Only God Can Fix A Broken Heart

     I think that my heart is broken. It's impossible to know for sure, because I'm finding it hard to feel anything at all. There is probably worry lodged in my aortic crevices somewhere. And fear. Definitely sadness. Presumably anger. But when you can't actually feel, you can only guess what's truly happening inside based on the clues your body gives. While watching t.v., I notice that my face is wet and that my eye make-up has smeared. Apparently I'm able to cry without making a sound or feeling a thing. While driving to the store, I succumb to the sudden urge to scream at the top of my lungs. The urge passes as quickly as it came, leaving me very, very tired. My already short nails are red-lined and scraggly. Smiling seems.... well, what's the point? All my clues point towards a broken heart.
     Part of me doesn't want to write any of this at all. A very large part of me, actually. Right now, words are not my friends and I hate the thought of verbalizing things that are so painful. In fact, I would rather write about anything else on the planet.... anything at all. Except there is nothing else in me to write.  I can't make it funny and I can't make it happy. My words would fall flat if I tried. And, whereas I would bet that some are tired of my never-ending parenting saga, it is all that I have. My heart hurts and I have to write it. I have to.
     For no reason other than he can, Isaac's biological dad decided that our weekend arrangement is too much. He decided that we will now have bi-weekly visits with our little man. Logic, reason, and understanding have yet to change this outcome. I just don't even know what to say.
     Friends, how will my heart stand this?? How will I face Saturday mornings without seeing my beaming two-year-old scramble through my front door and into my arms? I just don't know how to do this.... how to do life without getting those coveted 36 hours each week. I still cry when he goes back each Sunday as it is! I still ache when I look back at pictures from our last full week with him in our custody. I crave that little boy day in and day out and now.... now, my happiness is once again being shaken by someone else. And we did absolutely nothing to deserve it. My husband, whose heart breaks even more for this baby than mine (a thought that is difficult to even imagine), does not deserve this. My children, who turn down plans with friends on the weekends in order to be with their little brother, do not deserve this. And most importantly, the little boy that we leave frantic, screaming, and clinging to us each Sunday night..... he doesn't deserve this.
     Whatever is going on behind the scenes, and whoever is involved in aiding this negative situation, we may never know. But we are the ones left in the wake of the storm, waiting for the next wave to hit... the final wave that will wash us out to sea, ending our visits for good.
     But in my numbness I still have to say this: it was my happiness that was shaken, not my hope. At every turn there has been plan in place, one that I cannot see and cannot predict. Each time a wave hits, we choke and we flounder and we cry (oh, do we ever cry), but we do not drown. We WILL not drown. I will scream it if I have to, but WE WILL NOT DROWN! I have no aces up my sleeve nor magic ball to turn to. But I do have a hope in a God that has brought me through so so very much. And He has never left me to die. He has allowed pain and more crap than I thought I could handle, but He always saves the day. That's why He's the Savior and I'm not.
     Tonight I am going to try to feel. I am going to go through those stages of grief for the hundredth time, praying that it will be the last but knowing that the answer to that prayer won't change the fact that I have to do it anyway. I am going to lift up all of my children before the Lord, even when remembering Isaac causes me more pain than I can express. And I am going to try to love on my other three as we prepare them for the news. Finally, I am going to remind myself that Isaac's dad is not the enemy, nor are any of the others involved. That one's really hard for me to remember sometimes.
     For those of you that still can stomach all my parenting drama and continue to read these posts of mine, I ask again that you pray for my babies (and the big one I'm married to, as well). Please pray for their hearts to not hurt quite so much tonight. And please pray for Isaac and his dad. I know you may not want to, believe me I know... but when it's all said and done, only God can fix a heart. And what we need right now is a whole lot of hearts that are doing better than they currently are. Big hugs to you all.

4 Ways to Help Manage Grief on the Bumpiest Road of All

4 Ways to Help Manage Grief on the Bumpiest Road of All

Stupid Idiot

     Everyone has an angry catch-phrase. Everyone. And you know what I’m talking about, too. That string of words that inadvertently flies from your mouth in a fit of panic or rage… the go-to mumblings that pour out of your mouth with no warning whatsoever. It’s the set of words you yell and then instantly look around, hoping to God that no one else other than the Almighty himself was around to witness your less than holy spewings. If you’re reading this and you’re feeling your cheeks burn with shame, then you know what your angry catch-phrase is! But if you’re sitting there feeling angelic, patting yourself on the back for not being a slave to the evil tongue that afflicts everyone else around you, I challenge you to complete this one task: Ask your children what your angry catch-phrase is. Because if anyone will know, they will. Trust me. If they haven’t pointed out your flaw yet, it’s because they’re too busy parroting your words at their siblings (only to get scolded by you for using unkind words…. Come on, you know it’s true.).

     Stupid Idiot. That’s mine. There are others I know, husbands even, (whom shall remain nameless) that require some bleeping out every time they get upset. You know who you are and I’m not here to judge. (Just remember that I’m a better person than you.) But never once did I realize just how much I say these words together until my children brought it to my attention. For one, I’m a bit ashamed of myself - partially because I shouldn’t be yelling this constantly (how old am I, anyway?), but largely because stupid idiot is just redundant and not a good use of the English language. The writer in me would’ve hoped I could come up with a wittier retort to my momentary distresses, but alas, I have fallen prey to impulsivity and reactionary behavior yet again!

     When I’ve spent 20 minutes searching for the car keys? Stupid Idiot. When I’ve lumbered to the top of two flights of stairs with an arm full of laundry, only to realize that the one article of clothing I need must still be in the dryer? Stupid Idiot. When the food scorches to the bottom of the pan, filling the kitchen with smoke, because I was too wrapped up in quizzing a little person on this week’s spelling words? Stupid Idiot. Honestly, I couldn’t even tell you if I’m meaning that the inanimate objects such as the keys, laundry, or pan are the recipients of my tongue-lashing (because once again, that would just be silliness) or if I’m reaching deeper and aiming the words towards myself for not being able to find the keys, the shirt, or for scorching the pan. The two words, in and of themselves, are not all that terrible. However, when put together – and then directed at my adopted, emotionally-challenged, self-loathing, anxiety-ridden children – my “go-to” becomes a “gone-too-far” pretty quickly.

     Two weeks ago we had an incident. It was a frigid morning, too cold for the kids to stand at the bus stop. The big kids took off in a sprint across the icy sidewalk, racing to see who would get the coveted front seat for the short trip down the driveway. Cameron won the race (despite being about as sure-footed as a duck – seriously, he runs like his thighs have been sewn together or something). With a big flourish, my oldest child flung the door open, hip-checked his sister to the side as he lunged into the van, and then slammed the car door in victory. Sadly, he didn’t check to make sure that his sister’s fingers were cleared before doing so.

     I watched as the look of horror changed to horrific pain on Taylor’s face. Her eyes were wide as saucers. Her mouth was open in a silent scream. She tugged her arm, but her hand remained stuck in the door. I swallowed my gag as I ran to her as quickly as my slippers on the ice would allow, ripping open the van door and frantically removing her winter layers until I could get to her hand. It was then, while I was inches from her face, that she found her voice. She let loose a scream that would’ve scared a ghost. After a few seconds, I was half-tempted to put her hand back in the door, just so it was quiet enough to think!

     Once I was sure that her fingers were all still attached, I looked at Cameron. He immediately began to jabber…. “It was my turn for the front! I didn’t know she was there (despite hip-checking her seconds before slamming her tiny nuggets in the door)! She should’ve moved!” And then it happened.

     “Stupid Idiot!” And no, this wasn’t directed at the van door, nor was it directed at myself. This was a full-fledged insult toward my 8-year-old. Other things followed (all the while, Taylor is wailing in the background) like “Why can’t you ever just think? Why do you always have to put yourself first? Can’t you ever just pay attention to your surroundings???”

     Ok, so now there are two crying children, I’m in pajamas with no coat and it’s like -25 degrees outside, the baby isn’t strapped into his seat, the school bus is coming, I don’t know if Taylor needs to go to the ER or not, and, oh yeah, my mother-in-law had the pleasure of witnessing the entire thing. Having an audience for your screw ups is fantastic, is it not? If Children’s Services could see me now…..

     Fast-forwarding a few hours….. Taylor lived, as did her fingers. Cameron made it to school. The baby got buckled in. I didn’t get frostbite.

     I spent some time talking with my son that night. “Cam, I am so sorry I called you a stupid idiot.” He began to cry. “That’s ok,” he sobbed. “I was stupid.”

     “Well….. ok, yeah, that was really stupid. But it doesn’t make you a stupid idiot. We all do stupid things. Take me, for example. I yell stupid idiot every time I get upset, even if it’s at my kids. Now THAT’S stupid.”

     He smiled as snot ran down his face. “Yeah, that is pretty stupid,” he said.

     Two days later, Cameron and Taylor were running for the van….. Cameron won….. the door began to close while Taylor was still in the way….. “CAMERON!!!!!!!” I wailed.

     The door halted.

     “Sorry, Mom! I’m not trying to be a stupid idiot,” he hollered.

     “Yes he is, Mom!” Taylor hollered back. “I saw him!”

     I’m a fantastic mother. Stupid Idiot.

Co-Sleeping: Why the Experts may not Know Best

Click the link to see the most recent bump bliss article by Shivonne! Co-Sleeping: Why the Experts may not Know Best

The Son Punching Prayer

     Lord, help me not to punch my son.
   
     It's been a long, long couple of weeks. We survived numerous Christmas parties, breakfast with Santa, a trip to Michigan, a Christmas pageant, two birthday parties for the now 7-year-old (complete with little girl sleep-over), a teething and not sleeping baby, a potty-training toddler, and a sinus infection/bronchitis/pneumonia mix. We made the cookies, we sang the carols, we bought the batteries for the toys. We did it all....
     We did it all and I didn't punch him, not even once. And this is how I know the grace of God is a real and functioning part of my faith, because without it, there would've been swinging and literal gnashing of teeth. So, this is my new prayer. I've decided that I have succeeded in my job as a mother as long as I can make it through the day without socking him directly in the nose. Feeding them, bathing them, tutoring them... these things all fall by the wayside in the light of simply not wailing on them from sun-up to sun-down. And you know, it really takes the pressure off when you only have one goal to focus on!
     When he was caught in a lie this week: "Mom, YOU'RE the liar, not me! You're going to the devil and I don't even care! So is Dad!"

     Lord, help me not to punch my son.

     When he told his aunt that he didn't like the gift she gave him and that he wanted money instead, then proceeded to look at my beautiful meal and say that I made all gross food....

     Lord, help me not to punch my son.

     When he tore his room apart and threw all of his brand new toys into the wall because he got grounded for acting like a complete moron all week....

     Lord, help me not to punch my son.

     When he almost tore his closet door off and spent 15 minutes blaming ME for losing his swim towel....

     Lord, help me not to punch my son.

     When he magically lost the ability to read so that I would be forced to do his math homework for him and I called him out on it.... and he proceeded to stick his tongue out and make rude gestures behind my back even though I could see his reflection in the kitchen window the entire time.... and he lied about doing these ridiculous things and then blamed his sister for them.....

     Lord, help me not to shove my foot so far up my son's backside that it comes out of his lying little throat.......!

     I know.... my son has problems. He has diagnoses and takes medication and needs a great deal of understanding. But then again, the same could be said about Pol Pot or Hitler, and I'm betting that their mothers wanted to punch them, too. Along with a large number of other people they encountered.... and, honestly, there are some people that just need a good knock in the head to set them straight. Maybe there would've been less genocide going on if more people would've just punched these crazed tyrants when they were acting like snot-nosed-imbeciles. Now I'm not going to go as far as to say that my son will turn into a ruthless dictator if he's not set straight, but it's just a chance I'm not willing to take.
     Therefore, my prayer is that the Lord help me not to punch my son.... but if someone else were to punch him, say, a sister or a ticked off classmate, I wouldn't exactly hate them for giving him a taste of his own medicine. Especially since every consequence I've given him in the last few weeks has been met with a nasty "I don't care" or "So what?".  I don't care?? So what??? These may just be the lines I feed back to him when he comes to me crying about a black eye that he received on the school bus....
     Except you and I both know I can't really say that (can I?). I'll have to come up with something wise and motherly and mature.... something that points him in the right direction with just the perfect amount of compassion and I-told-you-so-edness. I have to make myself do the Christian thing and pray for him and all his nastiness.... God knows I've had my own share of it that I've dealt out in my own life at times. And I bet there were people (or parents) that wanted to punch me at times, too. I'm feeling rather grateful that they didn't.
     And so tomorrow I will pray my prayer again. And I will purchase a heavy bag to hang in the basement. And I will hit the bag many times every day. And I will remind myself that my son is not a jerk. And I might believe it sometimes, too. And it will be okay. Everything will eventually be okay.

Oh, The Puzzles We Face

     Have you ever had one of those eye-opening moments where you take a step back, look around you, and say to yourself, "How did my life come to this?"

     Oh good, you do this everyday, too? At least it's not just me!

     I mean, I love my life... seriously, I do. But during my days of Peppa Pig and peak-a-boo, I find myself contemplating earlier times. It wasn't that long ago that I was agonizing over which college to go to - which major to choose - which jobs to apply for - which man to marry - how many kids to have. I don't know that I realized it then, but my life would actually continue to exist once those big choices were made. Graduating, getting a job, and acquiring a family didn't, in fact, end my existence. However, the big choices in life have now boiled down to Gerber's chicken and apples or banana-mango-carrot - signing up for swim lessons on Tuesdays or keeping them on Thursdays - name brand face wash or settling for the DG brand. 

     For so long it seemed that my entire life was moving with such momentum, such intensity, in a direction that was still unknown.... and that was exhilarating! The highs and the lows of waiting for acceptance letters, final grades to be posted, promotions to be announced, proposals to be made - those feelings made me feel so alive, so anxious, and so ridiculously real all at the same time. I almost wish I could go back in time and whisper in my 18-year-old ear, "Don't fret about those extra-curriculars toooo much, girl. They won't help you budget the grocery money or plan a 7-year-old's Frozen-themed birthday party." 

     And it isn't just the major life choices that seem to have fallen to the wayside. As a working woman, a therapist, I found great joy and accomplishment in helping others - in figuring out how to work with each client to move the puzzle pieces of their lives around in a way that would allow them make sense of it all. Sometimes... sometimes I find it a little less than satisfying to work my current puzzles, puzzles like how to rearrange my entire to-do list around a baby's napping schedule (a schedule that seems to change daily), how to get a household fed, all the kids to pee, the dogs to pee, and the baby's diaper changed in a 15 minute time span before gymnastics, how to spend as little money as possible on Christmas without forgetting to show appreciation to my kids' teachers (God knows they deserve it for all my kids put them through!) and our mail woman (who blessedly allows extra time for me to come to the door, knowing that I have a baby and three dogs to manhandle with each knock, while she hand-delivers the Christmas gifts that I was too busy to go to the stores to actually purchase - and on the rare occasion that I'm not home, she clears away the muddy boots and left out toys to leave my packages on the dryest part of the porch), or how to sew the continuous holes and popped-off-buttons that my oldest son accumulates with each outfit he wears (this puzzle is particularly challenging because I am no seamstress!!).

     Wyatt is now 7 months old and our bank account is sadly dwindling with having gone the past 8 months on one salary. The time is drawing nigh for me to return to work. I will once again get to experience the joy of solving real puzzles - fixing real problems - experiencing real dilemmas.

     So, why am I so crushed to be handing off my diaper bag for my briefcase? Why do tears run down my cheeks at the thought of not doing hours of spelling words and subtraction problems each night? 

     Could it be possible that I've grown rather fond of the mundane? You'd think that after this week of cleaning up the big kid's throw up, the baby's throw up, the dog's throw up, the toddler's diaper blow outs, the baby's blow outs, and slipping in the dog's blow outs, I'd be ready to throw in the towel (that very dirty towel) and be hitting the pavement running to find a life that doesn't involve wiping anyone else's butt. Except I'd clean a million little dimply bottoms for the chance to hear my little man's first words - to be there to see him crawl after spending weeks on the floor next to him, showing him how to get up on his hands and knees instead of just power-humping the floor with all his might.

     Could it be possible that I'm still working out my own puzzles? Like, how to feel remotely sexy for my husband when my brain is screaming how shlubby and gross I am. Or how to get enough sleep to get through the day when the little people in my life need me so much in the nighttime hours. Or how to not lose my crap on the big kids when they daily test every patient fiber in my body. Or how to manage my fear that I will go to back work and no longer be good enough... for anyone. 

     I want to go back to that 18-year-old girl and hug her with all my might. I want to tell her that I DO understand her stress and the dilemmas she's facing - that despite our change of scenes, our decisions to choose one thing and leave the other behind is still very much real... and painful.  I want to tell her that it may not seem like it, but bedtime prayers and first kisses actually trump A+s and raises. And that one day she will find herself missing her college days and single life less and less. And that our puzzles will continually evolve as we move through life, but that we aren't defined so much by our ability to solve them as much as our courage to face them.

     This Christmas season, whatever it is you're facing, be it poopy diapers or company cutbacks or preparing for first-time parenthood or answering the time-honored question of "When will you finally settle down?", my prayer is that you will remember to love one another.

     Love each other well.

     While passing out good cheer, remember that the person beside you may have a puzzle that looks different than yours, but their puzzle, great of small, still requires a great deal of courage and probably a hug from a fellow puzzle-facer. So give the hugs freely this holiday. (And for God's sake, if you're the one with the dirty burp cloth on your shoulder, try to remember to take it off before the hugs this year, would ya?)

The Sarcastic Welcome Wagon

            I never thought I’d say this, but….. I miss being pregnant. (GASP!) I know. I know! Those are the words I was pretty positive would never leave my lips, not in a million years. Now, I’m not saying that I long for the days of constant puking and horrible back pains – not a chance! But let’s just say that I didn't acknowledge the perks of pregnancy and give them their due at the time. But as I sit here in my grass-is-always-greener state of mind, I feel a tinge of nostalgia for the days of swollen feet and profuse sweating.

            This week, three evils have resurfaced in my life – evils that pregnancy had gloriously masked. And now, in the full light of post-natal day, I’m feeling rather deflated (and not just in my abdomen).

1)      Welcome Back, Nail Biting. Ugh! The habit is so disturbing I can’t even handle it. I don’t enjoy biting, I don’t like the way my nails look, and I can’t even handle thinking of the trillions of germs I’m ingesting each time I put a fingernail to my lips. And after 16 months of gorgeous, hard-as-rock nails, I’m back to square one. Me and my stubs are disappointed in my defeat. Pregnancy hormones did for my nails what nothing ever has – I had perfect color, shape, and thickness growing at rapid rates from my fingertips with nary a break, crack, or peal. But even though I’m still nursing my little man, the hormones had to eventually come to an end, bringing with it dull, flimsy, pealy nails. And what’s an ex-nail biter to do? Leave them there, all scratchy and sharp? My OCD wouldn't allow this. And so, with bitterness in my tone, I say Welcome Back, Nail Biting.

2)      Welcome Back, Period. In the past year-and-a-half, I’d forgotten just how horrible it is to bleed profusely and for no freaking reason at all. If this were a nosebleed, I’d already be at the hospital getting cauterized. Isn’t it bad enough that I’m still not able to fit into half of my old clothes? Isn’t it enough that I’m utterly exhausted and that I change more diapers in a day than I get hours of sleep? Nope. Apparently it wasn't enough. Because now I get to wear nipple pads AND crotch pads, along with my granny panties and my super huge nursing bra. I make Victoria’s Secret models weep. So, with sarcasm and utter hatred, I say Hello, Cramps. Hello, Tampons. Hello, Back Aches. Welcome Back, Period, you disgusting piece of crap.

3)      Welcome Back, Mood Swings. Perhaps this one goes along well with number 2, but it’s also a sign that my hormones have continued their decline from pregnancy and freshly-labored Mama to just a regular old crabby, menstruating machine. And unfortunately, these mood swings are running rampant! No one cries over a generic Christmas card. No one. Oh, wait…. I do! I cry over generic Christmas cards, staring at a pile of laundry, and each time I step on the scale. On the flip side of all this sobbing is the real problem. The rage. I never realized it before, but when I watch crime shows on television, I’ve now noticed that I’m one pick axe, roll of duct tape, and a trash bag away from finding myself on America’s Most Wanted. It’s crazy how quickly it creeps up! One minute I’m making dinner while quizzing spelling words, and the next minute I’m screaming my head off because my kids bought themselves gifts at Santa’s Workshop when they were told only to buy for their family. (The hundreds of dollars spent on presents currently sitting under the Christmas tree was obviously not enough for them.) I threw things, screamed things, grounded things, and threatened things. I was seconds away from bellowing to the entire world that there really is no Santa Claus! (Spoiler Alert?) And you know what followed this almighty tantrum? You guessed it. More tears. And alas, with bi-polar tendencies I holler a hearty Welcome Back, Mood Swings!

I can see now why women have more children. For a long time I didn't see it. I couldn't look past the terrible pregnancy symptoms and terrifying labor and delivery events long enough to realize that these women of multiple children are not crazy. No. They’re just putting off the Welcome Wagon a little bit longer. And to these women I tip my hat.