Tag: Family

Mom Put Magic In The Christmas Stocking

December 23, 2019

Growing up, the Christmas stockings were the best part of Christmas morning. My brother would also agree. My mom would search for the perfect, meaningful gifts all year and at various places. “I got that while your dad and I were out of town”. My mom was always thoughtfully planning to make our stockings special, before Christmas was even a thought in our heads.

Each stocking stuffer was carefully wrapped, waiting to be uncovered by kids wondering what Mom had put in there this time. I’ve unwrapped mini 90s shimmery lipsticks and flavored lip balms. Novelty school supplies, such as a pencil topped with a vial of polished stones, because my mom knew I loved collecting rocks. There was also an oversized eraser with the printed phrase “Homework Causes Brain Damage”, because my mom knew what a struggle the school year had been and that I needed a laugh. Before there were fidget spinners and fidget blocks, there were my mom’s stocking stuffers. Mind puzzles that took fiddling with your hands to solve and items that quietly kept your mind busy. And for a kid that had an anxious mind, it felt like mom had put magic in the Christmas stocking. And sometimes there literally was magic in my stocking. I had a love for the art of illusion, optical illusion and the art of performance illusion. With dreams of growing up to be a professional illusionist, unwrapping magic tricks made my imaginative heart happy. To believe just for a moment that magic was real…

But for the observer, the stockings may have appeared to be filled with pointless, meaningless things. What a waste of time to spend all year on such small things. The perception of the observer and the perception of the giver and receiver can be worlds apart.

At the first Christmas, Mary had been fleeing for her child’s life when she gave birth in a stable. I’m sure it appeared less than magical. But for Mary, I’m sure it was more than magical. It was miraculous. Giving birth to her first child and holding him for the first time. Do you remember holding your baby the first time? The warmth, the smell, the joy. And not just any child, but the Savior. Mary was the first one to receive this beautiful gift that God had planned long ago. And this gift isn’t just for Mary, but is for each person on Earth. Tailor made for each of our needs since the first wrong. And for the receiver of Jesus, is found an abundant life for eternity. To have sins washed away, to have the promise of eternity, and to have the storms of anxiety calmed is more than magic. To the receiver, Jesus is a very welcomed miracle at just the right time.

And now I’m the mom filling my own kids’ stockings with perfect, meaningful gifts. Things that they love and make their hearts happy. I’ve come to understand that there was more than just magic in my stocking. There was Jesus. My mom had been pointing me to this precious gift the whole time with her thoughtful planning, love, kindness, and care. And my hope is my kids can find the magic and miracle of Christmas. I hope that I have pointed them to Jesus, especially in the smallest of ways. Even in their Christmas stockings.

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.

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.

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.