Friday, August 26, 2016

believe

I have a new tattoo and I love it. It means many things to me and brings a happy little smile to my face every time I look at it, which is often since it's front and center on my right wrist.
Still red and swollen, it's my fresh new tattoo
Here is what it means to me: The balloon meandering away symbolizes life, the fleeting beauty of it and the teeny tiny blip of time that we have the honor of living and loving here on earth. We can watch it float away or we can grab on and go for a ride. I hope my life reflects my decision to grab on. Although my favorite color is blue, I chose deep purple to honor the lives of those who have died of pancreatic cancer, especially my friend, Jenna. It is another reminder that our time here is limited so we might as well live, really live, while we're here.

The string of the balloon says believe, which means many things to me. It means believe in Christ. It means believe in the good of this broken and hurting world. It means believe in the strength of myself. That last one is key. I've been battling myself and losing for quite a while now. That time is over. I got used to living half alive. I went through the motions, I put on a smile, and then I retreated into myself as soon as possible. The song "Jar of Hearts" was on repeat in my brain. At one time, the words felt like the only thing I would ever know. Now they remind me of where I was and where I am and where I can go from here.


On Wednesday I signed up for my second marathon. I finished my first marathon in October of 2015 and it is an almost constant reminder of how depressed and sick I was and of me giving up on me. I am in a different place now, I am working to be in an even better place, and I want redemption. I want to step up to the start line prepared and I want to finish the race proud. I believe I will succeed on both counts. Running is a mental game and my head is back in the game. I believe.

On Thursday I did my first training run for a trail half marathon in November, then I have a marathon next May, and trail Ragnar in June. I am setting goals. Last night I made lasagna and unloaded the dishwasher and corrected math and did the dishes and read books to kids and tucked them in. It's regular mom stuff, but it feels really impressive because just a few months ago getting dressed was quite a big accomplishment for me. But that's then and this is now and I'm setting goals. It's scary to put that out there. I don't want to fail. I don't want to fall. But trying and failing is better than living a shell of a life. I believe. I have to believe. I have to believe I'm worth the effort. Because it's still effort. It's still work. But I believe.

Also from "Jar of Hearts," this is my message for depression
We all have our demons. Mine overwhelmed my life. With my history of depression and my family history, I can't say they're gone forever, but I can say that I feel a lot better and I believe in me again. No matter what you're struggling with today, I hope you can say the same thing.

Peace for the journey, friends. We're all in this together.



Sunday, August 21, 2016

Cuatro es tres.

Our littlest fellow turns three tomorrow. Well, actually he'll wake up tomorrow and the magical changing of the year will have already happened. I've hugged my two-year-old for the last time. Audrey and I had a good cry about that one when I tucked her in. She's so sad that he is growing so big because he's so cute and funny and sweet. I reminded her that she did the same thing. She even had the audacity to turn ten. It's a grand injustice of motherhood, is what it is. What I wouldn't give to rewind 12 1/2 years to begin again with all four of my kids. Instead, tomorrow marks the beginning of 7th grade, 5th grade, 3rd grade, and 3 years old. It's really too much for one mama to handle in one day. Too much new growing and changing of the guard and pangs of the heart.




I hugged Asher before bed, a nice and tight one that I never wanted to end. "I would start all over if I could," I told him. He smiled and laughed, oblivious to what that meant, oblivious to the tears trying to slip down my cheeks, oblivious to how incredibly happy and sad I am that he is turning three. I think mamas are especially good at the mingling of sad and happy feelings, at watching little people grow to big people, at mourning and celebrating the exact same moments.

All he wants is an ambulance. A few weeks ago, we purchased a used playset for the backyard. Jim and my cousin took it apart and hauled it here and were carrying it to the backyard when Asher boy looked down from the deck and incredulously shouted, "But I wanted an ambulance!" Good grief, we laughed about that. Really, we're still laughing about that. (He'll be unwrapping an ambulance in the morning.) Tomorrow he wants homemade pizza and sweet potatoes and cake and ice cream. We're having a small party next weekend. He wants to play at the park and have cupcakes and ice cream.

Those are the details. But then there's the boy. He's a nonstop talker, hugger, magnet block builder, car driving, game playing, game inventing, dog hugging, sibling chasing, bike riding boy. When he laughs or smiles people melt. His personality is as big as his buddha belly. He talks up strangers at the grocery store and gives peace at church while waiting impatiently for his communion bread. Carbs are his love language. He is a mama's boy through and through. He loves to help dada feed the dog or change the oil, and especially loves Ace  Hardware. He is ridiculously verbal, but won't use the toilet. He sleeps in a crib, but wants a big boy bed, which he'll get soon. He told me he sees an old lady in his closet. (creepy!) He loves books in laps, rocking in gliders, and snuggles. Then he wants to run like the wind! He wakes up in the morning, still early, but not so terribly early as he used to, and we snuggle and he tells me he loves me 1000 times and I kiss his cheekers and he drives cars on my arms.

Sweet boy, our sprinkles on top of our ice cream sundae family, will I remember you as you are now when three years more have passed? Your dimpled elbows and chubby cheeks and Ys that sound like Ls so you say Les instead of Yes. The way you open our dinner devotional, ask all of us to be quiet, and "read" it. "Don't kick. Don't kick a head off. Be kind." The way you wait mostly impatiently for communion at church so you can get bread, and then Pastor Vera gives me two pieces so I can give one to you and Audrey and dada tear off little pieces to share with you. The way you bike on the driveway with Elliot and chase Isaac around the yard while he plays disc golf. The way you play groundies with the big kids and they let you catch them sometimes. The way you fit in my arms just so with my head resting on your head, then you lean back and I see your eyelashes, long and blonde in the sunshine. The certainty with which you jump off the edge of the pool. The feel of your head nestled into my neck when you're unsure. That and more and all of it.




Our cuatro. Our Asher boy. We love you. You are our most unexpected gift and a lifetime of thank yous would never express our gratitude that you are ours and we are yours.







Happy third birthday, choochie face.