Santa doesn't stop here.

I have very few memories of kindergarten or any years prior, but I will never forget ruining Christmas for my five-year-old friend, Lindsay Mann.

"But Santa isn't real," I told her in a matter-of-fact voice.  "It's your parents.  They get the gifts for you and say they're from Santa.  How do you think he knows what you want?"

Lindsay didn't believe me...until after Christmas that year.

"Mary Rachel, you were right," she admitted.  "I found my new bike in the garage before we had Christmas.  Then, when I opened it on Christmas, my parents said that it was from Santa!  Can you believe that?!"

Of course I could.

Looking back on that experience now, I feel badly that I shattered Christmas 1993 for Lindsay and her parents.  I'm sure that no parents want their kids discovering the truth about Santa from their daughter's friend, the Kindergarten Grinch.  And I definitely don't want my girls to be the ones who do the same for someone else.

That said, Santa doesn't stop at our house.

{Before I go any further, I should mention that whatever you do in your house for Christmas is your decision.  I don't know what's best for your family; I'm simply writing about what we feel is best for ours.  Christmas is a touchy subject, and I am certainly in no position to judge or to make claims about the way that everyone should or shouldn't celebrate it.}

Our three-year-old, Piper, has already heard mixed reviews about Santa at school.  We tell her that he's sort of like a superhero, comparing him to Batman or The Hulk, both of which can do some impressive things but only exist in movies or on the pages of books.  We also tell her that many of her friends believe other things about Santa, and that's okay.

When people ask my husband why we choose not to do Santa with our kids, he says, "Well, I kind of want credit for those gifts that we get her!"  I love that guy.

I've never had any particular attachment to Santa.  However, I knew that whoever I married would most likely have celebrated Christmas very differently than the way I did growing up (read: We did not celebrate it at all), and we would probably need to meet somewhere in the middle about what to do with the big guy in the red suit.

Weirdly, the thing that sealed the deal for us and shut Santa out of the Fenrick house was Piper's adoption.

Adoption can be so confusing, but we have always desired to be open with Piper about all of it.  We want her to feel that she can come to us with questions about her adoption, and that she can trust us to give her true answers about it.

My fear with Santa (and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny) is that if we tell her for years that he exists and then Piper later finds out that he does not, how will she believe us about much else?  Little people can be very intelligent, but their logic is often faulty.  What if we continually told Piper that she was wanted and loved by her birth mother and by us (which is true), but the world tells her something different?  What about God?  Will she believe that he is real because we have repeatedly claimed that he is?  Will we have proved ourselves to be trustworthy?  Will she believe our voices about the others that she hears?

People seem shocked when I tell them that we do not "do Santa" with our children.

"Well do you even do Christmas?"

"What?!  I can't imagine Christmas without Santa."

"That's like taking the magic of Christmas away from your child!"

Maybe I am a mean mom by depriving my girls of the Santa experience.  I am totally willing to acknowledge that this is a possibility.  I may look back when they're grown and realize that we did all of this wrong.  Lord knows it won't be the only thing we messed up when they were little.

But to me, what's magical about Christmas is not Santa.  It is Jesus. 

It is magical that the God of all of the universe would come to our messy earth through the womb of a virgin...for me.  That seems like a completely crazy thing to believe, but really not too much crazier than a guy living at the North Pole and traveling around the world in one night to give all the things to all the kids.  I know that some people successfully pull off Santa and Christ in their own homes, but I guess I am too simple-minded for that.

Back to depriving my kids, can I tell you something?

Piper loves the story of Jesus.  That kid wakes up asking when we get to do the "elephant (advent) calendar" and, "Is it Christmas yet?  When do we get to put baby Jesus on the elephant calendar?"  If you ask her, I don't think she would say that she is missing out on anything.

Truthfully, I have often woken up thinking about the advent calendar lately, too.  I hear Piper's little voice reciting the Christmas story better than I can, and my cold heart melts a little more.

"Jesus is the greatest treasure of all.  This is the story of how he came to us..."

School In This Season

When I was six years old, my dad graduated from college.  He was 41.

I clearly remember his graduation ceremony, partly because my little brother was complaining of a stomachache the entire time, partly because the ceremony itself was dreadfully long and boring for a first grader, and partly because I thought my dad was just so cool to be walking across the stage in a black hat and "dress".  

For years, I never knew that graduating as a 41-year-old was not exactly "normal".  I always just knew that Daddy worked tirelessly for our family.  He was, and is still, the only one of his four siblings to graduate from college, just as my granddad was one of a select few in his generation to do the same.

I went to college because my granddad started a college fund for both my brother and me when we were infants, and this savings account grew until I was 18 so that my parents paid relatively little to help me attend the University of Oklahoma.  I never took out student loans.  I realize that, in today's world, that is nothing short of a miracle. 

I also went to college because of the legacy that my granddad left even after his passing and the example that my dad gave me as he completed his degree.  I honestly didn't realize that there were other options after high school, and I'm not sure that I would have considered them anyway.  

College as an 18-year-old certainly required some effort on my part, but much of my time at OU was spent playing ultimate frisbee until 2:00 a.m. and doing lunch dates in the Union.  I graduated with an excellent GPA and did not kill myself trying to do so.  My social life was rich.

Today, I'm back in school ten years after graduation, and I am just now comprehending the many sacrifices that my dad made for our family when I was little.  He worked full-time, went to school in the evenings, and still found time to be with Tim and me.  I remember him being gone at night, but he was never absent from our lives. 

Several years ago, I started working on my master's degree at OU.  The longer I was in school, the less I felt the calling to become a reading specialist.  My original motive to pursue a higher degree was based out of a love for learning and a desire to recreate my undergrad experience.  Selfishly, I wanted to boost my ego and knew that a master's degree would make me look better on paper.  In the end, those were not good enough reasons to continue.

This time around is different than when I was fresh out of high school, and it is also different than when I was working on a higher level degree.  

This time, school is for my family.

It has not been my favorite to come home from lab at 10:00 p.m. and still have studying to do, and there are so many days when it feels impossible to hold a part-time job and make everyone stop screaming and fold the laundry and do all the things.  (I truly have no idea how single parents do it.)  College isn't exactly fun this time around.  It's also expensive, and I frequently find myself questioning if all of this is worth it.  But, I keep coming back to the same answer that it is, or at least it will be.

It will be worth it when I can help my girls pay for their own college and their weddings.  It will be worth it to have a job which allows my people to get my best instead of getting my leftovers because I gave everyone else's people my best all day.  It will be worth it when I can say, "Yes, I will read you that book for the 47th time today because I can because it's a Tuesday and I only work three days a week."

Right now, all of those "worth its" seem forever away.  They are at least seven more semesters away, to be exact.  They are coming, though, and that thought has pushed me through many a night when I would rather be home with my family than listening to another lecture about electrons and other topics which have virtually no relevance in my everyday life.    

I finished this first semester back in college with As, but my perfectionist self surprisingly would have been okay if I hadn't.  I don't need to be perfect to do well or to get accepted into the dental hygiene program (I hope!).  Sometimes, everyone's best interest is found in closing the textbook and running around in the backyard with the little people, who aren't going to be little for much longer.

As somewhat of a related sidenote, God has continued to show me grace when I've most needed it throughout this semester.  I randomly had the sweetest lab partner who became a good friend as the weeks passed.  She works, is married, has two little girls the same ages as mine, and tries to balance it all, too.  We struggled through tests together, ruined labs together, and laughed a whole lot.  This is Amanda, and she made chemistry not only bearable, but kind of fun sometimes.    

Tomorrow

“We always think there's enough time to do things with other people. Time to say things to them. And then something happens and then we stand there holding on to words like 'if'.” 

-Fredrick Backman, A Man Called Ove

This is my best friend from middle school and high school, Christi. Her mom passed away on Monday.

Christi is my first friend my age to lose a parent while we've known each other. I'm 28. Her mom was healthy. We aren't supposed to lose our parents yet.

Throughout our seven years of middle school and high school, Christi and I spent five or six days together every week. She would come to my house, and we'd pretend to study. I'd go to her house and watch You've Got Mail for the 35th time. We did each other's hair for prom and then tried on all of each other's dresses before picking the perfect one. Christi's mom was always there for all of that, usually standing behind the camera in her quiet way, never wanting to steal the spotlight.

And then, on November 14th, 2016, she wasn't there anymore.

I hadn't seen Christi's mom in years when she passed away. When college rolled around, Christi headed off to Dallas Baptist, while I went to OU. I got married. She got her master's degree and a fancy job. Though miles and circumstances often separated us, I knew that Christi and I would always be present for the "big things" in each other's lives.

However, as we became adults, Christi and I saw less and less of each other's parents face-to-face. Which, I suppose, is why I was surprised to find myself so distraught over Diane's death. I was crying into the macaroni at work last week before I even knew what was happening.

Part of it is that, as Christi got older, I began to see more of her mom in her, even when I didn't physically see her mom in person. In his book, The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis discusses how his group of friends was never the same again after one of them died. That particular friend brought out aspects of the others' personalities that wouldn't have otherwise been displayed. It's the same with Christi and Diane, and I'm sad to think about part of my friend essentially dying when her mom did. I will miss the parts of Christi that were molded by 29 years of life with this woman.

"How do you go through life without your mom?"
Christi's sister, Ashley, posted this on her Instagram a few days after Diane died.

I don't know.  I'm aware that many people do not have relationships with their mothers, but I don't know how I would go through life without mine. I hate that Christi has to.

I hate that Christi's dad has to go through life without his wife. Men are always so strong until they lose the woman they love.

The suddenness of Diane's death has caused me to ponder the truth that death is near to all of us. In my mind, people are supposed to pass away like my grandfather. He had had a long, good life, and he left the pain of cancer behind to go be with his Jesus. In my mind, people aren't supposed to die at the age of 34 from a stroke, like my cousin's husband. Healthy hearts aren't supposed to stop in the middle of the night like Christi's mom's.   But they do.  Death is no respecter of persons, and it is certainly no respecter of my thoughts on how people are "supposed" to meet their end.

My daughter is currently loving the Frog and Toad series. She reads this one story, "Tomorrow," over and over again. Toad is "down in the dumps" because of the pile of chores that he needs to do.

'“I will do it tomorrow,” said Toad. “Today I will take life easy.”'

Don't we all do this? We assume that we will have more time than we do, when, in reality, we are only promised this day. This moment. Everything beyond now is a gift.

I am not suggesting that we all live in fear of having the people we love taken from us. Rather, we should seek to savor the fleeting time that we have with them, for there is no guarantee of tomorrow.

I don't want to be left "holding on to words like 'if'".

Junior Homecoming (2000)

Junior Homecoming (2000)

Senior Prom (2002)

*Written in memory of Diane Corbitt. I'm forever thankful for the legacy of love she's leaving behind in her children and in all of the kindergarteners whose lives she touched throughout her many years of teaching.

A Decade

Dear Andrew,

Ten years ago today, we sat down on the couch at your little college duplex and had the "DTR Talk."  (That's "Define The Relationship", for those reading who weren't born in the 80s.  Do people do that anymore??)  We had been on several dates, but on this day, November 14, 2006, you asked me to be your girlfriend.  I wonder if you knew, then, how much that simple question, that invitation into your life, would change my life forever.

This recent fall weather has made me nostalgic about our college days together.  From the beginning, our relationship has been a series of unlikely events.  I met you during my first week at the University of Oklahoma, when I was on a date with someone else.  Sparks flew for you, but I didn't give you, the long-haired hippie, another thought for awhile.  Through a physics class and too many late night games of ultimate frisbee, I learned that you were funny, kind-hearted, and indifferent to the opinions of others.  I liked you so much that I said "yes" to our first date...which you asked me about in a Facebook message(!), knowing wholeheartedly that my parents would never approve.

When I wrecked my car and my beloved granddad passed away within my first month of being away from home, it was you who came to my rescue, both literally (you picked me up off the side of the road in Oklahoma City) and metaphorically.  It has always been that way- me, the crazy girl losing her mind over commonly trivial but occasionally significant circumstances, and you, remaining constant, empathetic, and present.

During the first two months of dating, the center where I had donated plasma called and told me that there was a problem with my plasma.  I had tested positive for HIV (which ended up being an extremely rare false positive, but I didn't know that at the time).  As I sat in the parking lot sobbing, I tried to wrap my mind around how it was even possible for me to contract this disease and then how I was going to tell you this earth-shattering news.  Later in the evening, I sat down on that same "DTR couch" and spilled the message that could potentially ruin so many of your plans.  You gave me a hug, and then you chose me anyway.

That was, perhaps, the first instance of "dying to self" for my sake, but in the 36,503 days that have followed the initial invitation to be your girl, there have been hundreds of "choosing me anyways".  You pursued me in my inability to communicate, my throwing the ring in your face a few weeks after we got engaged, our infertility and my anger, my depression, my wandering from you and from God, and even my desire to not be married to you anymore.  I've given you a thousand reasons to let me go, and you haven't given up once.      

I have no idea what we were doing for the first eight years of our relationship, but I know that it is grace which initially brought us together and has held us through some tremendous heartache.  The past two years with you have made me excited to wake up by your side for the next 50, as you've shown me a love that I never knew existed.  It was easy to say "I do" at the age of 21, when we looked perfect and had experienced few trials of significance.  It was not so easy to keep committing when everything hit the fan.  Though still in our twenties at our vow renewal ceremony two summers ago, we understood (at least to a much greater degree) what it means to love someone "for better or for worse" because we had experienced the "worse" part of the equation.  Ours is an unlikely story of redemption in a thousand different ways, and I'm somehow grateful for all of the ups and downs that God has used to build the relationship we have today.

I can't remember where we first heard this phrase that we've made our own...maybe at a marriage conference?  Anyway, the speaker was talking about the ease of loving people who seemingly are flawless.  But then, you really get to know them, and you see the gross little blemishes that everyone has, and you must decide if you are going to love them, "warts and all".  On the days when I doubt that I am worthy of love, worthy of your time, and worthy of this beautiful life that we have, you remind me that you see all of me...and you're still here.  Thank you for loving me the way that you do, "warts and all."  One decade down, hopefully five more to go.

Love you through it all,

MR    

Our first "real" date- BYX Date Party- September 2006.
I can't believe I'm posting this embarrassing picture.  We were an 80's couple.

Date Party- 2007?

Carving pumpkins- 2008?

Our engagement in Chicago- July 9, 2008

Engagement

OU football game (late college)

Our wedding day- July 11, 2009 (They let babies get married!)

Vow Renewal Ceremony- July 11, 2015

Postpartum Depression After An Adoption: Yes, it's a real thing.

I have put off writing this post for awhile.  Part of that is because I didn't realize until fairly recently that postpartum depression was an issue which haunted me for the better part of a year following Piper's adoption, but mostly because, upon recognizing this fact, I didn't want to talk about it.  People discuss postpartum depression in general, but not typically following adoptions.  Well, it's time for that to change.

When Caroline (my biological child) was born in August 2015, I struggled with some semi-expected "post-baby blues" for a solid three months, but during that time, I held onto the hope that the things which were causing distress and insomnia would one day return to "normal," if only I could ride out the waves.  And they did.  My hormones quit freaking out, the pain and swelling subsided, I got my pre-pregnancy body back, Caroline learned how to sleep, and Piper remembered that she had been potty trained at some point before her baby sister arrived.  We are still making daily adjustments, as adding a person to the family seems to somehow multiply the craziness of parenthood, but I am able to successfully navigate the difficulties as they come instead of being overwhelmed by them (most days, of course).

Flashback to June 2013 when little Piper (my adopted child) entered the world.  The depression hit me like a ton of bricks before we even left the hospital.  And instead of dissipating in three months as it did following Caroline's birth, the despair worsened.  Piper's birth brought changes which were gut-level and permanent.  I wasn't dealing with a recovering body or hormones that were out of control; I was plagued by intense emotional trauma that people who haven't adopted have difficulty understanding.  Nothing would ever be "normal" again.  

I am not a doctor, but I am convinced, from personal experience, that postpartum depression after an adoption is a real thing.  Three years ago, I was in the throes of this depression and didn't know it.  Thankfully, I have now arrived at a healthy place in which I can objectively look at that period of my life and attempt to explain some of the reasons for my depression.

• Regardless of how an adoption story unfolds, the emotions leading up to the addition of a baby or child to a family have been all over the map.  Coming back down from the highs of being chosen by a birth mother and the actual moment of taking that baby home in the carseat for the first time can be likened to running a marathon, I think.  At the beginning, adrenaline carries you.  In the middle miles, supporters come alongside you to encourage you in your weariness of the process.  The last haul to the finish is practically unbearable, and you keep reminding yourself over and over that this is something you wanted to do.  Then, there is that glimpse of the finish line that drives you to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Finally, it's over.  You did it.  You ran a marathon.  (You adopted.)  Elation surges through your veins as you take in the fact that a dream just became reality.  But then, after they hang that gaudy medal around your neck, after the photos, after the many pats on the back from friends and family...it's usually a Sunday and so it's back to work the very next day.  Your muscles are sore in a million places that you didn't know existed, and even though life will never be the same for you, everyone else has already forgotten and moved on, because it's another random Monday, and that's what they're supposed to do.  In a marathon, and throughout the adoption process, adrenaline can carry you quite a long way.  And then the actual thing happens, and maybe it is what you expected, or maybe it isn't, but either way, the adrenaline subsides, and you can hardly find the strength to get out of bed in the morning because that thing you just did took all that you had.  

• Watching Piper's birth parents walk out of the hospital empty-handed left me with a profound sense of guilt that I couldn't shake.  For weeks after Piper came home with us, I would cry at even the thought of Anna.  I knew that there was nothing in me to make me more deserving of raising a child than she was, and yet, I was the one who was holding this sweet baby in my arms...the baby who she loved and carried for nine months.  I was supposed to be happy, and I was, but I have also never hurt for someone else more.  I hated that my joy was, to a certain degree, connected to her sorrow.

• Sometimes, when people become parents for the first time (or the second or fifth), it brings them closer together as a couple.  This was not the case for Andrew and me.  Communication has always been a struggle in our marriage, and then we added the difficulty of raising a child on top of that, causing each of us to put walls up and seek comfort within ourselves.  He was a great dad, and I was an okay mom, but the two of us began slowly drifting apart like continents.  It wasn't noticeable at first, but after several months, the slight separation became a chasm that neither of us had the resources to bridge.  This part was not specific to adoption, but it played a part in my depression nonetheless.  (Counseling helps.)

• "You got that thing you wanted, aren't you happy?  Isn't motherhood wonderful?"  I came to dread these two questions, or any variation of them, and they bombarded me constantly.  All I could do when asked them was to nod weakly and give the response that people wanted to hear.  The real answers, "Yes, but I still feel empty," and, "Yes, but motherhood is plain hard 90% of the time," were too messy, and I began to believe that my most genuine, raw emotions needed to be hidden from the world.  I especially felt that I could not share any of these thoughts with our adoption case worker.  During our home study preceding Piper's birth, nearly every aspect of our lives had been opened up for outsiders to scrutinize.  Even the most miniscule of offenses, such as a traffic violation from high school, could have been used to determine that we were unfit parents.  We had both spent weeks upon weeks trying to prove that we were worthy of raising a child, and even after we brought our daughter home, there was still a period of six months during which Piper belonged to our agency and we were not her legal guardians.  I was always careful to portray the "right" image to everyone out of fear that someone would realize that there were better moms out there for my baby.  Y'all, it is exhausting to constantly have to feign perfection.       

• "What did you most consistently feel throughout the adoption process?" a friend recently asked.  Fear and anxiety.  Those were persistent.  There were moments of joy and excitement, but I'm convinced that even people with complete trust in the good providence of God experience doubt about the unknown.  Will I be able to handle an open adoption?  Even after the baby is born, the birth mom can decide that she wants to parent.  Will we get to keep our baby?  Is someone ever going to look at our profile and think that we are enough?  Will I bond with this little person?  These people know more about me than my husband does.  How will this child fit into our family?  What if...what if...what if...?  Adoption is risky, and the anxiety surrounding all of these unknowns kept me up at night, which certainly did not help with my mental state.

• When Piper was born, we had struggled with infertility for almost three years, and then we endured for another year and a half before we were blessed with the miracle of pregnancy.  (Doctors had said that IVF was our only option.)  Four and a half years.  In the grand scheme of life, I know that this is truly the blink of an eye, but infertility feels like an eternity when you're wading through it.  I thought that becoming a parent for the first time would take away the pain of not being able to have biological children.  Don't get me wrong: I loved Piper immensely from the moment she was born, and she could not have felt any more "ours" than if I had carried her and given birth to her.  I know this because the feelings for our adopted newborn were exactly the same as the ones for our biological one born two years later.  Piper was and is the most precious girl on earth.  But she didn't take away the sadness and anger that we had experienced leading up to her birth or the questions afterward.  What is still wrong with us?    

November is National Adoption Awareness Month.  I love adoption, and I think that everyone should be aware of the need for it.  But people also need to know that depression is a very real possibility that could come with adoption.  I hadn't expected this, and I've never felt more alone than I did after we brought Piper home.  If you're an adoptive parent reading this blog and wondering if you're crazy because no one told you how hard and isolating this whole experience could be, you're not.  You're not crazy, you're not alone, and this really will pass (with lots of help).  If you know someone who is adopting or has adopted, keep walking with them.  Ask the tough questions, and listen to the real answers, not just the ones that are easy to hear.  Postpartum depression after adoption is, I would guess, far more common than most people realize, but the fog does lift.  There is hope.

On Telling My Child That She Is Adopted

"Henry is going to have a baby sister!" Piper announced to her dad at bedtime several nights ago as I folded clothes in the hallway.  "I have a baby sister, too!"

"Yes, Piper, you do."

"Henry's baby sister is still in Ms. Brooke's tummy.  Like Caroline was in Mom's tummy.  Was I in Mom's tummy?"  

Piper knows the answer to this question, but sometimes I think she asks simply because she wants to hear the answer again and again.  So I got to listen as the father of my children repeated to my precious firstborn, perhaps for the 300th time in her little life, the story of her adoption.  

People often ask us if Piper knows that she is adopted or if we plan to tell her that she is.  Though the conversation has gone differently at various ages, we've been telling her every day since she was born.  During her first year of life, we prayed for Piper's birth mom aloud with Piper before bed and always named "Ms. Anna" among the lengthy list of "People Who Love Piper".  When Piper began to talk, I often asked her why she is special and taught her to answer, "Because God made me.  And I'm adopted!"  Now, she is at the age of obsession with baby dolls and actual babies, so we discuss whose tummy held which infant for nine months.  Always, we've celebrated "Gotcha Day".  I have no idea if we're doing any of this "the right way," but we're telling her because we think it's important that she know.  If we want her to trust us down the road, we are committed to building trust now.

"Don't ever tell her that she's adopted," advised the ten-year-old during one of my afternoon tutoring sessions.  "Kids are mean," he said.  "They'll make fun of her."

Oh, how I wish this wasn't true!  Nate was right.  Kids are mean.  Adults are mean.  Kids don't learn The Golden Rule early in life, and the adults who have learned it forget.  But, kids are mean about anything.  They're mean about adoption, but they're also mean about wearing glasses, having the wrong haircut, and bringing lunch from home instead of buying a school lunch.  I'm hoping that we can teach Piper to choose friends who will love her for exactly the adopted Piper she is.

People have also recommended that we wait until Piper is older to talk to her about adoption because it is too painful and messy to deal with now.  And, like Nate, they are right in their argument.  It is painful and messy.  The truth is, in a perfect world, there would be no need for adoptions.  There would be no abortions, infertility, miscarriages, abuse, or poverty.  We are not in a perfect world, though; we are in a broken one, so there are messes everywhere.  Like an open wound, painful situations do not disappear when they are ignored.  They might keep from worsening for a time, but eventually, wounds fester and ooze out even more gunk than there would have been if they were properly treated initially.  So we will tell her.  Now.  As much as her little mind can handle.  We will tell her until she can tell it, too, and then keep telling her after that.  

We will tell her about how God used years of infertility, tests, and surgeries to mold our hearts and bring her into our family.

We will tell her about a brave 17-year-old who chose life and chose us.  From the Internet.  Because she loved her growing baby more than she loved herself.

We will tell her about the envelopes with money that anonymously appeared on our doorstep or under the windshield wiper to help finance her adoption.

We will tell her about my coworkers bursting into tears in the office when I got the phone call that we had been picked to be her parents.

We will tell her about the many people who walked with us and prayed for her for months before she was born.

We will tell her about the overwhelming love we felt from the moment she appeared in the delivery room.  And the overwhelming hurt we experienced when her biological parents left the hospital the following day, empty-handed.

We will tell her about how every detail of our lives was laid bare before the adoption agency and the judge, and somebody decided that we "passed inspection".

We will tell her about the day that her entire "new" extended family came to court and watched her take our last name.

We will tell her why her middle name is Anna and the significance of the fact that Anna means "Grace," the name she was called on her original birth certificate. 

We will tell her how she got her awesome hair and her amazing brain that memorizes entire books after reading them only a couple of times.

We will tell her about her biological half-sister, who is Caroline's age and lives with Anna.  

We will tell her about how her adoption has opened doors for us to tell others of the goodness of God, and how her life has made us believe in his goodness again, too.

We will tell her all of these things because they make her who she is.  Because she deserves to know.  And quite frankly, we'll tell her because the story of her adoption is a good, good story to tell.

     

The day Piper met Anna (January 1, 2016)

  

Sidelined.

One of the first things that many people learn about me is that I am a runner.

I ran cross country in high school and completed my first half marathon during my sophomore year of college.  Since then (2008), I have run four to five times per week, including a nine mile run the day that I went into labor and a two mile run only ten days after giving birth.  (Ladies, that is NOT a good idea!  I had read all of these blogs about runner moms hitting the pavement again after bringing a baby into the world only a few days prior, but that ended VERY badly for me.  Don't buy into everything you read.)

All of that to say: This is my first significant period of time without running in over eight years.  Plantar fasciitis and a soft tissue stress injury have me sidelined indefinitely.

"You can try running in 14 days, but realistically, you might not be healed for 6-8 more weeks," said the doctor.
"When is your marathon?"
November 6.
"Yeah, I don't know if I would go for that."

I briefly thought about attempting a half marathon instead of the full for which I had registered, but I decided against it.  I know myself well enough to know that, if I planned to run a half, I would push through 13 miles in excruciating pain instead of letting my foot heal completely.  When I set my mind to something, I am typically so stubborn that I will complete it regardless of the cost to myself or others around me.  That's how I got hurt in the first place.  My friend made me a marathon training schedule a few months ago, and I was determined to stick with it.  She is amazing and accidentally qualified for the Boston Marathon after not running a marathon for 14 years (who does that?!), so I think she overestimated my abilities.  I made it a goal, though, to run every mile on the schedule at the paces she prescribed.  This was stupid.

It sounds ridiculous to say out loud, but I always knew that I would seriously struggle if God ever took away my ability to run.  "It would be one of the greatest losses," I've admitted on more than one occasion.  Running does help me clear my head, but it is also wrapped up in the struggle I've had with an eating disorder since my gymnastics days, and I can easily find my sole identity in being a runner.  These past two weeks without running have been challenging but also a gift.  I never thought I would say that.  I've learned so much by resting:

-Nobody cares how much I run except for me.

-It is not a waste of time to do yoga or work out in the living room.  Running is a good workout, but it is not the only good workout.  

-It is not a waste of time to go out and run for a mile or two instead of 5+.  

-I will not gain 10 pounds if I don't run for awhile.  I haven't run for two weeks, and I haven't gained even five pounds.  I haven't gained any pounds!  And even if I had, probably no one would care except for me.

-Sometimes, there are legitimate excuses for not working out.  There comes a point when pushing through pain is idiotic.  For me, it takes greater mental strength to say "no" to a race than to complete it and jeopardize my health and sanity.

-I don't have to qualify for the Boston Marathon before I turn 30.  Or ever.  No one will care about that except for me.  

-I should like to go run!  In the weeks preceding the doctor visit when I was told that I wasn't allowed to run, I hated running.  Stabbing pains shot through my foot and up my leg with every step, and I dreaded putting in my daily miles.  Life is too short to waste on activities that aren't pleasant!  Now that I have had some time off and the weather is nice, I think that I could enjoy running again. 

-I am a runner, but I am also a billion other things apart from being a runner, most of which are far more important. 

Finding Freedom is the name of this blog, and I feel like I have found freedom in so many areas of my life lately, except for running...until now.  I guess my ability to run had to be taken away in order for me to see that I don't need it to define me.  Through this injury, God has made one of my greatest fears, however irrational, become a reality...and I'm okay.

Best running buddy ever.  Miss you, JZ!

My favorite cheerleader (and a 24-week Baby Caroline).

Second best running buddy ever ;).

I take showers.

The nine of us sat in a circle in her family room, most with hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee, all with the cares of being a young mom written in the lines of our tired faces.  We had met together to pray for our kids, a discipline which I don't practice nearly often enough, though it is some of the only advice that my mom has ever given me about being a mom.  "Mary Rachel, always pray for your children."

Toward the end of the evening, we began to share ideas with each other about how we find time to think intentionally about and pray for our kids.  I suggested praying in the shower, because my shower currently looks like this:

Yes.  Yes, those are science notes.  And a Bible verse.  Somewhere (not pictured) is soap and shampoo and a razor, too.  When I stumbled across a waterproof notepad on Pinterest several months ago, I knew that my life was changed forever.  I really love hot showers, and I really love not wasting time.  For only $8.12, I could do both simultaneously.  (You're welcome for the advertising, Amazon.  I just did that for free.)  Depending on the day, I might study for an exam, memorize Scripture, or pray while washing my hair.  But, if we're being honest, I suppose that I mostly review chemistry.

Anyway, my suggestion to pray in the shower was almost immediately met with, "I can't remember the last time I took a shower," and, "It must be nice to be able to bathe for that long."

I get it.  I really do.  It is hard to find time to do anything for yourself as a mom.  More often than not, my few moments of quiet bliss under the running water are interrupted by a toddler pushing open the bathroom door to come play in the toilet or by the preschooler barging in with the announcement, "Mom, I have to POOP!"  Good morning, Piper and Caroline.  End shower now.

I don't really care when people take showers, unless I can smell them from across the room.  If you can go a week without showering and no one notices, rock on.  That's impressive and I'm slightly jealous.  But y'all, motherhood is NOT a competition to see who has the least amount of time to themselves, who is the most tired, or whose kids require the most attention, as if those things are the standard by which one's abilities as a mom are judged.  We're all on the same team here!  When I was a teacher, some of my coworkers would constantly compare who stayed up at the school to work later the previous night, as if staying later equated to better teaching.  It doesn't matter.  Nobody gets extra points for dirty hair in the case of moms or late nights in the case of teachers.  The opposite is true, as well.  I'm certainly not earning any bonus points for bathing.  It just doesn't matter.  

I am a mom of littles, and I take showers.   

When Worlds Collide: Starting a Book Club

"How many people are going to be here?" asked Andrew.

I took out the sheet of names and counted them quickly.  "Eighteen, if everyone on this list comes," I replied.

"We've never had that many people in our house before.  How is that going to work?"

Uh...I hope these random strangers like snuggling...?

Two days later, dinner was prepared for a crowd, and the crisp fall air flowing through our home hinted of Pumpkin Roll Scentsy wax and expectation.  At 6:20, Andrew took the girls upstairs and, one by one, fourteen guests filed into our kitchen for Book Club.

The weather could not have been more perfect for our first gathering, so we sat in a circle on the back porch, The Glass Castle in laps and drinks in hands.  Nervous chatter continued for a few moments before I announced the start of our discussion.  "Introduce yourself and give a rating to the book out of five stars." From that point on, the conversation progressed as naturally as the sun setting over my rooftop.  "Could you believe that her parents did that?!" "I wanted to throw the book across the room!"  "I KNOW!  I couldn't believe it!"  "I laughed SO hard."  "I literally read that part out loud at least 6 times to my husband."  Bekah, if you're reading my blog, I'm still snickering to myself, thinking about your retelling of the homemade braces.

As I looked around the circle and listened to the commentary from my fellow nerds, I was suddenly struck by how many different types of individuals from various seasons of my life were congregated in the same place on a random Monday evening.  My very first childhood friend was there, but so were former coworkers from my years as a teacher, church acquaintances, a neighbor, moms from my kids' daycare, a college roommate, and my sister-in-law.  Their ages ranged from 27 to 61.  

This is what Ellen and I had wanted to create when we decided, early last summer on a trip to Portland, to start a book club.  Neither of us is a particularly avid reader (though I suppose that is relative), but we loved the idea of assembling a group of complete strangers with the hope that, through conversations about the books we read but also about life beyond the pages, these ladies would find companionship in the collision of their unrelated worlds.  

I am of the belief that words are powerful, and since books are full of words, the right book at the right time does have the capacity to change someone's life.  But people's lives are also changed by other people.  Nearly all human beings are longing to hear, "I know.  Me too," acknowledgements that they are understood.  Bring together 14 unique perspectives surrounding the same book, and those two comforting words, "me too," are bound to surface at least a handful of times in the conversation.      

 Ellen and I aren't geniuses or "inspiring" or anything else for starting a book club.  We're just excited about laughing and crying together, initially over book pages, but eventually over all of the crazy twists and turns that this life brings to a group of people who seemingly have little in common but a love of reading.  Because Book Club is about books, but it isn't only about books.

An extraordinary, ordinary life

Lots of people have asked me lately what I do with my life, now that I am not teaching anymore.  After I tell them about getting to stay home for most of the day with my girls and about going to school for dental hygiene in the evenings, I usually sneak in the part about working in the kitchen at their daycare at the very end, when the person is not really listening anymore.

I'm not sure why I am sometimes embarrassed about the fifteen hours a week I spend at my new job.  Maybe I took pride in being a teacher because I knew that not everyone was cut out to do it, so I convinced myself that I was a step ahead of the pack by being one.

Now, I wash dishes.  Stacks and stacks of them.  I bake corndogs, mix meatloaf with my hands, set the long tables in the gym, bleach the countertops, mop the floors, and bag up the leftovers at the end of my shift.  Anyone could do this.  My job is completely ordinary and not the least bit stimulating.  But it is perfect.

 I don't love my job because of the work itself necessarily.  What I do love is listening to podcasts as I cook, seeing my children with their friends, having the opportunity for them to go to school, getting to know their teachers and my lunch assistant, paying for my own school, and then going home with my babies at lunchtime.  I have all of the emotional and physical energy that I need for my family when I am finished with work, which is something new for me.  (And hey, I sometimes get to actually sit down and blog in the afternoons, too!)

Caroline is starting to say a few random words, probably most of which are only discernible to us.  However, a few days ago, she walked into the living room to Piper and, plain as day, told her, "Hi."  Piper ran into the kitchen where I was (some days I feel like all of my waking hours are spent in a kitchen) and shouted, "Mom, Mom, Sissy said 'hi!'  Sissy can talk!  Her's learning!"    

I missed the first time Piper rolled over because I was working, so when I got to experience a rare moment of my self-centered firstborn cheering for her sister, I teared up and had to pinch myself that this is really my life.  It's so ordinary and yet extraordinary at the same time.  My brain may not be full of much right now, but my heart sure is.

Family :)

Piper and her little friends at school

Preferences and Convictions

I do not like change.

Some of my family members and friends change directions with the wind, it seems, traveling to a new location for school or a job, only to stay there for several months.  Their exciting careers provide different schedules every day, and they not only roll with the punches but seem to enjoy them.  I, on the other hand, am about as predictable as the sunrise.  Many people would become bored with my calculated routine and defined diet, but I would be okay with waking up at 5:00 a.m. and eating PB&Js for lunch every day for the rest of my life.  Throw me a curve ball like lasagna or a power outage, and I don't know what to do.  I'd like to think of this character trait as "contentedness," but "inflexibility" is probably the more accurate term.

Within the last few months, we became members at a new church.  Let me reiterate: I do not like change.  This change was especially challenging because I loved our old church.  Had we left because we had been hurt or upset, the transition would have been easier, or at least more clear-cut.  We left primarily because we felt that it was important for our family to do community in the town where we live instead of driving 30 minutes to be with people who, for the most part, are exactly like us.

When we first started coming to Providence Road, I was encouraged to hear the gospel preached so emphatically and to be welcomed immediately by kind people who seem to genuinely love Jesus.  But I missed so many other things about our old church that I struggled to worship in our new one until recently.  I wanted to sing only hymns all the time like at City Pres.  I missed hearing the call and response after a Scripture was read: "This is the Word of the Lord.  Thanks be to God!"  I felt awkward at the end of the service when I lifted my hands to receive the benediction and no one else did (I only did that once).  The communion stuff was just grape juice.  These weren't my people, and why can we not sit quietly before the service begins instead of gathering in the back?  Also, where are the people with gray hair?  I guess I'm sort of an old soul myself.  Liturgy speaks to my heart, and Prov Road is anything but liturgical.

What I have had to realize is that most of the things I miss about City Pres are truly preferences and not convictions.  We stand convicted that we need to be in a church in Norman where the gospel is proclaimed boldly and shown to be essential in the lives of the church members and leaders.  That's it.  When Christ stands at the head of a church, all of the minor issues can go.  

This is not to say that I've had any easy time dying to my preferences in honor of my convictions.  There are still times when those around me probably think I'm being "super spiritual" during the music because I have to sit down and close my eyes, but I am actually asking God to help my heart because I'm so frustrated with singing another Hillsong tune instead of a familiar hymn and distracted by that girl whose hands are raised.  (Truth be told, I'll probably always choose "Come Thou Fount" over "Mighty to Save," despite my greatest efforts to broaden my horizons.)  But, He does help my heart.  As I slowly loosen my hold on what I want, He shows me how the gospel can break down all sorts of barriers to give what is needed, namely God himself.  I can love and serve at this church because it is His church and my preferences are secondary to His kingdom. 

A Quiver Full of Arrows

I'm not sure we even made it out of our wedding reception without some form of the infamous question, "So, have you thought about kids yet?"  Well, to be honest, I've been married for approximately three hours, so no; all I have been thinking about is taking off this stifling dress and sitting on some beach somewhere with my guy.  

Then, before Piper's adoption was finalized, "(When) do you plan to adopt again?"  I don't know, maybe that will be up for discussion when my kid actually has my last name?

Or, in the hospital when Caroline was one day old, "Do you think you'll have more?"  Hmm.  Right now, I can't even walk correctly, and my baby is making her existence known to everyone on the third floor.  Do I think I'll have more?  I think for now, I'll have more Phenergan and maximum strength Tylenol, please and thank you.

People mostly mean well or are trying to make conversation when they ask these types of questions, and I'm rarely ever offended by them.  Timing is a funny thing, though.  For example, it is completely appropriate to ask a lady if she's pregnant when she clearly is 9+ months along but a total disaster to ask her the same question if you're not positive that the extra pounds around her midsection are, in fact, a baby and not a burrito.  Likewise, it may not be the ideal time to ask a couple about children at their wedding, (or even five years into marriage when they don't have any children but, unbeknownst to you, have been trying for months).  In premarital counseling, we discussed having three or four children, but then we actually got married and had one.  We quickly discovered that having four children is not an option in the Fenrick household.

I have often felt guilty about this.  My friend wants to have 4-5 children, and I think she would be a rockstar at it.  She recently posted a picture on Instagram with this caption: 

"Stepped in to start laundry.  Stepped out to find the baby feasting on marigolds and the toddler dumping water on his brother's head.  And somehow the underwear came off in the process too. Haha."  

There would be no "haha" or posting on Instagram if this happened in my house.  In fact, there would probably be tears and time-outs, because I'm the most type-A mom you'll ever meet and Laura is a laid-back gem of a parent.  I've wanted to be a perfect mom to many children, but I am coming to realize that being a good mother to two is okay.

"Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one's youth.  How blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them!" (Psalm 127:4-5)

This verse is often used as reasoning for having 12 children, and maybe it means that, but perhaps it doesn't.  The Bible is unmistakably clear about some things but slightly ambiguous about others.  I may get to heaven one day and realize that I was totally off base on this (in which case He would still let me in!), but I do not believe that "a quiver full" designates a specific number.  Otherwise, the verse would say, "Blessed is the man whose quiver contains ten children," which it does not.  

Perhaps people have "quivers" of varying sizes, in the same way that some humans are tall while others are short, and I have blue eyes while my husband has brown.  One way isn't inherently better than another; it's just the way we were made.  It also may be true that certain arrows take up a considerable amount of space in a quiver, while others occupy little.  If the verse is viewed in this light, as I think it may be intended, then having more children does not equate them to badges of honor to be held above everyone else, but as gifts to be treasured.  I'm not better or worse than the next mom because of the amount of people who live in my house.

I've got two sweet little arrows, and my quiver is full.  For now.  Quivers have been known to stretch.

List of 25

My running buddy, prompted by an essay for entrance into grad school, recently posted a "list of 25" things about herself on her blog.  I've been close friends with Jessie for years and didn't know about half of the facts on her list prior to reading her post.  Then I realized, "I spill my guts at times on my blog, and most of my readers probably don't know the most basic things about me."  So, in random order, here's a list of 25 of the things that make me who I am.  Interestingly, I can usually write a blog in an hour or two, and this one took me four days, off and on.  Maybe I don't even know the most basic things about myself, ha.

1. I have had four major surgeries in my life (three, if you don't consider wisdom teeth extraction a "major surgery") but have never broken any bones.

2. As a general rule, I hate orange flavored things, but my two favorite non-chocolate candies (circus peanuts and orange slices) are orange.  I'd rather vomit than eat an orange Starburst.

3. I played the flute in high school and part of college.  Some of my favorite memories from college are of traveling to football games and marching with the Pride of Oklahoma.

4. I was a lifeguard for three summers and a swim instructor for two, but I hate to swim and have no idea how I passed the swim test to become a lifeguard.  I also have a fairly significant fear of deep water.  Scuba diving sounds like a nightmare.

5. I once ate a PB&J sandwich for lunch every day, not always including weekends, for over two years.  I still eat PB&Js at least a couple of times every week, by my own choice.  They just never get old.

6. I speak Spanish moderately well and have visited Peru several times.  It is a dream of mine to live there one day to do mission work.  My brother speaks Spanish better than I do, and we practice by only texting in Spanish.

7. My grandfather was an incredibly strong, kind, and intelligent man of God.  He worked for NASA on the Apollo 11 and 13 missions, and he knew the Bible better than anyone.  He spoiled my brother and I rotten, and even though he passed away during my freshman year of college, he has had more influence on my life than any one person on this earth.

8. People do not understand my name.  To clarify: I do have a double name and I expect people to call me both Mary and Rachel.  Together.  All the time.  However, I will not continue to correct someone who continues to call me by the wrong name.  I also typically tell the Starbucks barista to just put "Rachel" on my cup because I don't want to get into a whole discussion about my name before I've had my coffee.  I'm from South Texas, where double names are more common than in other parts of the U.S.  I am not Catholic.

9. I only ever listen to country music (and, unfortunately, Veggie Tales).  I have made an honest effort to branch out at several points in my life, but I keep coming back to Blake Shelton, Zac Brown, Jason Aldean, and Tim McGraw.  My current favorite country song is "Humble and Kind."  I do also love hymns, but I'm not sure if that is really considered a genre of music.

10. I have had a tattoo on my wrist for about a year.  It says "grace."  This is significant for several reasons.  Caroline's middle name is Grace, and Piper's middle name, Anna, means "grace."  (Anna is her birth mom's name, too.)  It is also significant because of the grace that God has shown me throughout my life, particularly in my marriage.  Incidentally, I originally had an appointment to get my new ink on the day I found out that I was pregnant, which doctors had said was impossible.  More grace.  I decided to get the tattoo on my wrist because I want to see it.  I am a forgetful person and need a constant reminder that He has been good.  But others will see it, too, and this gives me a chance to talk to people about grace when they ask about my tattoo.  I hesitated to get one initially because of what it will look like when I am old and wrinkly, but I think this will make it even more beautiful.  Even while my body is withering, grace is permanent and will have manifested itself for many years.

11. I have a condition called hypoglycemia, which is abnormally low blood sugar.  I did not know that I had this for several years, during which time I would randomly lose consciousness and scare everyone around me and myself.  A normal blood sugar range is 70-100; mine occasionally gets down between 40 and 50.  My heart rate is also abnormally low.  When I was in the hospital after giving birth to Caroline, I scared the nurse who woke me up to take my vitals because my heart rate was 41.

12. My first car was a silver convertible Volkswagen Beetle.  It was a terrible mistake.  I have since become a big advocate of reading Consumer Report and of listening to my dad's advice.  I am very stubborn (see #20).

13. I am normally a very mellow, monotone person...until it comes to watching sporting events.  Then all bets are off.  I get particularly loud and volatile during OU football, college or Thunder basketball, car races, Olympic swimming, and gymnastics of any type.  I may or may not have burst into tears when the U.S. women's gymnastics team won gold at the Olympics this year and thrown my shoe across the room when OU lost the national championship to Florida in 2008.

14. I drove a school bus during college.

15. Aside from hypoglycemia (see #11), I apparently have a propensity for acquiring odd health issues.  I got shingles when I was 16 and a kidney stone at 19.  I also grew over two inches in less than four years in my twenties.

16. At one point in time before kids and after I quit The World's Most Stressful Job, I was a serious couponer.  I probably could have been on "Extreme Couponing," had we stored the same size stockpile as many people on the show do.  I once spent $13 at Homeland for a month's worth of groceries.

17. I am obsessive about nearly everything except for hanging things on the wall and cooking, in which case I nail pictures haphazardly and just throw things in the bowl, respectively.

18. I am one of those weird people who actually loves mornings.  I would say the earlier, the better, but that really isn't true.  I don't like seeing a 4 at the front of my alarm clock, but anytime after that is my prime time.  Give me a cup of coffee, my Bible, a sleeping house, and (usually) a run, and I'm good for the rest of the day, until about 9:00 p.m., after which point I am basically useless.

19. I keep New Years' Resolutions, but I only make ones that I know I will keep.  About eight years ago, I made a resolution to floss every night (I NEVER flossed previously), and I've rarely missed a day since.  Ask me to go for a year without ice cream, and I'm doomed.

20. I worked at a camp for people with disabilities during summers in high school and college.  It is still one of my favorite places in the world, as it is the place that made me decide to go into special education as a career, gave me a passion for being with people with special needs, and allowed me to meet some of my best, lifelong friends.  (By the way, special education is VERY different from working at Camp Summit, but that's a rant for another day.  My mom tried to tell me this, but I'm stubborn and don't listen very well.)

21. I am obsessed with the grocery store, Aldi.  Sometimes people ask me if I secretly work for that company because I sing its praises so much.

22. I love to go new places, but I am a terrible traveler.  I don't like sitting still or feeling greasy, and I get annoyed by every little thing that goes awry.  I also am a big fan of my own bed.

23. My first job was at Chick-fil-A, and it is still one of only two fast food places that I will eat of my own accord (the other is Jimmy John's, which I consumed literally three or more times per week when I was pregnant).

24. I love most outdoor activities and am generally not bothered by weather, except for extreme cold.  Some of my favorite things to do outside are running (obviously), watching dirt track car races, hiking, boating/wakeboarding, taking walks, and laying out by the pool (see #4: not swimming in the pool) or on the beach.

25. I was born in Houston, where I lived for 9 years, before moving to the Dallas area, where I lived for another 9 years.  Now, I'm a Texas transplant living in Oklahoma, but, unlike many Texans, I would not say that Texas is absolutely the greatest state in the Union.  I could probably live just about anywhere except for places where it is extremely cold (see #24).  Home is where your people are.

Now tell me about you.

On Pinterest Parties and Perfect Grades

Yesterday marked the end of The Great Summer of Birthday Parties 2016.  Piper turned three in June, Andrew turned 30 in July, and Caroline turned one on Thursday.  Me?  I planned all of the parties.

Don't get me wrong; I love a good party, my three family members are definitely worth celebrating, and the summer's events were wonderful successes.  However, I do not foresee any more Pinterest parties in my future for a long, long, time.

There's this thing called "Mom Guilt" by many, but you don't have to be a mom to experience it.  It's really just comparison.  Her kids have nicer clothes than mine do.  Their house is gorgeous, and ours is okay.  Her kid eats organic tofu, and mine just ate three donuts.

The problem with comparison, aside from it being "the thief of joy" (Teddy Roosevelt), is that it causes us to draw inaccurate conclusions about someone's life based on what can be seen.  My friend and I always joke about some of the signs that Hobby Lobby sells for this reason.

"Pardon the mess but my children are making memories."  

"Good moms have sticky floors, messy kitchens, laundry piles, and happy kids."  

So, does that mean that my children aren't making memories if they aren't making messes?  Or that they aren't happy if my house is clean?  I often find myself thinking, "Since they have a nicer house than us, they must have a better life."  And on the flip side, "Because I planned the best games and bought the fanciest decorations, my child will have the perfect party."

When we visited my parents several weeks ago, my mom pulled out an old recording (side note: on VHS!) of my brother's first birthday party.  There were precisely five people sitting around the table.  Tim wore a party hat on his head and cake on his face.  My parents told stories and laughed with my granddad.  I ate ice cream (no elaboration needed on that one).  There were no decorations, no gourmet hors d'ouevres, and no handmade party favors.  The whole shindig was just us, celebrating Tim, and eating dessert.  Tim was having the time of his little life.

Fast forward 25 years to Piper's third birthday party in June of this year.  I spent literally hours in the kitchen making her silly s'mores cake, when she truly prefers ice cream and has no opinion on the appearance of her "special treats".  The "Camp Piper" theme exploded all over our house, thanks, in large part to the 28 pins that I had meticulously been sorting through and saving all summer.  The party looked flawless and went off without a hitch.

I didn't get a single picture with my daughter that whole day.  Not one.  Embarrassingly, I have 15 pictures of the party decorations.  I have become so preoccupied with planning experiences that I miss out on the actual experiences entirely.

I am sure that Pinterest is not a problem for most people, but it fuels something in me that whispers, "You can do it better.  Use all of these ingenious ideas, and your kids will have the happiest birthdays, your husband will love every dinner you cook, and your hair will be the envy of all of the women on the street."  Comparison.  Thief of joy.  Illogical conclusions.

I do frequently compare myself to other people and, obviously, to Pinterest ideas (which is really comparing myself to other people, too), but lately I have noticed that I also compare myself to previous and/or future versions of myself.  I am rarely thankful for who He has made me to be in this moment.

An example of this is grades.  I do not often talk about this next confession because I think that it leads people to believe certain things about me that I am not, but I graduated from college with a 4.0 in 3.5 years.  Now that I have started back to school for dental hygiene, a terrible, irrational fear lives in the dark places of my heart that I will make a B along the way, and that I will be a failure because of it.  I am comparing my current self to when I had no husband, no kids, and no job, and suggesting, "You did it then.  You're somehow worse if you can't do it now."

Though I need to remind myself of these truths more, I am thankful that my children's lives do not consist in the quality of their birthday parties, or that my worth is determined by my grades.  (I am also thankful that the next person in our family to have a birthday is me, in 10 more months.)  Incidentally, I remembered to take a picture of something beside decorations at Caroline's Carnival yesterday.  That's progress, people.

 

A New Career

I start school again on Monday.  As in, I'm starting school as a student, not as the teacher.

When I packed up my classroom in May, I hauled my many boxes of teaching materials up to our attic, not ready to get rid of everything just yet.  If I went back to teaching in a year or two or five, I didn't want to have to start over again, which was probably wise, considering that I literally spent thousands of dollars on my classroom over the past few years.  But after several weeks of being home with my girls, I knew that I wouldn't go back.

I never thought that I'd say this, but I love staying home.  I recently realized that while I was teaching, I was so stressed and busy that my children were simply two more people on the schedule, adding to the chaos that was my life.  Now that the most trying (and time-consuming) piece of my life is eliminated, I have found that I actually enjoy my children.  They definitely cause their own chaos; in fact, I feel like they bring it with them everywhere they go.  But, I now have time to notice the sweet little quirks that make them who they are instead of being annoyed by those same quirks and by the fact that they constantly need something.

Some people are really great at being able to shut off their work when they get home.  I am not one of those people.  On the rare occasions when I was not physically bringing work home with me, I was still carrying it emotionally in the forms of worry, control, and perfectionism.  I was never content with being a good teacher; I was constantly striving to be the best, and my family suffered.

I knew that I needed to make a career change, but I had no idea what else to pursue.  All of the career aptitude tests that I had taken before said that I was made to be a teacher.  I decided to take another one anyway, thinking that my results could have changed in the past ten years.  Guess what.  I'm apparently still made to be a teacher.

As I kept reading down the list, I saw several options that were initially intriguing but that I ended up eliminating.  Counseling.  Nope, I've got enough problems of my own without making it my duty to solve someone else's.  Pharmacy.  Sounds great, but too much school.  Nursing.  Not great hours and too gross.  Carpentry.  Um, what?  Who made this list?

Near the end of the list, two words caught my eye, and I knew that this was the career.  Dental hygiene.  

I don't feel like I need to justify my reasons for leaving teaching or for pursuing something else so soon that is radically different, but when I am waist-deep in anatomy, pharmacology, or Oral Radiography II (I mean, really, what even is that?), I may need someone to remind me of why I chose this.

1.  I love people.  Though I am painfully introverted at times, I really do enjoy connecting with people, and I will have thousands of chances to get to know all types of individuals who come to sit in my chair.  Every patient is an opportunity.

2.  I love helping people.  People's smiles are often the first thing that others notice, so I want to help everyone have pretty teeth.  Also, I have seen the effect that poor oral hygiene can have on the whole body, as several of the students I've had during my six years of teaching were unable to learn due to their urgent need for good dental care for an abscessed tooth or some other obvious ailment that could have easily been prevented.

3.  Dental hygiene fits my personality.  I can still be meticulous.  Hygiene is one of the few careers, I feel, in which I can be a perfectionist, and it will affect people positively instead of negatively.  I know that I want my own hygienist to be a perfectionist about my teeth!

4.  Since everyone has teeth, I could literally work anywhere in the world.

5.  The schedule.  Oh, the schedule!  I've been shadowing several hygienists this summer, and many of them only work 2-3 days each week.  Nobody works weekends unless they want to.  One office near us closes at 4:00, and all of them get a mandatory hour for lunch.  Y'all.  I don't even remember what it's like to eat, uninterrupted, in more than seven minutes.

6.  Okay, it has to be said.  The money is great.  If I can get paid the same amount to work two days per week as I got paid to work five days per week in teaching, why would I not do that?  Less work, more family, richer life.  Yes, please.

7.  I can leave at the end of the day and be completely finished with my job.  I want to have a job that I can do really well while I am there, but I do not want to think about it anymore once I walk out the doors at the end of the day.  Dental hygiene will let me do that.

8.  I still get to teach.  It is a different kind of teaching, sure, but some patients will need instruction on how to take care of their teeth.  It is also not out of the question that I could teach aspiring hygienists one day, too.

There are reasons why I shouldn't pursue this, but as I've analyzed them, they all stem out of my pride.  I had a lot of identity wrapped up in being a teacher.  I would not have said this out loud, but I knew that I was doing a job which few people could handle, and I was doing it well.  Everyone tends to think that you're things you are not when you teach.  For example, people thought I was patient and life-changing.  I am neither, but it sure felt good to hear them say that.

In addition, I really am not thrilled about going back to school.  I'm sort of annoyed that I will work on prerequisite classes for two years, complete two years of an intense program, and get...another bachelor's degree.  I'm also humbled to think that I might be the oldest one in my hygiene class.  But, as my teaching assistant and friend always says, "It's never too late to start something new."

So, here we go.