Ebenezer

A friend once told me that you can B.S. people by being a good writer.

I think that's true.  Words are powerful.  With my words, I can make people believe that I'm doing great when I'm actually miserable.  I can boldly display the parts of my life that I like, and I can carefully eliminate other, less desirable parts.  For years, I've used my blog as a journal without realizing that I was slowly starting to hide behind my words, painting a picture of myself that I wanted the world to see, and losing touch with my present (and often messy) reality.  In the past few months, I've picked up my leather journal again and processed thoughts that no one else will ever read.  I've been honest with myself without worrying about what others will see and think of me through my words.  I don't edit my writing in my journal- it's just raw emotion.  

I've thought a lot about whether I want to blog or not, and I decided that I want to keep it up, at least intermittently, for the same reason that I took a break from it initially: Words are powerful.  I'm not putting away my journal.  It will still be there for working through "the ugly," but some tales are worth telling to the world.  You don't need to know every detail.  I don't need to paint a perfect picture for you.  But I do need to keep writing in hopes that even one person's heart will be touched in reading this unfinished story of mine that has taught me so much about redemption, forgiveness, and love.

September 12.  In most ways, I wish I could completely erase it from my memory, but in every other way, it was the defining moment of my relationship with my husband.  This is one of those instances when you don't need to know every detail, but our world came crashing down that night.  Trust was broken.  We were both hurt and unsure of what to believe.  Our marriage seemed irreparable.  In the days immediately following September 12, we slept separately- not touching, not communicating, not able to be in the same house.  Piper cried a lot.  Even she knew that Mom and Dad were not okay.  Both of us sat, alone, amid a flood of tears, hopelessness, and shock.  I'm not being dramatic when I say that I have no idea how I managed to even get out of bed in the mornings, except that my 14-month-old still needed me.

Gradually, we independently began to tell a few close friends about what had happened- not out of bravery, but out of desperation.  We knew that this was something bigger than us, and we needed help.  We started going to counseling, which has helped tremendously.  And somehow, as He always does, God began to make something beautiful from the ashes.  Because the truth had come out, neither of us had anything to hide anymore.  In the past three or so months, we have learned what it means to be truly honest with each other.  More importantly, we have both experienced forgiveness in ways that we didn't know even existed.  I've found, for the first time in the 5.5 years that I've been married to my Andrew, that I am actually thankful for him.  In every great love, I that think there is always some sense of "I don't deserve you," and I've never had that until now.

It's impossible to explain the amount of healing we've had in just a few short months to anyone else.  Our marriage didn't just need to be repaired; it needed to be made new, and that is exactly what has happened.  We have recently spent many late nights on the floor in the living room, actually talking, actually praying, and actually forgiving.  Those quiet nights when no one else was around have been some of the most precious moments we've ever known.  I wonder if you know what it feels like, as you're admitting your biggest faults and ugliest mess, to have someone look you in the eye and say, "I love you.  I still choose you.  I've never been more attracted to you than I am right now."  That, friends, is freedom.

It is a miracle in itself that God chose to heal us emotionally, but it is equally miraculous that He chose to heal us physically.  I'm pregnant.  We weren't trying for another baby; we had long since given up on the idea of having a biological child.  I don't believe that God always tangibly rewards people for having great marriages or for "getting their lives together."  I definitely don't believe what people say about "just adopt and then you'll get pregnant" or "maybe you need to just stop trying and then you'll have a baby!"  (I have so many problems with both of those statements for so many reasons.)  I do believe that God does things that we don't understand, at times which make no sense to us, to people who least deserve it.  And I'm so thankful for this tiny miracle growing inside of me, defying the odds of what doctors told us was impossible.  Our prayers, over the past four years, have not fallen on deaf ears.

Today is Piper's "Gotcha Day," and as I think back over the past year of her life as an official member of our family, I can't imagine our lives without her.  She brought healing in her own sort of way by making this barren woman a mom, and she continues to make me smile and laugh (and sometimes cry and want to bang my head against the wall) every day.  Frequently, I think my heart will burst because I love her so much.  While there have been many moments that I doubted God's goodness because of our struggle with infertility, I now realize that, at the time, it was His kindness to us.  Piper is the perfect gift, and there is no other child that I would rather have as my first than our little girl.  If I had gotten pregnant four years ago, or even two years ago, we wouldn't have her.

At church, we often sing this favorite song of mine called "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing."  The second verse goes like this:

Here I raise my Ebenezer; hither by Thy help I've come;

And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God;

He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.

For a long time, I used to sing that song without any idea of what an Ebenezer is.  Now, before we sing the hymn, there are two sentences in our church's Order of Worship which explain it: "An Ebenezer is a 'stone of help'.  It's a marker of God's grace in your life, when you have seen Him come through."  God gives us distinct, touchable evidences of His grace because we are a forgetful people.  This baby, for us, is that.  It's not an answer to all of our problems.  It's not an example of "getting our ducks in a row" and then waiting for God to bless us.  It's an Ebenezer, a simple reminder that He is good, that He helps desperate people, and that His grace really does bring healing.

  

The end.

I've kept a journal ever since I can remember.  In elementary school, I called it my "diary."  I have no idea what I wrote in it, but evidently, the thoughts were so secret that I thought I needed to keep it in the pink lock box in my room.  I kept up this process through middle school and high school, when I started calling my writing a "journal" instead of a "diary," because only nerds kept diaries.  I wrote more than ever in college and even into our first year of marriage.  Then, I started a blog, and two-and-a-half years ago, I stopped journaling entirely.

Writing has always been therapeutic for me, and for awhile, I thought that blogging was sufficient for that.  What I've come to realize is that, even though I often write about things that other people have left untouched, I haven't been truly honest in my shocking "honesty."  I've been honest as far as it makes me sound like a good person or good writer, but there have been times that I've been mid-sentence and deleted an entire paragraph because "that part is too awful for people to read."  My blogging became more about getting responses than sharing the deepest parts of my heart.

I thought about deleting my blog altogether, but I do think that our adoption story is one that should be read over and over again.  I need to read it over and over again.  I need to remember the wonder that comes with being part of this story that is actually my life.

Currently, we are dealing with a lot at home, things that I thought I would never face in our marriage.  So, instead of processing out loud for the world to read but stopping at the ugly places in my heart that actually need to be explored, I am pulling out my journal for the first time in over 2.5 years and just writing without edits.  Maybe one day, I'll be ready to write for the world again.  Maybe that will take two months or two years.  Maybe I'll never blog again.  But for today, I'm closing my laptop and going to sit in the stadium at OU with the same tools that people have used for thousands of years: a good, old-fashioned leather notebook and a pen.

Thanks for reading.

Bright Beginnings

This isn't really a post about teaching as much as it is about life changing when you least expect that it will.

I prayed all summer that my afternoon Pre-K class would fill up.  At the end of last school year, I knew that I would either be teaching a morning and an afternoon Pre-K class, or I would teach a morning Pre-K class and then completely switch gears (and locations) to teach special education in the afternoons.  To get two Pre-K classes, I was told that I would need 30 students enrolled before the class would split.  I watched as my class started with 15 students, then went up to 18, then 23, then 25, then 26.  With each addition to my class, I started to breathe a little easier, confident that I would get the necessary 30 students and officially be able to teach one thing all day.  And then it didn't happen.  On top of this, I found out that one of the full-time special education teachers at my school got relocated at the last minute, meaning that our school essentially lost a half-time position and my caseload would be larger than expected.  I also discovered, as I was unscrewing bookshelves from the walls in my Pre-K classroom (which, I might add, was inaccessible to me all summer because it was being used for daycare), that the surface underneath was five different colors, so the entire classroom would need to be repainted...by me.  At the end of the day on Thursday, August 14th, I left the school with half-painted walls, no furniture, no assistant for my classroom, no idea who my special education students would be, lots of tears, and crushing feelings of panic and defeat because school would be starting in less than a week and I had hardly touched either of my two classrooms.

Obviously, school did start, seemingly without me.  Contrary to my normal mode of operation, I didn't feel completely prepared or in control of my own work.  Also contrary to my normal mode of operation, I somehow managed to shut off my mind and go to sleep anyway.  Through this whole experience of rapid change and a little disappointment, I've learned a few things:

1.  I've got some good people in my life.  Because my Pre-K classroom is at a daycare (even though it is public school), I could only access it for a limited number of hours in a limited number of days.  I called my mom, freaking out, and she immediately volunteered to come up with my dad to assist.  My coworker blocked out her Saturday morning to help me set up my classroom centers.  My husband and his buddies delayed their rock-climbing trip to move furniture for me.  My boss(!) even cleared her schedule and excused me from a meeting so that I had more time in my room.  I asked for support only one time, and the troops rallied immediately.  Those are fine people, y'all.

2.  Regardless of my own perception, I'm never really in control.  I had some sense of control and stability when I thought I would be teaching Pre-K all day, but ultimately nothing in this world is guaranteed.  Life can completely change in a second, and when that happens, I have to choose if I am going to let its circumstances ruin me or build me.  When texting with a friend about my particular situation, I told her that I was "trying to make lemonade," and she simply said to "make lots of it."  Attitude is the one thing that can be regulated.

3.  This year is an opportunity, not an obligation.  Yes, it is hard to completely switch gears at lunchtime.  Yes, I have twice as much preparation and paperwork to do.  Yes, I'm a little overwhelmed and a lot exhausted.  And yes, this year has tremendous potential for learning and growth.  Not only do I get to teach small children to love learning for the first time, but I am able to help struggling students believe in themselves and make strides in their education.  I can also build my own knowledge base and experiences as a professional by interacting with a wider range of age and ability levels.      

4.  "Busy" doesn't have to mean "frantic."  I often equate these words as one and the same in my mind.  Going into this year, I knew that I would need to set boundaries for myself so that I wouldn't go crazy.  I took my work email off my phone, resolved to work or read for school only after my daughter is in bed, and realized that it really is okay to leave some tasks untouched at the end of the day.  True, I do have a lot to do (I'm busy), but surprisingly, I don't feel stressed (I'm not frantic).  I do recognize that my relatively calm state of being is a gift that cannot be entirely contributed to my own formation of boundaries.  Thank you, Jesus.

As a side note about busyness, it is sometimes tempting for me to say that I am busier than most people I know and consequently to feel sorry for myself because I work full-time, am in grad school, have a family, and am training for a marathon.  This is not a correct view because, A) I chose these things so I don't get to complain, and B) Everyone is busy and overwhelmed to some extent; I'm not more or less so than anyone else.  Busyness is subjective anyway, so I don't get to compare my apples of things to do to another person's oranges.  

5.  Wherever I am at any given moment is exactly where I'm supposed to be.  I do have my thumb in several different pies at the same time, but I can choose to be "all there" for a certain experience or "not there at all."  Twenty minutes at the park with my daughter is far more valuable than two hours "with" her while she is playing with her toys and I'm responding to emails and cooking supper.

6.  Every job is important.  I often believe that, because I spend more time each day with my Pre-Kindergarteners, that job has a greater impact than my special education position in which I see small groups for only 20-30 minutes at a time.  I had an interaction with a previous student this week that reminded me otherwise.  I'll call this student Elliot.  Everyone at my school knows Elliot, and let's just say that he does not make himself known in a positive way.  I saw him for a twenty-minute fourth grade reading group every day last year.  He had zero motivation to read and always complained about coming to group, but for some reason that I can't explain or attribute to my teaching abilities, he often volunteered to read for me and engage in the activities that I wanted him to complete.  Not every day was a complete success with Elliot in my room, but there were times when the work that he did for me was the only work he finished all day. (He never pretended to be happy about it, but he did it.)  I saw Elliot when I was in the cafeteria this week, and our conversation went something like this:

E (from across the cafeteria): "Hey, Mrs. Fenrick!"
Me: "Oh hey, Elliot.  How's it going?"
E:  "Good.  Hey," (pretending to be indifferent), "are you still going to get me for reading this year?"
Me:  "No, sorry, bud."
E:  "Dang it!  Why not?"
Me:  "I'm not teaching fifth grade this year."
E:  "Aw man."
Me:  "Did you have a good summer?"
E:  "Yep," (thinks for a minute), then, "Oh yeah, how was your summer?"
Me:  "It was great.  I went to Alaska."
E:  "That's cool.  So will you be in here for lunch duty every day?"

Sure, 2.5 hours with 15 four-year-olds every day matters, but twenty minutes a day mattered to that one kid (even if he never tells me that it did).  Teaching in general matters.  Office jobs matter.  Technical jobs matter.  Machinery and construction jobs matter.  Every job is important.

Norman Public Schools calls its offsite Pre-K programs (such as the one I teach) "Bright Beginnings."  If I'm really being honest about my life this year, it's going to be a wild ride, and there are days when I wonder if I'll be able to keep my head screwed on straight.  But, just as Pre-K can be a "bright beginning" for students who have never experienced school before, I feel that this year can be a bright beginning for me.  Change is crazy, but life is good.  

After

Before

  

Daycare is not a bad place.

My daughter's last day at her childcare center was last week.  I found myself surprisingly sad on that day, even though I'm looking forward to our family's new adventures.  (For those of you who don't know, Norman Public Schools contracts some Pre-K teachers to teach at childcare centers in the city.  I have accepted a job doing this for the 2014-2015 school year.  Technically, I'll be teaching public school, but I'll be offsite, and Piper will stay next door to my classroom at the childcare center.)  So far, she has adjusted well to her new setting, but I secretly shed a few tears as we walked out the doors of the center where she has been since she was seven weeks old.

Some people see daycare as a detriment to children.  While I do not believe that every childcare center is quality or that just anyone can be trusted to care for kids who don't belong to them, I have seen first-hand that this is not the case everywhere.  Also, I am a firm believer in families carefully choosing the best, most well-informed option for their own family and realizing that their choice should not be imposed upon everyone else's family as a rule.  For our family, my daughter's daycare has been a blessing beyond what I can even describe.  Financially speaking, I need to work, and personally speaking, my work gives me a sense of fulfillment and makes me a better mom.  Our situation isn't for everyone, but having Piper just down the hall from me in trusting hands has been ideal.  She has blossomed at her center.  Her development and character are ultimately my responsibility, but her teachers have partnered with us to help her become the spunky, curious, sweet, smart, and loving one-year-old that she is.

Teaching (notice that I said teaching, not babysitting) at a childcare center requires skill.  I recently heard on the radio that the average four-year-old asks 400 questions per day.  Even though Piper doesn't ask questions (yet!), she does poop her diaper, fuss, refuse to take naps, spit her food out, destroy things, and engage in other similar sorts of mischief, as do all seven other babies in her class.  Not only are her teachers simultaneously dealing with all of this times eight, they are also teaching the children to be kind, to play with toys appropriately, and to make good choices.  At times, I am impatient with my only child.  Piper's teachers perhaps become impatient with her, too, but they do not show it to her or to any of the other babies in her class.  And people say that anyone could do their job(?!).

Though I pay for Piper's childcare, payment alone does not entitle me to quality care.  Yes, Piper's teachers are required by law to check her diaper every hour and change her when necessary.  Yes, they must make sure that their classroom never exceeds the established student-teacher ratio.  Yes, they have to feed her certain foods at given times.  They didn't have to bend over backward when Piper had a rough adjustment to my return to full-time employment in January.  They didn't have to read with her, hug her as I dropped her off the in mornings, or volunteer to babysit her outside of school hours.  They didn't have to love her.  But they did, and they did those parts for free.    

Piper will never remember Miss Barbara, Miss Sierra, Miss Shawn, Miss Kelsey, Miss Amy, Miss Ashlee, or Miss Madison, but I will.  Our family is forever indebted to these ladies who have made it possible for me to leave Piper for a few hours each day, knowing that she will be happy.  If your child attends a daycare, hug her teacher.  Daycare workers do a big job.

Piper's letter and shoes "for her new adventures" from her teacher on her last day

    

The House That Built Me

I have lived in exactly seven residences in my 26 years.  Seven sounds like a lot when I say it out loud, but my family has never moved around much.  Those seven houses have all been in only three cities.

I was born at 10611 Sagemeadow, Houston, TX 77089.  I remember this because of the many times I had to practice saying my address and phone number so that I could earn a prize in kindergarten.  The Sagemeadow house was home for almost ten years.  For being as young as I was when we lived there, I have quite a few memories of childhood days spent in the hot Houston sun.  I remember dragging my cat, Tiger, around by her back feet, playing "school" with  my brother in my cardboard playhouse, and creating secret "clubs" with my best friend, Carolyn.  I remember swimming in the hot tub with my cousins (until we had to fill it in because one of Tiger's kittens drowned in it, and my mom got scared that Tim or I might do the same).  Best of all, I remember Granddad's house with the giant, custom treehouse and Sunday-after-church-lasagnas being less than a mile away.  

Just before fourth grade, my dad accepted a job with Microsoft, which moved our family to Flower Mound, Texas (1408 Ivywood, to be exact).  I don't recall as much about this house as I do about the Sagemeadow one.  I do remember sitting in the top of our backyard fort (not as cool as the treehouse) with my also-new-to-Flower Mound-friend, Jenna, as we braved the awkward years of middle school together.  In this house, Tim and I got our first and only dog, Nikki.  Rest her soul.

When I came to college at the University of Oklahoma, I, like most freshmen, moved into the dorms.  Jenna and I made the mistake of choosing to live in the Honors Dorms, thinking that they would be more quiet than "the towers."  By "more quiet," I mean that they actually were completely silent about 95% of the time.  No one ever came out of their rooms.  Thank goodness I lived with one of my best friends, because I met approximately 3 people on my entire floor that year.  I became an honorary roommate to my other friends, Kate and Katherine, who lived in Adams Tower and knew everyone on their hall.

After my freshman year at OU, I moved into an on-campus apartment, Traditions Square, with my friends, Kate, Ellen, and Amanda.  In fifty years, I'll probably still look back on those two years at 2500 Asp Avenue as two of the best in my life.  There were times when the four of us studied, of course, but mostly I remember having weekly dinner parties, carving pumpkins, dressing up for date parties, watching America's Next Top Model together, and having random dance parties in the middle of the night.  

When Andrew and I got married after my junior year, we moved into the bottom of a janky quadruplex, 316 Falcon Court #1, because it cost $520/month and had two bedrooms and a laundry room inside.  There were, however, some things we unfortunately did not take into consideration before moving in, namely the fact that our backyard was Norman North High School.  We often woke up at 3 a.m. to the sound of monster trucks doing donuts in the parking lot, and there was no hope of sleeping late during the summer because the marching band began practice every weekday at promptly 6:45 a.m.  I once told someone where we used to live, and her first response was, "Oh my gosh, there are drugs all over that street!"  So there was that, too.  In addition to the less-than-ideal location of this rental property, the walls and floors of our apartment were uncomfortably thin.  Every time our upstairs neighbor used the bathroom (or did anything else), we knew about it.  All in all, we were comfortable in that little home.  But we were also young and stupid.  Anyway, I should be grateful.

Four years ago, Andrew and I moved into our current house in Norman.  Though we have some interesting neighbors, including the king and queen of holiday inflatables, as well as the people who dug up their entire front yard to plant a garden (complete with CDs hanging in the trees to keep the birds away), we have loved almost everything about this home.  The previous owners completely remodeled the inside just before selling the house to us, and we have a huge backyard, which is great for grill parties and s'mores around the firepit.  I'll always remember this home because it's the first one we bought together and because our sweet Piper was born here.

I saved the seventh home for last, even though it's not where I most recently lived.  Just before my freshman year of high school, my parents bought a newer and bigger house in Flower Mound at 1717 Bershire Court.  I technically only lived in this house for four years before leaving for college, but it has been "home" for much longer than that.  It is "the house that built me," and it is for sale.

Aside from the Houston house, I probably have the most memories in the Bershire house.  I remember taking pictures for homecoming and prom in the front yard, sitting in the driveway at night with my friend, Amanda, having sleepovers with my friend around the corner, Brooke, practicing piano in the foyer, shutting myself in my room and staring at the clouds I painted on my ceiling, and having friends over for study parties and FCA because everyone knew that my mom always made the best food.  I grew into myself in that house.  Even after I left when I graduated, I still continued celebrating all of our family's big life events at "home," because I'd rather be sitting on a barstool in my parents' kitchen late at night than mostly anywhere else.  And hey, everyone still knows that my mom makes the best food.

My parents have found their "dream home," which is about 30 minutes closer to us than their Flower Mound house.  It backs up to a horse farm and has tons of space inside and tons of land outside for those tons of grandkids they're hoping to have one day.  (Sorry to disappoint, Mom, but unless Tim gets busy soon, I'm thinking that "tons" will look more like "two" on our end.)  I'm excited for them but also somewhat sad about saying goodbye to the house on Bershire Court.  Thankfully, memories are even easier to pack up and take with you than the utensils in your kitchen.  And, life is less about where you live than who you're living it with anyway.

                

Who Got Lucky?

My husband's high school reunion is next weekend.  We have had fun looking through old pictures this week, wondering how ten years have already passed since high school (eight for me), why no one politely told us about our poor fashion sense, and what we were thinking when we dated that person.  Ten years later seems like an interesting time to reunite, and we both have mixed feelings about going to our own high school reunions.  Some people will have gotten married, some will have had children, and some will have landed promising jobs.  All in all though, it seems like time will have leveled the playing field quite a bit.  People may be "popular," "successful," or "beautiful" in their own circles, but there is no such thing as "Homecoming Queen" or "Prom King" in the real world.  Everyone is now swimming in a much bigger ocean. 

I think I'm more nervous about this reunion than my husband is.  In many ways, I'm envious of his confidence in who he is.  While he is aware of his imperfections, he accepts them for what they are and moves on.  I've never been able to do that.

I'm a girl and this is a fancy occasion, so naturally, I've been considering what I'm going to wear.  I do believe that there is something to be said for wanting to make your significant other proud of you.  When I'm in my closet in the mornings, trying to choose my outfit, I subconsciously ask myself three questions: 1. Do I like these clothes?,  2. Is this appropriate for work?, and 3. Will Andrew like this?  I think the third question should be asked more often.  I'm not saying that people need to be entirely put together every day (I'm hardly the picture of perfection!); I'm saying that it's easy to get comfortable and quit caring about your partner's opinion of you.  (Sure, he will love you regardless, but he shouldn't always have to work hard to do so.)  I'm also saying that there are people like me who care too much, and not just about their spouse's assessment of them.

Have you seen The Fault in Our Stars?  If you haven't, don't.  (Unless you like big, ugly, mascara-totally-gone cries.)  If you have, you'll understand this reference.  One of the main characters, Gus, is afraid of fading into oblivion.  He wants everyone to know him, remember him, and think he is amazing.  He is so hung up on this that his girlfriend, Hazel, yells at him one day, "Isn't it enough that I love you?!"  I see myself in Gus more than I like to admit.  No, often it isn't enough that my husband loves me; I want everyone else to, also.

I'm about to tell a secret on us.  Often when in public settings by ourselves, Andrew and I play a game called "Who Got Lucky?"  It's not a very nice game, really.  We look at couples around us or choose a couple that both of us know and decide "who got lucky."  There are no points, winners, or losers in this game; it's just an interesting way to people-watch and pass the time.  The game has one serious flaw, though: It is only based on looks.  Sometimes, Andrew and I will disagree about "who got lucky," especially when we have chosen to evaluate a couple that both of us know personally.  Those conversations go somewhat like this:

A: "She got lucky."
MR: "No, I definitely think he did."
A: "He's a good-lookin' dude, though."
MR: "Yeah, but she is so sweet!"
A: "Looks only, MR!"
MR: "Okay, I guess she got lucky."

The thing is, personality can never be factored out when evaluating a person.  For this silly high school reunion (and in my daily life), I've spent so much time worrying about what I look like and honestly very little time considering my heart.  Sadly, I often want to be remembered as a pretty person more than I want to be remembered as a kind one.  I also, like Gus, care far more about what the thousands think about me than what "the one" does.  We've officially been married five years now, and I have no idea what people would say if they were to use us as one of the couples in their own "Who Got Lucky" game.  In my heart, though, I know that I got lucky.  I do hope he's proud of me next weekend, but not just because I'm wearing a pretty blue dress and spent more time than usual fixing my hair and makeup.  At the end of the evening, my hair will inevitably have fallen.  Ten years down the road at the next reunion, I will undoubtedly have more wrinkles.  Character lasts when the rest has faded, so I'd better get to working on that as much as I work on my abs at the gym.

And with that, I'm done playing "Who Got Lucky?".      

                                 

Why the Church Needs People with Disabilities

Two weeks ago, I found myself sitting near the back of a crowded room overlooking a beautiful golf course in the mountains.  My husband and I were vacationing in Anchorage, Alaska, and we ended up staying four minutes away from Faith Presbyterian Church, the only PCA church in Alaska.  My cynical heart left encouraged that day by many things.  I was grateful for the pastor's perseverance and for God's providence in leading us to a place where we could worship on a Sunday morning 3,000 miles from our home.  We sang familiar songs and even met some fellow Okies.  Mostly, though, I was encouraged by a young man sitting near the front of the church.  Continue reading here.

One year.

It's hard to believe, but this sweet angel is one today.

I don't consider myself a very emotional person.  My voices of excitement, of sadness, and of anger all basically sound about the same: monotone.  But today, I've got all sorts of emotions swirling around as I reflect on the last year, which has by far been the fastest of my life.

I'm thinking back to where I was at exactly this time on June 28, 2013.  Standing on the frozen foods aisle of Target, I was trying to hurry because I was miserably sick with a bladder infection and needed to go to urgent care before Andrew and I went out to Lawton for a sprint car race that night.  (Yeah, you probably don't care about that, but you're reading my blog, which means I don't have much of a private life anymore anyway.)  That's when the phone rang, and I suddenly forgot about my discomfort, the rest of the groceries, and my evening plans.  My daughter was being born.  (You can read more about her birth story here.)

Everything about that day and the next stands out so vividly in my mind, perhaps even more vividly than if I had actually given birth to her.  85 mph.  Anna.  Caleb.  Hand holding.  Epidural.  Pushing.  Screaming.  Tears.  Jet black hair.  "It's a girl!"  More tears.  7:00 p.m.  Qdoba.  Conversations.  Holding her.  Pictures.  Visitors.  Praying.  Checkups.  Firsts.  More visitors.  Goodbye Anna and Caleb.  Sobbing.  Pain.  Joy.  Love.  Overwhelming amounts of love.

The first night at home was awful.  She slept for no more than 20 minutes at a time throughout the entire night.  At one point, Andrew took a turn to get up with her.  15 minutes later, she was screaming again, so I went into her room to find her... on top of the changing table because, according to Andrew, "It looked more comfortable than her crib."  After a lecture from me about how "one of the first rules of parenting is to never leave your child unattended like that!", we both dissolved into fits of laughter because we were so deliriously tired.  Interestingly, the sleepless nights really never bothered me, and I love to sleep.  I had promised myself that I would do my best to never complain about the demands of having a baby because we had waited so long to get one.  I also think a mom's body instinctively knows that those sleepless nights are a passing phase, so it naturally produces the adrenaline needed to keep going (and is aided by lots and lots of coffee).  During middle-of-the-night feedings, I used to whisper in her ear, "Stay tiny forever."  She didn't listen.

One of the great dilemmas of being a parent is wanting your child to grow, be healthy, and experience new things, all while also wanting her to stay in the exact stage that she currently is in so that you can soak up every moment.  As each milestone has passed, I have found myself feeling that dilemma and trying to savor even the difficult moments of "the little years".  Everyone told me, "It will all go by so fast!" but I never really believed them until it started happening.

The past year has taught me so much.  For one thing, I've learned a lot about responding to people's unwanted advice and rude questions.  (To be clear, some advice is wanted, and not all questions are rude.)  Yes, Piper is adopted.  Yes, it's an open adoption.  Yes, we love her birth parents.  No, she doesn't look like me.  Yes, she's really mine.  No, she doesn't have brothers or sisters.  Yes, adoption is hard.  Yes, it's worth it.  Yes, it's expensive.  Actually, we have tried such and such, and it didn't work.  I genuinely believe that most people ask questions with great intentions, so it's hard for me to hold that against them.  But when it's the random person at the grocery store or the coworker that I've literally spoken to once, I have a hard time not getting defensive.  Yeah, kindness is hard for me sometimes.

I've also learned a lesson or two about patience.  I always thought I was a fairly patient person because I taught special education.  Ha!  The entire adoption process showed me that I am, in fact, extremely impatient, selfish, and easily annoyed.  Every day since Piper has been home has been a further reminder of how much of those very characteristics I unfortunately possess.  Being a mom is hard.  People don't talk about that nearly enough.  Motherhood is truly wonderful and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but the fact is that we are all only humans, and the screaming, incessant crying, messes, missed naps, and other challenges that come with babies will plain wear you thin at times.  However, I would like to believe that every day that she teaches me one of those lessons is a day that I'm turning more into the kind of woman I want to be.

Finally, I never knew that my heart had the capacity to love this much.  This has probably been the greatest thing that I've learned this year.  I didn't think I could love Piper's birth parents, but I still think about them and want the best for them every day.  Mostly, though, I never imagined that such a tiny baby could make my heart grow so big.  Even after a hard day, I'm always ready to see my little girl again the next morning.  Sometimes the noises she makes are so precious and her doll face looks so beautiful that I think I couldn't possibly love her any more than I do in that very moment...and then I do.

Yesterday, I was laying in the grass with her in our backyard when she looked over to give me the biggest grin, for no reason.  My only thought in that moment was, "This is the perfect life."  Truthfully, no one's life is perfect, but this is exactly the one that I want, and Piper is exactly the daughter that was made for me.  Happy first birthday, sweet girl.  The best is yet to come.

I hired a housekeeper (and other thoughts on imperfect parenting)

I did it.  I bit the bullet, swallowed my pride, and am paying somebody to clean my home every month.  She has only come once so far, but already, hiring help has been one of the best decisions I've made in awhile.

To many of you reading this blog, employing a housekeeper probably doesn't seem like a big deal.  In fact, you may have had one for months or years.  For me, this is huge, and it's really about more than our house.  Before Piper was born (and to some extent after, too), I took a lot of pride in making our house look like a museum. Hearing, "Your house looks amazing!" from a guest would swell my already large ego to the size of Texas (although I would undoubtedly feign humility every time).  I liked to believe that I really was Superwoman.  I could teach full-time, be a wife, run marathons, tutor kids after school, host a small group every week, cook dinner, AND have an immaculate house.  I never would have told you, but I looked down on people who made excuses for not exercising, for having laundry on the couch, or for picking up McDonalds for dinner.

The real truth is: I can't do it all.  Actually, I've never been able to do it all- that perfect girl on the surface was an illusion.  I'm not naive enough to think that the only busy people are the ones with kids; however, for me, having a baby finally made me realize my finitude.  There are limited hours in a day, and I am not immune to fatigue or the constraints of a clock.

Several weeks ago, I met with a group of working moms from church and heard all of them say things like, "Oh, we definitely had chicken nuggets for dinner tonight."  "The only reason our house is clean right now is because my husband got the kids this afternoon."  "We have laundry all over the floor.  All the time.  I'm too tired and don't care enough to pick it up."  There is so much comfort in community.  I'm not alone in my chaos and exhaustion.

I have long bought into the notion that women today should be like 1950's housewives: They should pour themselves into chores and slave over elaborate meals every night, all while wearing sexy dresses and having flawless hair and makeup.  Hats off to women who can still do all of that; it isn't my life.

Here's the deal: Most people have to-do lists that are miles long, every single day.  But not everything on that list can be a priority.  The most important things for me are primarily my relationships and then my work, so I am very slowly having to let go of some things in order to focus on my priorities.  I want to be a great mom, but I think that the things I teach her are far more significant than having organic, homemade suppers every night.  I want to be a great wife, but
making time for my husband is more critical than always looking put-together (and thankfully, Andrew says that sweatpants and a ponytail can still be sexy).  I want to be a great friend, but sometimes that means meeting someone at a coffee shop instead of stressing myself (and her!) out to have her over.  I want to be a great teacher, but I am significantly less effective when I am not
rested and not seeing my family.  I want to have a gorgeous home, but, meh.  At this point, if it's clean and safe, that's good enough.

The bottom line is this: I'm not a failure when I have to ask for help.  (Neither are you!). If I can hire someone to deep clean the house and that frees me to do more of the things in my life that matter most, the few extra bucks were more than worth it.  This step was small but necessary, if for no other reason than the fact that my pride in my own abilities probably needed to be crushed.  While there are seasons of life that may be busy, I don't have to be pull-my-hair-out-crazy all the time.  Thank goodness.

For my brother

This is my brother, Tim.

If he knew that I was posting this, he would probably roll his eyes, tell me to take it down, make a snarky comment, or do some combination of the three.  But since he rarely gets on Facebook and he's not twiddling his thumbs in anticipation of my next blog post, I'll carry on.

For the past few years, Tim and I have generally lived in separate states, with the exception of the two years that we overlapped at OU.  Although we lived apart, I had the comfort of knowing that I would always see Tim when I went home to Flower Mound, a short 2.5 hours away.

Today, Tim moves to Boston and then on to Puerto Rico or the Virgin Islands after 6-8 weeks of training for his new job as a commercial pilot.  Undoubtedly, either location would be a perfect vacation spot, and while I'm happy for him in his new venture, I'm sad for me.  Texas is temporarily losing a pretty great guy.  (I say temporarily because if you know how much Tim loves Flower Mound, you know he'll eventually make his
way back.)

There are days when I think that Piper will be our first and last child.  She is such a good little girl, but babies will inevitably be babies, and I wonder how I could possibly handle another one. Then, I think that one day in the distant future, I will regret the fact that she is an only child.  My own brother makes me want to give her a brother or a sister.

Tim and I fought constantly as kids.  From the back of the stroller, he would yank on my curly blonde ponytail, so I would stand on him until his face turned red when we got home.  He took my toys, so I hid
his stuff.  Every game was a competition, and every family vacation was a bickering mess in the back seat.  But in the quiet moments, probably when we thought our parents weren't looking, we were friends.  He taught me everything I know about Legos, and together we made secret plans to play tricks on our mom.  When we stayed at my grandpa's house and shared a bedroom, we laid in our beds, sometimes for hours, and talked until one of us fell asleep.  As we've gotten older, our friendship has grown, and all of the things that caused fights as kids seem so trivial now.  No one quite understands you like the one(s) who grew up with you.  I want that kind of relationship for my daughter.

Tim and I have a mutual dislike for talking on the phone, so we probably don't communicate as often as we should or would like, but I always know that he'd be among the first to come running if I ever needed anything.  He's one of the most consistent, caring, passionate, hardworking, humble, and selfless people I know.  That became even more evident today as a constant stream of friends stepped through my parents' doors to wish him well.  Obviously this isn't "goodbye," but it seemed like a good time to talk about the guy that people call "friend," "son," "uncle," "grandson," "nephew," "coach," and "instructor."  I'm the only one that gets to call him "brother," and I think that makes me a pretty lucky girl.  I love you, Tim!

30 Before 30

I cried on my 25th birthday.  I had been excited to celebrate all of my birthdays up until 25, but this one was different.  25 felt old.  I was no longer in my early twenties; I was fast approaching the dreaded 30, when (in my mind) life stops being fun and adulthood truly begins. The "twenty-something" years are for making plans but allowing spontaneity, for trying several options before finding your career path, and for deciding who you really are and what you actually believe.  By 30, I thought, I should have all of that figured out.

I turned 26 a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't cry.  In fact, it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had.  In the words of that over-hyped kids' movie, Frozen, I just "let it go."  The truth is, I'll always have things to figure out.  Growing older does mean obtaining more responsibilities and dealing with some harsher realities, but it also means getting to experience more adventure. Life doesn't have to stop being fun after marriage, having kids, getting a job, or turning a certain age.  Sometimes I do miss the days of childhood when my greatest worry was whether or not my brother would share his toys with me, but I wouldn't choose to go back there. Along with some of the hardest decisions and trials I've faced as I've gotten older, I've also started to grasp the meaning of "coming alive."

This year, I made a list of 30 things to do before my 30th birthday. I like lists.  They make me feel purposeful, and crossing something off the list is exhilarating.  (Confession: Sometimes I add things that I've already done to my to-do list, just so I can cross them off. I could go into that another day.) I'm not really sure why I decided to make this list now.  Maybe I want to prove to other people that married, twenty-somethings with kids and full-time jobs still get to live.  Maybe I want to prove it to myself.  Either way, here is the list (in no particular order):

1.  Get a Masters degree.
2.  Qualify for the Boston Marathon.
3.  Have another kid.
4.  See Blake Shelton or Luke Bryan in concert.
5.  Go back to Peru.
6.  Visit at least 3 new states (in Alaska right now!).
7.  Learn 400 new Spanish words.
8.  Get a tattoo.  Don't freak out, Mom.
9.  Own a gun, and obviously, be able to shoot it accurately.
10.  Go fly fishing.
11.  Own a pair of real cowboy boots.  Check.
12.  Grow an herb garden that doesn't die in less than a month.
13.  Go camping, for real.  Cabins don't count.
14.  Take a cake decorating class.
15.  Learn to drive a stick shift.
16.  Write a book.  Realistically, I'd like to just have a draft done.
17.  Bake an apple pie from scratch.
18.  Donate hair to Locks of Love.
19.  Read ten new books.  (Two down.)
20.  Start a college fund for Piper.
21.  Get Nationally Board Certified.  Teachers will know what this means.
22.  Hire a housekeeper. (Check.)
23.  Drink more water. (Working on that.)
24.  Skydive.
25.  Go to the Chili Bowl.  It's a car race; look it up.

So, I only have 25 things on my list of 30 Before 30.  And it's okay. I also might not do every single one of these items.  That's would be okay, too.  It seemed like there was no point in adding things to my list just to have them on there, and that stressing over accomplishing everything would defeat the purpose of these goals anyway.

You can steal my list if you want.  You can make your own.  Or, maybe you hate lists and you think mine is a dumb idea.  My point is that wherever you are and whatever you're doing, it is never too late (or too early) to come alive.  May you find what it means to make a life and not just make a living.

On the other side of Mother's Day

Holidays are hard.  Hallmark has made them impossible to ignore, but for many people, weekends like this one are full of family drama, bad memories, and loneliness. I feel so blessed to get to celebrate my first Mother's Day as a mom this year, but I vividly remember how I spent the last few Mother's Days, wishing I could just curl up in a hole until they were over. Last year, we had already moved through much of the adoption process, but the desire to be a mom was more real than ever, and there was still so much fear that our situation might fall through.

Facebook doesn't help. Every post about pregnancies or celebrating a first Mother's Day was like a knife being stabbed further into my heart. In some ways, I was killing my own joy.  I could have turned off the computer, but there's something weirdly addictive about pain, isn't there?  I guess a part of me wanted to stay mad and to hate people who had what I didn't.  Looking back on all of that now, I wish I would have been more satisfied and less resentful.  I didn't have control of my circumstances, but I was allowing my circumstances to have entirely too much control over me.

While it is true that bitterness eats away at your soul, it is also true that even the people who have legitimately mastered the art of contentment feel lonely and discouraged at times. That's part of being human.  My church, friends, and family have always been very supportive of and sensitive to hurting people, but I know that that is not the case everywhere. Our culture has a way of making people who are not married or do not have children feel somehow less important. Hear me say that wherever you are in life, you are valuable. And if you're reading this and dreading going to that Mother's Day gathering (or Christmas feast or whatever) because you know that it will reopen fresh wounds, give yourself the grace not to go. That really is a choice. People might not understand your decision, but I promise that they aren't nearly as worried about it as you are. They'll forgive you.

Although I'm immensely thankful to be "on the other side" of Mother's Day now, a part of this day will always be painful.  I can't stop thinking about Anna*, Piper's birth mom.  I wonder what she's thinking about today.  I wonder if she ever regrets her choice.  I hope she's alright.  When Piper was born and I became a mom, I promised myself that I would never forget the years of infertility we endured and that I would always be mindful of others around me who might be facing similar situations.  Anna has been such a huge part of my ability to do that (though I, by no means, do it perfectly).  I see her in my baby's face every day. Even in her absence, Anna is an ever-present part of my life.  My heart hurts for her because, despite the fact that she will always be Piper's birth mom, she is not able to celebrate this or any other Mother's Day in the same way that I can. In reality, she probably isn't celebrating at all.

In the recent years when Mother's Day was so difficult, I tried, at the very least, to be glad to have a mom who is more than worth a huge celebration.  Some of you reading this have lost your mom in one way or another, and I'm so sorry.  I'm sure Mother's Day is difficult for you, too, in perhaps a different way.

My dad called yesterday. Neither he nor I enjoys talking on the phone, so usually when he calls, I know it's about something important.  He didn't sound right.  His voice was shaky, so naturally I asked if he was okay. "I'm okay," he said, "but your mom isn't."  In about five seconds, all of the worst and best possible scenarios ran through my head in a flash. "Please don't say she's dead," I prayed. (Obviously, I need to work on not immediately jumping to terrible conclusions, but my dad also could work on not sounding so ominous!) To make a long story short, something had happened to my mom at work, and she couldn't remember anything.  After a visit to the hospital and a slew of tests, we still don't know what's wrong.  She is doing better today, though she continues to have short-term memory issues.  My point is that everything can change in an instant.  While my mom is still here, I'm going to hug her a little tighter and be a lot more grateful to have her, even and especially when we don't agree. This life is so fleeting.  Let's all count our blessings.

Looking back on the last several years, I realize that what I've been through truly has been God's kindness to me. (I've only recently been able to say that.) The seemingly endless period of longing to be a mom has given me perspective that I wouldn't have learned any other way, and it has made me a much more contented person today. Though I wouldn't wish my struggles on anyone else, I wouldn't change them. If Mother's Day is a hard day for you, trust me; I remember.  Hang on, even when it hurts and nothing makes sense; there really is a brighter day coming.

*I finally used her real name.  Bet you'll never know who she is.

Home.

For years now, I've talked with my husband about how we will "move back to Texas once we have kids."  He has been in agreement; he has spent his life in Oklahoma and knows that my family is important to me.  Now, "once we have kids" is here.  It has been here for ten months, and we're still in Norman with no plans to move anytime soon.  Until very recently, I was livid about this.

I hated Norman when I first moved here for school.  I hated the cracked sidewalks that I would trip over on my 5:00 a.m. runs.  I hated the old homes and the lack of zoning regulations.  I hated the hipsters, I hated the rich folks on the west side of the highway, and I hated basically anyone who wasn't just like me.  As time has passed, Norman's quirks have become endearing to me.  The older homes here have character (we live in one!), and getting away from suburbia is a pleasant change.  I have come to love the diversity of Normanites and now realize that spending time with people who are not just like me is good for my soul.  I don't love the sidewalks any more than I did eight years ago, but mostly I just don't love running at 5 a.m.  (That would be true anywhere.)  Still, though, I didn't think I would stay here this long. When I came to OU, I planned to get my degree and get out of Dodge as quickly as possible.  Then I met Andrew in August 2006, when I was 18, and everything changed.

I always want to have someone to blame when things don't go my way.  The main reason why we are still here is because Andrew has a great job that he loves.  While that is the primary reason, however, it isn't the only one.  I made the decision to stay here, too.  I made that decision when I married Andrew, and I continue to make it over and over again.  Just last week, I committed to a teaching contract for another school year.  I can't blame that one on my husband.    

From time to time, I get a bad case of "The Grass is Always Greener" Syndrome.  Andrew and I both love Peru and have discussed the possibility of moving there for 2-4 years.  For now, that possibility is off the table (which isn't to say, necessarily, that it will never happen).  And for now, the possibility of moving back to Texas is also not up for discussion.  I've harbored so much bitterness toward Andrew about both of those situations.  In my mind, life would be better if I got to speak Spanish every day and work with the wonderful Peruvians and Americans that we've met during our trips.  Everything would somehow be alright if I got to see my family more often and if I got to go out with my best college friends who relocated to Dallas/Fort Worth after graduation.  But the thing is, your heart follows you wherever you go.  Flower Mound, Texas might have perfect running trails, but eventually, I would get bored of the many houses that look exactly the same.  The excitement of living in Peru would undoubtedly wear off, leaving me lonely and missing American culture.  Even the greenest grass will, one day, turn brown.        

Lately, I've been so wrapped up in thinking about what might have been that I've been completely missing out on living my life.  And it really is a good life here.  It has only been within the last few weeks that I've been able to look around and realize how very blessed I am, in this very place that I've been so anxious to leave.  When I used to dream about the future, it looked nothing like the reality that I'm living.  Now I'm realizing that my dreams are not being crushed like I thought they were; I'm simply getting new opportunities.  I'm the only one who gets to live this life, and while it is not at all what I expected, it is good.  This place is home.        

A few thousand diapers later

My daughter will be ten months old soon, and I bought diapers for her for the very first time this week.  (Okay, technically I recently bought a box and then she outgrew them before she wore any, so I'm not counting that time.)  Ten months!  Do you know how amazing that is?  I'm not even sure I do.  I did some quick math, and assuming that Piper goes through an average of seven diapers per day (a conservative estimate), that's 2,100 diapers and $550+ over the past ten months.  We never paid a dime.

When I drop off Piper at her preschool in the mornings, her teachers always comment on her cute outfits and extravagant hair bows.  "Where do you get all of her clothes?" they ask.  Well, let's be honest.  They come from her grandparents.  They come in big brown boxes on the porch from her family in Texas.  They come in little pink bags, tied with fancy ribbons and a note that says, "Just because," from coworkers and friends.  I rarely buy her clothes, and her closet is still overflowing.

I was humbled as we began the adoption process, when money would literally just show up on our doorstep or in our mailbox.  There were days when I would find myself in tears, unsure how to respond to such generosity but very sure that we didn't deserve it.  Almost a year after bringing Piper home, I once again am overcome by the goodness of our loved ones.  I know diapers are seemingly insignificant, but I also know that most parents don't wait ten months to buy them.  We are so blessed.

The night that Piper was born will always stand out to me above all others for many reasons, but one thing is still particularly striking.  My parents had already waited for hours to see her, and when they finally got to come upstairs at the hospital, my mom burst into tears.  In fact, I don't think she really stopped crying all night.  At one point, I said something like, "Mom, this is a happy day!  You don't have to cry!"  She responded, "I know.  I have prayed for so long that I would love her just as if she were your biological child, and I really, really do."

She was always meant to be part of our family.  I knew it during the adoption process, I knew it the moment she was born, and I knew it as I was checking out at Target on Friday, buying diapers for the first time in ten months.  As her parents, we would always love Piper regardless of any circumstance, but the continual outpouring of kindness from those who are dearest to us has proven to me that she belongs.  She's our daughter, but she's also a granddaughter, a great-granddaughter, a niece, and cousin, and a friend.  I know she is partly loved by others because we are special to them, but she is also loved because she is special to them.  Piper Anna Fenrick, you are so cherished, and you don't even know it yet.

  

Remember.

I decided to change up my Bible reading plan this year and go through the Scriptures chronologically instead of picking and choosing my favorite passages to read for nights in a row.  I’m so glad I did.  For the most part, I’ve historically seen the Bible as a moral guide for my life with a few awesome stories, but I’m slowly beginning to realize that all of the Bible is actually one big story pointing to one main Character and one redemption plan.  Parts of Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy have not been exactly “riveting,” but I’ve already learned so much in my attempt to read the Bible as a whole instead of fragmenting it and skipping over some parts entirely.

Many things have stood out to me as I’ve been reading, but perhaps the most striking one is God’s repeated call to his people to remember.  Continue reading here.

Hiding in Plain Sight

It's hard not to get annoyed when that boy in my class is literally spinning around on his knees on the carpet while everyone else is sitting quietly and listening to the lesson.  Or when he's still doing his puzzle, even though I've called him to line up four times.  He's in trouble almost every day lately.  He doesn't know why he's acting this way.  I don't really know why, either.  But I do know that his parents split up recently, and that he's coping with it the only way his little four-year-old brain knows how.  He doesn't talk about it, but in his own way, he's screaming that he needs to be heard and understood.

In dealing with this kid's situation, I've been thinking about the people around me and how many of them might not be spinning on their knees during story time but spinning out of control, helpless to stop life's unrelenting circumstances. I wonder how many of them are concealing deep sadness or anger, aching to tell their stories but petrified by the fear that there is no one who will truly "get it."
I've known people to commit suicide before, and typical comments after such instances are, "I just never realized he was that unhappy" or, "She always seemed okay."  People have ways of "hiding in plain sight."  It's easy to think, "I would tell someone if I was that miserable," but would you?  Would I?  The darkest, most ugly parts of ourselves are the ones that we tuck away, cover up, and bury so deeply that no one else can find them.  I'd like to think that I'm pretty honest a majority of the time, but there are still pieces of me that I'm unwilling to share with anyone, even with those who love me the most.  When it comes down to it, I'm afraid that no one will hear me, that someone might judge, that someone else might laugh, and mostly, that no one will care.

While the tendency to hide is undoubtedly part of the human condition, I also wonder how many unheard stories would get told if there were more people who practiced the lost art of just listening.  I find that I'm generally more encouraged by a friend's silence than by a multitude of words which amount to little more than platitudes, quick fixes, or cliches.

I guess I'm writing this because I'm daily realizing that everyone is fighting a hard battle.  I often have a short fuse with people.  To that little boy in my class, I sometimes just want to yell, "Seriously, stop acting like that.  You're driving me crazy."  When talking with the friend who is making destructive decisions because her boyfriend just broke up with her, I have to resist the urge to shake her and say, "You're being a complete fool.  Just stop."  The situation is never as easy as "just stop."  There is always so much more under the surface than people are willing to or feel comfortable with sharing.

So I'm challenging you today, but mostly I'm challenging myself, to have some grace with people.  Smile a little more than you think is necessary.  Say less.  Listen more.  Remember the times when someone has shown you kindness.  Mostly, consider everything about a person before jumping to a hasty conclusion.  The outward signs of a perfect life do not always reflect the inward state of being.

Giving up

About a month ago, I went back to working full-time after taking a leave of absence when Piper was born.  Since August, I had been teaching morning Pre-K and staying home in the afternoons with the little one.

The full-time situation came about very abruptly.  To make a long story short, I interviewed for (what I thought was) a full-time special education position starting in August 2014.  At the end of the interview, which lasted exactly twelve minutes, the assistant principal said that the school hadn't had anyone to fill the position all year and asked if I could start as soon as possible.  Though I felt morally responsible to finish out the year at my current school teaching a.m. Pre-K, I agreed to work afternoons at my new school.  I interviewed on a Wednesday and started the following Monday.  Life is a whirlwind sometimes.

Everyone keeps asking me if my job is going well and if I like working full-time.  It is, and I do.  I feel like I am in the increasingly smaller percentage of people who can say with confidence that they love their job.  There will always be things that are annoying about any line of work, but I find so much fulfillment in being able to help and learn from kids every day.  I never before realized what people meant when they said, "I gave up my career to have kids."  Now I do.

Piper has been a very easy-going baby, so I just assumed that she would adjust well to staying at daycare all day.  Wrong.  Though I realize that no one will care for her quite like I do, I love her teachers at daycare and know that she is in good hands when I leave her.  The fact of the matter is that there are seven other babies in her class, she's been bitten twice in the last three weeks, and she sometimes sleeps a total of fifteen minutes...all day.  Her daycare is highly reputable in Norman, and I wouldn't want to put her anywhere else.  But I dread picking her up after work because I'm afraid of what her teachers will tell me about her day, and because it pains me to see her tired, red eyes when I know that she has no problem sleeping for 2-3 hours at a time at home.

Something's gotta give, and I'm a firm believer that family comes first.  Unless, by some act of God, Piper starts thriving in daycare by the end of the year (which I suppose could happen), I won't be working full-time again next year.  I'm surprised at how saddened I am by that possibility.

When I was little, I used to line up all of my dolls and play "school."  Sure, there were times when I played "house" and "church," but from a very young age, I think I always knew that I was made to be a teacher.  At times, I entertain other options in my mind, but at the end of the day, I can't imagine myself in another profession.  To be honest, I don't find a lot of fulfillment in changing diapers, making bottles, and shaking a rattle in Piper's face- not because I don't love her or love being with her, but because my mind isn't stimulated in doing those things, and I often have a hard time seeing the greater purpose in the little details of motherhood.  

The thing I am realizing more with each passing day is that having children means giving up.  Giving up looks differently for different people.  For me and for other moms and dads who make the choice to stay home or cut back on hours, it might look like forgoing a well-loved career for a time to ensure that our children are happy and well.  For parents who do continue working full-time, giving up might look like forsaking some things that they'd like to do for themselves because there simply isn't time to fit everything in anymore, or giving up control because someone else is making many of the decisions about how to raise their children.  For every parent, there is a loss of freedom, at least to a certain extent.  Though we give those things up willingly because we love our children, it is still giving up, and there are times when living sacrificially is not always fun.

My daughter may never come to me and say, "Thanks, Mom, for giving up your career when I was little so that you could be with me."  And I think it will be okay if she doesn't.  I've had 25 years to make decisions that are best for myself.  Although it is difficult, there is joy in making decisions that are best for someone else.  Sometimes giving up means finding your life again.

                  

 

The first year after...

I heard the other day that couples often experience the most marital dissatisfaction that they ever will during their first year after having a baby.

My initial thought was, "That seems odd."  Babies have a way of bringing joy everywhere they go.  That little giggle fills our house, and sometimes I think my heart will burst.  I get to watch the love of my life love this tiny angel.  We dream together about her future and laugh together when she farts in the bathtub.  Because of Piper, our home is a happier place.

And because of Piper, our home is also more tense and stressful than I ever imagined it would be.

We didn't think we would be amazing parents.  We definitely didn't think we had everything all figured out before she got here.  But we are slowly starting to learn just how many things we truly didn't consider prior to parenthood.

I'm jealous of his time.  I don't like that his first minutes in the door after work are spent holding her instead of holding me.  In some irrational places of my mind, I wonder if he loves her more before quickly reminding myself that he loves her differently.  I get bitter when considering the division of household chores, which I've unfairly ranked so that they'll always be unevenly divided.  ("I bought groceries, made dinner, and did the dishes today.  Clearly I've done way more than you"...because you've been away providing for our family.)  I feel like there are moments when I'm drowning in a sea of lesson plans, unfolded laundry, and dirty diapers...while he is sitting on the couch watching the Olympics.  I'm plagued by a question that technically has nothing to do with Piper: Why is my husband so oblivious?      

Obviously, marriage is a two-way street.  He's jealous of my time, too.  He doesn't like that I often want to go for a run or go out with a friend in his limited time at home.  He probably wonders if I'm just aching to get away from him before quickly reminding himself that I'm aching to get away from the house.  He doesn't understand the bitterness I've harbored toward him all day while he has been away at work- the bitterness that I am quick to unleash before giving him a chance to do or say anything.  He feels like there are moments when all he wants to do is get a little frisky with his wife...while I'm making excuses about having spit up in my hair and being so tired I can hardly think.  He's also plagued by a question that technically has nothing to do with Piper: Why is my wife so needy?

I didn't set out to write this blog.  I actually intended to write about how the last seven months have been the most glorious whirlwind or our lives.  (For the record, they've been that, too.)  But if there's one thing that I've come to value in this time of bewilderment and loneliness, it is honesty.  Honestly, we are just trying to make it to the next day- as parents and as spouses- and I'm sure that others reading this feel equally clueless.  However, when people ask us how we're doing, especially after waiting so long to add this precious little one to our family, we often feel compelled to say that we're great.  We feel obligated to fuel the misconception that life after baby is overwhelmingly blissful and romantically charged.

All of that said, I do know that this time is precious, and that the moments of discord are merely a phase.  We won't be this exhausted forever.  We won't always find so many annoyances with each other.  We'll dig a way out of the trenches and look back to laugh at "that first year after we had Piper."  In the midst of everything, I'm thankful for her beautiful life and for the many lessons she's taught me in the past seven months that I didn't know I even needed to learn.  In the words of C.S. Lewis, "There are far, far better things ahead than any we've left behind."

The story of our lives...

        

  

Be still.

It is often said that "idle hands are the devil's workshop."  While this may be true at times, I'd also like to suggest that busyness is equally, if not more, detrimental to one's emotional and spiritual health.  Our culture today constantly screams at us to do more, try harder, and be more successful.  In the midst of our chaotic lives, we often fail to heed an important calling: "Be still and know that I am God."

Continue reading here.