Today is Thursday. I bet you thought I was going to miss my weekly post.
I almost did.
You see, I have been doing looooooots of important things today, such as:
1. Rearranging wall decor to put up some cute newborn pictures of my sweet babe (you know, now that she is almost six months old)...
2. Cuddling. Lots. Because some days baby girls just need to be held more than others.
3. Carting my husband to and from school, which includes watching all the college-class-goers and being slightly jealous and at the same time overly glad that I am not one of them this year.
4. Introducing my little darlin' to Cinderella. When I was little this was my all-time favorite movie. I probably watched it 400 times before I turned 3. Kevin LOVED it! So much so that she refused to go down for her nap until Cinderellly and her prince rode off together in their golden carriage. And then...she was out.
5. Reading. A book. Because that is what I do.
6. Managing some laundry and dishes somewhere in there (you know, enough so that the husband thinks I've been doing something productive all day).
7. And...this was the best of all...cheering on my Aggies in their season home opener! I was amazed that we had to wait in a line that went all the way back to the road just to get in the gate...gone are the days of begging my roomate(s) to go with me and sitting down in the middle of the student section at the 50 yard line and most likely leaving at halftime when it started to snow and even putting off homework was not worth the torture.
I have mended my ways.
(Also, I no longer have homework, but that is beside the point.)
Kevin loves football. She was a champ through the whole game. I think she will be fourth-generation sports woman in my family (of these four generations, I am probably the weak link. But maybe I am not as weak as my sister when it comes to watching football, so it is okay. For the record, she is a much better football player). Scott loves that when we go to Aggie football games he is usually surrounded by four or five other women and no men. Today it was eight (if you count the two baby girls), but at least he had our friend Dustin to keep him company.
My mom has this pet peeve about leaving games early. My whole life I have been taught that leaving before the official buzzer/whistle blew was a sinner greater than...well, I don't know what it was greater than, but it was pretty bad. Almost as bad as being a ByU fan. Remember earlier when I talked about leaving games early to go do homework? I usually snuck out and when my mother called me to repentance later (because there were so few students in the student section she could usually pick me out from their season ticket seats across the field). I had to confess and forsake my sin and sit through the whole miserable game the next time. Today, there were lots of people leaving early (the score was 34-3), and today's post is directed at them.
Sometimes, when you leave early, you miss the good stuff.
Those last three minutes of any sports game are magical. Cinderella stories come true, the most miraculous plays happen, and occasionally, you get to see a referee plowed to the ground near the end zone. And you cheer because really all the refs have deserved it all game and now he knows how the quarterback felt.
Sometimes in life we want to walk out before the game is over because it seems like nothing really important will happen--after all, we have the win, right?
But when you stick around, the good stuff happens.
Like finishing a mission, even though you think you'd rather get married. Or adding a second major, even though you are only four credits away from graduating. Or taking the time to sit and cuddle your baby for ten more minutes even though she is fast asleep and you have other, "more important" things to do. Because sometimes you whisper in her ear "I love you" and she giggles and smiles in her sleep.
Sometimes, these moments fly away and never come back.
Don't miss the good stuff.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
The Best Kind of Girls
If there is one thing I have been blessed with in my adult life (aside from my beautiful little family), it is good friends. I was reminded of that this week as I encountered some unforseen turbulence in my life. It's amazing what a well-timed phone call can do for a friend in need.
I have four best friends (okay, five, when you count my husband. But for the purpose of this post, just know that I love him and I'm going to talk about my girls from here on out). We met on the day that the five of us moved into the freshman dorms at USU, two on one side of the hall, three on the other. What was an enquiry after a missing can-opener became the saving grace of our college years. We have been the best kind of friends ever since.
Maybe we're not the type of pedicure-getting, shopping-going, latest-fad sharing, chocolate-inhaling friends (although plenty of that goes on too), but to me, these girls are the best kind of friends. The best kind of friends are the ones that decide not to go to the dance because they know you don't have anyone to ask. They let you come spend the evening doing homework in their apartment because there is a sock on your dorm room door. They hold you in the back of a suburban on the way home from spring break when you decide to break up with your boyfriend of two years. They stop by to see you when you are slaving away at a fast food place all summer to pay for college when they know you are slightly dying inside. They are the kind that come to you, worried about a friend or family member, and ask you to fast and pray with them for this person just because they can't bear to do it on their own. They hold you when tragedy strikes your family more times in a year than anyone's family deserves and pray with you when you get a cryptic message from your mom telling you to call and you think the family dog may be dying but you're not sure and you just need some courage to hit the redial button. They listen to you go on and on about that boy you aren't sure you love, but you just might, but he hasn't said anything and he's leaving for France for two years and what do you do? They are understanding when a move needs to happen, or you decide that a trip to Georgia is necessary even when they know what (or who) you really need is right there in front of you. They write you on your mission to remind you that "you don't do failure." They celebrate with you when Prince Charming finally makes an appearance in your life, even when he's been especially slow to show up in theirs. They take walks around campus on a cold winter's day just to hear you talk things out so you can make sense of life. They gather together and show up when your baby has come eight weeks early and you've just found out that she may or may not have a serious illness that could change the course of your lives just to take you out for Chinese food and bring you some books to read during the stressful days of sitting next to an isolette in the NICU. They are the kind of friends that when you are wound up so tight you're driving your husband nuts he suggests you "call one of your girls and get out of the house."
They're the ones where you have an unwritten rule that despite geographic distance or how long it has been since you've last talked, you can call about anything and get a listening ear. Even at two a.m.
They are the kind that, when you've spent all morning on your knees praying for God to send you someone who understands, calls at ten a.m just because she feels like she needs to, even though she has a brand new baby who has his nights and days mixed up and a rambunctious two-year-old and surely enough concerns of her own.
And she's exactly the person you need to put you back together and give you a pep talk and let you know that once again, you can make it through this.
Thanks, my girls. Happy seventh anniversary.
I have four best friends (okay, five, when you count my husband. But for the purpose of this post, just know that I love him and I'm going to talk about my girls from here on out). We met on the day that the five of us moved into the freshman dorms at USU, two on one side of the hall, three on the other. What was an enquiry after a missing can-opener became the saving grace of our college years. We have been the best kind of friends ever since.
Maybe we're not the type of pedicure-getting, shopping-going, latest-fad sharing, chocolate-inhaling friends (although plenty of that goes on too), but to me, these girls are the best kind of friends. The best kind of friends are the ones that decide not to go to the dance because they know you don't have anyone to ask. They let you come spend the evening doing homework in their apartment because there is a sock on your dorm room door. They hold you in the back of a suburban on the way home from spring break when you decide to break up with your boyfriend of two years. They stop by to see you when you are slaving away at a fast food place all summer to pay for college when they know you are slightly dying inside. They are the kind that come to you, worried about a friend or family member, and ask you to fast and pray with them for this person just because they can't bear to do it on their own. They hold you when tragedy strikes your family more times in a year than anyone's family deserves and pray with you when you get a cryptic message from your mom telling you to call and you think the family dog may be dying but you're not sure and you just need some courage to hit the redial button. They listen to you go on and on about that boy you aren't sure you love, but you just might, but he hasn't said anything and he's leaving for France for two years and what do you do? They are understanding when a move needs to happen, or you decide that a trip to Georgia is necessary even when they know what (or who) you really need is right there in front of you. They write you on your mission to remind you that "you don't do failure." They celebrate with you when Prince Charming finally makes an appearance in your life, even when he's been especially slow to show up in theirs. They take walks around campus on a cold winter's day just to hear you talk things out so you can make sense of life. They gather together and show up when your baby has come eight weeks early and you've just found out that she may or may not have a serious illness that could change the course of your lives just to take you out for Chinese food and bring you some books to read during the stressful days of sitting next to an isolette in the NICU. They are the kind of friends that when you are wound up so tight you're driving your husband nuts he suggests you "call one of your girls and get out of the house."
They're the ones where you have an unwritten rule that despite geographic distance or how long it has been since you've last talked, you can call about anything and get a listening ear. Even at two a.m.
They are the kind that, when you've spent all morning on your knees praying for God to send you someone who understands, calls at ten a.m just because she feels like she needs to, even though she has a brand new baby who has his nights and days mixed up and a rambunctious two-year-old and surely enough concerns of her own.
And she's exactly the person you need to put you back together and give you a pep talk and let you know that once again, you can make it through this.
Thanks, my girls. Happy seventh anniversary.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Cleaning out the Clutter
It's 8:07 on a Thursday night, I just finished off my "dessert" of Rainbow Mallows (the baby of Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms--generic brand, of course--seriously genius) and I have no idea what to write about today. There have been a few things going through my mind, but nothing outstanding or super uplifting and my husband is talking to me about football so I'm a little distracted. But I told myself I would write every Thursday and so write every Thursday I shall!
We have a corner in our living room that is surrounded by a catch-all bookcase and a computer-desk turned TV stand. Everything gets stuck in there. I am trying to be less cluttered in my life, so I decided to clean it out yesterday. I laid Kevin down on a blanket next to me, turned on Tangled (this is the first time I've turned on a movie to entertain her and not me), and got to work filing all the papers back there. I ended up with nine folders--all labelled something prefaced by "baby" or "pregnancy"--and a little bit of flashback anxiety.
I came across one of the booklets that "teaches" you how to handle having a baby in the NICU. I remember flipping through it during one of my many pumping sessions at the Ronald McDonald House while the NICU at Primary Children's was closed. Then, I was in survival mode. Yesterday, I was in "I am going to face this and get over it" mode. Whenever I think back to those three weeks of having our baby girl in the hospital, I sort of get a mini panic attack. I'm only starting to realize how tough it was and how completely NOT over it I am. Some days I forget about what happened, because she is just SO healthy and happy. Other days I remind myself because I really don't want to forget what I learned there.
A friend told me that having a baby in the NICU brings and maturity and a softness that new moms can't get any other way. I believe her. Her first baby was in the NICU for 11 days and on oxygen for a month longer when he went home. Last week he got a little brother that got to come home 24 hours after he was delivered! I couldn't be happier for their family. She said that she didn't realize the nurses left the baby in your room all night. I imagine this new little guy is a whole new ball game. She's finally getting to go to Italy.
It makes me wonder if we will ever get to go there--not Italy, the country, but Italy the metaphorical "everything goes as planned" method of having a baby (see Emily Pearl Kingsley's Welcome to Holland). I am prepared (or at least I tell myself I am prepared) for the reality that with my diabetes, I will probably only ever have NICU babies (it takes IDM babies a while to get their blood sugar regulated on their own). I'm hoping we won't have to spend 24 days there with other other kids like we did with Kevin, but in reality I might not ever get a brand-new baby that sounds like a crying kitten staying in the same hospital room as me.
I guess this leads me to what I've really been thinking about this evening. Sometimes our life doesn't go as planned.
Hah.
That's an understatement.
Maybe it is better to say, "sometimes life doesn't go as dreamed" or "the timeline of my life isn't the tempo I'd like to dance to." In the end, though, when a few weeks or months or years or decades have passed, we see the wisdom of God's timing. When I look back on the things in my life that I wouldn't have chosen (like not kissing a boy until I was almost 21 or coming home in the middle of my LDS mission or graduating from college a full 6.5 years after graduating high school) I see that everything happened when I needed it to happen. Sometimes it was hard to accept the end of an era (like that fantastic junior year of college where I constantly lived and breathed fun for the first time in my life) and sometimes it was even more difficult to accept the beginning of a new one (like realizing that I can't ever go back to not being diabetic).
Right now, I am at the beginning of one of my favorite chapters of my life so far--being a mom. This chapter didn't start at all the way I had planned, but it is a better story and I am a better character because of our unanticipated early beginning. I've learned that sometimes life is a choose your own adventure story--but sometimes you also have to be wise enough to recognize that storylines end and storylines begin in the middle of a book. Nobody wants to keep reading a book where the main character only lives in the past.
So I am filing away the NICU booklet and focusing on my healthy girl. And when we end up in Holland again someday I will take in every detail, count my blessings, and be grateful to leave.
I saw this little saying in a store today. Love it. Photo Credit HERE
We have a corner in our living room that is surrounded by a catch-all bookcase and a computer-desk turned TV stand. Everything gets stuck in there. I am trying to be less cluttered in my life, so I decided to clean it out yesterday. I laid Kevin down on a blanket next to me, turned on Tangled (this is the first time I've turned on a movie to entertain her and not me), and got to work filing all the papers back there. I ended up with nine folders--all labelled something prefaced by "baby" or "pregnancy"--and a little bit of flashback anxiety.
I came across one of the booklets that "teaches" you how to handle having a baby in the NICU. I remember flipping through it during one of my many pumping sessions at the Ronald McDonald House while the NICU at Primary Children's was closed. Then, I was in survival mode. Yesterday, I was in "I am going to face this and get over it" mode. Whenever I think back to those three weeks of having our baby girl in the hospital, I sort of get a mini panic attack. I'm only starting to realize how tough it was and how completely NOT over it I am. Some days I forget about what happened, because she is just SO healthy and happy. Other days I remind myself because I really don't want to forget what I learned there.
A friend told me that having a baby in the NICU brings and maturity and a softness that new moms can't get any other way. I believe her. Her first baby was in the NICU for 11 days and on oxygen for a month longer when he went home. Last week he got a little brother that got to come home 24 hours after he was delivered! I couldn't be happier for their family. She said that she didn't realize the nurses left the baby in your room all night. I imagine this new little guy is a whole new ball game. She's finally getting to go to Italy.
It makes me wonder if we will ever get to go there--not Italy, the country, but Italy the metaphorical "everything goes as planned" method of having a baby (see Emily Pearl Kingsley's Welcome to Holland). I am prepared (or at least I tell myself I am prepared) for the reality that with my diabetes, I will probably only ever have NICU babies (it takes IDM babies a while to get their blood sugar regulated on their own). I'm hoping we won't have to spend 24 days there with other other kids like we did with Kevin, but in reality I might not ever get a brand-new baby that sounds like a crying kitten staying in the same hospital room as me.
I guess this leads me to what I've really been thinking about this evening. Sometimes our life doesn't go as planned.
Hah.
That's an understatement.
Maybe it is better to say, "sometimes life doesn't go as dreamed" or "the timeline of my life isn't the tempo I'd like to dance to." In the end, though, when a few weeks or months or years or decades have passed, we see the wisdom of God's timing. When I look back on the things in my life that I wouldn't have chosen (like not kissing a boy until I was almost 21 or coming home in the middle of my LDS mission or graduating from college a full 6.5 years after graduating high school) I see that everything happened when I needed it to happen. Sometimes it was hard to accept the end of an era (like that fantastic junior year of college where I constantly lived and breathed fun for the first time in my life) and sometimes it was even more difficult to accept the beginning of a new one (like realizing that I can't ever go back to not being diabetic).
Right now, I am at the beginning of one of my favorite chapters of my life so far--being a mom. This chapter didn't start at all the way I had planned, but it is a better story and I am a better character because of our unanticipated early beginning. I've learned that sometimes life is a choose your own adventure story--but sometimes you also have to be wise enough to recognize that storylines end and storylines begin in the middle of a book. Nobody wants to keep reading a book where the main character only lives in the past.
So I am filing away the NICU booklet and focusing on my healthy girl. And when we end up in Holland again someday I will take in every detail, count my blessings, and be grateful to leave.
I saw this little saying in a store today. Love it. Photo Credit HERE
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Voices
This week has gone by fast and we've been able to do some fun things. My husband has been such a great example to me this week--he's been taking time to serve so many people, and serving me by letting me have time to serve others. We were able to have the Sister Missionaries join us for dinner yesterday...what an interesting experience to be on the other side of the table (and we were done in less than an hour)! Both sisters seemed kind of shy and the conversation was somewhat awkward and stinted as I tried to get to know them without asking those off-limits questions (for example: How long have you been out? Except that I sort of made that mistake inadvertantly because I asked them what areas they had served in...and when you've only served on one area--"this one"--it kind of gives away your greenie status). After a few silent moments, I found the magic conversation starter: "Tell me about some of the people you've been teaching." Both sisters lit up and the babbling commenced and I was grateful. It was fun to share some of my favorite mission experiences too--I know they liked those better than new baby stories (again, duh me). I am grateful for the spirit they brought in to our home and for the reminder of that wonderful period of time in our lives where we were able to be full-time servants of the Lord.
I have been thinking a lot this week about God's role of being our Heavenly Father. Being a parent myself has given me so many more insights about God's love. I think that you can try to understand God's love for his children, but you can't really begin to comprehend it until you are a parent yourself.
For example, Kevin and I enjoy our time together in the mornings. Scott and I often fight over who gets to get her out of bed in the morning and receive The First Smile of the day. I usually win because he is usually gone before both of us get up. After her tummy is full, I lay her down on a blanket and eat some breakfast (because I learned the hard way that if I don't eat it doesn't create a good situation for either of us...but I'm not sure I'm ready to write about that experience yet). Kevin isn't a big talker like a lot of baby girls are. She likes to sit back and observe and occasionally will humor whomever is holding her with some squeaks and giggles and what my mom has started to call her Princess Grunt (her way of saying "hold me already!").
When she thinks she is alone, however, she will talk and talk and talk until she hears me answer her. When she can't see me, she gets nervous. She hates being alone above all things. I can be sitting on the couch or at the table a few feet away from her, listening and watching and making sure she is okay, but if she doesn't hear me she doesn't think I'm taking care of her. In reality, she is my focus at all times (hence why I quit facebook--too much of a distraction). Sure, I still shower and clean up the house and get things done, but I am always aware of where she is and what she is doing. She doesn't know this, however, unless she hears my voice or sees my face.
How often are we like that with our Heavenly Father? He is always, always aware of us but we don't believe that unless we feel like we are receiving answers to our prayers and seeing His hand in our lives. This week has been a wonderful reminder to me that sometimes He is watching from a few feet away, ready to rescue us when Tummy Time gets too hard or we become too tired to play on our own or we are hungry and in need of nourishment.
If we listen, we can hear Him reassuring us that He is there, He is constantly aware of us, and He is always listening to us.
I have been thinking a lot this week about God's role of being our Heavenly Father. Being a parent myself has given me so many more insights about God's love. I think that you can try to understand God's love for his children, but you can't really begin to comprehend it until you are a parent yourself.
For example, Kevin and I enjoy our time together in the mornings. Scott and I often fight over who gets to get her out of bed in the morning and receive The First Smile of the day. I usually win because he is usually gone before both of us get up. After her tummy is full, I lay her down on a blanket and eat some breakfast (because I learned the hard way that if I don't eat it doesn't create a good situation for either of us...but I'm not sure I'm ready to write about that experience yet). Kevin isn't a big talker like a lot of baby girls are. She likes to sit back and observe and occasionally will humor whomever is holding her with some squeaks and giggles and what my mom has started to call her Princess Grunt (her way of saying "hold me already!").
When she thinks she is alone, however, she will talk and talk and talk until she hears me answer her. When she can't see me, she gets nervous. She hates being alone above all things. I can be sitting on the couch or at the table a few feet away from her, listening and watching and making sure she is okay, but if she doesn't hear me she doesn't think I'm taking care of her. In reality, she is my focus at all times (hence why I quit facebook--too much of a distraction). Sure, I still shower and clean up the house and get things done, but I am always aware of where she is and what she is doing. She doesn't know this, however, unless she hears my voice or sees my face.
How often are we like that with our Heavenly Father? He is always, always aware of us but we don't believe that unless we feel like we are receiving answers to our prayers and seeing His hand in our lives. This week has been a wonderful reminder to me that sometimes He is watching from a few feet away, ready to rescue us when Tummy Time gets too hard or we become too tired to play on our own or we are hungry and in need of nourishment.
If we listen, we can hear Him reassuring us that He is there, He is constantly aware of us, and He is always listening to us.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
A Champion
I have been watching a whole lot of television this week. But since the Olympics only come around every two years and I've missed the last two, I feel justified. I've watched a range of events that I've never paid attention to before--canoeing, rowing, kayaking, volleyball, boxing, diving, cycling, fencing, bad badminton--in addition to the ones I've always enjoyed, like swimming and gymnastics. I am amazed at how easy the athletes make their chosen sports look. I am astounded by the things the human body is capable of.
I was thinking this as I was watching diving the other day, when the thought came to my mind that my body has done some pretty incredible things too. And although I can't jump more than a foot off the floor, I can barely doggie paddle across a cheap hotel-sized pool, and I will NEVER EVER appear on international TV in a bikini let alone a leotard, I have given birth, and that is, in my opinion, the most important feat the human body will ever achieve.
I'll never forget those first few moments after my daughter (whom I will refer to as Kevin) was born. While the situation was intense, scary, and more than a little stressful (she came 8 weeks early), the atmosphere was strangely peaceful and calm as she took her first breaths. They laid her purple body on my chest and I heard her holler as her limbs flailed all over the place, searching for boundaries, something to help her define her surroundings. I reached out my hand and she found her anchor, my finger, and gripped so hard they had to peel her tiny fingers off so that the doctors and nurses could begin to take care of her. I remember thinking, "Good. She's screaming. She's holding on. She's a fighter. She'll be fine."
I think of the pain and the sacrifices of those early days, when we did not know how this would turn out. Would she suffer lasting damage? Would she remember the pricks and jabs and lights and x-rays and having her little heart shocked back into a normal rythmn? Would she ever be able to breathe on her own without the oxygen for more than a few days at a time? Would we ever be able to go home? We prayed and cried and rejoiced over the little things that seemed so big. We held her hands, stroked her head, patted her bum--anything we could do to say, "We're here. We love you. Don't give up."
Now, almost five whole months later, she is strong and healthy, with chubby thighs and rosy cheeks. I watch her discover something new about herself every day: her voice, her hands, her lips, her tongue, her hair (which is disappearing), her feet, her ability to make others smile.
I am not an Olympian, but I am a mother. My home is my training facility, my parents and my Heavenly Father my coaches, my husband my teammate. I don't stop training, ever. I work hard, I sacrifice, I pick myself up from disappointments and rejoice over our triumphs.I cheer on my teammate and ignore other competitors--I am competing against no one but myself and my personal best. And Kevin?
She is my gold medal.
I was thinking this as I was watching diving the other day, when the thought came to my mind that my body has done some pretty incredible things too. And although I can't jump more than a foot off the floor, I can barely doggie paddle across a cheap hotel-sized pool, and I will NEVER EVER appear on international TV in a bikini let alone a leotard, I have given birth, and that is, in my opinion, the most important feat the human body will ever achieve.
I'll never forget those first few moments after my daughter (whom I will refer to as Kevin) was born. While the situation was intense, scary, and more than a little stressful (she came 8 weeks early), the atmosphere was strangely peaceful and calm as she took her first breaths. They laid her purple body on my chest and I heard her holler as her limbs flailed all over the place, searching for boundaries, something to help her define her surroundings. I reached out my hand and she found her anchor, my finger, and gripped so hard they had to peel her tiny fingers off so that the doctors and nurses could begin to take care of her. I remember thinking, "Good. She's screaming. She's holding on. She's a fighter. She'll be fine."
I think of the pain and the sacrifices of those early days, when we did not know how this would turn out. Would she suffer lasting damage? Would she remember the pricks and jabs and lights and x-rays and having her little heart shocked back into a normal rythmn? Would she ever be able to breathe on her own without the oxygen for more than a few days at a time? Would we ever be able to go home? We prayed and cried and rejoiced over the little things that seemed so big. We held her hands, stroked her head, patted her bum--anything we could do to say, "We're here. We love you. Don't give up."
Now, almost five whole months later, she is strong and healthy, with chubby thighs and rosy cheeks. I watch her discover something new about herself every day: her voice, her hands, her lips, her tongue, her hair (which is disappearing), her feet, her ability to make others smile.
I am not an Olympian, but I am a mother. My home is my training facility, my parents and my Heavenly Father my coaches, my husband my teammate. I don't stop training, ever. I work hard, I sacrifice, I pick myself up from disappointments and rejoice over our triumphs.I cheer on my teammate and ignore other competitors--I am competing against no one but myself and my personal best. And Kevin?
She is my gold medal.
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