Still Standing

Hello, strangers! It's been four months. Holy cow. I've missed you!! (So much so that I don't even care how weird that sounds!)

Usually when I go this long between blogs, I just choose to be mysterious and let y'all assume I have been doing something ridiculously time consuming and awesome. This time, I decided to give an explanation. I guess this blog has been a long time coming...I was just trying to become brave enough to write it.

You see, I've been sick. I would tell you more about it but
A) I really don't want a pity party, nor need one. (Sitting in a neurological research facility with the ability to speak and walk and eat almost makes you feel like nothing is wrong with you at all.) and
B) There's not a whole lot at this point to tell. I will say that we have been actively trying to make a diagnosis since February, and I've gone through so many specialists and tests, I am beginning to feel like there is a small possibility that I may be secretly starring in the next episode of House. (And if that's actually the case, sorry I haven't been blogging y'all. I've been doing something mysterious and awesome.)

The truth is, in the beginning, I really was just too busy to write. I had set aside Thursdays as "blogging days," and when my Thursdays starting filling up with doctor appointments and lab work, I never actually got around to writing anything. After enough Thursdays passed, I started to feel like it would be awkward just to jump right back into it. (Which now I realize is dumb, because that is exactly what I always do.) There was really only one thing that I needed to say, but I wasn't ready to talk about it yet. So I waited for the right timing.
I am not too ashamed to tell you out front that I was selfishly waiting to write you the I-was-sick-but-look-at-me-now-i'm-all-better-hallelujah blog. And I am also not too ashamed to tell you that I started to get really bitter that I wasn't able to write it. If I'm being perfectly honest, forgive me for saying I still wish that it was the blog I was writing you today instead of this one.

I am not better. But I am also no longer bitter. That's why I know that the timing is right.

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I've enjoyed running for a long, long time now. I had never really considered it one of my identifiers, though. You know how some people describe themselves in one word: soldier, doctor, mother, blogger, etc. etc. "Runner" just never seemed to fit for me. That is, of course, until I moved to Missouri. I found myself with lots and lots of time and absolutely no activities to fill that time, so I ran. One day, I realized that I was running around an empty park trail in the snow. Happily, I might add. And on purpose. I figured then and there that I probably had to own up to my new identifier.

Running suits my personality because I am strongly competitive. I like to compete. I like to win. I like to set goals and surpass them. I am a typical first child that way, I guess. I remember sharing an experience with you about a time I nearly killed myself running so I wouldn't look weak in front of a group of soldiers. While I still struggle with that person from time to time, I am happy to say that I am learning to do the best with the body I have been given. But I won't lie to you and tell you that this acceptance has come easily. Anyone who runs regularly could tell you how disheartening it is to see your pace time slow from 7...to 8...to 9...to 10. I have chosen not to run longer distances right now because the recovery time is a bit too taxing for my body. ("Stay-at-home-mom" is one of my even bigger identifiers. I didn't want to run so much that I had to add broken/boring in front of it.) This worked for a while, until it didn't.
More disheartening than the pace time, it is so hard to see your mileage drop from 13...to 6...to 5...to 3...to 2.5. I kept on trucking as best as I could with a smile forced on my face until I realized once in the middle of a 2.5 jaunt, I either needed to slow down or stop and walk.
I was furious.
I was mad at myself. I was mad at my body. I was mad at everyone walking around me on that track like they weren't hurting and in the midst of personal defeat. I was mad at the stupid, extremely well-educated and capable doctors who weren't finding the right answers to help me. I was mad at God for not healing me and letting me write my hallelujah blog.


I think that I might have lied to myself somewhere along the lines about what a Christian should look like when they are struggling. I always thought that good, God-fearing girls should cry alone in their closets and then walk out into the world singing and dancing to Pharrell's Happy song. (And you got bonus points if you could find some minions on the street to join you.)
Furthermore, I thought that if you didn't act this way, then you weren't living right. I felt that a person who is victorious should live victoriously at all times. Don't get me wrong. It was never an issue about whether or not I would struggle---all people will struggle. But I thought I would be able to handle things with an attitude of grace that would help me overcome anything this world could throw at me...and then somehow, my struggles would just meld seamlessly into my life rendering it almost totally unaltered. Just a hiccup. Because I'm a warrior.
And for the past 10 months, this lie cost me a lot of grief. Then I found the truth:

Ephesians 6:18 King James Version (KJV)

13 Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.

Sometimes a warrior is called to fight. And sometimes a warrior is beat six ways from Sunday. And then he is called to stand back up.

Because sometimes my standing back up looks just as victorious as doling a mighty blow, regardless of whether or not I have forced a smile while doing so. Standing back up, even through tears, says hope is still in me.


Now when I go running, I keep the pace a bit slower and more comfortable. If I have to walk, then I slow down to a walk. But then I regain my strength and I start running again. You see, I used to think it a discouragement if I had to quit. I used to think that if I quit running, then I was admitting defeat to myself and for my body. As it turns out, I can find victory in stopping too...because as long as I keep standing, I will find the strength to start up again.




And just so you know, the day we figure all of this stuff out, I am going to write the MESS out of my I-was-sick-but-look-at-me-now-i'm-all-better-hallelujah blog. And I'll post a video of me and some minions dancing to Pharrell's Happy song, too!

Oh, Honestly.

Let's talk about a bit of a downer people...

For the past several months I've been talking to an editor for our local paper here, and she had offered me an opportunity to write as a paid blogger for the paper's online publication. It was supposed to be geared around health and fitness tips for moms. I know for a fact that I totally would have nailed it, and I was so excited to cheat on this blog with that one, but alas--it never came to be. womp womp.

My wonderful and supportive husband had mentioned that I should post my pilot blog in spite of the situation, and Lord knows that is what I would normally do. (And Lord also knows I still probably will one day...) This isn't really what I wanted to blog about, though. It is more of an aside that I needed to get off of my chest. People don't want to pay for my writing yet, but that's okay. Will blog for free. As a bit of a consolation prize, here's one for the moms about mental fitness.
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One thing that I have been noticing a lot in the blogging realm is the rise of the "Mommy Martyrs." If you have no idea what I'm referring to, then I'll quickly spell it out for you here.
In essence, motherhood is a soul-sucking, sanity-stealing, sleep-depriving occupation that kills any amount of human joy that may be physically possible and replaces it with a never ending cycle of butt-wiping.



In case the previous description left you thinking that I don't like reading those blogs, then let me tell you plainly: FALSE.
I am of the opinion that if you can't read satire or understand sarcasm without getting offended, then you should probably get off the Internet. Also, you can please take your lame excuse that one can't convey tone in writing with you. Allow me to introduce Mr. Winky Face: ;)

That being said, I try really hard to keep things light and rosy on my end. I may be up to my elbows in a land of smushed fishy crackers, but I am by no means drowning in it. And while I enjoy a good snot-out story as much as the next mom, we have more or less outgrown that phase and I already miss it. (Some days.... Kind of.....)
Moreover, in case you haven't noticed a bit of a trend, I try really hard to look for the joy in life's little things. (If you are confused, please reread my entire blog.) Truth be told, most of that joy comes from learning to laugh at my "martyr moments."

Some days it is really easy. Like the time I awoke in the middle of the night to find that both of my children had woken from their sleep, crawled into my bed, and snuggled up so tightly to me that I actually wound up sleeping on the footend of the bed with no pillows or blankets. Or watching my kids reenact every line and musical number of Frozen...In its entirety...Including the extra scenes and the Spanish rendition of "Let it Go."

Some days I get to laugh a bit after the fact. Which happened the day my daughter told and retold a fart story starring her mother to complete strangers in a restaurant. Or a little while after those instances when my son wakes me up in the morning by getting right up to my sleeping face and yelling "COCKADOODLE DOOOOO!"

And then there are those days where it really is just.stinkin.hard.
Last week I had about seven of those days in a row. In addition to the realization that my new blog opportunity was probably never going to be, everyone got sick with various ailments and I just couldn't keep them well. Even the dogs got in on it. Fungal, bacterial, and allergic. Thanks for sticking with the rule of threes, Murphy. We felt icky. We were cranky. We were tired. We were lonely. We missed Daddy. We felt low.
I looked and looked for the joy, but my own pessimism just wouldn't let me push past only seeing the crap. Literal crap. (That happens with bacterial ailments, folks.)
It took everything in my power not to complain with a snarky blog entry. Truly, all I wanted to do was vent and have people pity me. But instead, I called my momma, cried to my husband, and reread one of the classics. (And one can always glean something from the classics...) Like this gem:
Don't try to be cynical. It is perfectly easy to be cynical.


One of my favorite things about children is the openness with which they speak from their hearts. It's all beautiful and silly, of course. But there is also always so much truth in it.

Like in the pureness of their forgiveness: "It's not your fault, Mommy. You didn't know what was a fungus and what was a bruise."
Or in their unfailing optimism: "It's okay. At least I don't have to get cut apart and put back together!"
Or in their refreshing perspectives of wellness: (as the dog does a complete leap over the furniture and lands on us with his freshly muddied paws) "Mommy! Mommy! He's back! He's back!!!"

This week, during one of my roughest weeks in a while, the joy I found is that my kids have not yet been warped by the world's cynicism. And that they are so wonderfully and perfectly honest.



Sending us off with a "real life" selfie.






Here's hoping your joy is easy to spot today and all of your tomorrows.

Extra Ordinary

I am not one for keeping up with pop culture. This is not new news. Yesterday I discovered that Mandy Moore is the voice of the calico cat in the new Disney Jr series Sheriff Callie. That will be as close as I get to being "in the know" regarding pop culture for at least the next 6 months...
Because I'm a mom.

Last week I attempted to take a break from the preschool programming and watch the CMA's--like an ordinary, yet slightly more hip mom.
(FYI-If you actually use the word "hip," it pretty much guarantees that you aren't.)

As I watched all of these extra-ordinary people get up on stage to perform, I noticed some things:
-They make the same faces at awkward dance moves that I do.
-Their voices shake when they are scared.
-Nobody looks classy in pajamas.

This is not to say that I am usually starstruck. I'm not. I hardly know who the stars worth being starstruck over are anymore. But it's nice to see extraordinary people looking ordinary.
(Which happens a lot when they insist on wearing Hanes undershirts like they are actual clothes. I will never understand...but I am getting away from the point of this story...)

As the writer of a blog that once had a poster on the side promising not to be boring, I will be the first to admit that my life is so very ordinary. I wouldn't call it boring. It's just not all that noteworthy.

I think that's why I write it. I want to find the redeeming value of my ordinary story.


When my husband's grandfather passed away a couple years ago, we each took turns reading his memoir. He had lived through the Great Depression, fought during WWII aboard the U.S.S. Swasey and U.S.S. Brough, fathered three children, taught as a university chemistry professor for over 30 years, was an avid birdwatcher, an active member of his community, and a very interesting man to talk to. As I read his autobiography, I couldn't help but think to myself that I would never be able to write stories as wonderful as these to leave behind for my loved ones--I would never do anything as grand or awe-inspiring as this man.
But to talk to Delbert, he probably would have told me that he lived an ordinary life. Not a boring one, but that his stories were shared by many others of his time and just so happened to be puzzled together uniquely into his life.


The thing that is important to remember about being ordinary is that ordinary people are capable of doing big things. And our ordinary stories are being puzzled together into a bigger picture.

Occasionally, you recognize that you have a story slightly outside of the norm.
Once upon a time, I went to college and earned a degree. While that used to be impressive, this has turned into somewhat of an ordinary story now.


But my study buddy didn't look like other people's.




Passing out with a bottle meant something entirely different.





And "Hey, y'all want to come over for a party?" didn't mean what it usually does.


(Although the boys did still try...)


Whenever I have a rough season in my ordinary life, I go back to that time. I play it all back in my mind. The shock. The fear. The tears--happy and sad. The drive. The determination.
And ultimately, the feeling of victory that I get when I realize I have accomplished something noteworthy--Maybe not to everyone, but certainly to me.

Of course, I didn't do it on my own. I had ridiculous amounts of help from people who love me. And I hope that if they are ever feeling anything less than special, they remember that sharing this one story with me makes them really big in my eyes.


And isn't that a golden nugget? Even when we are feeling ho-hum, we may actually be living a life that is a key part of someone else's big story moment.
(By the way, using the term "golden nugget" also takes away hip points.)


As much as I love to joke that I am getting old, I realize I am still young. God willing, I have a lot of years left in me. A lifetime of achievements left to live, if you will. And if they are half as good as Pappy's, then maybe one day I will write a book about it. And I think I will title it "My Ordinary Life."
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Just for fun, one of my favorite excerpts from Pappy's book:

My first date with Margaret [his wife] was on Halloween night, 1941. The college had a Halloween dance in Whitley Gym. There were several girls nominated for Halloween Queen and the Marpessa Club had nominated Margaret. In order to raise a little money, we voted on our favorite with a penny vote. Each club got the money that their candidate brought in. I think I spent nearly a quarter that night voting for Margaret. I only had a dime left over. She won! She didn't have a date so I asked her to go to the Chatterbox with me after the dance and she accepted. I spent my last dime on cokes for the two of us. Our first date was on Halloween night, October 31, 1941, and three years later we were married. The rest of these memoirs is a true story of "they lived happily ever after!"

Swoon. Gonna go have a Coke now.