Am I missing something??

5 / 31 / 15

So, things have been psycho at my house lately. The kids aren’t even in school currently, but Erron and I still feel like we are ships passing in the night. It’s good stuff: swim, Sister’s wedding festivities, VBS meetings, but just, you know… crazy. Erron and I have gotten sideways more than a few times over unmet and unrealistic expectations of each other and ourselves. I hear the same type of argument played out in different ways from my other married-with-young-children friends. She’s annoyed with him for getting home later than she’d like, he’s working his butt off…. his commute home is at least 30 minutes and he’s frustrated with her for being annoyed. Then she takes the argument one step further because he obviously doesn’t understand how hard it to “commute” home from swim in rush hour traffic, at dinner time, with two equally exhausted and ferociously hungry little people. With no dinner plans. Because she was at swim. And by ‘she’ I mean ‘me.’ But whatever. I CANNOT be the only one.

The other day I had this gem of a conversation with Shepherd who was raiding the pantry at 4:45 pm.

Me: Shep, you cannot have pretzels for dinner. What can I make you? Eggs? PPJ? Yogurt and cheerios? What will you eat?? Not pretzels.

Shep: How about a sandwich with Nutella?

Me: Nope. You can’t have chocolate for dinner.

Shep: Breakfast drink? (Ensure)

Me: Um, NO. You can’t have chocolate milk for dinner either. Eggs?

Shep: I know! What about waffles?

Me: Shep! No! You just lick off the powdered sugar. Quesadillas? Stir fry??

Shep: (now whimpering) I just want a piece of bread and some nutella!! (Fake tears.)

This went on for an absurd amount of time until I caved and spread peanut butter AND nutella onto two pieces of bread. Cooking dinner is so stressful.

I know these are first world problems. I’m living out my dream job and I believe the old ladies when they tell me someday, not too long from now, Erron and I will look back on these days and crave them. And I sincerely believe the struggle of one income, and the temporary loss of my identity is worth it. I feel the sweetness and brevity of this time in bits and spurts throughout each day. But some of the other minutes (hours)….I wonder, “Am I MISSING something??” This load of laundry is not going to change the world, and I’m feeding my kids breakfast for dinner. Again. Is this it?! Will my greatest achievements be an empty laundry basket and the day I can prepare a family meal that includes side dishes? Will my family even sit down at a set table and eat it?? A set dinner table—we got big dreams over here at the Weig house. Because I’m totally in control of my thought life, my mind jumps into fast forward and I start to panic. I’m suddenly 50 and I haven’t made any significant impact on the world around me. Also, my kids are going to college and still have no idea what’s on the dirty dozen list. They don’t eat clean. They don’t even eat vegetables. I have failed my life.

I complained to a friend last night about how I am certain my life is sneaking away from me. She talked me off the ledge by reminding me that she too, had been on it not long ago. Then she simplified it for me. “Allie, we are living it….we’re fine, we’re great!” We’re living it!” And she’s right. We are, even if sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. Right now, it feels like aimlessly herding little people around and praying they turn out OK. And truthfully, I’ve been restless for months. I can’t go back to the person I was before last summer, but I haven’t figured out what this new woman is supposed to be doing with her life after being handed such a second chance. I’m scared I’m not making the most of it, but can’t figure out how to do it any better. I’m tired of being restless; I’m ready for some direction. But maybe that’s how this gig works. You do the best you can, seek out the wisest voices you can find, ask the Man Upstairs for some direction, and then put one tentative foot in front of the other. I don’t really know. That’s how I’m doing it. I’ll let you know how it turns out when I’m 50…. If my kids are healthy eaters by then, they’ll be doing better than me and I’ll call myself an expert.

The foxhole

5 / 19 / 156 / 29 / 15

About 4 days after Shepherd fell in, the day before he was weaned off sedation and given the chance to wake from his induced coma, I had a conversation with a dear friend that I still play over and over in my head. It had been a grueling four days, and together my friend and I took a break. We went outside, sat on the concrete, and spent a few minutes trying to catch our breath and digest all that had unfolded in the last several days while preparing for what we would face tomorrow when Shep, hopefully, woke up. The way I remember the conversation going was me, suggesting that something bigger, (and something good) was in control of the hellish situation we were sitting in at that present moment. My friend is a little older than me, wiser, honest, and very, very smart. My friend also has a long, complicated and somewhat confusing relationship with religion; I’m still not exactly sure where my friend stands on the whole Jesus thing. During our conversation I revealed an off-the-cuff prayer request I’d sent out to another friend a few days before Shep’s accident. In a nutshell, the prayer was that I could find ways to live out my faith in a meaningful way, so that some people I loved, people like my friend, could see it and feel it without me needing to say a word. You see, I may be able to put words on paper, but when it comes to tricky topics like Jesus, love, and redemption… I get a little tongue-tied and it never comes out the way I want. I’m always missing the point with my spoken words. So…I cautiously shared this information with my friend. I thought it was worth revealing. My friend respectfully digested this odd bit of news. My friend loves me, and it was killing my friend to watch me and my boy go through this terrifying free fall into the great unknown. After a moment, my friend replied with something I’ll never forget, “Well, everybody’s a believer in the foxhole.” I burst into laughter because I couldn’t have thought of a more appropriate response. My friend is clever and kind, neither accepting nor disregarding what I was suggesting. My friend’s reply was also honest, and frankly, true. Most everyone IS a believer in the foxhole. I laughed because my friend was right, when your whole world is on the line, chances are, you’re going to start sending up some prayers to whoever might be up there if that’s what it takes to have a shot at keeping your world in tact. But what I think my friend was really saying is, “Allie, if believing is what you think it will take, then right now, that’s what I am believing too.”

Our prayers were answered, God graciously allowed me to walk out my faith in front of my friend on a path that led to a happy ending. But what if the answer had been no? What if instead of sparing Shepherd, God had said, “No, sweet Allie. I love you, but no. This is not how I will redeem your story.”

I will never fully know what my response would have been. Yes, I know how I responded in the moment in which “NO” was very nearly our reality, but I cannot say with ANY certainty at all, what walking out my faith would have looked like days, months or even years after crossing an un-crossable line.

However, I do know this… If the God I believe in is real, and the story He tells is true, then God is big, and just as importantly, He’s good. And His story is a love story. A confusing, brutal, beautiful love story. It’s a story full of grace and mercy as much as it’s full of power. So let’s say I had to cross that line… and it tore at my heart and soul, so I was left cut so deep I wasn’t sure I would ever breathe again. In the middle of that anguish, I can only hope a God big enough to hold the past, present and future, the mysterious ways of the universe and all things in it…would be big enough to hold me. Broken. Desperate. Defeated by what’s in front of me. Can people pick up and live life after a blow like that? Yes. They do, and some can do it alone. But what if….you didn’t have to? What if you didn’t have to crouch, alone, dodging bullets or taking hits in the foxhole, and you didn’t have to be alone when you crawled your way out of the dirt, and you didn’t have to be alone when you finally decided you were brave enough to start walking upright again? What if you didn’t have to be alone at all?

“I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.” Isaiah 42:16

So far, life has not been something I want to tough-out alone. I’m not good at quoting scripture, I never have it memorized, and if you’re like my friend, scripture may not carry a ton of weight. Yet, if I could have shared any verse with my friend that day on the concrete, I would have shared this one: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

Trouble, we know it’s coming. For all of us. But take heart friend, there’s still a reason to be cautiously optimistic.

Tapping out

5 / 13 / 155 / 24 / 15

This picture most accurately illustrates my children's personalities: Ornery, and completely insane. — This picture most accurately illustrates my childrens’ personalities: Ornery, and completely insane.

I’m currently the stage in life where many of my married friends are on to baby number three. Four, if they’re over achievers. I came from a family of three children, so did Erron, and going into marriage I always thought I’d have a family of five. I also thought comprise couldn’t be that hard, which shows just how much I knew going into all of this. Anyway, Shep is almost four and half and Charlotte is two, so if we intend to keep up the two year baby trend, we are already behind schedule.

Once Shep was sleeping through the night I was basically ready for the next one. It wasn’t really a question of if we would have another child; just a matter of timing. Thankfully, once Erron finally decided to board the baby train, sweet-talking him into next one was no big deal. He was as obsessed with being a parent as I was, so 26 months after Shep arrived, we got sweet and sassy Char.

Flash forward to present day, in the lobby of the physical therapy room: Shep’s therapist is giving me the run down of how the sessions went and I kid you not, both my kids are rolling around on the floor. Just, rolllllling around, like they thought the place was one giant grassy knoll. I half-heartedly tried to get them to stop, but every time I reached down for them, they’d just roll in the opposite direction. It was nap-time for Char, Shep had been in therapy for roughly 2 hours and they. were. done. So was I. I’m standing there, focusing on his sweet therapist’s face, trying really hard to listen to her words…but the tiny bodies that keep landing themselves on her feet are distracting me. It’s like this every Tuesday. But yesterday, in the back of my mind I heard the warning bells (which have been ringing for months now) kick it up another notch: I have hit max capacity. It’s not that kids can’t have seasons like this, mine are two and four, and we reside in Crazy Town a good portion of the time. It’s just that yesterday I realized I’m not ready to voluntarily take up permanent residence there for the sake of keeping up with my life plan or the Jones’s. I’m officially tapping out.

Maybe it’s the fact that ‘spirited’ is an adjective I’d use to describe both children. Or, it could be because Shep literally talks every minute of every day and Charlotte’s still not a great sleeper. Maybe it’s all we’ve been through in the last year. Whatever the reasons, I know it’s time to quit pretending baby number 3 is even up for current consideration and start waving the white flag. The jig is up.

While I’ve been able to admit out loud to friends that I’m content with our little family unit, I feel guilty every time I say it. Being a parent is such a blessing and the responsibility it carries is a big deal. Especially if you subscribe to the philosophy that you’re trying to raise up men and women who will go out into their worlds and change it for the better. I look at moms of three or four and sometimes feel like I just can’t cut it. God only knows what kind of kids I’d be sending out into the public if I keep adding more ‘arrows to my quiver’, as they say. After talking over a tough day with another mom, I’ll pause and wonder if she’s thinking, “Allie, it can’t be that bad… you only have two of them!” What is that? For starters, Shep and Char may only equal two bodies, but factor in their giant personalities and the party just got a whole lot bigger. Secondly, what does it matter if my Crazy Town looks different than my friend’s Crazy Town? CRAZY IS STILL CRAZY when you’re living there, regardless of the population. So I’m not the mom who can embrace an enormous level of everyday chaos. I need my one-on-one time. This is what works for us as parents, and it works for my kids, so I just need to own it. I’m owning it: Max capacity people. Now, Erron and I are never-say-never kind of parents, so ask us again in several years and our hearts may have shifted. But we’ve jumped off the two, even three or four year baby track, and at this point I’m doubtful we’ll be buying any more tickets. My heart will always melt every time I see an Instagram photo framing a precious bunch of little siblings, all close in age, and watching Char slip out of the baby phase can slay me in a hot minute. HOWEVER, we are overflowing with love and entertainment at the Weig house. Also, last night, Shep snuck into our room at 2:00 AM, and I woke up in Charlotte’s bed so…I can still pretend we have newborns without trying too hard.

Shep’s Mother’s Day Questionnaire

5 / 9 / 155 / 9 / 15

I was tempted to write a sentimental post this weekend about being a momma. How the moment it happens it changes your life, and makes your heart spring out of your body and start beating inside another human being. How this Mother’s Day is even sweeter because of the year we’ve had. But I’ve already read some beautiful posts about motherhood, and don’t think I could even do it justice if I tried. I’ll just share Shepherd’s Mother’s Day questionnaire with you instead. It’s a winner.

Sweet, isn’t it? According to Shep, I’m fussy, I smell like diapers, and I enjoy burning clothes with the iron. Oh, and don’t buy the food at McDonalds’ because it’s junk. Just FYI. Somebody was feeling more than a little ornery when he answered these questions. Diapers…really Shep? The photos I will save for your rehearsal dinner…. For the record, I don’t even use an iron. Ever. That’s what dryers are for. What a little turkey. When I questioned him about it, I could sense he had more than a clue about what he was doing. I’d be lying if I said my feelings weren’t bruised for a second, it’s funny how much you care about what those little people say about you behind your back…but Shep’s a 4-year-old boy, and big as his little heart is, he’s also got a streak a mile wide. It keeps things interesting, obviously. I consoled myself with the knowledge that every morning when Shepherd sleepily walks into our bedroom for snuggles…he comes to my side of the bed. So there you have it friends. Being a momma is the greatest and hardest thing I have ever done. Most of you know that first hand. Just like you already know sometimes all the love you pour out in a thousand tiny ways can go a little unnoticed. But you also know that you wouldn’t trade your worst day of motherhood back for anything in the world.

Momma’s who are reading, I hope you have a sweet day, getting loved on by all your people. And I hope you don’t smell like diapers. Maybe they’ll buy me perfume.

The waiting room

5 / 6 / 155 / 24 / 15

Every Tuesday Shep-man goes to physical therapy for a mild gross motor delay. It’s subtle, you probably wouldn’t notice it unless you were a professional, or his momma. He’s stronger on one side of his body than the other, and he’s been this way since he was a baby. Lots of preemies have similar issues; Shep went to PT off an on in Dallas for at least a year and a half. After the pool accident, getting Shep back in physical therapy was one of the first things I did. His body was weak from being in bed for so long, and doctors told me if Shep had any damage from his injury it may show up as a physical delay first. I figured I’d rather meet any possible delays head on rather then wait for them to surface. A few weeks ago we added in occupational therapy since he recently tested behind in some fine motor skills….we’re cramming as much in as we can to give him a leg up before he starts Pre-K and while it’s still fun. (Shep only knows that he’s going to play with his friend Robin.)

Showing up at the OKC waiting room for outpatient therapy is one of my favorite things I do with Shep and tag-along Charlotte. I mean, it’s not super fun to wait around with crazy Charlotte, but as a parent, I like going to PT because it’s anyone’s guess who you will see in the waiting room. We see a lot of people, all ages, all backgrounds, all needing therapy of some sort, like us. Speech, physical, occupational. We meet older patients who are re-habbing a knee and other preemie kids, doing therapy for similar reasons we are. We meet children with autism, children in wheelchairs, people with walkers, or one leg. Since Shep and Char aren’t in real school yet, we don’t have a ton of exposure to these kinds of things, and time in the waiting room is good for all three of us.

If you have an enormously outgoing little boy, the waiting room is a crash course in handling the occasional awkward question or conversation started by said four-year old. I love that Shep gets to meet people who may initially not look or act just like he does. Some of the people we see in the waiting room are friendly, we know them by name, conversations come easily. Some less so. As Shep’s mom, I gain experience facilitating questions by Shep if he happens to point out anything about anybody that he finds question-worthy. For example, after receiving a complement on his blond hair, Shep reciprocated by asking the older woman why her hair was white. Another time, he told a teenage boy just how much he liked his higher voice, when I’m 90% sure the boy was going to speech therapy for that exact reason. Shep has learned when he talks to a child that looks his age, the child may not be able to respond in the same way. My favorite was when Shepherd shared a time slot with a boy in a wheel chair and a trachea tube. This little guy couldn’t talk much on his own, and his limbs appeared shorter than they needed to be for walking. But he was always happy and outgoing and so were the people who helped him get around. The first time Shep saw him, he had lots of questions. If I’m honest I got nervous when I first saw who we were sharing a waiting room with. I knew Shep would blast me with questions and I wasn’t sure if I was prepared to field them all. But they were innocent enough, and I answered them as best I could. We saw the same boy a few visits ago, we all walked in the building together. Shepherd greeted him by name, and this time only noticed the boy’s socks. They had Cars characters on them. Shep liked them, told the boy so, and then repeatedly reminded me how he had the same kind of socks as his waiting room friend which he thought was pretty cool. Shep is noticing differences less and less the more he visits the waiting room. I like that.

Small talk with the parents is my favorite part. Like me, they are there every week, watching the progress of their own little people. It reminds me that I’m lucky to be dealing with a mild motor skill delay. Most of these parents have a much tougher road to walk than I do, and they walk it every day. It’s humbling, and I rarely leave without feeling grateful.

I wish every kid and their parents got a chance to spend an hour or two in the Jim Thorpe waiting room. I think it’s been as good for me as it has for little man. If we get to a point where we can stop doing PT and OT, I’ll be pumped Shep has reached his goals… but I’ll kind of miss the waiting room.