From now on, you can find more writings by me on my website: www.formeandmy.com. Thank you for following!
Friday, September 12, 2014
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
An Ode to Two
My son's second birthday is just shy of a month away. No, this is not cause for celebration. I feel it would be equally acceptable to greet this occasion with a With Sympathy card as Happy Birthday; at this age it's basically one in the same. No he doesn't want toys for his birthday. He wants coffee beans and chocolate and a deep tissue massage for his mom. He's too sweet. I am a definitely a mom of an almost 2 year old. It's evidenced by the way a morning like my morning becomes normal. A morning like my morning is only normal if you are host to a tiny terrorizing dictator, also known as a toddler.
We wake up, and immediately he is pointing out "'alome's bum bum" and forcefully trying to remove her diaper. He is a huge help. By huge help, I mean he is pulling her off the bed by one leg and the neck hole of her onesie. Also a huge help with changing diaper. And by huge help I mean grabbing the wipes, running for his life, and pulling out as many wipes as possible in the time it takes me to safely leave half-naked infant and run after him.
After baby girl's diaper is changed and she's ready for the day, I decide to make something of these stupid organic CSA zucchinis that I had to have before they become $12 garbage. What did I think I was going to do with 5 pounds of zucchini? So I start grating them, all the while watching 2-year old tyrant poke a stick into daddy's expensive meat smoker on the patio. I try to heard him away from said smoker and then he's off playing with a cat litter scoop and "fixing" the patio with his "hammer". I cut my losses and pretend like I didn't see it, so I can finish grating my zucchini before baby 2 needs me again. Toddler child gets tired of "fixing" and is then driving his Mickey Mouse bus backwards down the ramp that leads to a very-much-cement landing. He falls onto said cement. He comes inside. I have now gotten half the zucchini grated. He decides to play under my feet while I am cooking (always a safe choice). Did I wash the feline fecal matter from his hands? Nope. So he's playing in the drawers next to me as I'm measuring the flour and the sugar and the cinnamon. He pulls the Seran Wrap from the drawer and starts unwrapping. He makes a nice ball of Seran mess before I am able to call him off. He leaves it in the middle of the kitchen floor. Perfecto. He takes a bite of the zucchini. He spits it out. He gets into the potato/onion drawer. Takes a bite out of the potato. Puts it back. Takes a bite out of the onion. Throws it across the floor. I ask him retrieve the onion and put it back, to which he (to my surprise) obeys. He is then climbing up the cabinets, using the pulls as a ladder OBVIOUSLY. his fingers are just a healthy distance between my 350 degree oven and my topsy turvy bag of flour. We make it through the cabinet rock climbing escapades with neither a burn victim nor floured floor.
Just about the time I get the bread pans safely in the oven, he finally decides he's "hungy" and I am about 45 minutes overdue on coking breakfast, because he has NEVER been so starved in his life. In my attempt to rush breakfast (pancakes with fresh blueberries that we picked ourselves because I rock at life) I toss in the blueberries and see stems. I once again cut my losses and stir it anyway. A little bit of greens with our breakfast. Probably healthy. I also notice about half-way through cooking that I forgot to add an egg, and our pancakes are now glue on the bottom of a cast iron skillet. Quick thinking lead me to believe toddlers have zero preference on the shape of pancakes, so I invented "scrambled pancakes". This is when you get to the oops of glue pancakes and realize theres no going back, so you just violently shake your spatula in the charred glue, toss in an egg and call it a day. I served up pancakes-a-la-scramble just as baby girl started wailing. She's a female and is often emotional without cause. She rejected nursing and had a dry diaper. So I packed her around as I desperately made a cup of coffee. This cup in the form of crappy beans in my Keurig finished with some cheap creamer. Don't judge me coffee connoisseur friends; I would much prefer a fancy pour-over or DIY cappuccino, but ain't nobody got time for that. I finally sit to drink my coffee when tiny tyrant starts drowning and abandoning pancake and plum chunks in his milk. He fills his cup to the brim with breakfast. He spills his milk on his tray and declares "ALL DONE MOMMA." I disagree and turn on cartoons. I silently thank God for cartoons. He chokes down some milk-saturated scrambled pancakes while vegging out on Thomas and Friends. I choke down my now lukewarm coffee and try again to feed baby girl. No dice. I take a minute to peruse Facebook and reply to some texts as he eats. Toddler boy again declares he's finished, and this time with a very convincing magical food-vanishing act. This means he is throwing his pancake-milk chunks on to the floor and his grand finale comes in the form of throwing his milk cup. He then tells me "broken, momma." This is true. Cup is now down one handle. Luckily it can still function on one handle; I like that cup. I put down still-wailing infant to tend to soggy chunks and milk puddle now covering the floor before releasing toddler boy from his high chair jail. Mess cleaned. Terrorizer released. Infant soothed.
I sit down to write on the computer and am reminded of his uncanny ability to locate my junk drawer, supply of Sharpie pens, etcetera. He redecorates the living room with golf balls, 2 wrenches, 6 DVDs, a handful of bunny crackers and some crinkled paper towels. Looks awesome. He makes a pillow fort out of all 6 decorative couch pillows. He then climbs up into my computer chair and intentionally gets his head stuck in the arm of the chair. I remove his head carefully. He immediately puts it back in the arm and cries because he is "STUCK!" I take his head out again. I put him on the floor. He slides the cajon drum over to the computer desk and climbs, and proceeds to put thumb tacks into my now cold coffee remnants, all the time saying, "Daaaanger momma. OUCH!" Yes. But somehow you've missed the point of the two words.
By this time he is finally ready for nap time, I can tell because he is excessively bratty when he is ready for nap time. Where a simple "no thank you momma" would suffice, it is instead escalated to a shrill scream paired with throwing limbs about and a resounding NO. He asks for milk. I pour it in the one-handled cup. He wants a different cup. We stick with the one handled cup and try again. No dice. I set the cup down. He asks for milk. This time the one-handled cup is ok I guess, because he takes a drink of milk and lays his head down on my shoulder. He kisses me and says "'nuggle, momma." And my little terrorizing almost-two year old tyrant is sound asleep; and it's that kiss and snuggle that help me get through while the battle rages on.
We wake up, and immediately he is pointing out "'alome's bum bum" and forcefully trying to remove her diaper. He is a huge help. By huge help, I mean he is pulling her off the bed by one leg and the neck hole of her onesie. Also a huge help with changing diaper. And by huge help I mean grabbing the wipes, running for his life, and pulling out as many wipes as possible in the time it takes me to safely leave half-naked infant and run after him.
After baby girl's diaper is changed and she's ready for the day, I decide to make something of these stupid organic CSA zucchinis that I had to have before they become $12 garbage. What did I think I was going to do with 5 pounds of zucchini? So I start grating them, all the while watching 2-year old tyrant poke a stick into daddy's expensive meat smoker on the patio. I try to heard him away from said smoker and then he's off playing with a cat litter scoop and "fixing" the patio with his "hammer". I cut my losses and pretend like I didn't see it, so I can finish grating my zucchini before baby 2 needs me again. Toddler child gets tired of "fixing" and is then driving his Mickey Mouse bus backwards down the ramp that leads to a very-much-cement landing. He falls onto said cement. He comes inside. I have now gotten half the zucchini grated. He decides to play under my feet while I am cooking (always a safe choice). Did I wash the feline fecal matter from his hands? Nope. So he's playing in the drawers next to me as I'm measuring the flour and the sugar and the cinnamon. He pulls the Seran Wrap from the drawer and starts unwrapping. He makes a nice ball of Seran mess before I am able to call him off. He leaves it in the middle of the kitchen floor. Perfecto. He takes a bite of the zucchini. He spits it out. He gets into the potato/onion drawer. Takes a bite out of the potato. Puts it back. Takes a bite out of the onion. Throws it across the floor. I ask him retrieve the onion and put it back, to which he (to my surprise) obeys. He is then climbing up the cabinets, using the pulls as a ladder OBVIOUSLY. his fingers are just a healthy distance between my 350 degree oven and my topsy turvy bag of flour. We make it through the cabinet rock climbing escapades with neither a burn victim nor floured floor.
Just about the time I get the bread pans safely in the oven, he finally decides he's "hungy" and I am about 45 minutes overdue on coking breakfast, because he has NEVER been so starved in his life. In my attempt to rush breakfast (pancakes with fresh blueberries that we picked ourselves because I rock at life) I toss in the blueberries and see stems. I once again cut my losses and stir it anyway. A little bit of greens with our breakfast. Probably healthy. I also notice about half-way through cooking that I forgot to add an egg, and our pancakes are now glue on the bottom of a cast iron skillet. Quick thinking lead me to believe toddlers have zero preference on the shape of pancakes, so I invented "scrambled pancakes". This is when you get to the oops of glue pancakes and realize theres no going back, so you just violently shake your spatula in the charred glue, toss in an egg and call it a day. I served up pancakes-a-la-scramble just as baby girl started wailing. She's a female and is often emotional without cause. She rejected nursing and had a dry diaper. So I packed her around as I desperately made a cup of coffee. This cup in the form of crappy beans in my Keurig finished with some cheap creamer. Don't judge me coffee connoisseur friends; I would much prefer a fancy pour-over or DIY cappuccino, but ain't nobody got time for that. I finally sit to drink my coffee when tiny tyrant starts drowning and abandoning pancake and plum chunks in his milk. He fills his cup to the brim with breakfast. He spills his milk on his tray and declares "ALL DONE MOMMA." I disagree and turn on cartoons. I silently thank God for cartoons. He chokes down some milk-saturated scrambled pancakes while vegging out on Thomas and Friends. I choke down my now lukewarm coffee and try again to feed baby girl. No dice. I take a minute to peruse Facebook and reply to some texts as he eats. Toddler boy again declares he's finished, and this time with a very convincing magical food-vanishing act. This means he is throwing his pancake-milk chunks on to the floor and his grand finale comes in the form of throwing his milk cup. He then tells me "broken, momma." This is true. Cup is now down one handle. Luckily it can still function on one handle; I like that cup. I put down still-wailing infant to tend to soggy chunks and milk puddle now covering the floor before releasing toddler boy from his high chair jail. Mess cleaned. Terrorizer released. Infant soothed.
I sit down to write on the computer and am reminded of his uncanny ability to locate my junk drawer, supply of Sharpie pens, etcetera. He redecorates the living room with golf balls, 2 wrenches, 6 DVDs, a handful of bunny crackers and some crinkled paper towels. Looks awesome. He makes a pillow fort out of all 6 decorative couch pillows. He then climbs up into my computer chair and intentionally gets his head stuck in the arm of the chair. I remove his head carefully. He immediately puts it back in the arm and cries because he is "STUCK!" I take his head out again. I put him on the floor. He slides the cajon drum over to the computer desk and climbs, and proceeds to put thumb tacks into my now cold coffee remnants, all the time saying, "Daaaanger momma. OUCH!" Yes. But somehow you've missed the point of the two words.
By this time he is finally ready for nap time, I can tell because he is excessively bratty when he is ready for nap time. Where a simple "no thank you momma" would suffice, it is instead escalated to a shrill scream paired with throwing limbs about and a resounding NO. He asks for milk. I pour it in the one-handled cup. He wants a different cup. We stick with the one handled cup and try again. No dice. I set the cup down. He asks for milk. This time the one-handled cup is ok I guess, because he takes a drink of milk and lays his head down on my shoulder. He kisses me and says "'nuggle, momma." And my little terrorizing almost-two year old tyrant is sound asleep; and it's that kiss and snuggle that help me get through while the battle rages on.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
I Brag About My Husband a Lot. Here's Why.
Yes, me, over here. I am undoubtedly one of those annoying hype girls on social media (and, albeit slightly less obnoxiously, in real life) swooning over her beloved spouse, whose musings make you want to scrape your eyeballs out. That is me. I claim it and I apologize for the plethora of damaged corneas I've left in my wake. But here's the thing: I wasn't supposed to be this girl. This was not my plan. My disgusting, overbearing, gushing adoration for my husband comes as just a shock to the love-stunted, relationship-illiterate little girl inside of me.
Not unlike many of you, my mom and dad split when I was just two. There were financial reasons, family reasons, chronically sick kid reasons. Whatever the reasons, a young girl can't comprehend why love wasn't enough. There, the faltering foundation that I would built my love ideology upon was laid in stone.
From there, we spent some years with just my mom, sister and I. "The three musketeers". Which is fine, except for when your mom has to be both a mom and a dad. I won't say it can't be done; she managed to juggle the jobs and the home and the two kids, the homework, the cooking, the hospital trips, the bills. But even as a child, I could recognize that just because it was possible, didn't mean it was meant to be that way. We managed just fine, too. We got to visit our out-of-state dad every summer and every other Christmas. It sufficed for my sister and I because we didn't know any different. But even still, that sting of longing for dad would surface every now and then. I remember not wanting to tell my mom that I missed dad, for fear of hurting her feelings. I don't remember a time when my parents got along or a time when I didn't feel like I had to choose one over the other. I didn't understand parental unity, or marital unity for that matter.
There were seasons of us being the three musketeers, and there were seasons where it wasn't just us. There were men that were around for years that I inevitably attached a dad-like bond to, hoping for the happily ever after. But not unlike the one before, each ended abruptly and with little room for discussion. Sometimes I was glad. Sometimes I wasn't. I yearned for stability, security, a sense of "normal". But even within the relationships that I squinted at to see as healthy, I knew that they weren't. Fighting, yelling, swearing, drinking, cheating, throwing things, constant threats of separation, physical abuse to my mom. I watched my mom become smaller and smaller under oppressive men, and smaller my sister and I became too. My psychological fear manifested into a physical reaction when men raise their voice- to this day I can't control my shaking legs. I was subconsciously learning that marriage was no more than a temporary relationship that only yields pain and emptiness. But even still, I knew it shouldn't be that way. I knew there had to be more, but I wasn't even willing to take the risk.
A few snippets from my journals over the years testify to it:
I remember at 15 years old having a serious talk with God. I remember telling him that I didn't want to get married, because I didn't ever want to live like that. My heart longed to be a mother and a wife, but I wouldn't know the first thing about how to do it right. I told God that it would be better for me to just stay single. I challenged Him, saying that if there was someone He wanted me to marry, that he would have to fit within my standards. I (no joke) told God that my husband would have to be tall, super dark, have facial hair, wear glasses, play basketball. He would have to love Jesus and love his family. He would be quiet and patient and not swear, no matter how mad I made him. Sweet, compassionate, and want to rescue orphans with me. My husband would have to be a hard worker that could use power tools. But mostly, he would have to love me enough to make me change my mind on marriage.
When I was 16 years old, I met Will.
It was laughable, really, how soon I knew he would be my husband. He was everything I had asked God for, right down to the beard and power tools. He loved me and pursued me and waited for me; he prayed for me and urged me into God's word. He was a gentleman that treated me with gentleness and never swore at me. I knew, at just 16, that this was God's redemption plan for me and my broken picture of love.
We said "I do" when I was a young 19. When I got barraged with the expected, "you're too young to get married" line, I couldn't help but respond with "I know". Cerebrally, I agreed 100%. There was nothing inside of me that expected to be married at 19, and I couldn't begin to explain to anyone else how or why I knew that it was right. I just knew that it was God's plan for my life, and I was going to trust in that. I know wholeheartedly that getting married when I did saved me from a long life of seeking love and happiness in things and people that wouldn't satisfy me. I hate to think of who or what I could have become; fragile and too trusting and too love-damaged to see truth from facade. God, through Will, delivered me from what could have been and is teaching me what it's meant to be.
When I brag about my husband and how wonderful he is to me, it isn't because I'm lovestruck infatuated teenage girl. My singing praises of his goodness doesn't come from a place of immaturity and naivety, it comes from intimately knowing the opposite. When I talk about how much I appreciate his hard work and selflessness, it's because he is the first man to show me what that really means. I know security and trust and stability like I've never known before. I have a man that works hard to fill our fridge, keep our bank account out of the red, and provide me with a comfortable life. I have a man that is teaching me what a dad should be: strong, compassionate, reliable, stable. He is showing me what it means to be loved as a wife. Never has he called me a name. Never does he yell at me or swear or get out of control. He is tenderhearted, forgiving, generous. He leads me and protects me and has endless grace for me.
I have seen firsthand how God takes ashes and turns them into beauty. I think sometimes to truly, truly appreciate the blessing, we first need to know pain. I am not damaged by my past, indeed the opposite. It's through the lens of my past that I can truly see love and marriage for what it should be. I know that William is not only my husband, but my treasured gift from God. And of that, I will brag.
Not unlike many of you, my mom and dad split when I was just two. There were financial reasons, family reasons, chronically sick kid reasons. Whatever the reasons, a young girl can't comprehend why love wasn't enough. There, the faltering foundation that I would built my love ideology upon was laid in stone.
From there, we spent some years with just my mom, sister and I. "The three musketeers". Which is fine, except for when your mom has to be both a mom and a dad. I won't say it can't be done; she managed to juggle the jobs and the home and the two kids, the homework, the cooking, the hospital trips, the bills. But even as a child, I could recognize that just because it was possible, didn't mean it was meant to be that way. We managed just fine, too. We got to visit our out-of-state dad every summer and every other Christmas. It sufficed for my sister and I because we didn't know any different. But even still, that sting of longing for dad would surface every now and then. I remember not wanting to tell my mom that I missed dad, for fear of hurting her feelings. I don't remember a time when my parents got along or a time when I didn't feel like I had to choose one over the other. I didn't understand parental unity, or marital unity for that matter.
There were seasons of us being the three musketeers, and there were seasons where it wasn't just us. There were men that were around for years that I inevitably attached a dad-like bond to, hoping for the happily ever after. But not unlike the one before, each ended abruptly and with little room for discussion. Sometimes I was glad. Sometimes I wasn't. I yearned for stability, security, a sense of "normal". But even within the relationships that I squinted at to see as healthy, I knew that they weren't. Fighting, yelling, swearing, drinking, cheating, throwing things, constant threats of separation, physical abuse to my mom. I watched my mom become smaller and smaller under oppressive men, and smaller my sister and I became too. My psychological fear manifested into a physical reaction when men raise their voice- to this day I can't control my shaking legs. I was subconsciously learning that marriage was no more than a temporary relationship that only yields pain and emptiness. But even still, I knew it shouldn't be that way. I knew there had to be more, but I wasn't even willing to take the risk.
A few snippets from my journals over the years testify to it:
"January 20, 20--
I hate arguing. I refuse to do that. [They] argue all the time. Is that love? ... How can they be happy? If they get divorced, I hope they at least wait until I graduate. Enough 4 am yelling matches, enough threats, enough stress, enough sadness.
Lord, please help me to learn from these experiences and grow from them."
"February 15, 20--
Well it's official, they're getting divorced. I really don't have any more emotion left about it. I was mad, then sad, confused, embarrassed, betrayed. Now I just don't even have emotion toward it. I hate this. I can't wait to graduate."
"[Unmarked Date]
I swear, they hate me. They're never never never happy. I don't think they even enjoy being around me. This weekend [in Portland] was great because it was just a calm atmosphere and I could do what I wanted. Then I got home."
"November 20, 20--
My parents are having a yelling match again. Yay. I guess my mom has to get another job and they're fighting about it. I just wish I could escape. I wish I could just leave and not have anyone care. ... Oh, just heard some throwing/slamming going on downstairs. There goes my leg shaking. I hate that. I can't wait to have my own place, my own life. I pray that I will never live like this."
"January 8, 20--
Why even get married? Is it even worth it? No. It's not. I hope I never fight like this. Never. Lord, help me to remember this."Sure, I knew there were "happy" marriages out there. My former pastor's wife who, bless her, would come pick me up in the middle of the night when I called her, she seemed happy in her marriage. My grandma. Oh, my grandma. She showed me security and love and servanthood. I loved staying at her house and waking up to fresh folded laundry at the end of my bed and hot breakfast on the table. She seemed happy. Even still, the slim possibility of a healthy, happy marriage in my eyes didn't hold a candle to the inevitable.
I remember at 15 years old having a serious talk with God. I remember telling him that I didn't want to get married, because I didn't ever want to live like that. My heart longed to be a mother and a wife, but I wouldn't know the first thing about how to do it right. I told God that it would be better for me to just stay single. I challenged Him, saying that if there was someone He wanted me to marry, that he would have to fit within my standards. I (no joke) told God that my husband would have to be tall, super dark, have facial hair, wear glasses, play basketball. He would have to love Jesus and love his family. He would be quiet and patient and not swear, no matter how mad I made him. Sweet, compassionate, and want to rescue orphans with me. My husband would have to be a hard worker that could use power tools. But mostly, he would have to love me enough to make me change my mind on marriage.
When I was 16 years old, I met Will.
It was laughable, really, how soon I knew he would be my husband. He was everything I had asked God for, right down to the beard and power tools. He loved me and pursued me and waited for me; he prayed for me and urged me into God's word. He was a gentleman that treated me with gentleness and never swore at me. I knew, at just 16, that this was God's redemption plan for me and my broken picture of love.
We said "I do" when I was a young 19. When I got barraged with the expected, "you're too young to get married" line, I couldn't help but respond with "I know". Cerebrally, I agreed 100%. There was nothing inside of me that expected to be married at 19, and I couldn't begin to explain to anyone else how or why I knew that it was right. I just knew that it was God's plan for my life, and I was going to trust in that. I know wholeheartedly that getting married when I did saved me from a long life of seeking love and happiness in things and people that wouldn't satisfy me. I hate to think of who or what I could have become; fragile and too trusting and too love-damaged to see truth from facade. God, through Will, delivered me from what could have been and is teaching me what it's meant to be.
When I brag about my husband and how wonderful he is to me, it isn't because I'm lovestruck infatuated teenage girl. My singing praises of his goodness doesn't come from a place of immaturity and naivety, it comes from intimately knowing the opposite. When I talk about how much I appreciate his hard work and selflessness, it's because he is the first man to show me what that really means. I know security and trust and stability like I've never known before. I have a man that works hard to fill our fridge, keep our bank account out of the red, and provide me with a comfortable life. I have a man that is teaching me what a dad should be: strong, compassionate, reliable, stable. He is showing me what it means to be loved as a wife. Never has he called me a name. Never does he yell at me or swear or get out of control. He is tenderhearted, forgiving, generous. He leads me and protects me and has endless grace for me.
I have seen firsthand how God takes ashes and turns them into beauty. I think sometimes to truly, truly appreciate the blessing, we first need to know pain. I am not damaged by my past, indeed the opposite. It's through the lens of my past that I can truly see love and marriage for what it should be. I know that William is not only my husband, but my treasured gift from God. And of that, I will brag.
 |
| From my journal in 2007, one month after meeting Will |
Friday, February 14, 2014
Let Me Be Clear
Dear Baby,
I want to clear some things up with you.
We are now 26 1/2 weeks pregnant! I can't believe it. They days are long but somehow they just keep going by faster all the time. Our third trimester together is within reach, which means you'll be here in my arms before I know it. I couldn't be happier about that. It's so much more fun to carry a baby with your arms than with your belly. It just is.
I am very busy during the day chasing your big brother around. He is a ball of energy that is too smart for his own good. He keeps me on my toes and makes sure I am good and tired at the end of the day. He will be a great big brother to you. He kisses my tummy and gives it hugs and always wants to see baby. Except for now he calls you "daydee", which is very confusing because he is indeed capable of the "B" sound. But daydee you are and you'll stay until you make your appearance and we can give you a name. Who knows, maybe longer.
You may one day look back, as I did with my mom, and realize that our pregnancy together didn't yield many blog posts, journal entries or belly pictures. You may come to find I don't actually remember the exact day that I knew you were in there. I don't remember my due date sometimes and I don't have a countdown of days until you come. You may look back someday and feel like you're less special than your big brother, because your big brother had many of those things when he was in my tummy.
I was actually warned about this. It's almost a running joke in the family that your aunt Jessi has a very sweet baby book and I don't. Also that her first steps were on Easter and no one knows exactly when mine were. I have felt the sting of the younger sibling syndrome -- feeling just slightly less important. I have been told that it just happens when you have more than one child. You get busy, life gets in the way. You just don't have the time or the energy to put into the keepsakes that you once did. It's just hard to keep up and you're lucky if you scrawl down a few things on a napkin after about baby #3. I felt like I was being told that I would care less about you than I did about Nehemiah. I fought long and hard with my momma about this, and my pride screamed loud that I would make an exquisite baby book and detailed blog posts for all of my babies. Alas, here we are.
But let me make something clear to you.
It took me this long to learn why it is this way. It's not by my lack of time or energy. My first pregnancy was really just that: my first pregnancy. It was an incredible thing that I had never experienced before -- my body changing, creating life before my very eyes. I couldn't help but to write it all down, because the awe consumed me. I was full of emotion: excitement, fear, joy, insecurity, anxiety, suspense... I had no idea what to expect with each new twist and turn. I was looking forward to meeting your brother, yes, just as I am with you. But it was the thrill of the experience that hurled me into action with my writing. As selfish as this is going to come out, I want you to understand: my first pregnancy was so much more about changes in me than it was about your brother.
This time, there are no countdowns, no blog posts, no journal entries. Seldom Instagrams. No big shopping list of of baby gadgets. But baby, I couldn't be more excited that you're coming. Your daddy and I talked and planned and dreamed about you before you were created. We were so filled with joy the day we found out you were really in there. We spend lots of our time watching you kick around and day dreaming about what it'll be like when you come. Our Valentine's Day dinner was spent in conversation about your name- who you will be, when you will come, what life will be like. You are already so loved, baby. You were planned for and prayed for and not for one second should you think anything less.
I don't feel anxious about your arrival like I did your brother's. I am not counting down the days because I am in no rush; you will come on the day you are ready to come. No sooner, no later. I will patiently wait in peace for that day to come, knowing that it's happening, barring my feelings on the matter. I simply feel happy. Peacefully anticipating.
I want you to know that baby. I want you to know that you are special. You are unique and precious and I am humbled to be the vessel that God chose to bring your spirit into life. You are loved, wanted, treasured. We are excited, privileged, thankful.
See you soon, baby.
Love, Momma
I want to clear some things up with you.
We are now 26 1/2 weeks pregnant! I can't believe it. They days are long but somehow they just keep going by faster all the time. Our third trimester together is within reach, which means you'll be here in my arms before I know it. I couldn't be happier about that. It's so much more fun to carry a baby with your arms than with your belly. It just is.
I am very busy during the day chasing your big brother around. He is a ball of energy that is too smart for his own good. He keeps me on my toes and makes sure I am good and tired at the end of the day. He will be a great big brother to you. He kisses my tummy and gives it hugs and always wants to see baby. Except for now he calls you "daydee", which is very confusing because he is indeed capable of the "B" sound. But daydee you are and you'll stay until you make your appearance and we can give you a name. Who knows, maybe longer.
You may one day look back, as I did with my mom, and realize that our pregnancy together didn't yield many blog posts, journal entries or belly pictures. You may come to find I don't actually remember the exact day that I knew you were in there. I don't remember my due date sometimes and I don't have a countdown of days until you come. You may look back someday and feel like you're less special than your big brother, because your big brother had many of those things when he was in my tummy.
I was actually warned about this. It's almost a running joke in the family that your aunt Jessi has a very sweet baby book and I don't. Also that her first steps were on Easter and no one knows exactly when mine were. I have felt the sting of the younger sibling syndrome -- feeling just slightly less important. I have been told that it just happens when you have more than one child. You get busy, life gets in the way. You just don't have the time or the energy to put into the keepsakes that you once did. It's just hard to keep up and you're lucky if you scrawl down a few things on a napkin after about baby #3. I felt like I was being told that I would care less about you than I did about Nehemiah. I fought long and hard with my momma about this, and my pride screamed loud that I would make an exquisite baby book and detailed blog posts for all of my babies. Alas, here we are.
But let me make something clear to you.
It took me this long to learn why it is this way. It's not by my lack of time or energy. My first pregnancy was really just that: my first pregnancy. It was an incredible thing that I had never experienced before -- my body changing, creating life before my very eyes. I couldn't help but to write it all down, because the awe consumed me. I was full of emotion: excitement, fear, joy, insecurity, anxiety, suspense... I had no idea what to expect with each new twist and turn. I was looking forward to meeting your brother, yes, just as I am with you. But it was the thrill of the experience that hurled me into action with my writing. As selfish as this is going to come out, I want you to understand: my first pregnancy was so much more about changes in me than it was about your brother.
This time, there are no countdowns, no blog posts, no journal entries. Seldom Instagrams. No big shopping list of of baby gadgets. But baby, I couldn't be more excited that you're coming. Your daddy and I talked and planned and dreamed about you before you were created. We were so filled with joy the day we found out you were really in there. We spend lots of our time watching you kick around and day dreaming about what it'll be like when you come. Our Valentine's Day dinner was spent in conversation about your name- who you will be, when you will come, what life will be like. You are already so loved, baby. You were planned for and prayed for and not for one second should you think anything less.
I don't feel anxious about your arrival like I did your brother's. I am not counting down the days because I am in no rush; you will come on the day you are ready to come. No sooner, no later. I will patiently wait in peace for that day to come, knowing that it's happening, barring my feelings on the matter. I simply feel happy. Peacefully anticipating.
I want you to know that baby. I want you to know that you are special. You are unique and precious and I am humbled to be the vessel that God chose to bring your spirit into life. You are loved, wanted, treasured. We are excited, privileged, thankful.
See you soon, baby.
Love, Momma
Sunday, January 19, 2014
India Pt. 4
In the words of my high school fantasy boyfriend Chris Brown (pre-Rihanna incident, don't judge), there's never a right time to say goodbye. However, unrelenting vomiting and sickness for days can certainly make the prospect more appealing. India and my farewell came too soon, literally. 11 days sooner than expected, and the teary goodbye and my joyful homecoming didn't go exactly as planned.
My flight over to India is really where my sickness started. It struck just a couple hours in to my 14.5 hour cuddle-session with random strangers also seated in row 12. Conveniently, I was seated precisely in the middle of the row. It was 6 on one side and half a dozen on the other, so maneuvering out every 30 minutes to stand in line to vomit in the airplane potty made for a long flight for all. We were blessed to be upgraded to business class for the last 5 hour leg of our journey, and the full-recline couldn't have been more happily welcomed. After our 4 am touch down in India, we had a "4 hour" drive from the city to our village. This means that there's no real way to estimate how long it will take to get home, and honestly, one just stops counting the hours. Accounting for all of the the traffic and stops and potholes and cows and whatever else may come in our way, it's best to just assume it'll be an all day affair. And rightly assume I did. A bumpy, long, stop-and-go car ride was just what I wanted to top off our 20ish hour flight with a tummy that wouldn't stop spinning.
It took about 3 days to fully recover. By day two I was really starting to get concerned about dehydration and the health of the baby. I have a serious anxiety at the thought of needing serious medical care while I'm in India. I know I'm spoiled with my western medicine and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's very hip right now to be anti-modern medicine in our over-privleged society, but I for one will toot the horn of sanitary hospitals and thank Jesus for the medicinal availability in America any day. It's easy to be anti-hospital until you're faced with no other choice. Alright, stepping down from my soap box. Luckily it didn't come to that, but it was beginning to become a realistic option for me. I called on some of my lady friends back home who had created a prayer group for our trip and took full advantage of the TLC that was offered to me by my Indian family.
I lasted about 6 days before sickness came back with a vengeance. This time was just like the first, miserable and scary. It's hard enough to be ill, but to be ill in another country without your husband or the luxuries of home or the security of the E.R. made it that much worse. After about 48 hours of round two, I came to the decision that I wasn't willing to risk the health of the baby or myself by staying in India any longer. As soon as I said the word, Will had Nehemiah and I on a plane home.
Just like that, our trip came to a abrupt end. For good reason-- I visited the doctor soon after returning home. I lost 6 pounds and had become very weak and dehydrated. Fortunately the baby is healthy and well, still measuring mostly on time. At 22 weeks, I had hoped to be up 10-15 pounds from my starting weight instead of a mere 5. The doctor validated my hasty actions and said that I did the right thing in coming home. Who knows what I could have contracted or how long my sickness could have lasted. Although it was sad to say goodbye so suddenly, nothing is worth compromising the health of my babies. I know it was the right move, no matter how much I regret not being able to fully take advantage of the abundance of guavas and chai at my disposal.
I've been home for 4 days now and am getting better day by day. Sleeping lots and eating everything in sight has helped with the weight gain, and having my sweet husband to take care of me doesn't hurt either. My current ailment is actually this ridiculous jet lag. Nehemiah and I are going on 4 days of sleep-all-day, up-all-night partying. By partying I mean him catching the early cartoons and me googling weird things like elephants in the womb or recipes that contain popcorn. (Yep, I'm still pregnant.) I'm happy to be recovering from the comfort of my home and in the arms of my husband. Next time I cross several oceans I'll be sure to go without a fetus in the womb and equipped with more English speakers.
Until next time, India, I'll be missing you.
My flight over to India is really where my sickness started. It struck just a couple hours in to my 14.5 hour cuddle-session with random strangers also seated in row 12. Conveniently, I was seated precisely in the middle of the row. It was 6 on one side and half a dozen on the other, so maneuvering out every 30 minutes to stand in line to vomit in the airplane potty made for a long flight for all. We were blessed to be upgraded to business class for the last 5 hour leg of our journey, and the full-recline couldn't have been more happily welcomed. After our 4 am touch down in India, we had a "4 hour" drive from the city to our village. This means that there's no real way to estimate how long it will take to get home, and honestly, one just stops counting the hours. Accounting for all of the the traffic and stops and potholes and cows and whatever else may come in our way, it's best to just assume it'll be an all day affair. And rightly assume I did. A bumpy, long, stop-and-go car ride was just what I wanted to top off our 20ish hour flight with a tummy that wouldn't stop spinning.
It took about 3 days to fully recover. By day two I was really starting to get concerned about dehydration and the health of the baby. I have a serious anxiety at the thought of needing serious medical care while I'm in India. I know I'm spoiled with my western medicine and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's very hip right now to be anti-modern medicine in our over-privleged society, but I for one will toot the horn of sanitary hospitals and thank Jesus for the medicinal availability in America any day. It's easy to be anti-hospital until you're faced with no other choice. Alright, stepping down from my soap box. Luckily it didn't come to that, but it was beginning to become a realistic option for me. I called on some of my lady friends back home who had created a prayer group for our trip and took full advantage of the TLC that was offered to me by my Indian family.
I lasted about 6 days before sickness came back with a vengeance. This time was just like the first, miserable and scary. It's hard enough to be ill, but to be ill in another country without your husband or the luxuries of home or the security of the E.R. made it that much worse. After about 48 hours of round two, I came to the decision that I wasn't willing to risk the health of the baby or myself by staying in India any longer. As soon as I said the word, Will had Nehemiah and I on a plane home.
Just like that, our trip came to a abrupt end. For good reason-- I visited the doctor soon after returning home. I lost 6 pounds and had become very weak and dehydrated. Fortunately the baby is healthy and well, still measuring mostly on time. At 22 weeks, I had hoped to be up 10-15 pounds from my starting weight instead of a mere 5. The doctor validated my hasty actions and said that I did the right thing in coming home. Who knows what I could have contracted or how long my sickness could have lasted. Although it was sad to say goodbye so suddenly, nothing is worth compromising the health of my babies. I know it was the right move, no matter how much I regret not being able to fully take advantage of the abundance of guavas and chai at my disposal.
I've been home for 4 days now and am getting better day by day. Sleeping lots and eating everything in sight has helped with the weight gain, and having my sweet husband to take care of me doesn't hurt either. My current ailment is actually this ridiculous jet lag. Nehemiah and I are going on 4 days of sleep-all-day, up-all-night partying. By partying I mean him catching the early cartoons and me googling weird things like elephants in the womb or recipes that contain popcorn. (Yep, I'm still pregnant.) I'm happy to be recovering from the comfort of my home and in the arms of my husband. Next time I cross several oceans I'll be sure to go without a fetus in the womb and equipped with more English speakers.
Until next time, India, I'll be missing you.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
India: Pt. 3
Today is a lazy day. I am completely okay with it-- that's the luxury of being across the world from my to-do list. I have spend the better part of two weeks doing a lot of nothing. My agenda pretty much goes as follows: wake up, bathe, eat, do nothing, eat, nap, do some more nothing, eat again, Skype with Will, go to sleep. I am getting pretty spoiled and pretty fat. Actually I won't be be able to accurately judge my weight gain until I go home, I've been wearing a lot of Indian dresses that are rather accommodating in the midsection. Heck yes. Except when I get home and I'm sobbing because my love handles are busting out the seams of my "fat pants". I haven't seen myself in a full length mirror since I came here, and I strategically plan on avoiding one for at least a week after I get home. They put a high priority on eating here as it is, but come to India pregnant and expect to do literally nothing but sit and eat. If ever I reject a meal (which, let's be honest, is not often), I get a nice scolding in which the only discernable words are "baby" "take care" and "need to eat". I'm gathering by inference that they think you're literally starving your fetus if you don't plan to pack on a minimum of 50 pounds over the duration of your pregnancy. Don't worry aunties, because of you I just might. How can I deny the food though? I mean, have you ever had Indian food? Now multiply it's goodness by about a million, because the American version is garbage compared to the real deal. I mean, come on, I met a lovely hen at lunchtime and ate it for dinner. It doesn't come more fresh than that. I also drink milk straight from the buffalo. Ok don't panic, it goes into a bucket first. We don't talk about the fat content. I don't care that if it were packaged it would actually be classified as half and half. I am having my cake and eating it too.
I really consider today a good day, because I got to have hot water with this morning's bathing experience. Hallelujah! I take for granted the glory of a hot shower. I squint my eyes and cross my all of my digits and hope the water will run hot. Usually no dice. Today I was patient and waited while they boiled some for me. Here, a "shower" means filling a bucket with water and using a smaller bucket to pour said water on yourself. It gets the job done but is by no means anything more than that. At least this time around I had the presence of mind to invest in some quality hair products, because this white girl's hair does not do well with what is available here. The water is different and there's just no living up to American salon quality products. Last time I was here it was literally a chore to run a brush through my hair. I think I came back stateside 50% balder, leaving half of my hair still attached to my brush. It was terrible. I would con various friends and family members into the arm workout that was brushing my hair. Thank you, Redken, for saving me from acquiring arm muscles bigger than my husband's and looking like I suffer from male pattern baldness. Sometimes being accustom to this culture means knowing what not to skimp on while packing.
The afternoon is the longest part of the day for me. The hours drag by between lunch and bedtime. Usually not much to keep me occupied and no one to talk to. Everyone back home is asleep, and it'll be hours before they wake up. We aren't really allowed to adventure about, because 1. I'm a girl 2. I don't know where I'm going and don't know how to ask 3. I'm white and so I'll probably get kidnapped and die. Okay I might have exaggerated that last one a tad. But it is pretty hard to walk around the village and explore without getting stares or getting laughed at or getting approached by someone. I wish being white wasn't such a hot commodity here, because blending in a little would really make it easier to experience the culture. I want to see the scenes, not be the scene. Today my father-in-law is heading into town to bring me more guavas and Maaza, because I'm spoiled like that. I asked him how far to town because I am bored and want come come along for the ride. He said it was an hour. Lawl, I am not driving an hour for guavas and mango juice. I think I'll take another 3405807895 pictures of a coconut tree and take a nap.
I really consider today a good day, because I got to have hot water with this morning's bathing experience. Hallelujah! I take for granted the glory of a hot shower. I squint my eyes and cross my all of my digits and hope the water will run hot. Usually no dice. Today I was patient and waited while they boiled some for me. Here, a "shower" means filling a bucket with water and using a smaller bucket to pour said water on yourself. It gets the job done but is by no means anything more than that. At least this time around I had the presence of mind to invest in some quality hair products, because this white girl's hair does not do well with what is available here. The water is different and there's just no living up to American salon quality products. Last time I was here it was literally a chore to run a brush through my hair. I think I came back stateside 50% balder, leaving half of my hair still attached to my brush. It was terrible. I would con various friends and family members into the arm workout that was brushing my hair. Thank you, Redken, for saving me from acquiring arm muscles bigger than my husband's and looking like I suffer from male pattern baldness. Sometimes being accustom to this culture means knowing what not to skimp on while packing.
The afternoon is the longest part of the day for me. The hours drag by between lunch and bedtime. Usually not much to keep me occupied and no one to talk to. Everyone back home is asleep, and it'll be hours before they wake up. We aren't really allowed to adventure about, because 1. I'm a girl 2. I don't know where I'm going and don't know how to ask 3. I'm white and so I'll probably get kidnapped and die. Okay I might have exaggerated that last one a tad. But it is pretty hard to walk around the village and explore without getting stares or getting laughed at or getting approached by someone. I wish being white wasn't such a hot commodity here, because blending in a little would really make it easier to experience the culture. I want to see the scenes, not be the scene. Today my father-in-law is heading into town to bring me more guavas and Maaza, because I'm spoiled like that. I asked him how far to town because I am bored and want come come along for the ride. He said it was an hour. Lawl, I am not driving an hour for guavas and mango juice. I think I'll take another 3405807895 pictures of a coconut tree and take a nap.
Friday, January 10, 2014
India: Pt.2
Im going to be honest, I'm really struggling.
For being in a place so chalked full of people, I've never felt more lonely. I knew when I left it was the right decision to come for Nehemiah's sake, even without William, but now I'm not so sure. I am really having a hard time without the ability to communicate with people. It's my nature to communicate often; I am a writer, a talker, a joker. I don't do well with being quiet with my thoughts to keep me company. Although I appreciate the effort of my family's attempts at English, there's only so many ways I can answer, "How are you?"I am thankful to have a computer with me, but no amount of Skype or emailing can compare with true face time. The time difference is also a pretty big road block. While my world here is awake, a 10.5 hour time difference means back home everything is asleep.
This trip is surely teaching me how blessed I am to never have had to feel the sting of long distance marriage. We did our time living long distance when he was in college, but most will agree it's a different ball game when you're married, especially with children. A 23-day excursion across the world wasn't the easiest way to start learning how to be apart, I'm guessing. I am gaining more and more respect for the women in my life who go weeks and months without seeing their husbands. Day in and day out, living life alone. Raising kids. Holding it together at home. I feel an ache in my heart so deep it's almost visceral, and it's only been 10 days. Kudos to you, long distance lovers, because it's nothing short of tragedy to live with half of your heart somewhere else. I spoke to my pseudo-mom about this before my trip. I told her that I was almost fearing my trip because I couldn't bear the idea of being so far from Will for so long. She listened and comforted me so compassionately, all the while he husband working on the other side of the country. She said she remembered her first years of marriage, not even wanting to go to a weekend women's retreat because she couldn't bear the thought of leaving her husband. She told me that although it's hard to be apart, the love she has with her husband has grown stronger and the time together sweeter. I try to hold that close to my heart on the days I feel like crying. How blessed am I to have someone whom I can miss so much.
I feel guilty that I can't handle it with more grace; I am angry at myself for not carpe-ing the diem and soaking in every last drop. I wish I could. I want to. But for me, I don't know how to fully enjoy the experience without being able to share it with someone. If I feel like laughing or crying, I can't tell anyone. If I think something or am curious about something I see, I have no choice but to think it to myself. My days go through ups and downs of loving it and hating it, sometimes simultaneously. I love to travel and I love India, but it's just not the same to do it alone.
Most of my time I sit quiet in a room full of people. They're all discussing and laughing and sharing life together, all I can do is try to put together the few words I can grasp and just guess the rest. I kind of feel like the dog. Loved by all but by no means on the same level. I am very sensitive and wear my heart on my sleeves and don't do well feeling like the dog.
I'm honestly not sure what lessons I am supposed to be learning through this. I know that there's a purpose for it; I don't believe that we can go through hard times and not be stretched and grown or changed in some way. Perhaps I am relying too much on people for my happiness. Perhaps I invest too much weight in my husband's availability. Perhaps I need to learn to be okay with the quiet-- embrace it even. Become okay with being my own validation and companion. I am trying to relinquish my control and expectations and just let things be. As easy at is was just a week ago for me to preach about finding peace and joy in all circumstances or expressing a heart of gratitude, it's not as easy being put to the test. So this is me: taking the foot out of my mouth and learning, humbly and in my weakness, to practice what I preach. By myself.
For being in a place so chalked full of people, I've never felt more lonely. I knew when I left it was the right decision to come for Nehemiah's sake, even without William, but now I'm not so sure. I am really having a hard time without the ability to communicate with people. It's my nature to communicate often; I am a writer, a talker, a joker. I don't do well with being quiet with my thoughts to keep me company. Although I appreciate the effort of my family's attempts at English, there's only so many ways I can answer, "How are you?"I am thankful to have a computer with me, but no amount of Skype or emailing can compare with true face time. The time difference is also a pretty big road block. While my world here is awake, a 10.5 hour time difference means back home everything is asleep.
This trip is surely teaching me how blessed I am to never have had to feel the sting of long distance marriage. We did our time living long distance when he was in college, but most will agree it's a different ball game when you're married, especially with children. A 23-day excursion across the world wasn't the easiest way to start learning how to be apart, I'm guessing. I am gaining more and more respect for the women in my life who go weeks and months without seeing their husbands. Day in and day out, living life alone. Raising kids. Holding it together at home. I feel an ache in my heart so deep it's almost visceral, and it's only been 10 days. Kudos to you, long distance lovers, because it's nothing short of tragedy to live with half of your heart somewhere else. I spoke to my pseudo-mom about this before my trip. I told her that I was almost fearing my trip because I couldn't bear the idea of being so far from Will for so long. She listened and comforted me so compassionately, all the while he husband working on the other side of the country. She said she remembered her first years of marriage, not even wanting to go to a weekend women's retreat because she couldn't bear the thought of leaving her husband. She told me that although it's hard to be apart, the love she has with her husband has grown stronger and the time together sweeter. I try to hold that close to my heart on the days I feel like crying. How blessed am I to have someone whom I can miss so much.
I feel guilty that I can't handle it with more grace; I am angry at myself for not carpe-ing the diem and soaking in every last drop. I wish I could. I want to. But for me, I don't know how to fully enjoy the experience without being able to share it with someone. If I feel like laughing or crying, I can't tell anyone. If I think something or am curious about something I see, I have no choice but to think it to myself. My days go through ups and downs of loving it and hating it, sometimes simultaneously. I love to travel and I love India, but it's just not the same to do it alone.
Most of my time I sit quiet in a room full of people. They're all discussing and laughing and sharing life together, all I can do is try to put together the few words I can grasp and just guess the rest. I kind of feel like the dog. Loved by all but by no means on the same level. I am very sensitive and wear my heart on my sleeves and don't do well feeling like the dog.
I'm honestly not sure what lessons I am supposed to be learning through this. I know that there's a purpose for it; I don't believe that we can go through hard times and not be stretched and grown or changed in some way. Perhaps I am relying too much on people for my happiness. Perhaps I invest too much weight in my husband's availability. Perhaps I need to learn to be okay with the quiet-- embrace it even. Become okay with being my own validation and companion. I am trying to relinquish my control and expectations and just let things be. As easy at is was just a week ago for me to preach about finding peace and joy in all circumstances or expressing a heart of gratitude, it's not as easy being put to the test. So this is me: taking the foot out of my mouth and learning, humbly and in my weakness, to practice what I preach. By myself.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
India: Pt.1
I've been trying to put my thoughts into words for days now. I had big plans of keeping a daily blog while on my trip here, but alas, I haven't. This post is probably going to be jumbled and chaotic, which is pretty much reminiscent of India and my pregnant brain. So there you go, I'm really letting you in on my experience. This may end up feeling more like a letter than a blog. We'll see where it takes us. I've never been much for descriptive writing anyway. If you don't believe me feel free to inquire with my college English Comp professor, we passionately debated on multiple occasions on my "misuse" of fragments. Whatever. Im down. With. The. Fragments. She said I could use them when I have my own book or column someday. Sweet vengence, look at me now teach! Ok. I digress.
So basically, this is the jist (gyst? juist? Is this a word? who knows) of my being in India. Will and I had big plans of coming for months. We wanted to come just after Nehemiah's first birthday and stay for several months, working at our family's orphanage and experiencing some life outside the US. We decided to give it to God and pray about it. Various circumstances and opportunities came our way that we knew we weren't supposed to turn down, err go our trip was indefinitely put on the back burner. Even though our extended stay wasn't in the cards for us at the time, we both agreed on the importance of Nehemiah meeting his great grandparents before they, eh, you know, cease to exist. If it weren't now, it wouldn't be possible for me to go until baby #2 is over a year. So it was now or never, pretty much. Will has commitments with work and coaching that he couldn't leave.
So, here we are.
This is my second time to India, so I feel slightly more equipped physically and mentally this time around. I say slightly because as an American, I really don't know if there's a time when I won't be taken back by the abundance of sound and people and colors and commotion. It is noisy all the time. At all hours. I guess that's what you get when you put over a billion people into a country 1/3 the size of the United States. There are constantly people outside, doing things, just living life right there on the side of the road. There are cars honking and motorcycling passing and animals talking to each other. There's a big variety of religion here,. They all make themselves known though, at very early hours with very loud megaphones. I wake up at 4:30 am regularly by the sound of the Hindu temple in the village singing and chanting over the loud speaker. Not long after is usually the muslim mosque, and then around 5:30 our kids at the orphanage chime in with their worship songs and prayer. The birds, crickets, chickens, dogs and buffalo at the school all join in too, singing their own songs. Noise is just a part of the culture here, and I suppose one just becomes immune to it. The bombarding noise is met with motion. Nothing stands still here. Do yourself a favor and YouTube "Indian Traffic". Um yes. It's terrifying. Cars and auto-rickshaws and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles and animals alike, all sharing the road. No traffic rules, no lanes, no nothing. The rules I can observe basically consist of "if you can fit, you can go" and "the bigger one always gets the right of way". It amazes me how unafraid people are to cross the streets or share the road with vehicles of all shapes and sizes flying by without a care for anyone. Before I had a baby, I got a kick out of it and enjoyed watching traffic. Now it scares me to death. I hold myself in a ball and close my eyes and bargain with Jesus to spare our lives.
It's also hard to prepare yourself to handle being the only white person. I am as white as they come folks, straight out of Scandinavia with the hair and skin to prove it. There is nothing that tans on me. My skin hates the sun; I am the ideal Oregonian. That being said, there is not a chance in the world that this toehead could fly under the radar in India. Everyone looks the same here. Brown skin, black hair, dark brown eyes. Saris. Braids. Gold jewlery. Jasmine in her hair. He has a mustache. There is one acceptable way to look in small-village India. I hear the really big cities are much different, but I have no experience to stand on for that. The interesting thing is that regardless of how vast I differ from the Indian status quo, they love to look at me. Most of them have never seen a white person in their lives, only in magazines or TV. The bold ones come up and touch my hair or my skin, but most just stare. Some come and take pictures of me. Some take pictures with me, knowing I will likely be the only white person they'll ever see. I'm much better at handling it this time around. It's easy for me to feel embarrassed and overwhelmed by the attention that I didn't do anything but be born to merit. I have gotten good at telling myself to ignore the stares and just smile at them. Sometimes I make a weird face. Hey, if they're looking, I might as well give them something to remember, eh?
The first time I came, there was quite a learning curve between Will's extended family and I. Most accepted me with love and affection, some didn't. Even if they liked me, they didn't know how to act around me. They laughed at me with surprise when I denied the fork and knew how to eat rice with my hand. I didn't want to be treated differently because I am white. If you don't need a fork, neither do I. If you poop in a hole in the ground, by all means, show me which hole to use and I will oblige. This time around has come a lot easier now that we understand our expectations of one another. Although I still have to fight the special treatment sometimes, I know this time it's out of love and hospitality instead of fear or insecurity. They don't laugh when I answer them in Telugu and they don't even offer me utensils. They still hand me a roll of toilet paper when they point me to the toilet though, which I graciously accept. Sorry, I am not that Indian yet.
Speaking of bathroom situations. Yes. I have to talk about this. So I don't know how many third world countries have public restrooms with holes instead of/coinciding with toilets, but I am going out on a limb and saying most, because Western toilets are called Western toilets for a reason. As much as I love a good ole toilet, I am totally kosher with the hole in the ground. We have reconciled our differences and I no longer pee on myself or feel the need to remove my pants when I go for fear of getting them wet. This is an accomplishment for me. I will precede my next statements by reminding you how cautiously you set the toilet paper on the seat at Mini Mart before even considering touching butt to toilet; I will leave it to your imagination how many rolls of toilet paper you would like to use in India to separate your skin from whatever you're reliving yourself in. In the terrible event you're desperate enough to go in a public restroom, I'll tell you now, it is better to choose the hole than the "western toilet". I don't know if ever there was someone hired to clean these toilets, but if there were, they 1. are blind and can't smell and should probably be fired immediately if not sooner, or 2. need to be laid to rest because they surely died. Because of that, my skin is getting nowhere near any surface in those places, so I will opt for the hole. You're welcome for that little nugget of wisdom.
Don't worry though, it's not all bad. Aside from the gross toilets, rampant mosquitos and flying spiders, there's lots to enjoy here in India. The fruit is sweeter, the trees are greener and the sun is warmer. The society cultivates a sense of community and loyalty, which is a stark contrast from our self-serving and closed-door culture in America. More on that later.
I wish I had a great conclusion but actually, I am just ridiculously unsure of the jumbled mess that I just wrote and have no way to sum it up. Eh, when in Rome, right? er, India?
So basically, this is the jist (gyst? juist? Is this a word? who knows) of my being in India. Will and I had big plans of coming for months. We wanted to come just after Nehemiah's first birthday and stay for several months, working at our family's orphanage and experiencing some life outside the US. We decided to give it to God and pray about it. Various circumstances and opportunities came our way that we knew we weren't supposed to turn down, err go our trip was indefinitely put on the back burner. Even though our extended stay wasn't in the cards for us at the time, we both agreed on the importance of Nehemiah meeting his great grandparents before they, eh, you know, cease to exist. If it weren't now, it wouldn't be possible for me to go until baby #2 is over a year. So it was now or never, pretty much. Will has commitments with work and coaching that he couldn't leave.
So, here we are.
This is my second time to India, so I feel slightly more equipped physically and mentally this time around. I say slightly because as an American, I really don't know if there's a time when I won't be taken back by the abundance of sound and people and colors and commotion. It is noisy all the time. At all hours. I guess that's what you get when you put over a billion people into a country 1/3 the size of the United States. There are constantly people outside, doing things, just living life right there on the side of the road. There are cars honking and motorcycling passing and animals talking to each other. There's a big variety of religion here,. They all make themselves known though, at very early hours with very loud megaphones. I wake up at 4:30 am regularly by the sound of the Hindu temple in the village singing and chanting over the loud speaker. Not long after is usually the muslim mosque, and then around 5:30 our kids at the orphanage chime in with their worship songs and prayer. The birds, crickets, chickens, dogs and buffalo at the school all join in too, singing their own songs. Noise is just a part of the culture here, and I suppose one just becomes immune to it. The bombarding noise is met with motion. Nothing stands still here. Do yourself a favor and YouTube "Indian Traffic". Um yes. It's terrifying. Cars and auto-rickshaws and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles and animals alike, all sharing the road. No traffic rules, no lanes, no nothing. The rules I can observe basically consist of "if you can fit, you can go" and "the bigger one always gets the right of way". It amazes me how unafraid people are to cross the streets or share the road with vehicles of all shapes and sizes flying by without a care for anyone. Before I had a baby, I got a kick out of it and enjoyed watching traffic. Now it scares me to death. I hold myself in a ball and close my eyes and bargain with Jesus to spare our lives.
It's also hard to prepare yourself to handle being the only white person. I am as white as they come folks, straight out of Scandinavia with the hair and skin to prove it. There is nothing that tans on me. My skin hates the sun; I am the ideal Oregonian. That being said, there is not a chance in the world that this toehead could fly under the radar in India. Everyone looks the same here. Brown skin, black hair, dark brown eyes. Saris. Braids. Gold jewlery. Jasmine in her hair. He has a mustache. There is one acceptable way to look in small-village India. I hear the really big cities are much different, but I have no experience to stand on for that. The interesting thing is that regardless of how vast I differ from the Indian status quo, they love to look at me. Most of them have never seen a white person in their lives, only in magazines or TV. The bold ones come up and touch my hair or my skin, but most just stare. Some come and take pictures of me. Some take pictures with me, knowing I will likely be the only white person they'll ever see. I'm much better at handling it this time around. It's easy for me to feel embarrassed and overwhelmed by the attention that I didn't do anything but be born to merit. I have gotten good at telling myself to ignore the stares and just smile at them. Sometimes I make a weird face. Hey, if they're looking, I might as well give them something to remember, eh?
The first time I came, there was quite a learning curve between Will's extended family and I. Most accepted me with love and affection, some didn't. Even if they liked me, they didn't know how to act around me. They laughed at me with surprise when I denied the fork and knew how to eat rice with my hand. I didn't want to be treated differently because I am white. If you don't need a fork, neither do I. If you poop in a hole in the ground, by all means, show me which hole to use and I will oblige. This time around has come a lot easier now that we understand our expectations of one another. Although I still have to fight the special treatment sometimes, I know this time it's out of love and hospitality instead of fear or insecurity. They don't laugh when I answer them in Telugu and they don't even offer me utensils. They still hand me a roll of toilet paper when they point me to the toilet though, which I graciously accept. Sorry, I am not that Indian yet.
Speaking of bathroom situations. Yes. I have to talk about this. So I don't know how many third world countries have public restrooms with holes instead of/coinciding with toilets, but I am going out on a limb and saying most, because Western toilets are called Western toilets for a reason. As much as I love a good ole toilet, I am totally kosher with the hole in the ground. We have reconciled our differences and I no longer pee on myself or feel the need to remove my pants when I go for fear of getting them wet. This is an accomplishment for me. I will precede my next statements by reminding you how cautiously you set the toilet paper on the seat at Mini Mart before even considering touching butt to toilet; I will leave it to your imagination how many rolls of toilet paper you would like to use in India to separate your skin from whatever you're reliving yourself in. In the terrible event you're desperate enough to go in a public restroom, I'll tell you now, it is better to choose the hole than the "western toilet". I don't know if ever there was someone hired to clean these toilets, but if there were, they 1. are blind and can't smell and should probably be fired immediately if not sooner, or 2. need to be laid to rest because they surely died. Because of that, my skin is getting nowhere near any surface in those places, so I will opt for the hole. You're welcome for that little nugget of wisdom.
Don't worry though, it's not all bad. Aside from the gross toilets, rampant mosquitos and flying spiders, there's lots to enjoy here in India. The fruit is sweeter, the trees are greener and the sun is warmer. The society cultivates a sense of community and loyalty, which is a stark contrast from our self-serving and closed-door culture in America. More on that later.
I wish I had a great conclusion but actually, I am just ridiculously unsure of the jumbled mess that I just wrote and have no way to sum it up. Eh, when in Rome, right? er, India?
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