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.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Saturday, June 7, 2014
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!
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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!
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, May 5, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
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.
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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.
Friday, April 11, 2014
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.
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