Being Adorable is Hard Work

Hmmm....where were we?  Oh yeah, I was going to bed.  Okay, so I went to bed after I brushed my teeth, and then Grandma and Grandpa went upstairs.  Of course I pulled the "wait, sing me a song" trick at least three times, and, being grandparents, they fell for it.  Because I am adorable.  That is what everyone says--so it must be true.   It is very exhausting--being adorable--because I slept a long, long time--Grandma said it was almost 8 o'clock.  Of course, I cannot tell time, but she seemed pretty impressed.  She hugged me when I said "good morning, grandma, I had sweet dreams!" and laughed and laughed and said I was adorable.  Then I played with my Doc McStuffins vet check station, and then we went upstairs to eat breakfast (after a diaper change, of course).  

Since David and Grandpa were already gone for the morning, it was just me and Grandma and the doggies.  We played kitchen, and read books, and watched a show together, and then Grandpa came home for lunch and to put me down for my nap.  It took me a while to go to sleep, because I wanted to be upstairs with Grandpa and tell him about my morning, but he was busy looking at his flat book screen on his lap, and Grandma said it was nap time anyway.  Even though I wasn't tired!  Well, I guess Grandma knows best, because I slept for a long time!  She tried to wake me up once, but I said "No thank you.  I am sleeping," so she let me sleep another long long time.  

When I woke up, she called me adorable (again), and said we were going to go out to the park.  I was SO excited!   I jumped up and down and said "I am so excited!"  So she put me in my car seat, and then we drove down the road to another building, where David plays during the day.  David got in the car, and I was so excited because I just KNEW the next stop was the park!  We got to another building, and I got out of my car seat and we were outside.  I was happy because, like Daniel Tiger says, nature puts a smile on your face!  But then Grandma and David started walking towards a building, and I said "no no no!"  I mean, seriously, there was no park in that building.  But Grandma said I had to wait just five more minutes, then we would go to the park.  Doesn't she know I cannot tell time???  But I went with her, and a man came out to see us.  The man was wearing all black clothes and a gun and he had a badge on, and he gave David some papers.  I was sad because I wanted to go to the park, not this place, and then the man asked me if I would like a stuffed animal.  I said YES PLEASE and he gave me a beautiful zebra--we named her Zoe--and he said I was adorable.  Well, whatever it means, it was worth it!

Next we stopped at McDonalds, and I had apple slices and apple juice.  By now I am thinking we are never going to the park, so I just hug Zoe and go with the flow, and eat my apple slices.  But then, guess what?  We went outside, and there was a giant park--with a big slide, and steps, and a tree house and, better than that, PUDDLES!  I played and played and played, until I was wet wet wet, and we went back home.  Grandma had to take off my wet clothes, so I asked pretty please could I wear my princess costume.  Of course, she said--because I am, you guessed it, adorable.  We called mommy and Grandma sent pictures to her and then we played and colored.  Grandpa made a yummy dinner for everyone, but I only wanted rice and carrots and applesauce.  I did not want the green ball things--Grandma called them spare-guts, I think.  They were yucky.  So Grandpa gave me some penguin crackers and made me laugh and laugh. 

Before I knew it, it was bedtime.  Again!  So we read a story, and grandpa shared some cheesecake with me, and he and Grandma put me to bed.  I was very very sleepy.  Being adorable sure makes me tired!  I was too tired to even poop today--I will save that for the morning!  

Lesson for today--being adorable is fun.  And exhausting!

Sophie Jo

Living with Grandma and Grandpa

Today was my first full day at grandma’s house.  After my first full night.  We drove and drove and drove after saying goodbye to mommy and daddy (mommy cried) and we stopped for dinner at this place that had ribs and carrots and cheese.  And blueberry ice cream.  Delish!   Then when we got to the house I had to wait in my car seat while grandma unloaded all my stuff.  Little did she know I was sitting in poop.  Surprise!   Anyway I finally came in the house and saw lots of toys!   Then grandpa and David showed up and they brought even more stuff!   It was amazing!  

I played while grandpa tried to put my crib together.  I also pooped again.  Bad news tho—grandpa said he was missing parts.  So, grandma said I could sleep in a big girl bed.  I cried a little and asked for a song, and said I was not tired.  Well folks guess what?  I slept until 7 am.  Grandma and grandpa were there too!   So I came upstairs and ate breakfast and then we went to church and I played and then we came home and I napped.  In the big girl bed!   Grandpa and David went out and grandma and I played and walked puppies and collected rocks and had lunch.  When the boys got home we ate; I ate everything! I watched “if you give a mouse a cookie “ and then it was bath time.  

I ran in the bathroom and there were bubbles!!!   My favorite!!!   I tore off my diaper (which was full of poop) and grandpa called me a biohazard.  Not sure what that is but grandma rolled her eyes   Then I played for 20 minutes till I was all wrinkled and then I got out and had cheesecake while dressed in my frog cape and I’m pretty sure I’m going to bed soon

Till tomorrow!

Sophie Jo

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday--always has been--and possibly my parents' favorite as well. To me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with family, and all the baggage that comes with throwing 10-30 related but totally different individuals into a room with lots of carbs.  Of all my memories over the past 63 years, I have the most memories (good and bad, sad and funny) from Thanksgiving celebrations.  There was the time my crazy biological mother threw the turkey into the bowl of mashed potatoes because she was, well, unbalanced.  Another Thanksgiving found us in a Holiday Inn in North Dakota the day before Becky had a bone barrow biopsy during her cancer treatment, and more than a few when Alex was deployed overseas, and on a remote tour in Korea.  One year, my dad flew out to Minot, ND, alone--seems he was in the dog house again.  That was also the year Scruffy the cat walked all over my freshly baked sweet potato pies and I was so mad I threw the pies at her and got pie filling all over the kitchen.  And one year, we got a call to pick up a new foster daughter from the juvenile psych ward--an hour before we were to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner.  We've celebrated at our house, at our parents' homes, at the homes of our grown children, and once on the beach.

We have had smoked turkey, roasted turkey, deep fried turkey, brined turkey, and even just turkey breast one year--sometimes the cook even remembers to remove the wax-coated bag of innards from the inside before putting it in the oven (not naming names here, girls).  Cranberries are always the REAL kind, the whole berries, not canned, but the rest of the sides vary depending on who is hosting the meal and how receptive the hostess is to input.  Sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes with gravy are pretty much a sure thing, and of course there is the stuffing (although the stuffing ingredients and method of baking, i.e. in the bird or not in the bird) is variable.  Vegetables, however, are the wild card--peas, green bean casserole, beets, Brussel sprouts, and even squash with pecans have shown up.  Pies?  Too many to mention, but always yummy, with whipped cream or Cool Whip or ice cream or even plain.  The one constant, though, that makes it a day of giving thanks, is the presence of family, namely my dad and my stepmother.  If they are present, it is Thanksgiving.   

I've lost count of how many Thanksgivings we have shared with them--they are both so much a part of our Thanksgiving tradition that it doesn't really seem like Thanksgiving if we aren't together.  A week before each Thanksgiving, every year, you can bet my dad will ask me "what are you doing for Thanksgiving next year?"   Every year we watch the stupid Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV, followed by football.  Then, when all the food is presented on the table, of course someone must take numerous photos of the feast before we can even begin to eat--heck, he even used to take movies of our Thanksgiving dinner table...movies.  Of food.  That does not move.  It's a tradition.  Just as it is a tradition that he brags he is the only one who knows how to carve the turkey, or that someone will make a construction paper pilgrim hat for him to wear, or one of the children would make some crazy centerpiece out of Legos and dead leaves and sticks and we have to say how beautiful it is before we make room for all the dishes.   

A meal that took a year to plan, two weeks to shop for, and 48 hours to prepare, is gone in less than 30 minutes.  We talk about whether this year's turkey was the best, whether we should cook it upside down next time, and if speedy buns are better than crescent rolls.  We sit and pick at the little pieces of turkey on the platter and dream about that turkey sandwich with mayo that we will have in a couple of hours, and we protest how we couldn't eat another bite--until the pies come out.  Then we watch more football, kids go off to play, and we all sit around and talk or play cards or charades or fall asleep in recliners.  And we talk about the logistics of next year's Thanksgiving--where, who, what side, who is going to bring pie, etc.  

Last year, we had Thanksgiving at our log home in North Carolina--me and Alex, his brother and a friend, my mother-in-law, my brother, and of course, my parents.  Dad at the head of the table, and Alex at the other end.  During pie we planned for 2018--we will have it at our place again!  Same company!  Awesome!  A month later, my dad nearly died--took him four months to recuperate--and my brother moved in with us.  By spring, we planned tentatively to celebrate at our house, or even at their home in Knoxville.  Then my mother-in-law got too ill to travel, so we talked about having Thanksgiving at her assisted living facility.  

She died September 23rd.  

We did not even feel like celebrating Thanksgiving at all, not 60 days after a funeral.  But, we gingerly and cautiously started thinking about having my parents to our home--then, after he had a major setback, at their house.  A week before Thanksgiving, though, my dad fell, and could not get up--he was now completely bedridden, and they did not even feel like celebrating.   I arrived four days early to help care for Dad, who was now in a hospital bed in the living room, and Alex and David drove out Thanksgiving Day.  No one cooked a big turkey, or made cranberries the night before.  There were no arguments over which sides to make or whether stuffing should be traditional or cornbread, or if sweet potato pie was better than pumpkin.  Nope, we picked up a "feast for five" from a local BBQ restaurant--turkey with most of the trimmings, cranberries (canned), no sweet potatoes, and a pumpkin cheesecake.  I transferred all the food into real dishes to make it more like the real thing,  and, yes, my dad asked me to take a picture of it all. 

But this year, there was no kidding about carving the turkey (it was already sliced), or whether the Detroit Lions would actually win this year, or how great the house smelled all day.  And for grace, we held hands around my dad's bed, my brother said grace, and then three of us ate in the dining room alone, while Sheila fed my dad what could very well be his last Thanksgiving meal.  

Yes, I said it.  Perhaps his last Thanksgiving with us.  Heck, it could even be mine, or Alex's, or David's.  But still, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, even this year.  It has been a rough eleven months--illnesses, broken relationships, arguments and conflict, and a funeral.   I am thankful, so very thankful, for every day, and especially thankful for all the memories of Thanksgivings past--some painful, when thinking back on what was and now is lost, and some poignant, like the ones with three or even four generations around the table.  But all of them, for all of them, I give thanks.  Because thanksgiving is not about football, or parades, or food, or Black Friday savings, or even health or good times, although for all those things I give thanks.  Thanksgiving is, by definition, giving thanks.  

Thank you, God, for all of the memorable Thanksgivings I have shared with my family.   And thank you, Dad, for teaching me how special this day can be.

Martyr-dumb

We all know this person.  The perpetual victim, the seemingly selfless martyr, the person who will do a favor, but then you have to listen to her litany of sorrows and sufferings and how her sacrifice inconveniences her life.  The missed opportunities, the long hours of traveling, the fatigue, the emotional toil, the list goes on and on, ad nauseam (Latin for "if you talk about his one more time I will throw up).  Drama.  Lots and lots of drama.  Going into the well of past good deeds, parading every gift of time, every thoughtful gesture, every visit, and weighing them against the cost of the favor, on the perpetual balance sheet where the victim is never in the black, or fairly compensated their time and trouble.  By the time the favor is done, you are left feeling guilty for even accepting their help.  Not even going to try to point the finger or name these people...there are too many of them in my life.  Far too many.  

But wait, sometimes that person is me.  I try so hard to be perfect, to do things out of Christian love, to love everyone, and to do it all with a cheerful heart, but sometimes, I, too, play the victim.  I start to feel superior, as if I am sacrificing everything to be Christ-like.  Yep, I'm a regular 21st century Joan of Arc, the Mother Teresa of western North Carolina, and my mission is to help everyone else with their problems and shortcomings.  Ha!  I can barely handle my own!  And I seldom ask for help , and sometimes I even forget to pray first! (Hard to believe, huh?)  A need arises, a family member calls, someone needs help with finding a job, or a local charity is in dire need for volunteers.  Before I can even fully process what that need may entail, I raise my hand, sign my name on the clipboard, and excitedly jump right in.  And while I offer my help to someone for the right reasons (out of love and a desire to serve), soon I hear that grating, raspy voice whispering and muttering in my ear, twisting my soul and my heart, filling me with fear and, yes, even hatred, and placing a hard, nasty-tasting lump of resentment in my stomach.  Try as I may to block that voice out, it persists, whining and cajoling me and reaching up at me with cold, long, clawing fingers, trying to pull me down into the pit of despair.  

Depressing, isn't it?  Playing the martyr for all the wrong reasons.  Going it alone.  

Just plain dumb.

Wake Up Call

It was a beautiful fall morning, and I was thoroughly enjoying the drive to an appointment in Asheville, NC; the leaves were changing, air was crisp and cool, and there was a slight drizzle that only added to the beauty of the fall colors.  I had my favorite radio station playing in the car, and, despite having a bit of a migraine, I felt okay.  It was just going to be a routine consult, a follow-up from a test I had done previously, and one more box to check before I could get a procedure done to fix some circulation issues in my leg.  Easy peezy.  I breezed into the cardiology clinic, signed in, got checked in by the nurse, and sat and waited for the doctor to call me.  I had no serious health issues--I was a fairly active, albeit overweight, healthy 63-year old woman with a zest for life, and quite a bit of life left to live.

Two hours later, I am driving back home.  The fall colors have completely faded into nondescript shades of brown and sickly yellow, and it is now a dreary, rainy, and depressing drive home.  My head is pounding, so much so I turn off the radio, and I am not feeling so great.  The "routine" consult quickly morphed into a pre-op counseling, and the leg procedure had to be put on indefinite hold.  The test results showed a possible obstruction of a coronary artery, and this, coupled with other factors, including the leg issue, put me in the "high risk" category for coronary artery disease. Suddenly, I felt scared, old, fat, and very unhealthy, and questioning whether I would even see my next birthday.  

I was wide awake.

I got home, talked to my husband, and then, before I could descend into the bottomless pit of self-pity and regret, I prayed.  And prayed.  And then prayed some more.  About rolling all our burdens onto God, the realization that there is a season for everything, that God's timing is perfect.  That my days are numbered, and only the Lord God knows where and when and how those days will end. I am the same person now that walked into the doctor's office (although I am a little more freaked out).  My blessings are many, and, while my life has challenges and trials as well as joys, God is still in control.  He knew this was coming.  He was not surprised.  He is still omnipotent and omniscient.  And, most importantly, He will be glorified by and through anything I experience.  

My reaction, though human and therefore understandable, was me stumbling over my ego, and indicative of my obsession to be in control.  And while I am still struggling to quash the fear and anxiety over next week's schedule, I am oh so thankful to be His child, and under His care.  And I wonder, like I have other times I hit speed bumps (and sometimes brick walls) along the way, how would I ever manage without the assurance of His mercy and grace?  

I am so happy I never have to find out.

Awake and grateful to be His.

Stages

Life is a series of stages, each one building on the other and, ideally, we are wiser as we leave one stage and enter a new one.  Infancy, childhood, adolescence, young adult, married without kids, married with kids, working, retired, grandparents, elderly...all the stages meld seamlessly, effortlessly, and nearly imperceptibly into each other.  During each stage we think we know what to expect in the next stage, but many times we are so entangled and busy in one stage, we don't even notice as we move from one to the next. Perspective is different as well; in infancy and childhood we are all about self, the here and now, immediate gratification.  Then comes adolescence, a time of yearning for something more, a time of inward and outward rebellion, of straining forward to reach adulthood.   No longer focused on the present, and with little to no regard for the past, we propel ourselves quickly through our teenage years, eager to get our independence, excited to break the bonds of authority.  As we careen, sometimes carelessly, into young adulthood, we are breathless and excited and curious and full of hope for the future.  We think we've got the bull by the horns, that we are actually driving our own car through life, making our own decisions, master of our fate.  Ahh, but then the reality of being responsible for others, to others, with others, hits us like a freight train.  Whether we are married or single, parents or not, we are ultimately responsible somewhere for or to someone--a boss, coworkers, children, spouse, friends.   With this truth staring us in the face, we hunker down at the grindstone--working, parenting, chasing that dream, that fulfillment, that excitement we dreamed about in our teens.  We think we are immortal, that life is, whether good, bad, or indifferent, a never-ending journey.  We don't really think about the future (except to maybe collect stuff), and we are so busy we barely have time to sleep let alone reminisce about the past.  We grow older, retire from our jobs, our kids leave and pursue their own dreams, and voila!  We are suddenly thrust into that future that only yesterday was nebulous and unachievable.  Let's face it:  we are past middle-aged (unless the human lifespan somehow magically changes to 125 years), and we are a bit nonplussed, to say the least.  We have more time on our hands, which is good because we tire easier, and  the only thing that gets thinner each year is our patience.  At first we think, great!  We are retired!  Now the fun begins!  We can do what we want, when we want to, with whom we want to.  But then, as it always does, life happens.  People we love are aging at what seems to us an alarming rate, becoming more frail, needing more help, and suddenly we feel ourselves willing them to live longer, to not grow old, to not, gulp, die.  Because that forces us to face our death, our mortality, our inevitable passing into the final stage of life--death.  Now we are throwing ourselves into the moment, the present, and reflecting more and more on the past, and trying not to focus (too much anyway) on the future.  We become more spiritual, less self-centered.  We look back on the stages we have passed through, shaking our heads at how silly and myopic we were "back then."  And we finally get it...this is life.  This is what it is all about. Of all the stages I have been in, this is the hardest, the most fulfilling, the most joyful, peaceful, stressful, and wonderful time. I simultaneously love this stage of life and hate it--I love who I am, what I have accomplished, and how I have persevered, but I hate losing friends and family.  In the past three years, I have learned more about life and God and myself and how those things are all intertwined, than in the 60 years previous.  So while this is the hardest time of my life, and there are things right now that truly don't seem fair, that make my heart ache and wake me in the middle of the night with a fright, I am so happy I am here.  Love in the past and present and future.  Birth and death, growth and loss, making the most of relationships with those we love, letting go of the people, places, and things that do not bring us joy and glorify our Creator.  And focusing on that final stage.  When we will be made perfect in Him.  Forever. 

Unrealistic Expectations

ex·pec·ta·tion

ˌekspekˈtāSH(ə)n/

noun

plural noun: expectations

1. a strong belief that something will happen or be the case in the future.

   
   

   "reality had not lived up to expectations"

   
   

   • a belief that someone will or should achieve something.

     
     

     "students had high expectations for their future"

     
     

     
     

We all have them...ideas and expectations of what others should do, or say, whether friends, strangers, family, or even God.  A situation arises, we analyze it and react, and expect others to react likewise.   The problem with that?  Well, we are not all the same, and what we do in a situation, while it may seem right for us, may not be what someone else would do; heck, it could even be the total opposite of what WE should do.  While a normal assumption, expecting a certain behavior or reaction from someone else can only lead to disappointment at best, and fractured relationships, depression, and hopelessness at worst.  Unrealistic expectations put a heavy burden on our shoulders; they give us the false impression we have control over something we do not.    When I find myself saying, "but they should have said this!," or "why couldn't she do what a normal person would have done?", I have to smack myself upside the head and remind myself they are not me, I am not them, and most importantly, I am not God.

My mother-in-law is dying, almost two years from the date her husband of 51 years died.  My husband has to fly out suddenly to be at her side, and I have a totally dependent family member living with us--not unlike 2016.  To make it even more eerily deja-vu like, a storm is bearing down on us as I write this--although this time it is a hurricane instead of a blizzard.  As I drove Alex to the airport this afternoon, I began to fret how I am all alone, that no one is here to help, that no one wants to help, comparing this situation to the mess two years ago.  But, as Alex gently chided me, this is not the same.  We have each other, and most importantly, we have God.  I have friends I can reach out to, and our kids, and neighbors...even if my sisters are no longer part of our life.   I cannot expect "blood from a turnip," as an old saying goes--people can only give what they can give.  People fall short of our expectations; sadly, many times it is people we love and expect to be there for us, to do what we would do in the same situation.  I have to remind myself though...we ALL fall short of God's expectation.  

"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."

Managing my expectations of myself is a full-time job, let alone trying to grapple with my expectations of others.  As long as I aspire to live up to my Creator's expectations (which I never will until I meet Him in heaven), I have my hands full and don't need to burden myself with all the shouldas, couldas, and wouldas. Like David, I must strengthen myself in the Lord my God (I Sam 30:6).