Loving the Ugly

I got to take a shower today for the first time since having my c-section on Wednesday. I've been hooked up to a pain pump for the last two days, so there was no getting wet other than to wipe my face off with a hot towel.

Dh and Cindy-Lou Who came up to the hospital to visit Ralphie (if Dynamite can't name his this in real life, I will allow it in Blog World).

I am still weak from being in bed so much and a healing incision. My legs are still a little shaky and I'm walking like my 94-year old neighbor.

Dh walked slowly behind me with his hand on the small of my back and followed me in to the bathroom. There I very tenderly undressed, as not to bump anything. I looked down at my body and, well, I felt vulnerable.

My stomach is pooched out and looks about five to six months pregnant. I am red all over from the pain meds leaving a rash behind. I will spare you the facts about everything else as to keep this blog "decent" and trust that whether or not you've had a child, you know what it is to feel insecure.

Dh helped me wash my four-timed cesarean scarred up body and wrapped me in a towel. He then knelt down to dry off my legs and helped me on with my underwear as I stood there feeling anything but beautiful.

"Look how little you are," he said smiling.

It felt so good to take that shower. I felt renewed, clean and cared for.

Tonight I am thinking about what it is to be loved. To be treasured. To be cherished.

Nine and a half years and four kids later, I may have figured it out. It is not easy, but it is persistent.

Dh and I are both flawed. As I talk about the physical, it reminds that I am also spiritually flawed. We both are. We are human and full of failures. Earthly trials and temptations. Shortcomings.

And yet, showered in grace. Mercy. Love. I believe that God looks at all of those spiritual wounds we bear, and says, "Look how lovely you are".

This is what true love is: seeing the imperfections and choosing to love anyway. Embracing the broken and not trying to fix it, but to love in spite of it.

I'm counting my blessings today. Among them: a fuzzy-headed Ralphie, three gorgeous kids who keep asking their daddy when mama is coming home, the best friends in the entire universe, a mom who just can't help enough, and a dh who loves every broken part of me.

Most days, I feel uncertain. Am I being purposeful enough? Am I enriching the lives of my children? Am I being thoughtful enough? Am I making a difference? Many nights, I lay in my bed and wonder what it's all for and feel a sense of urgency that I better figure it out real quick!

But yesterday morning, I awoke and knew that I was going to accomplish something amazing. I was going to receive the gift of bringing forth new life. I didn't have to wonder if I should have focused more on math than phonics with the kids. Or if I should let Dynamite go without his nap. Or worry about what I was going to wear. My sole purpose was to give birth to my child.

Everything that could've gone wrong did, in fact, go wrong. We arrived at the hospital and a gown was tossed on the bed next to me. "Go ahead and get in to that," the nurse said without making eye contact. Okayyyy...I put the gown on. A few minutes later, a different nurse came in and said from behind the curtains, "You didn't put that gown on yet, did you?"
"Um, yeah, I did."
"Oh, well, I guess that's okay," she said, and then she turned and walked away.
They asked me a plethora of personal questions and inquired about any and all piercings and tattoos (I revealed my barely visible closed-up belly button piercing that sat like a toddler bite on my pregnant stomach).
I heard whispering about being bumped as I sat there with the IV coursing through my veins. I watched the clock ticking away minute by minute. Finally, a streaky-blonde came in and said, "Looks like there are a few emergency c-sections lined up...don't really know if or when you're going to get in there."
I wanted to yell out, "Hey lady! You're messing with My Purpose!"
A few minutes later, my doctor came in and said I could come back the next day or he could ask another doctor if she'd be willing to do it, but she might not be too happy about it. Well, quite frankly, I didn't care if she was happy about it or not. And I didn't care who did it. I just wanted it done.
So, as I sat there with nothing but a flimsy robe on and tubes tangles around me, I said, "I'm not going home."
The alternate doctor in the practice, the one who doesn't really like me b/c she thinks that I bothered her when the room was spinning and I thought I might be dying from a blood clot (yes, I am that dramatic) is the one who ended up doing my surgery. I was a little frightened that she might take out her frustration on me in the OR, but she graciously restricted herself to a few sarcastic comments and hoity-toity looks.
Finally, hours after my arrival at the hospital, I was wheeled back to achieve My Purpose. They tied my arms down (apparently that's just what they do), bent me over and stuck a needle in my back, and gave me funny medicine that made my legs feel like hot water was filling up inside them. There was pulling so hard that I thought my face was going to explode. And then...

There was life. There was a cry that had never been heard before. Soft skin never touched now laid up against mine.

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. A million words in a single drop. I love you, you are mine.

As I lay in bed and the night sky is streaked with purples and pinks, I am reminded that all of the mindless macaroni and cheese lunches come back to this. All of the empty reminders to flush the toilet and brush your teeth, to tie your shoes and do your homework...all of the things I feel my day are comprised of that make me feel like I don't achieve anything...they all come back to this moment. The take-your-breath-away and the if-I-have-to-clean-up-this-mess-one-more-time...all woven together in to one fabric of beautiful, meaningful life.

Dynamite and His Hole Obsession

Today, I went to the Dr. with Dynamite for my thirty-six week appointment. The waiting room was filled with all kinds of pregnant women and their other halves, not to mention a few little munchkins running around.

Now, many of you may not know this, but I have a mole under my right arm. For reasons I'll never understand, my kids have all taken turns being fascinated by it. They want to touch it, talk about it; they have a slight obsession with my mole.

As we were sitting in the crowded room, Dynamite looks at me and belts out, "I wanna see you hole!" Well, I was a little perplexed trying to understand what hole exactly he was talking about. Again, "Mommy, I wanna see you hole!" Ahhh, yes, the mole.

This was a situation where had I tried to shush him, he would've grown more persistent. So, I acquiesced to his demand. With bright red cheeks, I slightly raised my arm so that he could look at the object of his desire. And when I thought it couldn't get any worse, he squeals with delight, "I KISS YOU HOLE, MOMMY!"

And with that, he planted one right on my mole. As he pulled away, he looked up at me with the biggest toothy grin you can imagine. As though to say, "Mommy, I just love you hole"

Lovely. People ducked their heads in empathetic embarrassment, but couldn't help but covertly snicker.

Reason #132 why I should get a sitter when I go to the Doctor.

A Funeral and a Breath of Fresh Air

One of my dad's best friends died this week. His name was Fred and he died of cancer.

I stood next to my dad this morning at the funeral service and we sang, "Jesus, you call me friend". And under my dad's breath, I heard him mouthe the words, "Yes, Lord, a friend that sticks closer than a brother". I believe that Fred was one of those friends for my dad, and he takes solace in the fact that his Lord says he is also.

As I stood next to my dad, I felt a sense of strength rise up inside of me. My dad's a pretty tough guy. Not in the sense that he has a membership to Powerhouse. Rather, he's been through a lot in his life and never admits defeat. He's a fighter.

As a little girl, when my dad would pick me up from school after working at the trucking company, I would run to him hoping that everyone would realize this was my dad! Not all kids' dads have grease on their shirts; my dad was a hard worker! Do you see the way he smiles at me and scoops me up? He adores me, for crying out loud!

As a teenager, I put my dad through hell. And yet, whenever we would have dinner with his friends or he would introduce me to someone, he would always talk about my achievements...the good that I was doing. He would make me feel good about myself when I didn't have a whole lot of reasons to.

When I am with my dad, a feeling of invincibility fills me. A feeling of pride. A give-me-what-you-got-world because I'm stronger than you are feeling. And all this stems from knowing that I've got someone unconditionally in my corner.

When I see my dad hurt, I hurt. His eyes were glassy this morning and I know that he was fighting back the tears. But when I see the way he perseveres, I am filled with hope and a desire to live. Not just exist.

And by the way, I think my dad and I said five words to each other this morning and exchanged a hug.

So, that's what I was left thinking about...how I want to affect others. How I want to be remembered and talked about. How I want to bless the lives of those I interact with.

And that we have the opportunity to be that friend who sticks closer than a brother right along with the Big Kahuna (I think he smiles when I call him this, so I won't apologize).

A Space to Call My Own

For Mother's Day, my husband got me a sign to hang on the door that says, "Welcome to the Nut House". I have been eyeing something along those lines for a while because it captures the craziness of our lives.

Author, Jodi Piccoult, says in one of her books that every life has a song...a melody that captures the rhythm of how we live.

I have mentioned before that my song is probably the William Tell Overture.

Which makes me reminisce about a time when life was not so busy. I was twenty-one years old and on a three month trip to Italy. I have a dear friend who lives there and had gone to visit her and her family for a second time.

Upon my arrival, she ushered me in to a very compact what-used-to-be closet. They had made the room in to a bedroom with a little fold down cot. The space probably measured five feet by eight feet. It was smaller than my current bathroom, which, let me tell you, is really small!

When you walked in to this space, the bed/cot was immediately to the right and you had to climb a ladder to get in to it. To the left was a bare shelf where I could store any books and/or journals, including my Italian Dostoevsky novel that I was attempting to read (a very lofty undertaking...I should have started out with The Poky Little Puppy).

I unpacked my suitcase and felt peaceful. Without the clutter of life. This was my space. And I treasured it.

Fast forward to today. I've gone from single to a family of five and a half. I am maintaining t-ball and baseball schedules, volunteering at the kids' school, date nights with my hubby, etc. Life is just plain, wonderfully busy.

And so, when I saw Toni Morrison, Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winner, on Oprah talking about how everyone needs their own space, my ears perked up. My own space? You're talking to a woman who uses the bathroom with a kid on her lap half the time (we're having some separation issues).

I began to fantasize about this space. I started looking through Ikea catalogues at cheap desks. I wanted to create a space to do my writing and work on picture albums. And you'll never guess what happened. As I was driving home yesterday, I spotted a beautifully handcrafted desk at a garage sale for twenty dollars. I immediately pulled over and laid my claim to that precious piece of furniture that meant so much more to me than the wood itself. It represented something to call my own. A place to create and dream.

So as I sit here in my roughly five by eight foot space, I am reminded that you don't have to be single to have your own little corner. You just have to create it for yourself. Thank you, Toni, for the inspiration.

Me wearing my heart on my sleeve...again...

Today has been a day of emotion:

As I looked at my husband straightening my son's tie for his first communion, I had the thought, "We are not newbies anymore". Our kids are growing up. I am the one that new moms are asking for advice (there is no reasoning for this and I make no admonitions of having any of it figured out). I was filled with a recognition of the time that has passed and all that we have been through. We are stronger for our struggles.

I watched my eight year old receive the Eucharist for the first time. He is becoming a young man. He is sorting things out and recognizing that there are good and bad choices. He is daily on the threshold of new experiences and hard knocks. He sees first hand that the good guy doesn't always win and "fair" is not always the title-holder at the end of the day. I felt a sense of pride at watching my son take another step in life's journey.

I also received a phone call that was greatly disturbing. One filled with about twenty years full of hurt that I could never have understood as a child and know that it's not my role to understand as an adult. Anger is a sad thing to watch fester. And as I listened I felt a deep sadness for this person, and a surrender of trying to "fix things". Sometimes it just it what it is.

A neighbor came to tell me that his father who "did all the wrong things" had died. He (my neighbor) couldn't sleep at night thinking of his father in regard to "the after-life". When the ones we love leave us behind, it also makes us very aware of our own mortality...the choices we've made, the people we want to become. If we really believe in forgiveness and mercy and love...all that stuff we profess to believe. I felt appreciation for his raw emotion and the things that bring us to our knees when no one else ever knows.

This may seem like a rambling of sorts, but what I really wanted to put down in words is the stuff of life. In the waking of a day, the emotions that come out run the entire gamut.

Joy and pain. Strength and weakness.

And I guess, really, what Super-boy celebrated today encompasses all of that. The suffering, and the rising from the ashes. The loneliness and the embrace. And I think, regardless of what you believe, that's something we all can relate to.

Feel the burn...

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains; it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world". ~C.S. Lewis

Think back to a time of tremendous pain in your life. I'm not talking about life's little inconveniences. Or even things that are very frustrating, but more of an irritation than anything. I'm talking about deep loss. Grief. When the ache feels like too much for you to bear.

I think I can count the number of times I've felt that kind of sadness on one hand.

And yet, when I think back to those times, there was a sense of feeling. Not just skipping through the day oblivious to the world around me. It has been during those times that my friendships have become deeply rooted...that I have bared my vulnerable soul to those around me and have been either kicked or embraced. It has been during these times when I have been made acutely aware of what is real and what is false.

The pain is, at times, what lets us know that we are alive. Human.

I don't like to hurt, or to be hurt. But I do like the healing that comes during and after. Sometimes we need more than a whisper to drag us out of bed.