The House That Built Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                

Who Got Lucky?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                 

Why the Church Needs People with Disabilities

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

One year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For my brother

This is my brother, Tim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

30 Before 30

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

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

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

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

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

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