my Sensei. He trained me in on this stuff. Picking up dog poop? That's child's play compared to the countless animal carcasses I've pried from his jaws...mice, frogs, fish, random deer body parts. And if you have a dog, you know that if they eat something resembling a string, they're going to need help getting it out. The first time I did it? Nearly lost my lunch. But since then, it hasn't phased me.

Like I said, this dog trained me well.

So now, when a baby spits up on the floor, I wipe it up with my sock and one-sock it for a while until I make it back to my room for a new sock.

My kid hands me a piece of poop from the bathtub? I don't even flinch.

My sons have peas and carrots all over their faces and there's no washcloth in sight? I just lick it off. No biggie.

No kleenex for the kids? My sleeve works just as well.

Not sure how to dispose of the half-chewed grape Harriet just handed me? I eat it.

I use the Nose Frida without a filter, and the other day when my boys were desperately congested and I couldn't find the Nose Frida anywhere, I just sucked that gunk out using the classic mouth-to-nose method and spit it in the sink. Would I do it to someone else? No way. But my own kids? I can't think of anything they could ever do that would gross me out.

I mean, what could possibly be gross about these sweet boys? Well, a lot. They are boys, after all. 

But you know what? I do have one weakness. It's my kryptonite.


I cannot handle hair.

I'm eating right now...of course I am...and just typing the word "hair" made me gag a little bit. Now I'm putting the food back in the fridge. Totally lost my appetite.

Remember how I said that I didn't flinch when Harriet handed me a piece of poop from the bathtub? Well, a few weeks before that, she lifted a piece of my own hair out of her tub and said, "Here, Mom." Not only did I not take it from her. I couldn't even be in the bathroom with her when she was holding it. I just stood outside the open door and tried not to gag. Then she started pretending it was a fish.

Okay, I have to be done with that story.

Back to gross stuff that isn't hair...This past summer, Harriet and I were playing at the park and her hands were full of dirt. Well, it was actually more like mud. She was kind of freaking out because she likes to be clean and we didn't have any wet wipes with us, so I told her to just wipe her hands on my pants. She refused and started to whimper a bit. I couldn't convince her to wipe her hands on my jeans until I said, "Hon, that's why moms wear clothes."

She had a look on her face like, "Well, in that case..." and soon her hands were clean...relatively.

So I may not be very good at hosting epic birthday parties, getting my kids to love beets or organizing a seamless toy rotation schedule. But if muck and mess and bodily fluids are involved...step aside, ladies.

I got this.

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