Poo Talking

Oh, the things we learn from our children. Parenting, it seems, is more than just learning how to put on a diaper--which can be tricky with a newborn boy who aims and fires every time cold air hits his..aimer--and how to feed a finicky eater. I think I've learned more from my munchkins then they could ever learn from me. For example...

Last night was a rough night in the King house. Two little boys who had no intention of going down (to bed) without a serious fight. So fight we did. Two hour battle. Neither side surrendered until the Sandman (with a touch of Benadryl--and yes it was prescribed) took the oldest out. Grant hung on admirably, finally pulling out the heavy artillery. "Mommy, I hav-a go potty". He knows we are trying to potty train him, which he refuses to do during daylight hours, but we can't tell him to pee in the potty during the day and just go in his diaper at night. So, with a self-satisfied smirk, another battle won, he glided past us into his bathroom leaving us to lick our wounds.

Every two minutes we would ask him..."G, you done yet?" and hear "No, my poo won't come out." We tried to explain that when pottying is used as a decoy and not a real need, sometimes things don't come out...no response. After about 15 minutes we heard shouting coming from the bathroom. A new battle had begun. Grant was crouched on the potty pointing at his bum and yelling "Get in the potty, poo! Now!" My son, the Poo Whisperer. My pride know no bounds.

After composing ourselves and again trying to explain how bodies function, Grant finally, indignantly retired for the evening. But oh, that it DID work like that.

"Get off my thighs, cellulite, right now!"--hello skinny jeans
"Get off my legs, hair, this minute!"--goodbye razor burn
"Get out of my brain, anxiety and depression, leave me alone now!"--Hello sweet sanity

Grant can't poo on command because that's not how the body works. There is a process involved. Liposuction is possible, but it's not permanent. If you still eat cheeseburgers and cheesecake, it'll come back with a vengeance. Weight loss involves a LIFE change. I can't rid my head of all it's problems with a snap of my fingers because it's a process.

There is function in the process.

God help me if I know what that function is at the moment, but I know it exists. With Easter around the corner, I'm reminded that God could have snapped his fingers and allowed Jesus to die quickly, painlessly, but there is purpose in the cross.

Whatever it is you are going through right now, I don't know what it is, but there is a purpose. It's there for a great reason and, like poo, it may not be pretty, but it's necessary.


....PS...Please don't tell Grant I told you any of this. He's liable to go on a potty strike.

Tigers and Waves

I had someone very close to me ask me today why on Earth I am sharing my struggles in such a public format. Anyone with computer access can currently see my deepest fears and toughest obstacles. She wanted to know why I would risk people seeing me differently. My Lord, I HOPE you all see me differently. I hope you see me as someone with a fight who, even though she gets popped on the chin more times than she'd care to admit, keeps putting up her dukes and circles the ring. I hope you see that I'm scared. I hope you see that it's only by the grace of God I can currently look at this computer screen and not break down. And I REALLY hope someday this blog will be completely boring because those problems no longer exist. Maybe I'll start writing about my latest adventures, my most recent marathon, or my skydiving excursion. (Please don't hold your breath)

There is something powerful in shinning light on your fears. The words in my brain are still a bit muddled so I'm going to borrow someone else's for tonight. I'm reading a book called Fearless by Max Lucado. In his book he quotes a passage from a book called The Life of Pi by Yann Martel. Pi is a dude who finds himself chilling on a lifeboat after a shipwreck with a 450lbs tiger and whole lot of water. He goes back and forth on whether he is more afraid of the tiger or the water. (Me, I'd take my chance in the ocean) Here's how he describes his fear.

I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always. One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out. But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble. You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you. You are reassured. Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology. But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feel yourself weakening, wavering. Your anxiety becomes dread...
Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you've defeated yourself. Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.
You must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.

Totally! What he said!

I couldn't have summed it up that well, but that's what I'm after. I'm doing this. Risking embarrassing myself and unfortunately my entire family, to shine a light on my fears. A big 1400 watt spotlight that could be seen from space. Every time you read my posts, you help me eradicate the fear that wants to keep me in bondage. Every time you send a comment or email to encourage me, you become part of my solution. Lord, please let me always live in the light where darkness may threaten, but never overcome.

I pray that for you too. What are you afraid of? Turn on the lights. Tell someone. Write it out. Call me. You could choose life with a tiger or life in the waves, or maybe you could kick the kitty overboard and start paddling, but whatever you do, do it in the light.

Stupid Head

I wish I didn't have to write this. At this moment I almost wish I had never started this blog. Almost. But I did, and to my surprise and delight, people actually read this thing, so I have to do this. Thursday was a bad night. As far as my little saga goes, it was the worst night I've had. I'd love to tell you that I'm over it. That it happened and I snapped back and I'm ready to fight. I'll do a lot of things in this blog, but I won't lie. I feel terrible, panicky and weak. I feel a little crazy and most of all, I feel stupid. I feel stupid that I can't get it through my head that I'm okay. I feel stupid that this time I was in public and will always remember the looks on people's faces as I screamed. I feel stupid that I have to drag people out of bed in the middle of night to watch my kids cause mom is throwing a fit in the hospital. I feel stupid that John has to take a day of work to watch me because I live in fear it will happen again.

What happened? I can't go into detail without shaking, but if you're interested ask anyone working at the Y last Thursday night. In fact, ask anyone working, anyone working out, or anyone within earshot of the ambulance that arrived to take my psycho self to the ER. This time the presence of medical professionals did me no good. This time it took a full two hours to start to calm down. This time, I had a very sweet and pitying case worker visit my room and tell me calmly "Honey, you need to be on medication". I didn't argue this time. I went to my psychiatrist the next day and begged her for pills. ANYTHING to make this stop. What did she tell me?
"Lauren, you're doing great."

...(crickets chirping)...and I'M the one asking for crazy pills? Lady, you're nuttier than I am!

That what she said. She said that this happens. To a lot of people. All the time. She said the fact I'd been doing well for months just means that I will do well again. She hopeful. She's insane. Time for a new doctor.

Step 2: went to my general practitioner. "Doc, please tell me there is something in all that lab work they did to explain this." He looked at me soberly. "Lauren, I don't know how to tell you this, but you're one of the healthiest people I've seen. Your blood pressure, lab work, EKG, Chest x-rays, are perfect. Not good, perfect."
The entire city of Murfreesboro, TN is filled with quacks.

Or not. The reality is, it's all me. It's all in my head. How do you fight a monster, when the monster is inside? If you have cancer, you fight that beast with radiation, chemo, and various other treatments. If your monster is high blood pressure you fight it with pills and diet and exercise. But what if YOU are the monster? Not all of me mind you, just a tiny part of my brain that send the rest of my body into the twilight zone. (For more about exactly what a panic attack is, view my "pages" on the blog in the next few days, and I'll break it down)

I have an entire team of people with all kinds of fancy letters after their names that have told me in no uncertain terms that I am fine. But this Mr. Hyde section of my brain refuses to take heed. It's sternly protests, "They've missed something. They can't see the iceberg and the Titanic is heading straight for it!"

I have had a few comments since my last bought two weeks ago asking me if I can try to put some perspective on all this. I don't have cancer, I don't have high blood pressure, I'm not terminally ill and there are thousands of people who are. Can't I count myself lucky? In response: Bite me. You think I don't know that? You think I don't feel like the worlds biggest loser for feeling like this? I'm scared. I hate this and I don't know how to fix it. So in YOUR infinite wisdom, please tell me what I should do. Pray more? Okay, I prayed as hard as I possibly could Thursday night from the back of an ambulance with an oxygen mask strapped to my face thinking surely my heart would explode as I lay still with my pulse beeping back at me at 188 bpm. Did I feel God? Yes. Did it help? No. Am I upset? Yes.

I know the all the Sunday School answers. "Everything has a purpose." "We don't know God's plan, we just have to have faith" "He doesn't promise all sunshine and rainbows. Some days it rains." All very true. I've used them on other folks too. To all of those folks: sorry, I probably sounded insensitive, but I meant well, and I know folks who tell me that do too. Again, it's not like this has obliterated my faith, and I still trust in God's perfect will, but I don't think he minds if we get a little upset. Even Jesus asked if God would take the cup from him.

This has been a spectacularly long post already, but I had to get all this out, more for me than anything else. But to those of you who read this cause this is your thorn too, just know, I'm still fighting and Jesus has already won. Don't give up.

Dr. Suess Goes Hollywood

My kids have a book that they like to read, almost nightly, called The Sneetches and its by none other than Dr. Suess. It's poetical genius and the kids love it because when things rhyme, they learn the words and can start to "read" the book without us. The book is about The Sneeches. A funny looking lot of hind-leg walking animals as only Suess could create. The deal with the Sneetches is that for some reason that the reader never discovers, some Sneeches have stars on their bellies and some do not. Those with stars feel they are superior to those without, and those without sit in hum-glum misery wishing they had been born tattooed. Then one day the sly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean brings a machine that allows the plain belly Sneetches a chance to be different....or rather...the same as those with stars.

Where am I going with this? The land of the stars, of course, Hollywood. I don't understand why with fame and fortune comes this uncanny desire to influence those of us without stars on our dressing rooms. They parade around with political ideals, weak or wacky morals, and social mix-ups and look at the rest of us like we're idiots or too backwoods to understand. "Marriage is so last century, let's all just co-habitate." Why would ANYONE want to be married? "Let's make millions off a song that encourages drunken one-night stands." Why? Cause that's why there are condoms and it's FUN. Everyone else in the world must be so bored.

I marvel at the headlines screaming from the magazine's in grocery stores. Why do we give two hoots what Kate and her date are doing with her eight? A guy cheated on his wife, so let's attack her house so we can get her broken-hearted reaction. Morals are for losers. Life is G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S right? How's that working out for ya, Hollywood?? LOOK AT THE HEADLINES! The same way it works out for the rest of us when we loose our heads and pretend God doesn't exist. We get divorced, we get hurt, we get dead.

So what do those of us without stars do? We whine. We mope. We wait for old Sylvester McMonkey McBean to zip us through a star-making machine like maybe then we'll matter. So for now we'll draw on our own stars. We'll dress like them, act like them, talk like them. So what happens when the plain bellies get stars? What happens when people with different or, gasp, "traditional" (more on why I despise that phrase another time, but it works for this diatribe) ideas take the microphone? I've got this book memorized so I'll just take you there

When the came out they had STARS! They actually did, they had stars upon thars!
Then they yelled at the ones who had stars at the start:
"We're exactly like you, you can't tell us apart.
We're all just the same now you snooty old smarties, and now we can go to your frankfurter parties"

"Good grief", groaned the ones who had stars at the first, "we are still the best, and they are the worst, but now how in the world will we know?" They all frowned, "If which kind is what, or the other way round?"

Those with stars will always move away from those trying to be like them. They have to be groundbreaking or they'll be forgotten. They have to push limits or their Google search numbers will drop. No one will remember that they are special.

Am I guilt-free from wishing my belly had a star? Of course not. Anyone who says they've never even had an inkling is either a liar or Amish. But I do hope, that as a country, or maybe just as a mom, we can start looking at stars as balls of gas millions of miles away, rather than gasbags oozing out of 90210. Enjoying what's left of the art form in entertainment, rather than the form of the artist.

I know, I know. This is an idealistic, conservative rant, but you don't have to read this blog ever again if you don't want to (but I kinda hope you do). After all, I'm just a plain-belly Sneetch. And I have no idea what purpose writing this down has other than that it's cathartic.

The Sneeches got really quite smart on that day. The day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches, and NO kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches. That day the Sneetches forgot all about stars, and whether they had one, or not, upon thars.

Good night, sweet darlings! Mama will take her pill and be calmer in the morning.

Messy, Messy Marriage

I think that everyone who gets married should be required to fill out a survey first. Just so we all realize what we are getting ourselves into. We'll call it the Oreo survey and in order for your marriage to work someone will have to be the hard, secure cookie and the other can be sweet and squishy and hold it all together. On the survey would be questions like: Are you a neat freak? Yes. Good, she's a slob, so you'll keep each other balanced. Are you good at math? No. Okay, that's fine, he is so you can spend and he'll balance the checkbook and confiscate your AmEx when necessary. Are you good with dates? No. No problem, she will remind you when your kids have birthdays and make sure you get to the dentist on time.

Wouldn't that be great. You could only marry a person if they proved to balance you out. The ying to their yang; the peanut butter to their jelly; the Clark Kent behind their Superman. Yeah. Right.

We marry who we love, regardless of the checklists and eHarmony-like surveys that will tell us we're compatible..unless of course you met on eHarmony, in which case you are I'm sure perfectly suited and compatible and deal with none of the below ;)

I married my wonderful, brilliant husband because he loves most of the things I do...plus he looks damn sexy in a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. But neither of us are neat, or organized, or excellent at all things math. He can create a budget, where the thought gives me hives, but neither of us excel at following one. We both cook, but we are also both prone to setting off smoke detectors because we've gotten to into MythBusters to remember the chicken in frying pan. I love my man, but he can't get his underwear into the hamper to save his life. The discarded boxers sit carelessly on the floor a full 6 inches from the entrance to the receptacle designed specifically for them. For my part, I can bust our grocery budget by $100 every month with two credit cards tied behind my back. It's a gift.

I have spent years stressing over the details that make us different from our parents or other couples we meet. "She's got three kids and still manages to blow dry her hair AND her car is Cheerio free! Why can't I do that?" "Their living room doesn't look Santa's workshop the day after Christmas...what kind of vacuum do they use??"

The "little things" break up couples and marriages every year. The little things that eventually, added together and put under the bunson burner of time and family, turn into big, scary, ugly things that people can't seem to dig out of.

But here's the thing: I didn't marry my husband because I knew from the moment I met him he'd keep an organized sock drawer. I didn't marry him because I felt after our first date he would be able to woo me with his Excel spreadsheet prowess. I married him because he loves what I love. He also loves me. And did I mention the glasses? So I am betting we will continue to be a bit messy, a tad unorganized, and about ten minutes late, but we'll be all those things for the next 50 to 60 years. So go ahead, baby, leave your underwear wherever you like, I'll forget to wash it anyway. Maybe someday we can get a maid.

....sniff, sniff...is something burning??

Rocky

When I say underdog theme song, what comes to mind? For me it's that whole scene in Rocky when he dashes up the steps (da da dadada da da dadada...)...can I just tell you I have NEVER seen that movie in its entirety? The two men who read this blog are shaking their heads in horror. But in every movie about an underdog, there is a song that plays somewhere in the background as they battle their way to victory. I've discovered the same goes for rough patches in my own story.

I was on a cycling team in college and I remember one year, Eminem's "Loose Yourself" would play in my head when I would try to will my tired legs to go faster.

This is the dude that co-wrote the song...kinda ruins the effect doesn't it?


When I was training for a half marathon a few years ago I would listen to Pink for hours on end and let her chick anger fuel me.



After the first attack last May it was 10th Ave. North's "By Your Side" helped me through (along with Sara Barielles' Love Song, but I have no idea why). This time it's Mike's Chair. Weird name for a band, but I heard this song on the radio as I was trying to settle down, and it was like hand grabbing me as the torrents tried to pull me away. The music video is a little...cheesy...but hey, they are Christian artists..budgets are tight. Listen to the lyrics. What's your theme song when you feel like an underdog?

Speak up

We once did a teambuilding exercise where you had to have the entire room line up in order by birth date--without talking. It actually didn't take us too long. Everyone held up fingers indicating the month they were born and then once they were in groups, held up fingers indicating the day. It took us about 2 minutes and we only had one error. Now imagine that same exercise, but put everyone in separate rooms. You can't see each other, hear each other or talk to each other. All you can do is hope someone finds you and that they have a birthday near yours. How long would that take? An hour? Two? At some point would you ask, "what's the point? can we just quit and eat cookies?"
Well I gotta tell you, I'm asking that same question today. After my post yesterday I got dozens of emails from beloved friends. Some I haven't spoken to in years. Some I only know through other acquaintances. They shared their stories with me, and told me I wasn't alone. The hard thing about those emails, is realizing some of THEM, maybe some of YOU, are.

How much easier would the aforementioned silly game be if everyone was able to open the doors, run screaming down the hallways, "my birthday is July 10th". It'd take five seconds. Why?...really?..just think about for a sec. when you land on the answer, continue on.

Why are head issues so taboo? Why don't we talk about this? It's about as common as having a birth date, so why aren't we all talking in the same room trying to get things in order? As I said I had dozens of emails last night, and I keep track of how many people read each blog...that means over 55% of the people that read it, wrote. Did you see that sweet reader? YOU are not alone! There are people out there who are like you. You are only separated by me. They get what you're dealing with and if they want to help encourage me, then I bet they'd help you too. No one can help you with your problems, whatever they are, if you don't call out for help. Don't get so deep in the pit that you have to scream for someone to hear, just call out now. Speak up! Ashamed, you say? Why? 55% of readers of this blog are in the same shape. I know it's hard friends, but I wish you could watch my fingers shake every time I mention my anxiety. But it's out there. It's not a secret I have to expend energy I could be using to get well hiding. I don't have to worry who will know. And when I have a relapse, like yesterday's, I was able to swim it the outpouring of support. It's an amazing thing. I feel better today. I feel hopeful today.

That doesn't mean you have to tell all creation in a blog (remember I'm a bit crazy, just read some of my early posts). But tell someone you trust. Tell a friend, your mama, a counselor, me. Just tell someone so they can help hold you up to light. Secrets are dark, and they are heavy. You might need a hand to hold your head up. I have two. They're both yours. All you do is speak up.

Relapse

It happened today. At about 2pm it happened. Alone on the road it happened. After months of feeling better, it happened. I can't go into all the details right now. Still too fresh, still too sore. I was alone in the car singing to Dixie Chicks' "I'm not ready to make nice" when my brain decided it was done making nice and through me into a panic so severe I lost control of my hands and had to pull of the road into an abandoned gas station. I tried to breathe, I tried to pray, I tried to let my mom calm me down over the phone. This time, it didn't work. This time I had to call 911 and let the nice EMS team of Marshall Co, TN, settle me down.

I am embarrassed. I am dissapointed. I am angry at the part of my head that can't get with the program and calm down when I tell it to. I felt foolish having John and my mom come pick me up from a Cracker Barrel half way to nowhere. I felt silly having Amy pray for me over the phone while I held back sobs. I am exhausted and worried about what the coming weeks may hold. But there is one thing I'm not: I'm not giving up.

As a servant of God
"we commend ourselves in every way: in great endurance; in trouble, hardships and distresses; in beatings, imprisionments and riots; in hard work, sleepless nights and hunger; in purity, understanding, patience and kindness; in the Holy Spirit and in sincere love; in truthful speech and in the power of God; with weapons of righteousness in the right hand and in the left; through glory and dishonor, bad report and good report; genuine, yet regarded as unknown; dying, and yet we live on; beaten, and yet not killed; sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything." (2 Corinthains 6: 3-13)

Am I nervous about driving right now? Yes. Am I afraid of these attacks? Yes. Do I wish they'd just go away? No. As much as I hate, hate, hate them, I know that somehow they serve a purpose. I'm trusting God for that, and trusting Him that He'll get me through this like he did before. And while I work on my trust issues, I'm also pretty happy he's put my husband, my mom, my Amy, and friendly Marshall County EMS crews on this planet so I can freak out safely. Thank you Jesus..

Weighting Room

A few days ago I had to go to the doctor. Why was I at the doctor? Due to HIPPA regulations, I am required to tell you to mind your own beezwax.
So, I was at the doctor for unknown purposes and spent the customary 45 minutes (past my appointment time) in the waiting room reading People magazines published when Ben and JLo were still Ben-lo (more on why I hate the media's new obsession with blended nicknames another time).

Finally, the nurse called me back so I could sit alone without even old People"s to entertain me while I waited for the doc. Before we went back however, she told me to step on the scale. The following conversation ensues:
Me: "why?" (Trust me, my visit did not need weight verification)
Nurse: "We just do this before every visit."
Me: "Uh-huh...why?"
Nurse: (a little confused) "We just need to have it for your records."
Me: "Can you just guesstimate? I can't possibly look that much different than the last time I was here. Maybe you should just take pictures of each visit."
Nurse: "Sometimes we need your weight so we know how much medication you'll need"
Me: "Understood, but I'm not here for medication"
Nurse: (getting irritated) "You don't know that"
Me: "Okay, I'll rephrase, I won't be taking any medication from this visit whether prescribed or not. Unless they're antipsychotics, which I'll need if I step on that scale."
Nurse: "It will also tell us if your blood pressure is in a normal range, ma'am"
Me: "My blood pressure will NOT be in a normal range if you make me stand on that scale"
Nurse: (exercising amazing patience) "Ma'am if you are concerned you can turn around"
Me: "Like I don't know exactly how many clicks I should hear to be the weight I want to be vs. the weight I might jump out of your window at"
Nurse: "You could plug your ears."
Me: "I'd look like an idiot standing backwards on a scale plugging my ears"
Nurse: "Well you're halfway there already..."
Me: "Just write down bigger than a breadbox"
Nurse: "Smaller than ship?"
Me: "Perfect."
Nurse: "Now if you'll please step onto the scale..."

Thanks to Nurse Unflappable, I now know my black and red slides weigh at least 10 lbs. It's amazing I can walk in them. Stupid doctor's offices and their stupid scales. Next time you give me drugs just guess how much I weigh, prescribe the meds and I swear not to take them. We'll both be none-the-wiser, and I can go on eating without having to have the number for Jenny Craig and a Xanax on stand by.

Naked

What do you think of when you hear that word? Perhaps that's a dumb question, but in the last few months it's taken on such a different meaning in my head, so that I almost forget that to most people "naked" means no attire, birthday suit, the way God made ya, etc. All true according to dictionary.com, but it's definition #11 that got my attention; "Exposed to view or plainly revealed". If you haven't already caught on, that's what this blog is all about. Exposure.

Exposure sounds scary, doesn't it? Makes you feel vulnerable, maybe just a bit self-conscience? For 26 of my naive 27 years I'd have felt the same way, but this experience has allowed me a new perspective. To be revealed means there is no longer effort spent hiding. It allows light to heal what the dark allowed to rot.


In the Victorian Era, women used to remove all the clothing from their trunks on sunny days and lay them out in open windows. The sun would bleach the stale stench of closet clothes and moth balls. It would freshen the linens, so when they were worn, they were clean, gleaming and bright. Same goes for our hearts. When we take what we've hidden inside; those little secrets, the ones no one should care about, the ones that happened so long ago, and we bring them out into the open air we allow the light to bleach the dirt and the wind to carry away the smell of decay.

We all have dirt in our closets, we all have scars, so why do each of us think that ours our too ugly for anyone else to see? Begs the question, "what makes you so special?"

I have a scar on my eyebrow from where I jumped off a suitcase at my grandparents house when I was 2 and hit the corner of the coffee table. My eyebrow has never looked quite the same...neither has the coffee table. I don't think the bandage had been put over my stiches before Grandpa hauled the table into his shop and lobbed off the edges. My scar is still there, but it doesn't bother me anymore. The table will never get it's corners back. Maybe you've been scarred, or maybe you've caused one. Both leave marks. My grandfather could have tossed the offensive table, but he didn't. Still sits in my grandmother's living room. I supposed my parents could have discarded their now dinged and imperfect daughter, but they didn't. God could look at you with all your scars and blemishes and condemn you, but He won't.

Who can you trust with your scars, dents and dings? All of them? Most scars don't leave marks on the skin. Have you let someone in that far? Particularly if you're married, has even your spouse seen you that close? That naked? In all, the word naked has 14 definitions: WIthout clothes, without barriers, without container, without protection, plain, unadorned, simple, not supplimented, exposed, defenseless, plainly revealed. You'll notice only the first refers to clothes. The rest refer to a state free of guards and defenses. It's utter vulnerability and it can be both scary and thrilling. Getting naked requires an environment of trust, forgiveness, at for at least one definition..warmth.


I guess at some point it all comes down to choice. I can choose to be seen, or choose to hide. I can be ashamed of my scars, or I can have a house full of no-corner coffee tables and a story to tell about all of them. Not everyone needs to see you naked (regardless of which definition your using), but hopefully everyone has one person in their lives that allows them to be "unadorned" and "plainly revealed". So write it down, monumental moment here, a self-proclaimed "good girl" is going to tell you to go get naked (just so I can sleep tonight, I have to reiterate all 14 meanings...13 is fine if you ain't hitched...okay, I can sleep now)

*Special thanks for this blog post is owed to Kris and Kathy. Thanks for reminding us of the beauty of bare.

All In

My kids don't do anything halfway. Particularly my youngest son, Grant. Grant is 2 1/2, but he doesn't believe in halves, so he'll tell you he's 3, or 5 depending on how old he thinks he needs to be to accomplish his task. When Grant was about 12 months old, he decided he didn't like the fact that no one understood him when he cried, so he started talking. I don't mean babbling dada or mama. The kid started throwing together phrases the best he could. We'd hear "more macaroni, mom" and look for Wilson, who had likely already left the table as that child doesn't eat. So that left baby G in his high chair looking at us expectantly. As he's gotten older, and more talkative, his drive has only increased. When he wants a treat, usually a marshmallow, he will try every adult in ear shot until he gets the answer he's after. If all else fails, he'll scale the shelves of the pantry, risking life, limb and goldfish crackers in pursuit of fluffed sugar.

Grant is "all in" all the time. When Grant tries to jump he squats so low his Buzz Lightyear Pull-Ups brush the hardwood before he reaches for "infinity and beyond" ("beyond" is typically about .5 inches off the ground). When Grant decides to sleep the Boston Pops could play the William Tell Overture from the top bunk and he probably wouldn't budge, but at the crack of way-too-early he bounces on our bed with a smile and a "Mommy, Daddy,get up! It's brebast (read:breakfast) time!". When Grant is awake, he is fully awake, he doesn't miss a thing. (Mommy I saw you hide the marshmallows in the closet behind the cereal)

What I find even more fascinating than my two year old telling me I have to be nice to him or God will spank me, is that while I'm trying to teach my boys right from wrong, peeing in the toilet instead of the shower, there are some things I didn't teach them at all. I rarely give anything 100%. Not like Grant does. I sleep with one eye open. I'll ask for what I want until the asking wears me down, if I even ask at all. When I jump, I might ask how high, but that's as high as I'll go. Infinity isn't in my everyday vocabulary. It takes two cups of coffee for me to form a coherent sentence, and a full breakfast followed by a long shower before I manage a smile.

Grant's enthusiasm is infectious, but it doesn't come naturally to me. I want to be more like my sons. I want Grant's dogged determination and Wilson's boundless energy. As I said, I didn't teach them these things, so where do they get it? All kids are like that, you say? Okay, where did THEY get it? There's a bit more to the verse where Jesus tells us the God has "hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children."(Matt. 11:25)if ya ask me. Jesus goes on to remind those who are weary and burdened to lighten their load.

God told my children, your children, a secret. It's the reason for their energy, it's the reason they'll jump on the bed even after they've just fallen off. But this isn't Neverland; it isn't Eden. Eventually, sadly for some sooner than others, someone will tell them what they heard wasn't real. They'll be reminded that good little boys sit still. They'll be told that marshmallows rot your teeth, and that infinity goes only as far as finite mathematics. The secret will get buried in their heart like it is in mine. And someday when they have children of their own, they'll be reminded of the secret long forgotten. Maybe they'll remember and learn from their children to pursue life instead of survive it.

For now, my sweet baby boys, wake me in the morning, jump with all your might, and the marshmallows are on the bottom shelf. Help yourselves. That's why God made toothpaste.

Lay With Me

Every night we go through the same routine. Bath time, brush teeth, read story (and then another, and then another) read a Bible story (Grant's on a David v. Goliath kick--it's fitting) and then lights out and to sleep. Sounds easy and peaceful right? If you have kids, I know the secret grin is starting to tug at the corners of your mouth. It's never that easy, and if you're having an easy time now, give it six months.

Every night John and I try to extricate ourselves from their room sometime before we nod off ourselves, but how do you say no to this:

"Lay with me, Mommy"

It's said in a half-whisper with arms outstretched and bottom lip protruding. It's a despicable tactic and it works like charm every time. They don't want us to go. They don't want to be alone in the dark.

Do any of us? When the lights are off and the shadows come to life don't we all reach for something? A light, your spouse, your dog, your AK-47? (Easy hair trigger, I'm just joking). Noises that seem absolutely normal during the day, give us pause when the sun goes down. I don't know a single female who lives alone that doesn't have at least one of these three things by her bed: a flashlight, a cell phone, and a heavy or sharp object. When John's out of town I dial in 911 on my cell and just leave it by the bed so all I have to do is hit "send" to summon the Calvary. During the day, however, a 300 lbs, fully armed man could walk through my door and I'd probably offer him coffee and cake.

Anxiety can feel like midnight 24 hours a day. Everything that bumps or thumps in your life causes alarm. Did I turn the stove off? The house is about to explode. Did I tell the kids I loved them this morning? Someone is going to kidnap them tonight. Sound drastic? It IS! So what, then, dear blogger is the solution? Don't have one. At least not a sure fire, all the time, every time kind of solution, but I've got some tips. One or all, used regularly could help.

Leave a light on

Carry a big stick- figuratively. Educate yourself about what scares you if you can. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but it helps me when I can fight the fear in my head with the truth in black and white.

Keep Your Cell By Your Bed- You don't have to program 911, but a friend who can be there anytime day or night. If you don't have one of those there are national crisis numbers you can call 24 hours. They'll talk you down.

Most Importantly: Reach for Someone- Swallow your pride and ask your spouse to stop what they're doing and hold you. If you live alone (or even if you don't), cool news, the Creator of the Universe is ready, willing and able to fill that void. Just reach up, and ask him to lay with you (pouting is optional, but effective).


"He will cover you with his feathers,
and under His wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and
rampart.
You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day....
...'Because he loves me,' says the Lord, 'I
Will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges
my name.
He will call upon me, and I will answer
him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver and honor him." Psalm 91:4-5 and 14-15 emphasis mine

My big stick

For the Other

I will always cry at movies, both happy and sad, so your eyes can stay dry (even as they roll at me)
I will feel your pain, at times, more deeply than you do, so you can feel only what you choose to.
I will remember, so you can forget.
I will stand up with fists blazing, so you can walk away.
I will jump from path to path, so you can walk a straight line.
I will say it out loud, so you can stay silent.
I will find new worlds, so you can save them.
I will be crazy, so you will stay sane.
I will never be your dull moment.

When the waves tumble over me, you'll be my lighthouse.
While I rock in the currents, you're white light will stay calm and strong from the rocks.
When I blow like a kite wherever the wind takes me, you're the string that brings me home.
When I cry at silly movies, you'll hand me the tissue.

You are my roots and I am your branches.
I'll always reach for the stars and sway, and you'll always dig deep for strength
Without you I'll fall with the slightest provocation.
Without me you'll have nowhere to go.

I'm part of you and you're part of me.
1 can't get to 2 without 1 more
And waves can only be waves if there's a shore.

The Thing About Therapy

(Originally Posted on Facebook 1/21/10)

I'm in therapy, or counseling I think is what it's officially labeled. Call it what you will, but I actually sit on a leather couch (so very Hollywood) while spilling my guts to a professional listener. Most people I know don't openly admit they are in therapy, some social stigma I think, but I'm not really sure...maybe I'll consult my therapist. If you haven't been in therapy at some point in your life, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you should be.

I've been to therapists and psychologists who wanted to me to draw pictures of smilely faces to tell them how I felt (try stupid). I have a psychiatrist who wanted me on a healthy dose of medication. For the record, I am not Tom Cruise. I feel there are people who desperately need and benefit from meds, just turns out I'm not one of them. I actually had one shrink tell me that I should try hypnosis to see if I had a poor experience in a past life.... I recommended her to a great therapist. Therapy done right, in my humble and slightly off balance opinion, should do something in your life that everyone needs. Clean.

I have a wonderful counselor right now. She simply asks questions and then listens. Listenes in a way that few people in my life do. Not because they don't care or don't want to, but because people just don't tend to hang on our every word all the time. She does. She notices when I repeat certain phrases or a pattern in my storytelling that lead her to the next question. She helps me unpack. Think of your brain as your house. There are parts of your brain you don't think about (hopefully) the parts that remind the lungs to inhale, the heart to beat, the legs to move. Think of those as the walls of your house. You probably don't pay much attention to your drywall, but you notice your paintcolor, your pictures, artwork, furniture. Those things are the big moments in our lives. Your couch is your very first solid memory of you and your mom baking cookies, the TV is the first friend you had that died, The picture frame over the mantle is your wedding day or first kiss. The big things that we look at everyday and can recall with clarity in an instant.

One day you walk into your house and notice a smell. It's not horrible, just noticable. Like maybe something's rotting somewhere. You look around but find nothing. Eventually your nose gets used to it. As time goes on the smell gets stronger, but again, you can't find anything and the amazing olfactory febreeze helps you forgets its there for a while until the day finally arrives that you can't even walk in the door because of the stench. You can't mask it anymore. Problem is, your nose has gotten so used to the smell you can't tell where it's coming from, so you have to ask someone who's never been in your house to help. You put on your gloves and start moving the big stuff.
Your new friend notices the smells right away and leads you around the rooms. You move the couch (the memory of you and your mom) and behind it you find the thing you wished she'd say and the memory of thing you wish she hadn't. It's rotting there, festering. Behind your wedding photo you find your first heartache. It got stuck behind the photo and it's begining to tear the paint off the wall.

Why do I think everyone should be in therapy at least once in their life? Because we've all got furniture, and even if you're a neat freak you don't clean everything all the time. WHen was the last time you looked behind your fridge, or worse, your dryer. I'm not ashamed to tell you I'm in therapy because I'm finally getting to a place where I'm not ashamed to have people into "my house". They can hang out and not be offended by smells of painful memories, hurtful words, guilt, or past regrets.

If you need someone to talk to, I know some great folks, and at least one who believes in past lives if you're into that. Maybe your perfect. If so, forgive my assumption, and stop listening to crazy people.

Good-bye Sweet Lorelei

I hate to admit this. No, I REALLY do hate it. But it looks like I am going to have to limit my TV watching. I know, I know, big deal, right? Let me give you some background though because,for me, this is monumental.

The television is my little boxed-shaped friend. It has been my constant comfort and source of entertainment since I was old enough to blink. I have watched so many re-run episodes of Gilmore Girls that I am sure that if I ever have a daughter I'll name her Lorelei. "I mean what else would I name her?" I have seen every episode of Saved By the Bell at least 5 times. In high school I watched Zack chase Kelly (and various other female types)every day after school for two straight hours. There were two episodes on the WB followed by two on TBS. "I'm so excited, I'm so...so....scared.." If you don't understand, I can't possibly explain.

Recently, with the advent of Hulu.com and Fancast.com I have been able to watch non-stop, anywhere I go. I'm not sure that there is a show out there that I haven't seen at least one episode of. And that's just TV. Let's not even start on movies (but I will just add this one tidbit. In high school I actually knew the time stamp of my favorite scene in Dirty Dancing so I could watch it over and over...sick right?!). And yes, young ones, time stamps came with VCRs...ask your mama...

I give you a sad look into my viewing history so you know how painful this next statement is for me. I have to quit TV. They don't even make patches for that. No gums, no 12-step programs, nothing. Just gotta do it cold turkey. Can't even stand up in a meeting someday and say "My name is Lucky, and I am an addict, it has been three years since my last all-day Gilmore Girls Marathon."

Why am I subjecting myself to this, you ask? For lent I decided I needed to relinquish something for Jesus that would cause me actual pain. I mean he suffered on a cross for me, so in comparison I think is the least (the very least) I can do. Remarkably after 14 days, 10 hours and 35 minutes-not that I'm counting- I can
tell a huge, gigantic, Titanic (oh crap, Leonardo, I miss you already) difference.

While I miss my daily vacations into the world of Chuck, Lorelei and Rory, the CSI team, and Veronica Mars (hey, I warned you I was sick, don't judge), I realize that in the last two weeks, my head seems...quieter. I feel like I can focus on what people are saying without movie quotes interrupting my thoughts. I can work a full day without being tempted to watch White Collar online and then feel guilty about it. I can make out the voice of reason otherwise drown out by the fictional and fantastic.

Will I never watch TV again as long as I live? Will all Hollywood couples stay married forever? Chances for both are slim. But I hope that at the end of this sabatical I have a new found control over my controller. And maybe I can live the reality show that is my life with a little less distraction.






View My Stats

Forged

I never learn more about myself than when I'm in the company of friends. Friends, the kind worth keeping, see things about us that either we can't see, or just won't see. They pay attention and aren't afraid to let you know when you're missing something.

Every week John and I meet with several other couples who are around the same age and "life stage" we are. Basically we're all half out of our mind dealing with work, school and kids. Those ties that bind...
We were discussing regrets and fears and things about our personalities we hope we don't pass to our kids. As we went around the room, something interesting happened. One person mentioned her overwhelming pursuit of busyness. She feels that if she's not busy all the time that she's wasting time. She is currently pursuing a master's degree while working full time, taking care of her family and keeping up with the most extensive coupon collection I've ever seen in my life. She talked about her need to "do" as if it was a weakness or a fault. I see it as a heck of a work ethic and amazing dedication. Another talked about her worrisome nature, but I also see that she is one of the most compassionate and caring people I know. She'd walk up to the devil and punch him in the teeth if he messed with one of her friends or family members.

I have told them all about my fears and anxieties, and hang-ups and yet they don't see those as weaknesses either. They see the fact that I am aware and fighting as a strength. Surprised but none-the-less encouraged, I thought about that all night last night. What if our weakness are actually our biggest strengths? Okay, maybe to put it a little differently, what if our biggest strengths are forged by our biggest weaknesses? The world's strongest compounds are forged by fire or pressure. If your biggest weakness is a penchant for illegal substances, I'm not saying that's a strong point, but if you get through that addiction isn't that going to be one of the biggest character builders of your life? If you break that cycle of abuse is there anything you can't do?

What if our weaknesses and idiosyncrasies are actually the branding of our Maker? Go with me on this for just a second. If we were perfect and had nothing wrong, no character flaws, no hang-ups or habits, how often would we reach out to God? Most people I know came to God out of their brokenness because He offers wholeness. How do you know you need a doctor if you have no symptoms that you're sick? We all fall short, so why not use the same traits the devil would use against us to make us the best versions of ourselves for God's glory?

Are you seeing what I'm getting at here? No? Here's one more example. At this same meeting one of my friends told me that one of these silly posts I write had caught the attention of a friend of hers who is dealing with her own fight. Her friend was encouraged. I was ecstatic! The very thing that has pulled me down into the deepest pit is the very same thing that God is using set not only me free, but maybe someone else too!

So what if my busy friend realizes that her amazing drive and dedication makes me want to get up and do something too? If she can juggle all that, surely I can get dinner on the table without running by McDonald's first.

You aren't weak my friends. You can move mountains. You may just have to move your perceptions a little bit first. Funny that, at times, perceptions of ourselves can seem bigger than the Rockies...

"Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. 10That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12:9,10