The end.

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.

Bright Beginnings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After

Before

  

Daycare is not a bad place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

The House That Built Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                

Who Got Lucky?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                 

Why the Church Needs People with Disabilities

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

One year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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