In the process of this move I may or may not have fallen off of a table, which I believe I have mentioned in a previous post a while back so I suppose you now assume it as fact. You would be correct in your assumption, yes, yes I did fall. I fell so hard in fact that I had one large bruise that expanded from one shoulder across my chest to the other arm, so dark that it would be impossible not to notice it.
I say this to preface my next story...
The scenario at our house on Sunday morning is quite chaotic. It is liken to an explosion of massive fireworks, set right off in our living room and kid’s bathroom. Most Sundays I am just trying to make it out alive. If I had the money, I would pay BIG bucks to hire one of those au-pairs from an international land that come to your house and tend to your children while you do all the other mom-things. They would come on Saturday nights and leave on Monday mornings just to get us through the weekend craziness! Where are you AU PAIR!?
(Originally posted on our former blog site on 9/12/2013)
There are many things about my husband that I love (his love for people, his passion for excellence, his willingness to work, his goofy/quirky side, and so on) but let me tell you just one little tiny thing that I am not very fond of. I am not very fond of the fact that after he has seen a movie he doesn’t want to watch it again… because he knows how it ends. Seriously husband? There aren’t enough movies in the world to watch without repeating at least one!?!!
There are many types of dreamers. Determined dreamers who make life happen, disastrous dreamers who persist despite life happening, and a category all to itself for the disregarded dreamers - who emerge from the unknown while life is happening.
I felt the darkness around me, packed in on all sides. I struggled to understand what was happening, why I was there, and in my distrought I cried out for help. Just as soon as I had spoken the atmosphere started changing. Rain began to flow through the sludge and find it's place in my heart. I felt life return to me, and purpose to every part of my being.
My name is Vanessa. My father is John. And my grandmother (my father's mother) is Della.
When asked in my recent trip to Lebanon what my family name was, this is what popped into my head. The individual names of my family. The names that pulled each member apart from the other and made them to stand separate.
When asked what I wanted to do for my 30th birthday this year, I came up with about a billion ideas (including but not limited to going skydiving or taking our annual birthday trip to the beach) but after a bit of reflection settled on the idea of an 80's dance party. I told my husband and my best friend (who I knew were in cahoots with each other to surprise me) about a dozen times and I just knew that after the last year of craziness - this would be the one moment I could put myself first and dance away all of my frustrations and troubles amongst friends and family.
"Have you gotten any more calls regarding your adoption?" This question is so bittersweet these days as it usually comes from friends familiar with our story, and our waiting, who I know are excited for us but each time I look at their hopeful eyes and just blurt out, "no". Then of course comes the "well, do you know where you will be pastoring?" Again, without hesitation or emotion, "no".
I caught myself with the worst back ache after being slumped over for nearly an hour long conversation with a friend. I hadn't paid much attention to it until that moment, I honestly didn't even know I had hunched myself over in my chair until my spine tightened itself so much that I couldn't even stand straight when we parted ways.
I had a proud mom moment this last week. Michael, my now four year old, was done playing with his little action figures and proceeded to move on to his new train tracks he had just gotten for his birthday when I walked in and noticed the living room being overtaken with toys.
I quickly prompted Michael to clean up whatever he was not playing with before moving on to his next "adventure" and then it happened. Almost in slow motion.
When is the last time that you went shopping for a pair of pants? Does anyone else get discouraged like I do that after fifty trips to the dressing room you are still left empty handed? It isn't that I can't find anything to fit my "mom" hips, a pair long enough for my tall frame, or even that I can't find a few pairs to fit my chicken legs. But there are few jeans that can do all three. And even fewer that can attractively do all three.
A terrible tragedy happened just down the street from where my husband and I used to live in Stockton, CA. A bank robbery and a high speed chase that ended in three people losing their lives. My newsfeed blew up yesterday with friends who had taken video of what was happening, posted updates on locations to stay away from, and shared news reports to give the latest details on who was involved.
It used to be that you could hear something in passing or in deliberate conversation and be able to label such things as gossip. You knew in your gut that the person sharing stories of jealousy, offense, or humiliation would never dare to do so in front of the one they were speaking about. You knew in your heart that how it was being shared wasn’t an exact depiction of the real story… just their version. You knew they were exaggerating to fit their angle, to make themselves look better. You knew it was wrong.
Well, that was hurtful.
Those words, and how she said them. Didn't she think how they would sound coming out? Didn't she care that they could cause me to feel pain? Have I caused her pain too? How do we move beyond this? Can there be a "beyond" this?
They say that women have fifty thousand words to use each day, and I don't know if I believe them. I mean seriously, have you met a toddler? At the end of a long day you will never catch me looking to strike up a conversation. You will however find me posted in my pajamas on the couch, coffee in hand (don't judge me and my late night caffeine fix), watching one of my favorite crime shows- or Nashville, because... Nashville- gloriously basking in the silence.
Most of my best mom moments happen when I am distracted. And by “best” mom moments, I mean to say that the ones I wish I could have prevented for various reasons but find quite funny looking back. The most memorable example yet happened only a few months back…
As a mother of two boys I have heard my fair share of screams.
There is the “brother has my toy” scream, the “you’re not paying attention to me” scream, the “I’m too tired to communicate” scream, the “I hurt myself” scream, the “I’m dying” scream and then, the worst of all, the “I just got a shot” scream. Not I’ve BEEN shot. But the… “you took me to the dr. and they pierced my innocent skin with what seems like a ten inch needle that reached to the depths of my soul” kind of shot.
It is June 13th and my sons have officially been out of school now for a week.
Which means we are now only a mere seven days into summer break… and if you were to sum up how this is going for me it would look a little something like this…
