The Day My Husband Became A Superhero

June 15, 2019

Artwork by MDCN

My husband is a superhero. Yep, you heard me right. My husband recently became a police officer. It’s been a dream of his since he was little. To protect and serve. “Why do you want to be a police officer”, he was often asked. “I want to help people”. Simple as that. He began applying fresh out of college. His passion for law enforcement never died despite some early disappointing misses. Throughout the years, he never shook this nagging feeling. Have you ever had dream unrealized? A desire you can’t shake? An unanswered prayer? An unanswered question? “Why didn’t that work out for me?” 

Until one day, with his birthday deadline approaching, he asked me, “Do you mind if I give it another shot?” And without hesitation, I replied, “Go for it.” And that was it. Something transformed in him. Something was reignited. This unrealized dream was now turning into a plan. An achievable goal. And it had to work. He was the old guy. This was it for him. All the late nights at the gym. The meal planning. The practicing interviewing. The praying. Becoming a police officer is not something anyone just stumbles into or tries out. It is an intentional lifelong service. A sacrifice. You are never really off the clock. Some sit on hiring lists for years. And some never make it. It has to be in your soul, and you have to blood, sweat, and tears it. God created the vision, and my husband ran hard with it. Many ask, “Why on Earth would you want to be a police officer this day in age where people don’t value, don’t respect, nor do they trust authority?” His answer has remained the same: to help people.

I was the first person he called when he got the news. I shared the news with our kids. “Daddy did it!”, our middle one had shouted. I had the honor of holding our Bible while he swore his oath and the honor of struggling to pin on his badge (it’s way more difficult than you think). The privilege watching him graduate from the Academy with a broken ankle and all! Still, so handsome in his uniform. The pride. The honor. The courage. The call.

But what if this was just a job? Just a title. What if his uniform was just work attire? What if his squad car was just another vehicle? What if 51 was just a number? What if his badge was just a fancy piece of metal? Because what if the badge doesn’t make the man, but what if the man actually makes the badge. A symbol is just a picture without the character to carry it.

What if the day he became a superhero wasn’t just when he took the oath or when he graduated but were also all the times before? The times he’s made his parents proud. Superhero. The times he’s helped people move, and he doesn’t even own a truck. Superhero. The moments he realized his new baby was a girl and the first time he held each of his girls in his arms. The late nights changing diapers and rocking sleepy babies to sleep. Superhero. The times he’s taught his girls to ride bikes and play ball. Superhero. The birthdays he went all out for and games and events he never missed. Superhero. All the times he lights up a room and makes that whole room cry from laughter. Superhero. The times he’s walked neighborhood dogs home, held doors for people , and returned other people’s grocery carts. Superhero. The time he pursued to take the oath when others turned the other way. The time he broke his ankle and returned the next day to finish what he started. Superhero. All the times he’s been the listening ear for family and friends. The times that he’s honored his wedding vows. The times he has cheered me on too. The times he’s followed God and brought his family to church when it’s easier to stay home. Superhero. There will be more to come. More times where he’s the first one on the scene. The one called on people’s worst days. The one having hard conversations. The one providing aid and direction.

I can’t tell you what day he actually became a superhero. I don’t think you can really pinpoint it. It’s more of a gradual transformation. A daily way of being. I just know he already was one when I met him. And now he has the badge.

Circles And Corners

March 10, 2019

“I don’t understand it. I reach out and call, and they don’t call back unless they need something. I tell them things in private, and they openly criticize me and talk about me. I am happy for them, and they don’t even seem to notice my accomplishments. It’s like I’m invisible.” Maybe this sounds familiar. Maybe this FEELS familiar. Sometimes, those you assume should and would be there are far from supportive. They are not just on a different page but are on a completely different book series, in a different genre, by a different author. They are in the same room, but are light years away.

It’s wonderful to have a circle. Family, friends, and acquaintances that are near and dear. Those you see often and can easily reach. Ones that are connected to you in multiple ways and those you see on holidays. We are meant to have relationships. We are meant to connect. We are meant to have a familiar circle. But not everyone in our circle is supportive, get us, or are even our people. They may even share your DNA or same last name. There’s always one (at least!). Sometimes, they ignore us. Sometimes, they don’t even like us. Sometimes, they are just plain toxic.

Don’t find people that are just in your circle. Find those that are in your corner.

Find the people that will cheer your wins with enthusiasm and encourage you with hope in your losses. Those that will say “I can see you doing that” when you share a new bucket list goal. Those that will help you pick yourself up when you fall. Those that look for ways to include you. Those that will pamper you with care when you’re all beat up. Those that will just sit with you in silence when there are no words. Those that will tell you the hard truths when you would rather they say what you want to hear instead. The ones that will tell you you’re wrong and the reasons they’re concerned (and you actually listen). But having people in your corner means you are in their corner too. You don’t just take but you give. Because when they win, you win too. And they know when you win, they’re gonna win too.

Your corner can be made of family. The ones closest to you. It can be made of friends. Sometimes, it’s the ones you talk to every so often but pick back up where you left off like time was put on pause. And sometimes it’s only for a season. Sometimes, it’s a lot of people. Sometimes, it’s just a few. Sometimes, it’s just your dog and Jesus. Sometimes, it’s just you and Jesus. And, sometimes, we’re left asking, “Jesus, you still there?”

Whoever it is that is in your corner, appreciate them and be grateful for them. Listen to your corner, feel their support, and take heed. And be grateful for, encourage, and listen to yourself especially when you’re the only one. You’re in it to win it. You’ve got your eye on the prize. And be grateful you’re still in the corner because that means you haven’t given up. Instead, you’re still fighting the good fight.

It’s Not All Roses

February 14, 2019

“Eww. What’s that smell?”, my kids said in dismay. “I think it’s the flowers,” I said a little confused by my conclusion. “Yuck those flowers smell bad!” The girls were right. I had woken up that morning wondering if the dog or the toddler had peed somewhere. Multiple times. Until, I realized the smell was coming from the beautiful bouquet of flowers that my husband bought for our daughters and me for Valentine’s Day. I’m not complaining here. My husband is very sweet with his surprises for us. And the flowers were a beautiful and nice life filled touch to our lengthy, polar vortexy winter. Seriously, how long is this winter? I was puzzled how a gorgeous bouquet could smell so terrible! It wasn’t the elegant roses. Those smelled amazing. Was it the tiny carnations, or the baby’s breath, or something sprayed on the stems? I couldn’t figure it out. All I knew was that this beautiful display wasn’t all roses.

When I was young and single, I had this naive fantasy of what marriage should be: an expensive house, frequent dates and luxurious vacations, getting along always, staying young and fit, cuddling in our sleep all night. And not many things going wrong because, after all, I’m a great planner, I’m a good person, and I love Jesus. What could possibly go wrong?

There it was our wedding day. I had spent months of planning and imagining. No, more like obsessing. Yet, many, many things went wrong. No, really. Things outside of our control. I didn’t plan this! But some things were too perfect to be planned. How my husband had forgotten his written vows at home and had to recite them from memory and how he made everyone laugh. That’s right, folks, my husband made everyone laugh during the ceremony. Perfect. And how we happened to write the exact same opening line. It’s so cheesy that Hallmark can’t even make that up! How my cake design looked even more amazing than I imagined. How my all rose floral arrangements, from the wedding on a budget aisle at Hobby Lobby, looked stunning. They looked like a million bucks! A special moment I had with my mom. Can’t plan that! But at the end of the whirlwind head spinning day, where I didn’t even get a piece of my own cake, we were husband and wife. Which means everything. Our wedding day was a lesson for us that it’s not all roses.

But there’s some roses. And those are beautiful, because marriage IS beautiful. Love is beautiful. Life is beautiful. Like the first home you have, the first pregnancy test you take, and the first positive test you get. The first time you hold your first baby. (Cue the crying. I have myself crying over here). The first steps, first words, first days of school. The big dreams you both accomplish while cheering each other on. The couples friends you get. The dates you get without the kids and the comfort you have knowing your partner has your back and gets you and your mess.

But there’s also the times you don’t want to plan. The things that smell bad in life. The doctor’s visit that you receive bad news, the terrible piece of mail that comes in, the struggles you go through and the struggles your kids go through, a big fight. A rough patch. A financial loss. Loss of loved ones. It’s not all roses.

Love is learning to grow up together and grow closer together with the roses and the not roses. Love is a mixed bouquet. But a lovely bouquet. One that you can still find joy in and experience. Embrace it and enjoy it while life lasts. Because it doesn’t last all that long as we are merely a vapor. Take all of it in. Because it truly is beautiful. The roses and even the not so roses.

A Baby And Her Bottle

July 5, 2018

“If she won’t take the medicine with a syringe, try putting it in the bottle. Some babies will chug it, because they’re hungry”, the kind lady at the hospital told us prior to discharge. She went over all the instructions on how to care for our baby who was now officially being treated for cluster seizures. our sweet girl had been through enough. We were ready to go home.

In the next couple of days, we found giving our baby medication 2 times a day was very challenging. She would block the medicine with her tongue and would cry. If she could just understand this is for her good, I thought. Out of desperation, we followed the recommendation and placed the medicine in the bottle. She didn’t go for it. Then, we tried mixing it with milk. Then, more milk. Then, chocolate milk. Nothing. We ended up having to still give her the medication via syringe, but now we had a new problem: she would no longer take a bottle. She no longer trusted her bottle and was too smart to be fooled. This was a big problem for a 9 month old that was so petite that she wasn’t even on the growth chart. And a problem for a baby whose mom had to work part time.

Everything was fine when I was home. But feeding her when I was at work became like trying to solve the Rubik’s Cube in the dark. She was taking the saying “breast is best” a bit too far. We consulted her doctors, who reassured us to not panic and that she’ll eat if she’s hungry. We tried everything they suggested and even ideas of our own: different family members feeding her, tried both formula and breast milk, bought new expensive bottles with the large nipples, tried various sippy cups that looked nothing like bottles. I even tried doing the switcheroo. You know, where you, in the middle of nursing, try to have baby unlatch and then latch to the bottle. Nope. She would push the bottle away in her sleep and continue nursing.

Then, I thought of a great idea. I will slowly expose her to bottle feeding until she’s no longer turned off from the bottle. If it works for phobias, systematic desensitization has to work with a baby terrified of drinking from her bottle. I got this! I gave her the bottle nipples without the bottle attached to play with. Overtime, success. Then, gave her the nipple with the ring attached. After a while, success. Then, attached it to an empty bottle. Success. “Look, she’s happy with her bottle”, patting myself on the back. I’m one bad mama. As soon as a little milk went in it, she would push it away and not go near it. Attempt after attempt. She would not go for it. Systematic desensitization fail. She would not forget her betrayal.

In the meantime, I was driving home on breaks just to nurse her and was spreading out my work schedule even more throughout the week. Talk about anxiety knowing your baby is probably hungry but only wants you. And you’re not home. We introduced more baby cereal and baby food, which wasn’t her favorite, but she was willing to eat some from a spoon. Other than that, she would wait until she heard my voice when I got home. Right when she would sense my presence came the hysterics. Talk about working mom guilt! “If I could only stay home!”, I cried.

Out of desperation, my husband thought of his great idea. It was no therapy technique I’ve ever studied and definitely not in any text book I’ve ever read. He took his T-shirt and cut a hole big enough for the nipple of her bottle to go through. “Hey, if it works for Mom, it’s got to work for Dad”, he thought. He got the milk ready, placed the bottle in his t-shirt, brought baby up to his chest, and she started to happily drink her milk. Success. He was on his way to being hailed Dad Of The Year. The Superest Superdad There Ever Was. That was until the bottle suddenly slipped through the hole and freaked our baby girl out, causing her to be even more disgusted by her bottle. At least, he gave it a shot.

This story would have ended nicely if Superdad swept in and saved the day. But sometimes in the world of parenting, we try everything, and things don’t quite resolve so easily. We aren’t handed a book with all the answers, but we end up writing the book and write a different one for each child. Sometimes, we just have to hang in there, creatively use our resources, and be patient. And just hope and pray. We cannot demand that our children just get with the program, because sometimes they don’t understand the program. Instead of expecting our children to rise up to our level of understanding, we have to kindly reach down to their level and lovingly see life from their point of view. She eventually warmed back up to the bottle and took every feeding while I was gone. I took away from that experience some priceless lessons I’ll never forget: never ever mess with a baby’s bottle, and I’m a much better parent than I think I am.

Lean Into It

May 10, 2018

“Lean into it.” I heard a female voice say. I was in transition and trying not to completely lose it. I was in my zone and successfully tuning out much of the world around me except for that occasional female voice that would guide me. I can’t tell you for some of my births or even parts of each birth whose voice it was or how many were actually in the room. Trying to breathe felt impossible, while the pain took my breath away and took over my whole body, my mind, and my whole being. “Lean into it” was a gentle reminder to work with my body and not fight against it. To allow this excruciatingly painful process to bring my baby into my arms. They say if you tense up in labor, it can make the process much harder and longer. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories of this (I’ll spare gruesome details). Fighting a necessary process only makes it more difficult.

For my first baby, I wasn’t even close to going into labor on my own when I met the fill in midwife to discuss beginning the induction process that evening. I was terrified, because for one, my own midwife was out, and secondly, I needed at least a 2 step induction. I had taken all the supplements, followed all recommendations, and prayed pleading tearful prayers everyday. Still nothing. She informed me that it was more dangerous to wait and that this was medically necessary for the well being of my baby. My solution was to go Black Friday shopping and walk my baby out. She told me if I wanted to go into labor on my own, I should go home and have sex instead. She replied to our disappointed looks with “well, I didn’t say it had to be with him (pointing at my husband), you can go find George Clooney if you want.” Wow, this woman must be a miracle worker, because I suddenly felt at ease. Needless to say, we finished our Christmas shopping and met her that evening to begin the induction. I’m not a George Clooney kind of girl, anyway. And labor was a long, slow, painful road.

You also hear of these legendary stories of women that had enough strength or faith or whatever it may be to have a pain free labor without pain meds. I’ll spare you the details, because, well, I can’t relate. I experienced every bit of the pain. Which in and of itself is a complete miracle. Trusting that you’ll make it on the other side of the pain in triumph. That’s the money, right there.

This isn’t about pain meds or no pain meds, completely natural or Cesarean birth, biological parents or adoption. It’s about the pain we face to be moms. It’s not an easy road. It’s not about the glam and Instagram. It’s about the everyday things and the things only we feel. The things only we know. It’s about the sacrifice we make to carry the name “Mom”. We are sometimes sold that if you do these certain steps, believe enough, know the right things, or have the right resources that we can escape the pain. But none of us can escape the pain. Not if we want to be mom. The pain is the cost of the call. It earns us the right to claim our name and earns us the prize of beauty. No pain, no gain. You can’t get the glory for something you don’t own, and you won’t truly get it for the work you didn’t complete. And if you try, it’s just plagiarism or stealing. There is no glory in that. You get what you pay for.

Your mom, your spouse, your best friend, your doctor. They can’t take your cup. Not even if you wanted them to. Or begged them to. Or paid them to. It’s not their pain, and it’s not their glory. It’s all yours. To have the glory of being called Mom by the precious people you love the most will cost you everything. But lean into it. From the countless months waiting to conceive, the barfing, the labor, sleepless nights, the mom guilt, decisions about school, school drama, first dates, and more sleepless nights. It’s all your pain. And you’ll earn the glory. Lean into it. Don’t give up no matter how hard it is. Every step of the way, it’s yours. You’ve got this, you’ve earned it. Keep going and you’ll be on the other side. You’ll feel the pride of a job well done. And, oh, the stories you’ll tell. The hugs, love, affirmation, and admiration is yours. But first, you must lean into it.

The Elegant Elephant

April 26, 2018

“I think I need an ambulance. My baby is having seizures”, I told the dispatcher. My extra petite 7 month old, this sweet little girl that we prayed endless prayers for during my pregnancy, was starting to have seizures one right after the other. She had this happen before, and her doctors believed they identified the possible triggers. But this time, there were no predictors. And this time, I was alone with the kids. The first responders came, and sent us to a local hospital, where my husband met us. Our baby had numerous tests and attempts at blood draws. My dad was also in the hospital for having seizures and was not doing well. My mom had just made a concerning call to me days prior, and, now, I was making a concerning call to her. While focused on her medical care, we were also arranging for who would keep our other children, get one off to school, and care for our dog. This was not what we had planned that week at all. Two family emergencies within days of each other is beyond complicated and exhausting. My dad and my infant daughter. My mind was filled with worry. 

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Several hours later, we were transferred to a children’s hospital.  When we arrived at the hospital, we noticed several things: the friendly staff, top notch medical care, several options for food, and murals and sculptures to make the stay more pleasant. No matter the effort, you are still left with the understanding that you are not at a children’s park, museum, or zoo. You are certainly in a hospital. A children’s hospital: the saddest place you hope to never be. There are many reminders of this. The frequent visits by numerous staff, the repeated retelling of information, the wires, the IVs, the cage bed, the uncomfortable cots, the exhaustion, the lack of sleep. And the uncertainty. What would they find? Were the seizures related to her small size? Was all this related to symptoms they saw during my pregnancy? Would she be in her grandpa’s shoes one day? We would find out more answers after more tests, which required fasting. I was dreading this challenge as she still nursed every 2.5 hours and mostly wanted me.

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There came the time that she woke up while fasting and wanted to nurse. My husband told me to go to the lounge so he can try to calm her. Even if a nursing baby can’t see mom, baby still knows mom is there and will cry until satisfied in mom’s embrace. There I went hearing my hungry baby crying for only me while my husband rocked her and cradled her closely in his arms. I groggily walked with my crappy cup of coffee down the hall passed the other screaming baby, passed the other families, and passed the children alone whose parents had to go home. There are no words for what you see.

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I sat in the lounge while waiting thinking about how my dad was doing. Hoping that no one accidentally told him his granddaughter was in the hospital while he fought to recover basic functioning. Wondering how my other kids were doing. Wishing God would let me take the place of my baby in anguish. Praying that she could go back to sleep and make it through the test until she could be with her mom again. And I got the text. The baby was sleeping. Her dad was able to rock her to sleep despite being hungry and longing for her mom. She was able to find comfort in her father’s arms. A sense of relief swept over my heart. Sometimes, we can not take our children’s pain or challenges away. Sometimes, we can not give them what they are crying out for. Sometimes, our love seems to fall short in these moments when they hurt the most. But where our human ability ends, the Heavenly Father’s ability is only beginning. In His infallible arms, He can take away pain, give comfort, and give peace that goes beyond any understanding. The Father’s arms do not end there, they extend to us parents as well. He strengthens us, and graces us. He gives us wisdom, and endurance. He fathers us while we mother and father our own children. And we are always within His reach. We are always within the Father’s arms: the most comforting place we could ever want to be.

My Husband’s Mom

March 19, 2018

Whenever I’m around my girlfriends, I hear them talk about their mother-in-laws. All the things they do for them and the kids. The sleep overs, shopping, crafts, the birthday party planning, and celebrations together. The advice they get and the stories they hear about their husbands when they were little.

When I listen to them share, I don’t think about my mother-in-law but about my own mother. And how she does mother-in-law type things for my husband and the stories she tells him about me. All embarrassing of course. I think about how we celebrate together and how we appreciate the relationship she has with our kids. I grew up with having fun this time of year as my mom’s birthday and mine are only days apart. We’ll be celebrating my mom in a couple of weeks. It’s the same day that, several years ago, a little boy was mourning the loss of his mom. I listened when he told me about how his mom was diagnosed and passed away months later in the spring. “That’s my mom’s birthday”. I remember the exact moment when we discovered that our moms shared a significant day.

From what I hear, my husband’s mom was unforgettable. She was incredibly funny, highly intelligent, loved God with every ounce of her soul, and loved her friends and family intensely. She was also not a woman to be messed with. My husband has told me numerous times about how she had words with the mom of the neighborhood boy that tried stealing my husband’s bike. She was a protector of those she loved. I’ve heard my husband reflect back at his life and say that certain things would have been different and would now be different if his mom were here. I believe that’s true. I feel it’s true. When the Pearson’s talk about how their dad has been gone longer than they had him, it resonates in our house. We live that reality. My husband has been missing his mom almost three times as long as she mothered him. This Is Us hits us where it hurts and gives us all the feels and way too many tears.

Even with just the time I’ve known him, there’s always an empty space. Someone else that’s missing and that we’re missing. Only one mom at the wedding, one mom at the birth of our kids, one mom at Grandparents’ Day, one mom at recitals and games, one mom at family emergencies. My mom doing double mom and double grandma duty. My husband has been blessed with a large and loving family of full of women with grandmas, aunts, and cousins. His aunt altering my wedding dress, his aunts lighting the unity candle, his aunts visiting our new baby, his grandma sending us meals, and his other grandma telling us how much our oldest daughter looks like her daughter: my husband’s mom. And now he has sister-in-laws, 4 nieces, a wife, a mother-in-law, a new step-mom, and three daughters. He has been surrounded by women that love him. But I know that no one is like your own mom. No one knows you like your own mom. No one loves you like your own mom.

My husband’s mom. She is dear to me, because she raised him to the fullest in the short time she had. The woman that will always on this side of Heaven be my husband’s mom and not my mother-in-law. I’m hoping I’m loving her son like she had prayed and raising her grandkids the way she hoped. One day, I won’t just have stories and pictures to know her by but will know her myself. I’ll hear her tell stories about her son. And I’ll have a few to share with her. When she’ll finally be my mother-in-law. Until, then, my husband’s mom, you are deeply missed. And not just on the big occasions, but every single day.

The Love Transition

March 4, 2018

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“Mommy, this mommy looks like you. Mom…why did you stop reading?” I was reading “Love You Forever” to my 6 year old. I was fighting tears and couldn’t get out another word. And I was only on the first few pages. It was all too much and feeling too real.

My dad, a completely unstoppable courageous man, was in the hospital and not doing well. He could not talk and was barely opening his eyes. He did not even respond to me when I called him “Dad”. I called his first name loudly, to which he opened his eyes briefly and closed them again. His doctors believed his condition was related to his seizures but were not sure why he was not recovering quickly. This was happening way too soon. My dad was only 60 years old. My mom, who was usually asking how she could help us, was now being asked by us how we could help her.

It’s a strange thing when roles start changing and when they start reversing. There are seemingly endless days in which our parents carry us and provide all of our needs. We slowly grow up and fly from the nest. One day, we begin to notice what had been slowly creeping up on us the entire time: our parents are getting older. It’s a painful, quiet transition I wish I could stop. But the transition is the fulfillment of a life filled with love.

We began discussing who was going to the hospital and when and how long we could sit with my dad. Did my mom need us to get her mail or mow the lawn? Did she need anything from the grocery store? As hard as it is to see our parents age, it’s even harder for them to rely on the ones they once looked after. The ones they once rocked to sleep. At the end of the day, I would hear the exhaustion in my mom’s voice telling me all the updates of what the doctors said and how she thought my dad was doing. I hoped that my dad would recover miraculously but also that my mom would feel the support and love from her kids. That she could feel the reward of raising kids that loved them back and were strong enough to lean upon. Before I would go to bed, I would rock my baby while nursing her to sleep. Hoping and praying that I’m loving her right, and wishing to put life on pause. Knowing one day that she’ll be my grown daughter looking out for me, taking care of me, and maybe even holding me. No matter how grown she is, my heart will always sing “as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

Quote taken from “Love You Forever” by Robert Munsch Read More

Mommy Is Wonder Woman

December 9, 2017

“I’ll be Supergirl. Cady will be Batgirl. Baby will be Destroy Baby. Daddy will be Superman. And you’ll be Wonder Woman.” My 4 year old has recited this tale since she was not quite 3. She creates scenarios of her superhero family fighting the bad guys and helping each other. I find her name for me endearing and chuckle when I hear it. I don’t think of myself as fitting the Wonder Woman type. A mighty superhero would not come to mind if you met me. I’ve never been athletic, I’m kind of petite, and I’m quite the nerd. I don’t even consider myself to be a supermom. I’m not an overachiever, I’m never ready for a selfie, and my house is always a little messy. Supermom status is not something I’ll ever achieve nor is it something I covet. And here I was preparing to have my third surgery. It was something I was hoping not to have and was not on my Christmas list. I’ve had surgery after every baby simply because of the strain that pregnancy does to my body. Who else does this happen to? Certainly not Wonder Woman. I had known there was risk of surgery if I had a third baby but chose to anyway. Who does that? Quite possibly a mad woman.

As disappointed as I was, I started to focus on the reality that I couldn’t change it and wouldn’t change it. I had three beautiful babies that were worth every second of discomfort and pain. I would give my life for them, and I would make those choices again without hesitation. Sometimes, in life, we can’t choose our path, but we can choose how to walk it. I had to prepare for the worst and pray for the best. I began asking around for help during my recovery, completed much of our Christmas shopping, and went to town cleaning my house. I could be down for at least 2 weeks. My thought “of course this would happen” began to transform to “I can handle a week of complete misery. I’ve done it before.” My doctor informed me that my surgery could quite possibly be more invasive than the other two and that I may be out of work longer than before. That didn’t stop me from asking God for an easy surgery and fast recovery. Here’s to hoping for the best.

On the morning of my surgery, my 4 year old began to cry and asked to come along. She also asked if I would be ok. I knelt down and hugged her and said “Mommy is going to be fine. Remember? I’m Wonder Woman”. I had never called myself Wonder Woman, but in that moment I believed I was. No matter what I was facing, her mom was going to handle it.

At the hospital, I surprisingly felt very calm and peaceful. I joked around with the nurses about asking my doctor to throw in a tummy tuck, liposuction, and a boob lift. With my IV in and waiting to be wheeled in, I declared with a smile on my face “I’m ready”.

Moments later, I struggled to wake up and asked my husband what happened. I was anxious to hear how big the incisions were and how much extra time I would have to take off of work. He simply said, “you had the best case scenario.” I had a minimally invasive surgery, and my prognosis was a very quick recovery time. My doctor jokingly said it was a Christmas miracle. But for a mom, it was no joke. Sometimes, you get what you pray for, sometimes, you get what you fear, and sometimes, you get a strange mix of the two. I have the 10 scars to prove that.

So, when life throws some good punches, will I be Whiney Woman and feel badly for myself or will I be Wonder Woman and face the challenge, even with tears in my eyes? Will I believe in myself or believe my fear? We mothers are amazing. We can do things no one else can. We are superheroes in our children’s eyes. We can take away pain and fear. We bring life and magic. We give everything we have willingly. So, I may not be Wonder Woman to anyone else but to my 4 year old. And I’ll gladly live that role.

Grandpa Will Fix It

November 26, 2017

“Grandpa will fix it”, my 3 year old replied anytime something broke down. My dad can fix almost anything and has never been afraid to try to fix something new. Nothing stops him from trying, even if he has to do a little research and make a few attempts to succeed. The bravest thing I’ve ever seen him try to fix is his drinking. My dad began drinking at a young age. By the time he married my mom, he was an alcoholic. He did the things addicts did like saying and doing hurtful things, making excuses for his drinking, shifting blame, and lying. We would give him the message that we didn’t approve. Once, a can of beer got knocked over on accident, spilling beer on the carpet. My brother replied, honestly but humorously, “it wouldn’t have spilled if you weren’t drinking”. My dad even chuckled. He knew it was true. He was a good person, had a great job, was active in our church, loved God, and he loved us. I have amazing memories with my dad when I was a kid. But he had a problem, and his brain, processing alcohol differently than most, wouldn’t quit telling him to drink more. And more. He attempted leaving alcohol for good, and his sobriety would have a good run for a couple of months. But, then, small hands and small eyes would usually find the evidence. “But if I don’t say anything, maybe it won’t be true”, reasoned an innocent and hopeful heart. For my dad and his attempt at sobriety, there was more than one failed attempt. And our hearts grew sick.

Then, one day, he quit one final time. It was a day that seemed to come out of nowhere. We didn’t know then that it was the final time. But God knew. He poured out all of the beer into a bucket in his favorite drinking place: the garage. He was going to show my mom and make a declaration of a promise. On his way, he tripped and spilled the beer on himself. There was spilled beer again, but this time it came with tears of joy and amends. So, when he tried talking with her, she thought he was drunk. That was the rough beginning of his sobriety.

Recovery requires admitting your problem is bigger than you but not bigger than God. It involves taking an honest look at yourself and making amends. Rebuilding hope and rebuilding trust. It takes courage, transparency, risk, humility, and grace. Recovery is a lifelong battle but a daily choice. It doesn’t come easy, and it can take years to rebuild the things that were damaged. And sometimes you have to build a whole new thing. Pour a new foundation. It took a long time for my parents to learn how to be married as husband and wife instead of alcoholic and enabler. For us to have a dad that was connected and dependable. But my dad, no matter how difficult it was, never gave up. No, not this time. His run of sobriety has lasted 25 years and counting. He’s into repairing things now. He’s the handy man, the problem solver. He’s the one I call when I need strong, solid advice. And he’s dependable to answer. He continues to be transformed by his Heavenly Father to be more like Him. And when I hear my kids say, “Grandpa will fix it”, I hear a truth that is bigger than they realize. I hear that they confidently and without a doubt trust him with his word. No questions asked. When Grandpa says he will do something, he means it. And the father’s word is everything.