So it should come as no surprise that 2012 is a year of radical change at our house.  First and foremost, we finally decided to homeschool our Sweet Pea.  After parsing through all of the issues that she faces, and all of her reactions to these issues, we thought it might be worthwhile to remove school itself as a stimulus for her anxiety.   Perhaps without the daily struggle of maneuvering a public school she would relax and be able to enjoy life again.  It was worth a try, anyway.

So?

I’m knocking on wood as I say this, but SO FAR SO GOOD!!  She loves it!  She had literally begged us for years to homeschool her, but that’s not the kind of request one gives into lightly, you know?  Gosh, I wish now I had done this ages ago.  There is a 180 degree change in our daughter.  She is relaxed, happy, and LOVING LEARNING.  Who knew??  I feel like we are finally seeing the bright, inquisitive child that we lost years ago.

Miracle?  Too soon to tell.  But I am praying daily that she continues to thrive here and can finally get back to the task of maturing into a young lady who is ready to conquer the world, rather than be defeated by it.

Dealing with my daughter who suffers from mental illness, those ‘what ifs’ creep in on a daily, if not hour-by-hour basis.  What if she was easy, taking life as it comes?  What if she was an optimist, instead of seeing the world as wholly against her?  What if she understood that the rules are there to help her, not hurt her.  What if she understood that WE are there to help her, not hurt her?

Since I work with children, I am faced with these ‘what ifs’ at the hospital as well.  A mother told me the other day that her eleven-year-old daughter “is a pleaser, and she only wants to do what’s right, so she won’t tell you if she’s in pain.”  Can you imagine?  I can’t.

Yesterday, though, I was faced with a ‘what if’ that literally sucker punched me right in the gut.  A twelve-year-old boy, who was as yellow as an egg yolk because his liver has failed him.  As I read through the chart my heart dropped further and further into my chest; all the same psychiatric diagnoses as Sweet Pea, and the descriptions of his behavior were uncannily similar to hers.  And the reason for his liver disease?  Unknown toxic injury.  In other words, he was likely poisoned.  Mother in prison; father nowhere to be found; the child now a ward of the state.

And I thought, “what if?”  What if that was my Sweet Pea lying on the table, poisoned; alone in the world and dying.

What if God hadn’t chosen me for this task?

What if I didn’t get to deal with her moods and fits and refusals and insomnia and hatred?

What if I didn’t know her laugh and wit and intellect and love?

What if…

I feel hope, she finds no joy

she digs in her heels, I see choices

I give choices, she cannot choose

she hurts me, I comfort her

I rush to her side, she screams me away

she runs ahead, and I yell wait

I’m ready to go, she begs to stay

we are opposed, she and I

less worrying;  it’s just not getting me anywhere

less yelling;  it (quite literally) falls on deaf ears

less freaking out; a) it’s not very ladylike, and b) it comes with a horrendous hangover

less doubting myself;  I was chosen to be her mother for a reason, even if I can’t see it

less insomnia;  tossing and turning doesn’t solve anything

less beating myself up for falling short of perfect; there’s just no such thing

less talking;  listening is better

less anger; getting mad only makes things worse

less guilt; accepting grace trumps assuming  judgment

Less.  Not more.  I’m tired of trying to be more:  more perfect, more beautiful, more youthful.  I’m done.

This year I resolve to do less.

I was planning to run in the San Antonio Half-Marathon this year.  This has been a goal of mine for YEARS.  I love to run, and I thought the training process would be a great distraction from the stress of fall.  I signed up to run on behalf of the American Cancer Society in a program called DetermiNation.  They pay the entrance fee and provide all the training; I raise money for cancer while I’m training.  Win-win!!  I had already started asking  my friends to make donations in the name of a loved one who had been impacted by cancer.  I was planning to write all their names on my race day shirt, with a goal of 100 names.  And I’ve already got names!

I had already been cleared to run by my primary doctor; his only rule was that I absolutely had to run with  my phone.  This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I use the nike+ipod device to track my runs, and they don’t have an iphone app for it yet.  Still,  I made the adjustments, and kept going. 

It’s been a pretty hot summer here in San Antonio, so track workouts have been pretty brutal.  In late July I was running and knew I was dehydrated.  I wasn’t sweating, even though I was sprinting in 100 degree temps.  In fact I got chills while I was running.  So I stopped.  I know how to listen to my body.  I wasn’t going to push.

Early the next week I had a routine visit with my cardiologist.  To be honest I didn’t even think I was going to see him.  I thought I was just getting a pacemaker check .  But they said I was on the schedule, so I went with it.  Now you need to picture my cardiologist in order to get the full weight of my story.  Think Ricky Ricardo.  He saunters in the room, “Hey baby, how you doin’?”   Seriously, if I wasn’t in a tiny room with white walls and a picture of the heart anatomy I’d think it was a pick-up line.  I love him. 

“Fine!”  I tell him. 

“No problems?” he asks?

“None!  I feel great.  In fact, I’m going to run the half-marathon in November!!”

And then it went downhill.  He was not at all in favor of my participation.  He feels that the risks are too great.  If I get dehydrated and my electrolytes get out of whack it could immediately cause arrhythmias which may or may not be treatable with my defibrillator…it gets worse but I’ll spare you the details.  Suffice it to say the word “brain damage” was used.  Also “death”. 

So…a setback.  A major setback.

I spent the first five years of this diagnosis facing the reality that was chronic illness and figuring out how to NOT let it rule my life.  It was hard.  I cried alot.  I felt helpless and scared, and only after digging into the depths of my spirit that I didn’t even know I had was I able to overcome that and live a (pseudo)normal life.  It’s been a long time since my disease got in the way of doing life MY way.

But here I am again. 

It’s a reality that sucks.  I’m sorry, it does.  The bottom line is I am now only allowed to run with a partner, I cannot ever push myself, and I can’t be competetive.  If you run you know it is often a solitary activity, mostly because we all have lives and it’s just hard to coordinate schedules.  And the thought of being dependent on someone else in order to achieve my goals is…well, it’s yucky.  Training is all about pushing - convincing yourself to continue when your body and mind want to stop.  I’m not allowed to do that.  If my body says stop I have to stop.  And the competetive thing?  It’s a race. 

So I’m going to do the only thing I know to do with a setback.  I’m going to OWN it.  Here’s the deal – I am going to run in the half-marathon, but I’m going to do it with a partner, and I’m only going to go as far as I can go.  If that’s four miles, fine.  Seven miles?  Great.  But I have no goal.  My only goal is to cross the starting line. 

And now, instead of running on behalf of people who have been impacted by cancer, I’m running for everyone with setbacks.  The money I raise will still go to the American Cancer Society.  But my mind and spirit are in this for all of us who face setbacks every day.  I’m running for Sweet Pea’s mental health issues, I’m running for my best friend with Crohn’s disease, I’m running for my mom and dad who lost their son to a heart condition and 19 years later still feel that pain. 

I’m running for me. 

I’m running for all of us. 

***Want to help?  Make a donation through my ACS link (<—click here) and be sure to leave me the name of the person you’d like me to run for.***

This is encouraging, since I’m expecting divine intervention to make this whole job thing happen.  I find myself looking everywhere for said inpiration, but how do you know if that feeling deep in your gut is a sign from God or just a chocolate craving?  How do you know if the person on the other end of the phone is the one?  How do you know if the fact that a job sounds perfect is just coincidence?  I’m in a time-sensitive situation, but does that mean that a job that won’t open until October isn’t right?  Do I expect God to make it happen now, just because that’s what the budget calls for? 

I firmly believe that God expects us to do our part to make things happen in life.  I have completed at least ten oh-so-painful online applications, and submitted more resumes than that.  I have combed at least 50 websites, looking for the right job to pop off the page.  I have called untold numbers of schools asking the secretary “do you need a school nurse”?  I am networking through every resource I have. 

And yet?  No bites. 

I’m an optimist.  And regardless of the amount of tears I’ve shed over the stress of this situation, I wake up every morning believing this is the day it’s going to happen.

But you know what that means, right?  Disappointment, doubt, fear, and feelings of utter failure when it doesn’t. 

We’ve all been there.  We’ve all had times in our lives when things didn’t fall into place the way we thought they would.  And in six months we look back and say “wow, see how that all worked out??”  I’m not gonna lie.  I’m ready to fast-forward to that point. 

I’m ready to look back on what God has done instead of looking forward to the big reveal.

I need your help.  You started us on this path a year ago.  Y0u led us to the right school for Sweet Pea; you got us through many, many obstacles.  We are convinced that this is the right place for her.  We’ve bought uniforms, and filled out paperwork, and even found a therapist to help her with the transition. 

But there’s this one little thing, and I know it’s no surprise to you.  The tuition, well, it ain’t cheap.  So if you could go ahead and provide a job for me, that would be great.  I’ve applied, I’ve interviewed, I’ve applied some more, I’ve made phone calls, I’ve written letters…but nada.  Zilch. Cero. 

Now God, you know I’m faithful.  We set a goal date of August 23 a long time ago.  And if someone asked me to bet a million dollars that I’d be starting a job on that day, I’d still do it.  I believe you have something for me.  It’s just that, you know, it’s getting kind of close to that date.  And the first payment is due soon.  And it sure feels like a lot of doors are closing instead of opening.

I realize you’ve done many things harder than this.  I mean, parting the red sea, that was a biggie.  And that time you turned a couple of loaves of bread and some fish  into a meal for thousands?  Big.  And remember that couple who so desperately wanted a baby girl and you brought them a sweet pea?  That was huge. 

But I’m anxious, God.  I can’t eat.  I can’t sleep.  I’m fusty.  I’m trying to be patient, but it’s testing me. 

Please, please show me what you have for me.

And God? 

Thanks.

funny girl

When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.  Psalm 94:19

The first question everyone asks is “How did you get tickets???”  Simple.  You just buy them.  We knew the time and date that they would go on sale (for the record, it’s 9am on the day that the nominations are announced), and my girlfriend was johnny-on-the-spot with ticketmaster and that was that.  Two tickets in the first mezzanine.  And since there are three (that’s right, THREE!!) balconies at Radio City, we were thrilled with our location!

Then, my travel-savvy girlfriend Pricelined us the four-star Hilton two blocks up 6th Avenue from Radio City for…are you sitting down??….$120.  Total.  First try. 

Next came the dress.  I have a wonderful friend who has a closet full of beautiful dresses and she offered them to me for the choosing.  I went with a blue Betsey Johnson frock that was formal but still playful, and had a fabulous vintage feel to boot.  I was having a terrible time trying to decide between silver and gold accessories when I snagged a pair of silver sparkly shoes with a gold peep toe and gold heel at (get ready for this) TJ Maxx (!!) for only 40 bucks!  I’m pretty sure I shrieked when I found them.  They were sitting alone on the size 8 rack, just waiting for me to come along.  I could hear the orchestra swell and the spotlights focus in as I turned the corner and spotted them.  Seriously…it was shopping nirvana.  Simple earrings and a bracelet and I was ready.

We got the friend-of-a-friend hook-up for our hair and makeup.  We thought about making appointments near the hotel, but decided it would just be more fun to have someone come to the hotel to do us up.  The fantastic Efthemia came to our room armed with more makeup and curling irons than she could carry.  We had champagne and pizza and chocolate and regaled Efthemia with our many ridiculous NYC tales while she worked on getting us beautiful.   Here’s the back of my girlfriend’s hair…gorgeous!!!

And here’s my hair and makeup…there’s a little rhinestone clip tucked behind my right ear. 

By the time we set out to walk the two blocks to the theater it was threatening rain.  We made it down the street and snapped a pic before we had to put up the umbrellas.

We were guided to a LONG line that went well up 51st street in order to enter the theatre.  By this time it was sprinkling, so there were umbrellas everywhere.  I love this pic….look at all the movement behind us….quintessential New York.

When we entered the theater it was already packed!  I hung out on the grand staircase (it’s possible that blue dot on the staircase is me) doing some people watching while my date went to find champagne.  She snapped this pic from the third balcony lobby…somewhere in there are a lot of celebrities, but they were impossible to spot in the crowd.

We found our way to our seats and were happily reunited with some new friends that we had made while in line.  We also became acquainted with some gentlemen who gave us tips on trying to sneak into the Gala afterwards.  More on that later.   Here are a couple of more snaps of us from the first mezz.

  Two VERY excited ladies….

   Almost full length….

  And a blurry shot of the shoes…for those of you playing along at home.

And thus the evening began…more to come in Part Two!!!!

And I don’t mean for the kids.  Sweet Pea is in a *slightly* OCD Nancy Drew phase;  in other words, she’s read every single book in the series and still refuses to switch to anything else.  That Nancy and her sleuthing…good stuff, I tell you. 

I am starting to formulate my list for the summer, and I’d love your input.  If you’re reading this from a FB link, feel free to comment here or on FB.

First let me say that there is one book I’ve already read that you MUST get if you haven’t yet:  The Help, by Kathryn Stockett.  What an amazing story.  I loved it from start to finish.  Did I already blog about this??  I can’t remember.  Anyway, my mother grew up in South Alabama in the 60′s , so I especially enjoyed discussing it with her on our recent road trip across the gulf coast. 

I have just completed The Carrie Diaries in preparation for the Big Day.  It wasn’t incredibly deep, but if you’re into characterization I think you’ll love this peek at Carrie in her Senior year of high school.  It’s really just an exercise in back-story, but it works.  And there’s PLENTY of room for more…which I look forward to.  (Dear SATC producers:  Feel free to exploit this series as much as you want to…books, movies, etc.  I’m in.)

Now for the list:

The Postmistress, by Sarah Blake.  (Fiction) “THE POSTMISTRESS tells the story of World War II through the edges, in the lives of the three women and the events of their lives, often events that even seem unrelated to the larger scene playing out in the world.”

The Lake Shore Limited, by Sue Miller.  (Fiction) “First among (the characters)  is Wilhelmina—Billy—Gertz, small as a child, fiercely independent, powerfully committed to her work as a playwright. The story itself centers on The Lake Shore Limited—a play Billy has written about an imagined terrorist bombing of that train as it pulls into Union Station in Chicago, and about a man waiting to hear the fate of his estranged wife, who is traveling on it. Billy had waited in just such a way on 9/11 to hear whether her lover, Gus, was on one of the planes used in the attack.  A powerful love story; a mesmerizing tale of entanglements, connections, and inconsolable losses; a marvelous reflection on the meaning of grace and the uses of sorrow, in life and in art: The Lake Shore Limited is Sue Miller at her dazzling best.”

Letters from Backstage:  The Adventures of a Touring Stage Actor, by Michael Kostroff.  (Non-fiction, Memoir)  “His firsthand account of the exciting, funny, and sometimes bizarre highlights of his journey with the road companies of The Producers and Les Misérables will introduce you to beautiful old theatres, weird hotels, onstage errors, travel mishaps, colorful cast members, fascinating towns, theatre ghosts, and the art of singing on a revolving stage while lugging a dead body. Along the way, the author talks honestly about the challenges of keeping a performance fresh, managing burnout, and dealing with injuries as the eight-show-a-week schedule continues.”

Plan B:  What To Do When God Doesn’t Show Up the Way You Thought He Would, by Pete Wilson.  (Non-fiction)  “What do you do when you wake up with shattered dreams and unmet expectations? Pete Wilson’s book, Plan B, offers honest encouragement and spiritual insights when life doesn’t go as planned.”

Well, that’s a start.  Got any recommendations??

You’re not my real mom.

Whammo.  Like a dagger to the heart.

My response?  “I know.”

I mean, what else is there to say, really?   Because she means I’m not her birthmother, and she’s right.  I’m not.  I didn’t pee on a stick and see the happy little plus sign.  I didn’t carry her in my belly for 9 months.  I didn’t suffer through morning sickness, or have ridiculous cravings, or waddle around with my hand on my back.  I didn’t labor to bring her into this world.  I’ll never know what that feels like, and it breaks my heart.  I don’t have a memory of that moment where the doctor held her up and said “It’s a girl!” and I cried and laughed and brought her to my chest for her first meal.  There are no pictures of me in the hospital bed, looking exhausted and yet elated. 

But there is a girl in this world who has those memories.  She carried my Sweet Pea, and delivered her to us.  And where her memories end, mine begin. 

Memories of an infant, hours old, laying on a warmer, staring at us with giant brown eyes as if to say “Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?”  We took her from the only thing she knew in this world.  And yes, we brought her to a wonderful nursery in a wonderful home with wonderful grandparents and aunts and uncles…but it was all new and different.  New smells, new sounds, new heartbeats…

I believe she knew.  And I believe it hurt.  It still hurts.  She misses her birthmother.  There is a connection between a person and the woman who carried her that is unparalleled, and Sweet Pea needs that connection.  

I can be many things for Sweet Pea.  I can witness all her firsts, and cheer her on, and hold her when she cries, and take her to get her ears pierced, and read her bedtime stories, and hold her hand when she falls asleep.  I can stay up all night when she’s sick, and make her breakfast every morning, and take her to Disney World. 

But I can never be her birthmother.  And she can never be my birthchild.

And for that, on this Mother’s Day, I’m in mourning.