I have a soon to be 2 year old daughter. This means that I am fighting about 10-12 battle of wills every single day. One of our reoccuring battles happens when she sees her black shoes on the floor. She absolutely loves those things, to the point where I've been concerned about her obsession. I put them on in the house, in the crib, in the car, wherever she is she can have them and I really could care less. Wearing the shoes every minute of her life is not the battle. The battle comes when she sees her pink shoes. She brings them to me and crawls up on my lap indicating that she would like to wear pink shoes. The first time it was really cute. Until I realized that she did NOT want me to remove her black shoes. She loves them. She also loves the pink ones. But how do you explain to a determined, shoe love-stricken two year old that she cannot wear two shoes at the same time. Other than trying it right in front of her so she can see that indeed, it cannot be done. But she doesn't care. She wants me to keep trying. No matter how nice I am, and believe me, we sit on the floor together and I carefully explain the dilemma. It always ends in a meltdown. How many times have I pointed to the corner of our small cabin exclaiming, "Look, a cow!" only to toss the pink shoes under the table when Sonora turns around confused. "Mommy, thought she saw something, oops" Crisis averted. Don't judge me. Remember that part where I have explained to her 100 times that pink shoes will not fit over black shoes.
You can't have everything. I say that to my kids in some way or another every day. Because they are kids, and they want what they see. I happen to be a pessimist in this respect, incorporating this little saying into my vocab seems appropriate. I hate that I say it. Still it's a lesson I don't remember learning it. I don't really remember wanting more than I had, but by the grace of God, I got it anyway. He is a good Daddy like that. Now I am beginning to understand this more than ever. Because it's true, I love two places. What seemed like a cruel trick, God moving us to California, ended up being one of those top ten chances you took in life that you will never regret. It's probably in my top two. I asked God to preserve my homeplace in my heart, but He didn't let it happen. It was making me feel pretty lonely to live in a place that I wasn't willing to settle for. But it was impossible to remain hardened. Because of the good people. Because of the small town charm. Because of the mountains that frame the landscape. There is something incredibly spiritual that happens when you drive from Mi-wuk to downtown and you watch the landscape change so drastically. Our habit was to drive over the grade and up over the hill to get a 2 second glimpse of the valley and make comments about the fog. I cannot count the sunsets that have left me breathless. The sunrises that forced me to pray, and to pinch myself because it is not smart to drive down the grade and get so lost in a moment that you close your eyes and wish to go deeper. I've been there a million times. I love Sonora. No, I am in love with Sonora. I love my neighborhood. We love to walk the skyline across from the pool. We stop at the top of the road every time. How can you not? It stirs me in ways that no "quiet time on the couch" can touch.
So sometimes I want to grab Jesus by the shoulders and shake him, How can you do this to me? Do you know how difficult it is to not have everything? I am in Concord now. I am not particularly in love with any "mystical charm" of the landscape, but with the familiarity of it. And I love the trees and the fields! I see green, I see LIFE everywhere I look. The rain fell so hard two days ago that I thought it might crash through the windshield. I closed my eyes and thought, I love southern rain. I just do. It's a different kind of love, but love nonetheless. I will even make the arguement that my family is here. I have really good friends here that I only see once or twice a year. I love being so close to my family and friends the most. I can hardly believe that I am getting on a plane tomorrow and going back to Sonora. But the truth is, God in his graciousness has given me family in Sonora too. I am sure those related to me by blood would argue that I could never really have mothers, fathers, grandparents, sisters, brothers that have only known me for 3 years. But I know the truth. I know it in my heart and am more certain that if I were ever to leave a large portion of my heart would be in those Sierra Nevada mountains for the rest of my life.
This blog is NOT about me leaving Sonora. No plans are in motion. I think that part of God taking me to Sonora was for me to understand in His will I will not live a monday-friday, 9-5 kinda life. I could go anywhere, live wherever and I would be ok. I would be happy. It is so freeing for me to not be tied down. But sometimes I feel very compelled to have a two year old tantrum, why? why did you do this to me? I can't be in two places in once, so how could I possibly love them?
All I know is He is good. And maybe He isn't so interested in letting me have everything my way, but to have my mind transformed. Looking back, I did it. I left everything. I moved away from the place I was born and raised, where my entire family resided. I obeyed, sometimes belligerent with my arms crossed, but I was willing. It was just one of those lessons that I had to learn and now I am teaching my kids that same lesson. It's a hard one to learn, but one I think God wants us all to learn. The truth is, if I really search my heart is that I want God's will in my life. I don't care what it takes. I trust Him. I just wanted to write it, say it out loud a hundred times, I trust Him. Because it is going to be hard as heck to get on the plane tomorrow, considering what I am leaving behind. I love this place. But I will keep my heart focused on where I am going, home. My home for now. I love that place too. I cannot wait to run to the arms of my husband, at the end of the day, he is home to me.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Becoming me.
I was really astonished to arrive at middle school and realize that how I looked actually mattered. I started 5th grade in wranglers and boots because I was a barn girl. It still worked for me then. Middle school, not so much. I was thrust into a sea of confusion I usually like to blame on having a mother unconcerned with vanity, and not having an older sister. I didn’t know that if I wrote “I love Maggie” on my hand the girls would call me a lesbian and laugh at me. Maggie was my horse at the time. I didn’t know that if I didn’t wear brand name clothing I wouldn’t be able to make many friends. I was unaware of brand names until 8th grade, that was when I asked my parents to pull me out of public middle school and put me in a magnet school. I loved the few friends I had in middle school, but life overall was brutal there. The magnet school was a breath of fresh air. My mission in life was to be popular, be pretty, and be liked by other people. The 8th grade year was the best of my life, I still didn’t have an older sister, but I made several friends who did have them and I learned about makeup, eyeliner, and jeans that had a little flare in them.
This prepared me for public high school, sort of. Somehow I still ended up sitting by myself in the cafeteria for the first semester because I just didn’t have the courage to sit with other people my age. I even had several of the “less than par” people at MPHS, if you can imagine there being those, take my lunch several times. They walked up and looked at me, and I slid the tray to them and left. I hate confrontation, to this day. Second semester went much better for me. I made friends that invited me to their lunch table, and my life was forever changed.
But I was never normal. I don’t think for a day I was ever “miss popular girl” because let’s face it, I have been 5’2 and 90 pounds since I was 14 years old. And no matter how many girls fuss about losing weight and wanting to be in shape, no one if they are honest wants to be as small as me. So began a journey of, although I could not gain weight, maybe I could make myself look normal. Even size zero jeans would not fit me. I would collect cotton leggings and exercise pants and wear them under my jeans so I would have thicker legs. I would buy foundation shades darker than my face so I could look like I didn’t have such fair skin. I would even put it on my lips because suddenly I resented the nickname “Snow White.” I didn’t want to be who I was. I hated tank tops and mini skirts because I felt like my legs looked like a flamingos. My uncle would always say, “Hey Summer, you got a string hanging out of your sleeve….oh wait, it’s your arm!” *ensuing laughter* My Grandma has had secret suspicions since I was 12 that I have an eating disorder, despite the fact she's seen me devour plenty of food. Wait, did I say secret suspcicion? I meant that she asks me about it regularly. Not to mention, when you are as small as me, people can’t imagine why it would be offensive to ask,
“Oh my God, do you have an eating disorder?”
“You are so tiny, I could wrap my hands around your wrists ten times! Can I try it?”
“How old are you? My friends and I are placing bets!”
“Don’t you want to put on weight?”
“Why would you want to be so thin?”
Well, I don’t. After this constant torment, as a teenager I couldn’t imagine that anyone would ever want to date me, much less, marry me! One of my male interests in high school sent the message through a friend, “I would date you…if you were ten pounds heavier.” I finally figured out that I wasn’t going to be normal. And if I wasn’t going to be normal, I was going to be different. So I dyed my hair red. And blonde. And black. And black and blonde and red at the same time. I started wearing thrift store t-shirts with my “stuffed jeans,” and belts, and colorful makeup. I cut all of my hair off. I pretended to like art and music. Hard core, screamo music, if you can imagine me rocking out to that in my classy, gold Camry.
I tried partying too. If you want to be like “everyone else,” smoking and partying are usually an accurate place to start. I continued to wear cotton pants underneath my jeans in 100 degree weather and my hips would ache because the hem would be too tight on me. I paid big bucks for what I would call a “water bra”. At the beach one year I met a special someone at nighttime, and when I saw him during the day in my bathing suit I hid in a towel. I wear one pieces for the sake of hiding more than modesty. Full leggings, skirts, and shorts have been out of the question for a long time.
My Mom would always tell me and my sister that we shouldn’t worry whether or not we will find husbands because some men like curvy girls, and some men like little petite girls. And I would think, cute petite girls, not emaciated, skeleton girls like myself. One of the first things Paul ever said to me when we met in person was, "Summer, you are not as thin as you made yourself sound. I thought you were dying from the way you described yourself!"
But guess what, I’m writing this blog because I had a revelation the other night. Paul was getting off work late, yet again the other night. I went to brush my teeth before bed and looked in the mirror and thought that my face had my day written all over it. It was just a long day with the kids. Bedtime wears me slap out. My hair was knotted and in a messy bun, my makeup had all smeared off. I was in the frumpiest pants I own, and was too lazy to change out of the shirt I’d worn to church that day so it became part of my mismatched pj ensemble. I thought that maybe it would be fun to look nice for Paul, though he would not be home until 9:45. Because, why not? He worked a hard shift and he married a girl that he loves, and I am grateful for it, so why do I always let him come home to frump girl? I own nice, matching pajamas, I own nice gowns. So I brushed my hair. I put on makeup at 9:15 at night. And I was thinking, why am I putting on makeup for my husband, geeze…, but that thought kind of lingered there for a minute and I thought about why I don’t put on makeup usually. Because Paul loves me for who I am, and I trust that. I know he loves me. I don’t try to impress him, or feel like I have to. I actually married someone who loves me for me. Hurray! Then I began happily celebrating in the bathroom and sort of smiling at myself as I applied my lipstick and fluffed my hair, because all of those things I doubted would ever happen have come to pass. And from there I started thinking about how different I am in general from who I used to be. I am happy with who I am. I don’t like being “skinny Minnie” as people like to call me, or even yesterday someone shook me and said, “Do you ever eat?” I just smiled, and told them that “I had to get pregnant for a reason, ya know?” And we all laughed and I shrugged it off because I just don’t care anymore. I don’t stuff my jeans with layers so I have a figure. I avoid padded bras because that isn’t who I am. And although I secretly think I look the best I’ve ever looked in a puffy ski-suit I am trying to understand that is not how God made me.
I don’t know why I had this on my heart. I can so remember like yesterday thinking that no one would ever want to be with someone like me. I have spent my entire life hiding behind the embarrassment that my figure brought me hoping that someone would like my personality enough to not humiliate me about my weight. I regularly have identity crises as I tell Paul, “actually, I don’t like that band,” even though I listened to them just a couple of months ago. Or when I do the math and realize I have not dyed my hair in years. It makes me smile a little. I am starting to become the person God made me. It feels good. I am not a popular, trendy girl (though I probably covet “that girl” the most!). I am not a good photographer. I have the messiest car in the neighborhood. I wear tennis shoes that are too big for me because they were cheap at a thrift store. I am probably the cheapest person that I know. I don’t like putting things in my hair or spending time on my hair. When I buy things for my hair, losing them is just imminent. I like bangs, even when they aren’t in style. I know nothing about pop culture. I hate suspense. I am terrible at video games.
But overtime, maybe it is just growing older, I’ve started to discover myself. What I really like. Not be that person behind a veil. So I’ve been thinking about it, and the truth is,
I like to garden.
I like to paint.
I like knowing how to sew. (sewing is just a different story)
I like to write.
I like watching romantic movies, and reading romantic novels.
I like to drink hot herbal tea while having theological discussions with my husband.
I like my natural hair color.
I love holding babies.
I love bringing babies into the world.
I love animals, with all of my heart. (the more hair, slobber, and dirt the better!)
I just give the glory to God for this journey. And after Paul spoke the other day at church, the lady next to me nudged me in the side with her elbow and said, “girl, you picked a good one,” and that is true too. I think Paul’s encouragement (“I think you are beautiful!”) has really set me free from wanting to be different.
Please don’t think that I never wish I was someone else. I struggle with certain elements of myself, a lot. I will always be trying to gain weight, because well, I want to live, ya know! But I think a great deal of my life I struggled with my physical appearance especially, and how I can tend to “stick out like a sore thumb” in a crowd full of really pretty, classy, young girls…with hips. I was just thinking last night how that era in my life is over.
So today, for the sake of vanity, though I rarely think of such things anymore except before church (Lord knows that is where I should be vain), I bought fingernail polish. I haven’t bought that stuff, nor worn in it years. But why not? I want to enjoy being me. And I have to start the uphill climb again every time someone says something about my weight…on nearly a daily basis. But I am so glad that my husband loves me, and I think, maybe, possibly I am starting to also.
This prepared me for public high school, sort of. Somehow I still ended up sitting by myself in the cafeteria for the first semester because I just didn’t have the courage to sit with other people my age. I even had several of the “less than par” people at MPHS, if you can imagine there being those, take my lunch several times. They walked up and looked at me, and I slid the tray to them and left. I hate confrontation, to this day. Second semester went much better for me. I made friends that invited me to their lunch table, and my life was forever changed.
But I was never normal. I don’t think for a day I was ever “miss popular girl” because let’s face it, I have been 5’2 and 90 pounds since I was 14 years old. And no matter how many girls fuss about losing weight and wanting to be in shape, no one if they are honest wants to be as small as me. So began a journey of, although I could not gain weight, maybe I could make myself look normal. Even size zero jeans would not fit me. I would collect cotton leggings and exercise pants and wear them under my jeans so I would have thicker legs. I would buy foundation shades darker than my face so I could look like I didn’t have such fair skin. I would even put it on my lips because suddenly I resented the nickname “Snow White.” I didn’t want to be who I was. I hated tank tops and mini skirts because I felt like my legs looked like a flamingos. My uncle would always say, “Hey Summer, you got a string hanging out of your sleeve….oh wait, it’s your arm!” *ensuing laughter* My Grandma has had secret suspicions since I was 12 that I have an eating disorder, despite the fact she's seen me devour plenty of food. Wait, did I say secret suspcicion? I meant that she asks me about it regularly. Not to mention, when you are as small as me, people can’t imagine why it would be offensive to ask,
“Oh my God, do you have an eating disorder?”
“You are so tiny, I could wrap my hands around your wrists ten times! Can I try it?”
“How old are you? My friends and I are placing bets!”
“Don’t you want to put on weight?”
“Why would you want to be so thin?”
Well, I don’t. After this constant torment, as a teenager I couldn’t imagine that anyone would ever want to date me, much less, marry me! One of my male interests in high school sent the message through a friend, “I would date you…if you were ten pounds heavier.” I finally figured out that I wasn’t going to be normal. And if I wasn’t going to be normal, I was going to be different. So I dyed my hair red. And blonde. And black. And black and blonde and red at the same time. I started wearing thrift store t-shirts with my “stuffed jeans,” and belts, and colorful makeup. I cut all of my hair off. I pretended to like art and music. Hard core, screamo music, if you can imagine me rocking out to that in my classy, gold Camry.
 |
| These were my favorite jeans to stuff! |
My Mom would always tell me and my sister that we shouldn’t worry whether or not we will find husbands because some men like curvy girls, and some men like little petite girls. And I would think, cute petite girls, not emaciated, skeleton girls like myself. One of the first things Paul ever said to me when we met in person was, "Summer, you are not as thin as you made yourself sound. I thought you were dying from the way you described yourself!"
 |
| Blondes have more fun? No, dying roots every other month is not fun. |
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| The night of our engagement...so happy to find someone not embarrased by my bony fingers! |
But overtime, maybe it is just growing older, I’ve started to discover myself. What I really like. Not be that person behind a veil. So I’ve been thinking about it, and the truth is,
I like to garden.
I like to paint.
I like knowing how to sew. (sewing is just a different story)
I like to write.
I like watching romantic movies, and reading romantic novels.
I like to drink hot herbal tea while having theological discussions with my husband.
I like my natural hair color.
I love holding babies.
I love bringing babies into the world.
I love animals, with all of my heart. (the more hair, slobber, and dirt the better!)
I just give the glory to God for this journey. And after Paul spoke the other day at church, the lady next to me nudged me in the side with her elbow and said, “girl, you picked a good one,” and that is true too. I think Paul’s encouragement (“I think you are beautiful!”) has really set me free from wanting to be different.
Please don’t think that I never wish I was someone else. I struggle with certain elements of myself, a lot. I will always be trying to gain weight, because well, I want to live, ya know! But I think a great deal of my life I struggled with my physical appearance especially, and how I can tend to “stick out like a sore thumb” in a crowd full of really pretty, classy, young girls…with hips. I was just thinking last night how that era in my life is over.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
What the blood of Jesus Means to Me
I have been posting picture lately of Jake’s “puffy cheek.” I’m not sure why it is puffy. Yesterday night it was bright red, and hot as fire. After several at home remedies others had suggested, he woke up this morning with a puffy cheek but no inflammation. But I had no peace. Why would his cheek just randomly be swollen? Why isn’t he running a fever if he clearly has an infection? Why is it not going down? Why does he feel no pain despite the fact that his left cheek is twice the size of his right?
And just because everyone else could see that he A) wasn’t running a fever, and B) wasn’t feeling rotten, and C) was slowly getting better, that doesn’t mean that as a Mom I felt ok with just leaving the situation be. And honestly, it probably would be different with Sonora. Just the other week she had a sinus infection, and was running a fever for consecutive nights in a row, and I just forced her to drink oregano tea around the clock, and she healed up just fine. I never worried a day about it. Even when green and yellow goo was leaking from her eye. I knew she’d be ok.
I have a really difficult time finding that peace when Jake gets sick. In fact, I always assume the worst with Jake. As a Mother, there are certain experiences that you just never get over. I have gone through inner healing, I have given it to God, I have forgiven everyone in the situation to the sky and back, but every time Jake’s health is tweaked I stop in my tracks. I look behind me, and I remember a very frightening time in my life.
Some of you have heard the testimony. I personally never get tired of hearing it. When Jake was 17 days old, he was admitted to the hospital. To an ordinary room, at first. That was until a routine blood draw revealed that he had a condition called acidosis, which to my understanding meant his body was putting acid into his blood. Usually pointing to the liver or kidneys not doing their job. I remember them saying, “We’re going to room 132,” and I called my grandma and told her where to meet us.
We took Jake to the emergency room because he had a cold. We had taken him to urgent care that night, to the doctor the day before, and the ER again the night before. Something about a Momma’s intuition, not just mine, but my Mom’s too. Something was not right. At urgent care that night, I begged the attending to admit him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t eat, we took him last minute because he choked so hard on mucous that he turned blue. My Mom held him upside down and sucked it out of his throat while he gasped for air. This is a two week old infant we are talking about. I’ve had to forgive the urgent care doctor many times. The ER was a trip made at 4 am, after spending an entire night taking shifts of holding Jake upright so he could breathe, though he couldn’t eat, and therefore wouldn’t sleep. Safe to say, the longest night of my life. There was just a moment, I’m not sure who pushed through all of the doubt around us, me or my Mom but we just knew that this baby belonged in the hospital. We didn’t even strap him in the car seat, we couldn’t, because he was wheezing so bad he couldn’t catch his breath. It was 4am and I sat in the back seat of that red corolla with my baby while my Mom ran every stoplight in Concord to get him to the ER as quickly as possible. They took him right away. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and he was confirmed for RSV and Pneumonia. That was when they ran the blood test. The nurse took it, and read the results and shook her head. I will never forget this because they called her from the Neontal unit to take the blood because the regular nurse couldn’t get the IV in. Taking blood to began with was a challenge, now they were going to have to do it again. I saw her face as she read the second results, and I knew something was wrong. Without even telling me, a different nurse came in and pushed a hospital bed that I lay on with my very ill two week old baby to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. The pediatric attending, and the endocrinologist came in tell us what was really going on. The truth was, RSV and Pneumonia was sort of a no brainer: oxygen, and the nasal aspirator every couple of hours, he would be fine. But they explained that because of these things, we were able to discover an underlying condition that was causing acid to build up in Jake’s body. I wish I could remember the number, but I do remember the doctor telling me that if an adult had these numbers they would be dead, he was only alive because newborns are just hardy. Since Jake had been tested for all of the most common metabolic disorders at birth (all babies are) it can only be assumed that he had one of the more uncommon ones. His liver count was way off, so I remember that many of the disorders they told me about were associated with the liver, although it could have been anything.
There are millions of amino acids, there are hundreds of metabolic disorders. I read through the list of the secondary most common ones, they all resulted in death, mental retardation, or kidney or liver transplant. My life changed drastically that week. Jake had to stop nursing at once. He had to stop eating entirely. They put him on a “sugar drip” basically, but then had to check his blood sugar around the clock. That means every hour they took one of those “finger prickers” and stuck him in the bottom of the foot. By day two both of his feet looked like pin cushions. Sometimes they’d have to do it twice because his blood would clot off too fast. Then they had to recheck his “blood gases” several times a day to check the acid, which was always a vein draw. So time after time he was stuck with needles in the arms, and ankles, and elbow, and feet, and every place you can imagine that they could find a vein. And if blood didn’t come out, they’d try again.
By day 2 I got to hold him. He was attached to so many wires I couldn’t even move. Every time I sat back to rest (because I was thoroughly exhausted from worrying constantly about my baby, and having to get up through the night to pump so I could keep my milk supply up) something would beep at me that Jake came undone.
Of course we took him in on Friday morning, so we wouldn’t get results until after the weekend, so it was the longest several days of my life. The results had to be sent off to a center specializing in metabolic disorders. I know what apostle Paul meant when he suffered so much that he despaired of his own life. I got to a point where healing seemed so hopeless that I stopped praying for it, and instead that Jesus would just come. Right now. To make matters worse, I didn’t have a spouse. I had a GREAT support system, but they found their way home at around 8:00 at night so they could come back early the next morning. I was by myself half of the stay, at only 20 years old. I can remember being in the bathroom thinking, I am still bleeding from birth, and now my baby is going to die.
I prayed, a lot. I didn’t always know what to pray, but I did it anyway. I sat at Jake’s bedside and cried a lot too. Because I was scared, and I was broken, and I wanted so badly to believe that God was going to come through for me. I don’t even remember knowing God at the time, but I cried out to Him anyway. So what happened next? Someone from the church called and said the Lord gave her a word that Jake had a curse of death spoken over him, and she told my step dad on the phone exactly to a tee what we should pray.
“I remove the curse of death from Jake in Jesus’ name. I cover him in the blood of Jesus.”
I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. I don’t think anyone really did, in terms of warfare and such. But that’s why I love God, because I know he honored our most basic cry for help. Several of us all held hands around Jake’s bed, and we just took turns praying for this prayer. My step-dad is a very tender, Godly man and my Mom has always suspected he has the gift of healing that helped solidify this prayer. I don’t know if I even believed it, or thought it would heal him, I just knew I was out of options. If God didn’t come through, it was not going to be good.
Jake started feeling a bit better almost instantly. They asked if we could start him on some special formula for babies with Acidemia, a type of metabolic disorder. I don’t even know what was in this stuff, but it looked and smelled like concrete. And Jake ate it so fast, he had only had one other bottle of pedialite before that. I remember Jake cried after he drank the bottle. I hit the emergency button so the nurses came running.
“What’s wrong?”
“He just cried!”
“Well that’s ok…”
“No, you don’t understand, he never cries. He is the easiest baby, he never screams like that.”
“That formula is probably just really hard on his stomach.”
More tears.
I will never forget the next day. I woke up at 4 am to pump, and just had to check on Jake. When I went into the PICU (which even in the short time I was there, they were like family), the nurse pulled me inside his room to tell me that his IV infiltrated. Not good, if it had to be reinserted they would have to shave a patch of his hair (his beautiful black hair!) off and place an IV in his scalp because all of his other good veins had collapsed. Then she said that his blood check from midnight was so much better, the doctor might not even need to place an IV again. We’re talking about a baby that was being poked around the clock (at that point his blood sugar was getting checked every couple of hours), and all of the sudden he wasn’t even going to need an IV? So I checked on him. He was sleeping so peacefully and I don’t even remember what I was thinking, I just remember crying and knowing that God had let that IV fall out. And then my parents showed up that morning, and we took pictures galore of a happy, vibrant little Jake. By that night, the doctor told me that I could nurse him again. Why not? He was completely normal at that point, taking up room in the PICU, they told us. He moved to a regular room for two nights before they sent him home. If I remember correctly (all I remember is that I knew his blood test would be normal), his blood test came back with some flawed qualities, but it was inconclusive. So we brought him back to the hospital to have more blood drawn to send off again. It came back normal.
All I know is God healed him. The blood of Jesus is no joke, it brought my son back from the dead. There are witnesses, we saw it. The details are so fuzzy to me now because it was outrageously traumatic. But the feelings are still there, I have to give them to God every time Jake gets sick. A miracle is a coveted thing, I am grateful for it every day. But sometimes in my heart I feel like having a miracle was so inconclusive. He just got better. In a day. If I think as a human being, by the world’s standards, sometimes I feel crazy. I have taken him to the doctor before with a cold and asked them to check his blood gases. They act like I’m an idiot, but the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be normal again. I would like to think that I can be ok with Jake getting a fever every once in a while, or having a puffy cheek of unknown origin.
It just never feels right. I know I have got to remember the blood of Jesus, what I’ve seen it do, what I know it has the power to accomplish. Last night I laid hands on Jake’s cheek, anointed him with oil, and prayed over him. I prayed the blood of Jesus over him and since it’s Easter season, the whole experience made me weep. Because I am so grateful for the blood of Jesus, not just because once I saw it heal my son, but because I know it will heal again. I know that I don’t have to live in fear or open those doors again, but God knows I try, and Hell knows it’s my greatest weakness.
So Easter is my favorite holiday. Some say it’s pagan, and full of empty traditions…maybe so. But the last couple of days while Jake has been sick I have been so aware of the price Jesus paid for me. So aware. So grateful beyond words. I will never stop thanking Him for Jake’s life. I ultimately came to find my true, lasting salvation through that experience, so I tell Jake that he really is the greatest gift God ever gave me, not just when he was born, but when I thought I might lose him…and by the blood of Jesus, I got to keep him. I used to think that Jake's healing came for my birthday. He was released on the 17th of March, six days before my 21st birthday. The funny thing about that birthday is that it fell on Easter that year....now more than ever I understand the significance. I love you, Jake.
And just because everyone else could see that he A) wasn’t running a fever, and B) wasn’t feeling rotten, and C) was slowly getting better, that doesn’t mean that as a Mom I felt ok with just leaving the situation be. And honestly, it probably would be different with Sonora. Just the other week she had a sinus infection, and was running a fever for consecutive nights in a row, and I just forced her to drink oregano tea around the clock, and she healed up just fine. I never worried a day about it. Even when green and yellow goo was leaking from her eye. I knew she’d be ok.
I have a really difficult time finding that peace when Jake gets sick. In fact, I always assume the worst with Jake. As a Mother, there are certain experiences that you just never get over. I have gone through inner healing, I have given it to God, I have forgiven everyone in the situation to the sky and back, but every time Jake’s health is tweaked I stop in my tracks. I look behind me, and I remember a very frightening time in my life.
Some of you have heard the testimony. I personally never get tired of hearing it. When Jake was 17 days old, he was admitted to the hospital. To an ordinary room, at first. That was until a routine blood draw revealed that he had a condition called acidosis, which to my understanding meant his body was putting acid into his blood. Usually pointing to the liver or kidneys not doing their job. I remember them saying, “We’re going to room 132,” and I called my grandma and told her where to meet us.
We took Jake to the emergency room because he had a cold. We had taken him to urgent care that night, to the doctor the day before, and the ER again the night before. Something about a Momma’s intuition, not just mine, but my Mom’s too. Something was not right. At urgent care that night, I begged the attending to admit him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t eat, we took him last minute because he choked so hard on mucous that he turned blue. My Mom held him upside down and sucked it out of his throat while he gasped for air. This is a two week old infant we are talking about. I’ve had to forgive the urgent care doctor many times. The ER was a trip made at 4 am, after spending an entire night taking shifts of holding Jake upright so he could breathe, though he couldn’t eat, and therefore wouldn’t sleep. Safe to say, the longest night of my life. There was just a moment, I’m not sure who pushed through all of the doubt around us, me or my Mom but we just knew that this baby belonged in the hospital. We didn’t even strap him in the car seat, we couldn’t, because he was wheezing so bad he couldn’t catch his breath. It was 4am and I sat in the back seat of that red corolla with my baby while my Mom ran every stoplight in Concord to get him to the ER as quickly as possible. They took him right away. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and he was confirmed for RSV and Pneumonia. That was when they ran the blood test. The nurse took it, and read the results and shook her head. I will never forget this because they called her from the Neontal unit to take the blood because the regular nurse couldn’t get the IV in. Taking blood to began with was a challenge, now they were going to have to do it again. I saw her face as she read the second results, and I knew something was wrong. Without even telling me, a different nurse came in and pushed a hospital bed that I lay on with my very ill two week old baby to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. The pediatric attending, and the endocrinologist came in tell us what was really going on. The truth was, RSV and Pneumonia was sort of a no brainer: oxygen, and the nasal aspirator every couple of hours, he would be fine. But they explained that because of these things, we were able to discover an underlying condition that was causing acid to build up in Jake’s body. I wish I could remember the number, but I do remember the doctor telling me that if an adult had these numbers they would be dead, he was only alive because newborns are just hardy. Since Jake had been tested for all of the most common metabolic disorders at birth (all babies are) it can only be assumed that he had one of the more uncommon ones. His liver count was way off, so I remember that many of the disorders they told me about were associated with the liver, although it could have been anything.
There are millions of amino acids, there are hundreds of metabolic disorders. I read through the list of the secondary most common ones, they all resulted in death, mental retardation, or kidney or liver transplant. My life changed drastically that week. Jake had to stop nursing at once. He had to stop eating entirely. They put him on a “sugar drip” basically, but then had to check his blood sugar around the clock. That means every hour they took one of those “finger prickers” and stuck him in the bottom of the foot. By day two both of his feet looked like pin cushions. Sometimes they’d have to do it twice because his blood would clot off too fast. Then they had to recheck his “blood gases” several times a day to check the acid, which was always a vein draw. So time after time he was stuck with needles in the arms, and ankles, and elbow, and feet, and every place you can imagine that they could find a vein. And if blood didn’t come out, they’d try again.
By day 2 I got to hold him. He was attached to so many wires I couldn’t even move. Every time I sat back to rest (because I was thoroughly exhausted from worrying constantly about my baby, and having to get up through the night to pump so I could keep my milk supply up) something would beep at me that Jake came undone.
Of course we took him in on Friday morning, so we wouldn’t get results until after the weekend, so it was the longest several days of my life. The results had to be sent off to a center specializing in metabolic disorders. I know what apostle Paul meant when he suffered so much that he despaired of his own life. I got to a point where healing seemed so hopeless that I stopped praying for it, and instead that Jesus would just come. Right now. To make matters worse, I didn’t have a spouse. I had a GREAT support system, but they found their way home at around 8:00 at night so they could come back early the next morning. I was by myself half of the stay, at only 20 years old. I can remember being in the bathroom thinking, I am still bleeding from birth, and now my baby is going to die.
“I remove the curse of death from Jake in Jesus’ name. I cover him in the blood of Jesus.”
I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. I don’t think anyone really did, in terms of warfare and such. But that’s why I love God, because I know he honored our most basic cry for help. Several of us all held hands around Jake’s bed, and we just took turns praying for this prayer. My step-dad is a very tender, Godly man and my Mom has always suspected he has the gift of healing that helped solidify this prayer. I don’t know if I even believed it, or thought it would heal him, I just knew I was out of options. If God didn’t come through, it was not going to be good.
Jake started feeling a bit better almost instantly. They asked if we could start him on some special formula for babies with Acidemia, a type of metabolic disorder. I don’t even know what was in this stuff, but it looked and smelled like concrete. And Jake ate it so fast, he had only had one other bottle of pedialite before that. I remember Jake cried after he drank the bottle. I hit the emergency button so the nurses came running.
“What’s wrong?”
“He just cried!”
“Well that’s ok…”
“No, you don’t understand, he never cries. He is the easiest baby, he never screams like that.”
“That formula is probably just really hard on his stomach.”
More tears.
I will never forget the next day. I woke up at 4 am to pump, and just had to check on Jake. When I went into the PICU (which even in the short time I was there, they were like family), the nurse pulled me inside his room to tell me that his IV infiltrated. Not good, if it had to be reinserted they would have to shave a patch of his hair (his beautiful black hair!) off and place an IV in his scalp because all of his other good veins had collapsed. Then she said that his blood check from midnight was so much better, the doctor might not even need to place an IV again. We’re talking about a baby that was being poked around the clock (at that point his blood sugar was getting checked every couple of hours), and all of the sudden he wasn’t even going to need an IV? So I checked on him. He was sleeping so peacefully and I don’t even remember what I was thinking, I just remember crying and knowing that God had let that IV fall out. And then my parents showed up that morning, and we took pictures galore of a happy, vibrant little Jake. By that night, the doctor told me that I could nurse him again. Why not? He was completely normal at that point, taking up room in the PICU, they told us. He moved to a regular room for two nights before they sent him home. If I remember correctly (all I remember is that I knew his blood test would be normal), his blood test came back with some flawed qualities, but it was inconclusive. So we brought him back to the hospital to have more blood drawn to send off again. It came back normal.
All I know is God healed him. The blood of Jesus is no joke, it brought my son back from the dead. There are witnesses, we saw it. The details are so fuzzy to me now because it was outrageously traumatic. But the feelings are still there, I have to give them to God every time Jake gets sick. A miracle is a coveted thing, I am grateful for it every day. But sometimes in my heart I feel like having a miracle was so inconclusive. He just got better. In a day. If I think as a human being, by the world’s standards, sometimes I feel crazy. I have taken him to the doctor before with a cold and asked them to check his blood gases. They act like I’m an idiot, but the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be normal again. I would like to think that I can be ok with Jake getting a fever every once in a while, or having a puffy cheek of unknown origin.
It just never feels right. I know I have got to remember the blood of Jesus, what I’ve seen it do, what I know it has the power to accomplish. Last night I laid hands on Jake’s cheek, anointed him with oil, and prayed over him. I prayed the blood of Jesus over him and since it’s Easter season, the whole experience made me weep. Because I am so grateful for the blood of Jesus, not just because once I saw it heal my son, but because I know it will heal again. I know that I don’t have to live in fear or open those doors again, but God knows I try, and Hell knows it’s my greatest weakness.
So Easter is my favorite holiday. Some say it’s pagan, and full of empty traditions…maybe so. But the last couple of days while Jake has been sick I have been so aware of the price Jesus paid for me. So aware. So grateful beyond words. I will never stop thanking Him for Jake’s life. I ultimately came to find my true, lasting salvation through that experience, so I tell Jake that he really is the greatest gift God ever gave me, not just when he was born, but when I thought I might lose him…and by the blood of Jesus, I got to keep him. I used to think that Jake's healing came for my birthday. He was released on the 17th of March, six days before my 21st birthday. The funny thing about that birthday is that it fell on Easter that year....now more than ever I understand the significance. I love you, Jake.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
My Baby's Middle Name is "Egg Roll"
If you’ve seen the movie Practical Magic, you may recall the line, “You can’t practice witchcraft while you’re looking down your nose at it!”
Well, I don’t practice witchcraft or anything like that, but I was preparing dinner today thinking that I’m sort of like this when it comes to food. Seriously, it is my least favorite thing to think about, especially given all of the new theories/truths coming out about nutrition. Anybody else think that Dr. Mercola must suffer from serious paranoia? Well, I am officially unsubscribing from his email chain because I am ever so tired of “Find out what toxin every breast cancer patient has in their blood!” Here is the kicker though, I care. I really do.
I am married to probably the most outspoken, passionate person when it comes to speaking out against the health food movement. And the truth is, we really just disagree at which point you are caring for the temple, or neglecting it. First of all, there is me. I have been chronically tired for the last year. Like, 10 hours of sleep doesn’t do it for me. And every time I go out to eat there is a lingering fear that I will be sick on my stomach before I hit the door. It’s incredibly unsettling, especially amidst downtown San Francisco, “Pull over now, Paul!”
“Where? There is no where!”
One of the more frightening moments of my life. It’s been like this my entire life, actually. In January it all picked up a notch when my heart started beating erratically, and my liver enzymes were off just enough that they were testing me for things such as West Nile Virus, and Hepatitis. An even more frightening moment in my life, I might add. So I consented to making some changes. It has brought me resolve in my health, in fact, when I’m doing it right, I feel much better. It’s hard to know really to an extent because I am still tired, but I am first trimester pregnant too. The real change is that now that I’ve limited myself on sugar and gluten, I can tell when they are back in my diet. Oh, the horror! And the heartburn!
Then there is Paul, who treats himself to two sodas a week (at least) and as well as a Mcdonalds trip or two. And he’s perfectly healthy, surviving on far less sleep that I. Urrrgh. I do not think this is fair. And his face doesn’t break out either, to boot.
Well, now I have two kids. I don’t stop by restaurants too often and we have no room for a bachelor roommate. So it happened, just once at first. I went by Jack in the Box and got one. And then two days later, I bought three. And I felt like crap, ok. I paid the price. So yesterday when I woke up and thought, If I don’t get an egg roll today, I will kill, and I remembered that this is what the food movement is about to me, it’s finding something you like and figuring out how to do it better. How to do it where you know the ingredients and how your body will respond to them.
So I set out to make my own egg rolls, “healthy ones.” I soaked some organic whole wheat flour.
I watched Sonora cry at my feet to be held.
I gave Sonora some popcorn to distract her from wanting to be held (popcorn that I popped with coconut oil and drizzled organic butter on).
I grated cabbage and carrots, and mixed in garlic and ginger, and chicken. I rolled out my little egg roll wrappers that I attempted to make from scratch (and that was a horrible, unproductive experience but we won’t go there). And then I fried them up in coconut oil. Dinner was Asian stir fry, because I was meant to be Asian, I am telling you. I soaked my whole grain rice all day, cooked it around 4:00. While I was waiting on my egg roll dough to rest, I chopped up my veggies for the stir fry. Sonora wanted to be held badly at this point so I managed to knead my dough with her on my hip.
In between all of this I found time to make homemade lemonade that I am in the process of lacto-fermenting…hmm, three more days! And no, I don’t own a juicer, so yes, my right arm is feeling sort of numb right this second.
Back to dinner. Jake woke up and realized Daddy had left for work, so he had to mourn that disappointment a bit. I offered him a hug, but “no, Daaaaddy.”
So, oh well. Back to rolling egg roll wrappers and frying them, thinking, I could pay a dollar for someone else to do this for me.
It’s true though, I don’t know what’s in it. I know the oil isn’t good for me. But I am getting to a point, and I am so grateful, that I have sort of found a balance for my family. And don’t get me wrong, I want to build on it, but it feels good to know I can forget to soak my beans and not think I am a terrible mother. I was thinking today as I was making my crazy, high maintenance meal, hmm, I love my kids just as much now as I did last week when I poured a can of cream of mushroom soup over ½ a pound of hamburger and we ate it over white rice.
I look down my nose at it all because it has hurt me. I have been excluded from get togethers of friends I am guessing because I might have brought potato salad laden with mayonnaise. There was also a time when a friend didn’t realize I fed my kids go-gurt and said outright she couldn’t understand parents who feed their kids junk like so. Or a friend whose family salary is three times more than my own recommended that I just straighten up my diet with everything organic. Or a friend that I am very aware of how they eat at their house offered us some food and it was box mix. Something they would never feed their family. Or when a friend of mine that I trust called out a non-beleiver on her food habits, and I can't get her to come back to church. I also had a friend who straight up said she wouldn’t feed her husband the “junk” I buy for my family.
It’s just hard, it is. But the reason I continue is because the people who have really taken me under their wing and chose to shepherd me in what I am learning are telling me, “take your time, one thing at a time, there has to be a balance,” and when I think that, I have peace.
I am total “frenzy girl,” I get worked up an bent out of shape when I am worried. Being calm and collected is not my forte by any means….although Jesus is changing this in me. As I allow Him to. Anyway, I was speaking to a girl at the pregnancy center who asked me if I could help her understand what she should be eating. So I open up a booklet on the food pyramid and I’m thinking to myself, that lying government!, but I have to help her, and I'm going to send the booklet home with her. I find out that although she loves fast food, she has taking a liking to tuna salad. So of course I mention that I make mine with olive oil, not mayo. And she looked so confused, “But I just love mayonnaise!” So I told her to eat what she could keep down. I mean, we’re talking about someone who just quit smoking, who regularly eats fast food, really, isn’t mayo the least of her worries? Well, some of you would probably answer no, but I just saw her concern for nutrition as a step up. And she can’t keep a lot of protein down, so I told her to throw some peanut butter into her diet, and eat oatmeal. (I’m thinking, oatmeal needs to be soaked!) But can you see where I’m getting at? I’m done freaking out about my food because you know what, in January I was eating Mcdonalds every week, easy. My kids were too. Although I did typically make nutritious dinners, well, now I am a lot more conscious about what goes into what I make. I am getting to a place where I don’t sit around and think about what a bad mom I am if I just can’t make something especially nutritious for dinner one night, or two nights, or three in a row. And I sure as heck don’t sit on a little pedestal in my kitchen when I have a productive night like tonight, thinking, I deserve the best Mom award, while pointing my nose down at all the people eating taquitos for dinner. Because I don’t care…because I do what I can, and especially am willing to work with what God provides me.
I hope that’s ok for me to share. I just really got to a point, my husband called it idol worship, I hardly think it got that far, but there was fear in my heart. And I don’t want it there, I can’t do this if any of it is birthed from fear. Wisdom, yes. Fear, no. So it is really unfortunate that all of the little voices telling me that sugar and wheat are eroding my body from the inside out just have to go, because if I’m doing one thing at a time, that just has to be good enough. Or I quit.
So I have been thinking about why I have been working harder at feeding the family. It’s a little more money (which is a lot more money for us), and a lot more time. Definitely more dishes to do. Here is my kitchen after dinner:
Here is what comes to beckon me as soon as I try to clean my kitchen:
So I abandon the kitchen and save it for when I'm really tired. Because first, I am a Mom. Oh, look who feels perfectly fine now:
But I feel better health wise, and I am rarely getting sick now, which is amazing. I don't want to be the person where "food" is at the top of my interest list on facebook. I want to do this without being annoying, going around telling people what they eat is going to kill them, and if they really love their children they’ll sell their nice things and buy organic food. Jesus said something like that, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t so we could have the money to purchase organic hay for livestock or whatever. Guess what, even making basic, unprocessed foods is a stretch financially for my family. And I'm glad to do it.
I also decidd recently that I refuse to wear myself out over it, except when I hand squeeze 8 lemons because I know my kids will love me for it in a couple of days. Jake actually cried because I was making that instead of ginger ale. Those kinds of experiences bless me and give me the strength to continue. At the end of the day, my egg rolls were edible (no, I couldn‘t even bring myself to take a picture of them). Dinner was decent, but no one touched any of it, as you see. Don't worry, I'm no short order cook.
We all oo’ed and ah’ed over the cream cheese that resulted from the yogurt I drained for whey. Then we made toast and tried it. It was just fun.
We went over to visit Mommy’s plants and Jake gave them the daily inspection, “They are just too cute, Mommy.” I am just enjoying myself, and you know, beyond that I probably will not be good for much.
Well, I don’t practice witchcraft or anything like that, but I was preparing dinner today thinking that I’m sort of like this when it comes to food. Seriously, it is my least favorite thing to think about, especially given all of the new theories/truths coming out about nutrition. Anybody else think that Dr. Mercola must suffer from serious paranoia? Well, I am officially unsubscribing from his email chain because I am ever so tired of “Find out what toxin every breast cancer patient has in their blood!” Here is the kicker though, I care. I really do.
I am married to probably the most outspoken, passionate person when it comes to speaking out against the health food movement. And the truth is, we really just disagree at which point you are caring for the temple, or neglecting it. First of all, there is me. I have been chronically tired for the last year. Like, 10 hours of sleep doesn’t do it for me. And every time I go out to eat there is a lingering fear that I will be sick on my stomach before I hit the door. It’s incredibly unsettling, especially amidst downtown San Francisco, “Pull over now, Paul!”
“Where? There is no where!”
One of the more frightening moments of my life. It’s been like this my entire life, actually. In January it all picked up a notch when my heart started beating erratically, and my liver enzymes were off just enough that they were testing me for things such as West Nile Virus, and Hepatitis. An even more frightening moment in my life, I might add. So I consented to making some changes. It has brought me resolve in my health, in fact, when I’m doing it right, I feel much better. It’s hard to know really to an extent because I am still tired, but I am first trimester pregnant too. The real change is that now that I’ve limited myself on sugar and gluten, I can tell when they are back in my diet. Oh, the horror! And the heartburn!
Then there is Paul, who treats himself to two sodas a week (at least) and as well as a Mcdonalds trip or two. And he’s perfectly healthy, surviving on far less sleep that I. Urrrgh. I do not think this is fair. And his face doesn’t break out either, to boot.
Some of you know, my Dad was adopted. That means I really know nothing about his heritage, and I can promise you that he isn’t Asian, but sometimes I wonder if maybe I could be a little bit? Every time I am pregnant I find myself craving egg rolls around the clock. I can remember when we lived with Paul’s best friend (a bachelor at the time) he would come home late and bring me a to-go box of egg rolls.
*Hallelujah Chorus Sounds*
Well, now I have two kids. I don’t stop by restaurants too often and we have no room for a bachelor roommate. So it happened, just once at first. I went by Jack in the Box and got one. And then two days later, I bought three. And I felt like crap, ok. I paid the price. So yesterday when I woke up and thought, If I don’t get an egg roll today, I will kill, and I remembered that this is what the food movement is about to me, it’s finding something you like and figuring out how to do it better. How to do it where you know the ingredients and how your body will respond to them.
So I set out to make my own egg rolls, “healthy ones.” I soaked some organic whole wheat flour.
I watched Sonora cry at my feet to be held.
I gave Sonora some popcorn to distract her from wanting to be held (popcorn that I popped with coconut oil and drizzled organic butter on).
I grated cabbage and carrots, and mixed in garlic and ginger, and chicken. I rolled out my little egg roll wrappers that I attempted to make from scratch (and that was a horrible, unproductive experience but we won’t go there). And then I fried them up in coconut oil. Dinner was Asian stir fry, because I was meant to be Asian, I am telling you. I soaked my whole grain rice all day, cooked it around 4:00. While I was waiting on my egg roll dough to rest, I chopped up my veggies for the stir fry. Sonora wanted to be held badly at this point so I managed to knead my dough with her on my hip.
In between all of this I found time to make homemade lemonade that I am in the process of lacto-fermenting…hmm, three more days! And no, I don’t own a juicer, so yes, my right arm is feeling sort of numb right this second.
Back to dinner. Jake woke up and realized Daddy had left for work, so he had to mourn that disappointment a bit. I offered him a hug, but “no, Daaaaddy.”
So, oh well. Back to rolling egg roll wrappers and frying them, thinking, I could pay a dollar for someone else to do this for me.
It’s true though, I don’t know what’s in it. I know the oil isn’t good for me. But I am getting to a point, and I am so grateful, that I have sort of found a balance for my family. And don’t get me wrong, I want to build on it, but it feels good to know I can forget to soak my beans and not think I am a terrible mother. I was thinking today as I was making my crazy, high maintenance meal, hmm, I love my kids just as much now as I did last week when I poured a can of cream of mushroom soup over ½ a pound of hamburger and we ate it over white rice.
I get tired of being scared into the movement. I can remember one person in particular saying flat out, “sugar is the cause of all childhood cancer.” The minute I saw my husband giving my kids a soda I was secretly hyperventilating. Because I love my kids, I don’t want my negligence to be the cause of any demise. Which this is probably a good time to mention that the discussion of food has been one of the most divisive things to ever come up in my house. One time Paul didn’t come home from work and I casually thought to myself that if anything happened to him I would make sure my next husband would let me eat whatever I wanted. Hahahahahaha, I’m so clever. But the truth is, my relationship to my husband is bigger than all of this, and way more important and valuable to me. When I really think about it, I want to stay married to the guy. And I’ve tried to be careful about respecting his boundaries. (He would probably deny this claim)
I look down my nose at it all because it has hurt me. I have been excluded from get togethers of friends I am guessing because I might have brought potato salad laden with mayonnaise. There was also a time when a friend didn’t realize I fed my kids go-gurt and said outright she couldn’t understand parents who feed their kids junk like so. Or a friend whose family salary is three times more than my own recommended that I just straighten up my diet with everything organic. Or a friend that I am very aware of how they eat at their house offered us some food and it was box mix. Something they would never feed their family. Or when a friend of mine that I trust called out a non-beleiver on her food habits, and I can't get her to come back to church. I also had a friend who straight up said she wouldn’t feed her husband the “junk” I buy for my family.
It’s just hard, it is. But the reason I continue is because the people who have really taken me under their wing and chose to shepherd me in what I am learning are telling me, “take your time, one thing at a time, there has to be a balance,” and when I think that, I have peace.
 |
| (My "culture corner") |
I am total “frenzy girl,” I get worked up an bent out of shape when I am worried. Being calm and collected is not my forte by any means….although Jesus is changing this in me. As I allow Him to. Anyway, I was speaking to a girl at the pregnancy center who asked me if I could help her understand what she should be eating. So I open up a booklet on the food pyramid and I’m thinking to myself, that lying government!, but I have to help her, and I'm going to send the booklet home with her. I find out that although she loves fast food, she has taking a liking to tuna salad. So of course I mention that I make mine with olive oil, not mayo. And she looked so confused, “But I just love mayonnaise!” So I told her to eat what she could keep down. I mean, we’re talking about someone who just quit smoking, who regularly eats fast food, really, isn’t mayo the least of her worries? Well, some of you would probably answer no, but I just saw her concern for nutrition as a step up. And she can’t keep a lot of protein down, so I told her to throw some peanut butter into her diet, and eat oatmeal. (I’m thinking, oatmeal needs to be soaked!) But can you see where I’m getting at? I’m done freaking out about my food because you know what, in January I was eating Mcdonalds every week, easy. My kids were too. Although I did typically make nutritious dinners, well, now I am a lot more conscious about what goes into what I make. I am getting to a place where I don’t sit around and think about what a bad mom I am if I just can’t make something especially nutritious for dinner one night, or two nights, or three in a row. And I sure as heck don’t sit on a little pedestal in my kitchen when I have a productive night like tonight, thinking, I deserve the best Mom award, while pointing my nose down at all the people eating taquitos for dinner. Because I don’t care…because I do what I can, and especially am willing to work with what God provides me.
I hope that’s ok for me to share. I just really got to a point, my husband called it idol worship, I hardly think it got that far, but there was fear in my heart. And I don’t want it there, I can’t do this if any of it is birthed from fear. Wisdom, yes. Fear, no. So it is really unfortunate that all of the little voices telling me that sugar and wheat are eroding my body from the inside out just have to go, because if I’m doing one thing at a time, that just has to be good enough. Or I quit.
So I have been thinking about why I have been working harder at feeding the family. It’s a little more money (which is a lot more money for us), and a lot more time. Definitely more dishes to do. Here is my kitchen after dinner:
Here is what comes to beckon me as soon as I try to clean my kitchen:
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| (She likes to be held while she takes her poops...moral support, or something) |
So I abandon the kitchen and save it for when I'm really tired. Because first, I am a Mom. Oh, look who feels perfectly fine now:
But I feel better health wise, and I am rarely getting sick now, which is amazing. I don't want to be the person where "food" is at the top of my interest list on facebook. I want to do this without being annoying, going around telling people what they eat is going to kill them, and if they really love their children they’ll sell their nice things and buy organic food. Jesus said something like that, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t so we could have the money to purchase organic hay for livestock or whatever. Guess what, even making basic, unprocessed foods is a stretch financially for my family. And I'm glad to do it.
I also decidd recently that I refuse to wear myself out over it, except when I hand squeeze 8 lemons because I know my kids will love me for it in a couple of days. Jake actually cried because I was making that instead of ginger ale. Those kinds of experiences bless me and give me the strength to continue. At the end of the day, my egg rolls were edible (no, I couldn‘t even bring myself to take a picture of them). Dinner was decent, but no one touched any of it, as you see. Don't worry, I'm no short order cook.
We all oo’ed and ah’ed over the cream cheese that resulted from the yogurt I drained for whey. Then we made toast and tried it. It was just fun.
We went over to visit Mommy’s plants and Jake gave them the daily inspection, “They are just too cute, Mommy.” I am just enjoying myself, and you know, beyond that I probably will not be good for much.
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