Becoming Karen

This summer, my three girls and I got toe rings.  I know, it’s not really that radical, but it was fun. We picked them out together and showed them off wearing cute sandals.  It became exciting when others expressed their surprise that we would do such a thing.  I know, such rebels.  I wonder what they would have said if we’d gotten tattoos or piercings?  Maybe next year…

Summer is over now, even here in the South.  My girls have already taken off their rings, but I still have mine on, though I haven’t worn sandals for several weeks.  I just can’t bring myself to take it off yet.  I know it’s just a silly toe ring, but I find that I’m not ready to part with it.

You see, our kids are growing up.  That’s what they do.  Soon they will be moving out, going to separate colleges, and only coming home for holidays and the occasional visit.  That’s how it should be.  They are starting a new phase of their lives by joining their older sister in becoming adults.  I’m proud of the people they’ve become and am excited for the adventures that await them.

But I’m also sad.

I know I will always be their mom and we will have fun, special times together in the future, but it will be different.  I will no longer be a part of their day to day lives.  Deep thoughts and feelings will be shared with close friends and new loves.  Fun new adventures, like new toe rings, will be experienced without me.  That’s as it should be; it’s their turn to create their own stories.

Knowing, doesn’t make it easy.  I’m being challenged in new ways as a mom; I’m learning to let go.  Some days I do okay.  Other days I find myself reminiscing and grieving.  So I keep the toe ring on because I’m not quite ready to say good bye…

Today is day twenty-five in a thirty-one day writing challenge that I’m doing.  My husband was the one who really forced encouraged me to do it.  I love and appreciate that he is so supportive of my writing.  And for the most apart, I have enjoyed the process.  It has pushed me.  It has stretched me.  It has caused me to think about things.

It has left me weary.

My intention when I first started writing my blog was to offer encouragement for those difficult things we all face, whether it’s following a dream, parenting, marriage, relationships, or the stuff that floats around in our heads.  Life is hard.  I wanted readers to know they aren’t alone.

To that end, a lot of my writing comes from things that are on my heart or situations I have or am encountering.  I’m finding that the process of sharing my heart, while something I believe is beneficial and satisfying, is also draining.  Which means, here I am twenty-five days in and thinking, I’m done.  I’m empty.

I’m in desperate need of filling.

Tonight, I find myself crying out to God to breathe new life into my dry and weary bones; to make my heart like a well watered garden.  He tells me that He’s my Good Shepherd; He knows what I need and will give it to me if I ask.  So I ask, knowing that right now, He’s the only one who can help…

A week and a half ago, I was in a minor car accident in our family van, Bertha. (Yes, like all good vans, she has a name.) Since then, we have been waiting to hear from the insurance company as to their valuation.  We finally got word that they were going to treat the van as a total loss because the amount to fix it was greater than it’s worth.

When we told the kids, they were outraged!  How could the insurance company come to such a conclusion?  I explained the factors of age, and wear and tear of the vehicle in determining the status, but the kids were not fully satisfied.  When they think of the van, they remember when we first got her and the excitement involved; it had a tv and headphones.  They remember all the miles traveled for family vacations, trips to the zoo, and exploring new neighborhoods.  They remember the long time spent sitting on the highway as we evacuated our home because of a hurricane.  They remember having to drug our dog to ride in the van as we moved across the country because she hated the car.  Some of them remember their fear as they drove her for the first time.  We have had her for eleven years now so she’s part of the family.  And to them, she is worth whatever it takes to make her whole.

So how do you measure worth? 

For a van that’s been in an accident, you look to other comparable vans; vans of the same age and same equipment.  For houses, you look at upgrades and the selling price of similar houses.  The problem enters in when I try to do the same with people.  I look to others who may be of the same age, social status, or gender and compare.  Do I measure up?  Do I have the same value?

As a writer, I can get caught in the comparison trap very easily.  Do I get the same number of likes and comments?  Do I have as many followers?  Is my writing really as good as hers?

I have to tell you, I lose every time I play that game.  I can always find someone who writes better, gets more likes and comments, and has more followers.  Following that logic, I will never have great value.  So I think it’s time to use a different criteria.  Instead of looking to others, I’ll look to God.

He says I’m fearfully and wonderfully made.  He says I’m His child.  He says He takes great delight in me.  He says I’m of great worth…

PS.  We are going to take the settlement and fix Bertha.  To do otherwise, would cause a mutiny.  Besides, she’s a member of the family and we don’t give up on family no matter how old and battered they become!

Today my daughter and I went to Toys R Us.  To be honest, I haven’t been to that store for a very long time.  Partly because my kids are older and the things they want aren’t found there, and because I do a lot of my shopping on line.  But my daughter was looking for a fun gift for a friend’s birthday and it was the place we knew we could find it.  We quickly found the toy she was looking for and headed to the check out.

As soon as we got there, I could feel the frustration rising.  We had one toy.  The lady in front of us had several items, including audio books, stuffed animals, kitchen toy sets, and a few large plastic toys.  When I heard her ask the cashier to check the prices of the books, I rolled my eyes thinking of the 7 girls on their way to my house for a party.  I may have even sighed.  The fact that she had two small children with her assured me that this would not be a quick transaction.

She turned to us and mouthed ‘sorry’.  I curtly smiled as if I was being gracious.  I heard my daughter bubbly respond with, ‘oh that’s okay!’ as she smiled at the children.  I’d like to say that my heart softened and was filled with patience.  It was not.  I kept thinking about the time and how it was running out.

Then I heard the mom asking the cashier about their layaway program and return policy.  You’ve got to be kidding me!, I screamed in my head.  I started looking around to see if there were any other employees around to check us out.  There were none.  I again looked at our one toy and thought how this should not have to take this long.

About that time, her young son was becoming agitated.  He started to cry and tried to crawl out of the cart.  My daughter and I, and the now several people behind us, watched the boy.  When it seemed that he was getting into a dangerous position, I had my daughter go to him so he didn’t tumble out onto the floor.  The young mom turned around again, picked up her son, and smiled that smile every frazzled mom has used.

That’s when I felt it.  The sharp pain deep in my chest.  I had given that same smile hundreds of times when my kids were younger.  That smile of, please forgive me, I know I’m taking longer than you’d like, I know my kids are screaming, but I’m doing the best that I can.  That smile that I so hoped would be met with loving, caring faces full of grace and mercy.

Now, years later when met with that smile, I was not gracious or merciful.  I wasn’t compassionate or understanding.  I was impatient and rude.  I was so focused on myself, my time, my concerns that I had overlooked the woman standing right in front of me.  I had seen her as an obstacle instead of a person.  I focused only on my desires instead of seeing her need.  I considered being on time of greater importance than offering grace.

I wish I could go back and act differently.  I wish I could offer her help, or a smile filled with love and mercy.  More so, I wish I could offer her words of encouragement and understanding.  Words that would have reminded her that someone sees her, she’s not an annoyance, she’s doing a good job, and she’s not alone.

I can’t go back, but I can move forward with a new, softened heart; reminded once again that people, not time or schedules, are most important to God.  And since loving them is His priority, it should be mine as well.

Earlier this month, a friend posted this picture on her Facebook page.  She has been very open about her miscarriages which has encouraged other women who are grieving the same loss.  In the comment section of the post, several women commented with the number of miscarriages they have grieved.  I was touched by the number of women who have suffered such a loss and the women who have suffered multiple losses.

I was going to leave my own comment, but found that I just couldn’t do it.

Why?

My loss doesn’t count.

When we found out I was pregnant for the first time, we were overjoyed.  We had been praying and waiting for several years for a baby.  When I went in for the first ultrasound and saw that there were two, I was nervous, but thrilled!  We started trying to wrap our minds around the idea of having two infants.   In our excitement, we happily told family and friends.

Unfortunately, when I went in for an ultrasound around the 10th week, I was told there was a problem.  One baby was doing well, the other one had slowed down growing.  It still had a heart beat, but it was slower than the previous time.  I was heart broken, but hoped that somehow, the baby would be okay.

They sent me to a specialist to run a few more tests, but we were told the baby would probably die.  I went in for several more ultrasounds to watch the baby’s progress.  It became clear, though, that the baby would not make it.  I was devastated.

I remember crying most of the way home from my last appointment.  As I lay in bed crying, I prayed that God would welcome our baby into heaven with open arms.  Just typing those words cause the tears to flow all over again.

My heart was broken.

I had several people who were so wonderfully supportive and caring.  They shared their own losses and said loving and encouraging words.  I am so thankful for them.  But then there were the others.

In order to make the loss more palatable, I was told, this happens a lot with multiple pregnancies so I shouldn’t have counted on having both babies anyway.  I should just count my blessings because the other baby was healthy and other women don’t get the ‘spare’ that I did.   I even had one person ask, ‘Aren’t you glad?  Twins would be so hard.”

My heart was grieving, yet so much of what I heard, told me that I didn’t have the right to be sad.   It could be so much worse.

My loss didn’t count.

So for years, I’ve shared that my daughter’s twin died, but I hesitate to be counted among the women who have suffered a miscarriage.  (I know that sounds contradictory, but there it is.)  In my head I hear, ‘your’s doesn’t count’.  You still had a baby.  You should have known one would die.  You couldn’t have handled twins anyway.  You weren’t far enough along for it to count.

But my loss does count.

There was a baby.  And it died.

I saw it’s head, arms, legs, and heart beat. I looked forward to finding out if it was a boy or girl.  I wanted to see what color of hair he/she would have.  What would his/her personality be like?  Would he/she look more like me or my husband?  Those questions go unanswered for now; I have to wait until we meet in heaven.

My baby’s life mattered.

His/her life mattered to me and my husband.  We prayed for this baby.  We loved this baby.  And he/she mattered to God.  He fearfully and wonderfully formed my baby and put him/her in my womb.  And His works are wonderful.

My loss does count.

Despite what I may have been told and the lies I chose to believe, my loss, my grief, does count.  It’s real.  It’s valid.  It’s worth honoring.

So today I stand to be counted among the women who have suffered such losses.  I stand with them to honor the lives of our babies and to validate the grief we have experienced.  Our babies mattered.  Our losses count.  Our grief is real and valid.  And we remember them always.

We have been talking about adulting a lot lately.  My oldest daughter brings it up when life’s responsibilities seem to pile up.  My younger kids talk about it as they contemplate college and their eighteenth birthdays.  We all agree that adulting can be really hard.  And there are some days that we all just want to be young kids again; kids without cares.  So when my husband saw this, I knew I had to save it for a special day.

Today is that day.  

Today is a day that being an adult doesn’t really work for me.  So I think I’ll head to bed and try again tomorrow.

Today I was talking to a friend who is expecting her first baby.  She’s having a girl.  She knows her life is going to change, but is excited about what is to come. It was so fun to watch her face light up as she talked about her daughter and the adventure she and her husband will begin upon her arrival.

It brought back so many wonderful memories of my first pregnancy with my daughter, the excitement, the anticipation, the fear.  As we talked, I thought about the new seasons of life we are both entering.  Hers will be filled with sleepless nights, diapers, and late night feedings.  Mine will be filled with moving, saying goodbye, and an empty house.  Hers is the beginning and mine is the ending.  Both will be exciting.  Both will be a little scary.  Both will have good days and bad days.  Both will go by quickly.

So I’m trying to enjoy what’s left of this senior year.  I want to soak it all in and hold it close to my heart; to ponder and cherish.

Which leads me to shoes.

We have piles of them in various locations of the house.  I have a basket of them in the mud room.  I thought that having a container would confine them to one location.  I was wrong.  Shoes line the wall by our kitchen and the wall next to the already full basket.  Shoes even collect under our coffee table in our living room.  Those shoes can make me crazy!  And yet…I know someday, I will miss seeing them.

My kids shoes will one day be piled in their dorm rooms or apartments.  That’s where they will belong.  And that’s where part of my heart will be.

So for today, I’m trying to remember what those shoe piles represent…

Like a lot of high school seniors across the nation, my kids are taking government.  The timing is great with the presidential election coming up next year.  Since all five of my children will be able to vote in the election for the first time, voting has been a topic of conversation at our house.

A couple of the kids have expressed a concern of being fully informed as voters. We’ve watched some of the debates and talked about what the candidates have said.  One of my daughters said that it was frustrating to watch because they seemed to not directly answer the questions asked and that their answers seemed to change over time.  It created enough confusion and frustration to make a couple of my kids question whether or not they should vote if they weren’t really sure.  That’s when we discussed the honor, privilege, and freedom we have to vote.  We reminded them of the groups of people all over the world who aren’t allowed to vote or do so facing very difficult and dangerous circumstances.  I suggested to one of my daughters that we take voting for granted and forget what a blessing it is to participate in choosing our officials.

We’ve become complacent about our blessing.

But isn’t that the case with a lot of things?  Good health.  A place to live.  Transportation.  Family.  Friends.  A job. Food.  Internet access.  Clothing.  Toys(children’s and adult’s alike).  And the list goes on and on.  When I have those things on a daily basis, I begin to take them for granted.  I become complacent.  I become ungrateful.

Until it’s taken away.

Then I remember.  It’s all a gift.  And I’m not promised it will last.

My hope is I would learn to be grateful each day for what God has given me.  That I would learn to not take the gifts for granted and become complacent.  That I would learn to use what God has given me, to do what He calls me to do. And that I would remember I’m not promised tomorrow, so I should start today…

I braced myself for impact, knowing I couldn’t stop.  Time seemed to stand still for a moment as I saw the young girl look at me and realize that something bad was about to happen.  As my van started to crash into her car, I remember thinking, ‘this cannot be happening’.  When the van came to a stop, my first thought went to the other driver.  Was she okay?  How badly was she hurt?

I was driving to get one of my sons from school when the young girl pulled in front of me.  She was pulling out of a parking lot, trying to make a left hand turn.  She didn’t see me.  I found out later that some other drivers in the other lane had indicated to her that she could go, that the road was clear.  It wasn’t.  She had trusted.

Thankfully, we were both okay.  We walked away with bumps, bruises, and minor burns from the air bags, but we walked.  And God provided two gracious men who saw the accident, checked on us, called 911, and stayed until emergency crews arrived.

I held it together long enough to call my other son to tell him about the accident and have him get his brother at school.  And I called my husband to let him know what had happened.

I was pretty proud of myself for not falling apart.  I was able to speak calmly to the fire men and police officers who arrived at the scene.  I gave them the information they needed and recounted the events all without crying.  But then EMS arrived.  The kind lady came over to me to see if I needed any medical attention.  I told her no.  She said that was fine, but I needed to go with her to fill out some paperwork.  I answered her questions, and she once again, asked if I was okay.  That’s when I could feel the emotions rise.  I told her, “I feel a big cry coming on.”  She smiled and told me that was very normal after a traumatic event.

A traumatic event.

It was traumatic.  I drive a big van and the girl was in a small compact car.   I know it could have been so much worse.  It was unexpected and jarring.  It was painful.  It was unnerving.  And although she was at fault, I was the one who hit her, a young girl who was now terribly shaken up.

A traumatic event.

I knew that I needed to hold it together for a little while, though.  I knew there would be questions to be answered and tasks to be done.  And my kids to tell.  I knew that they would be worried about me and concerned about what would need to be done, particularly with my husband being out of town.  So I held it together.  We got the van towed, a car rented, dinner eaten, and homework done.  But I could feel that big cry looming.

As I lay in bed that night, I reflected on the day.  It had started out so normal, but then…

A traumatic event.

It took me by surprise.  It caused me to evaluate.  It reminded me of what’s truly important.  It gave me perspective.  It made me thankful.  It made me grateful for other people.  It made me cry…a big, snot dripping, ugly cry.