Dear 3, I take back what I said. Don’t leave.

Dear Three,

I know we haven’t always gotten along. I’ve blamed you for a lot of things. When Char cried on Monday that she didn’t want to go to school because she hates nap time, then cried again on Tuesday that she was NOT at school napping with her friends, I blamed you Three. I know you made her do it, so don’t lie. I also know it was you who told her she could run around the house with my lipstick and smear it on my couch. You have it out for parents Three….you try to pin it alllll on Two, but we know what’s up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve trashed talked you Three. I’ve said I hate you and I’ve sat around with other parents and slammed you behind your back, calling you names….God knows we have never been on great terms.

I didn’t know what to think of you the first time I met you Three, when you where hanging out with Shep….but I was pretty sure you were trouble. I didn’t get to experience you fully, six whole months of our time together were foggy and confusing. I didn’t know what to blame on you and what to blame on circumstances. Frankly, I was just so thankful to meet Four I cried and slammed the door on you then tried to forget you ever existed….until you showed up at my house again, two years later.

You and I won’t be hanging much longer Three. Your time is up in this family soon. I only have three more months to really etch you into my brain. But I’m realizing I was wrong about you. There’s a lot I love about you and I think you should stay. You see, I need you Three. You keep my daughter’s body round and soft and squishy in all the right places. You keep her cheeks full and kissable. Just like you told her it was OK to scream about a missing toy, you also told her I could make her finger feel better with nothing but a kiss. I need that Three. I need it to be that easy for a little bit longer. Because of you Three, my baby can run around the house naked and we still laugh. The edges of her words are soft and her sentences are not yet perfected….that’s all you Three, those are some of my favorite things, and you will take them with you when you go. Her brother left you behind and I didn’t even know to look back. Now, I’m about to meet Six and it’s all long skinny legs and angles when we snuggle. Six is too heavy to pick up and carry. You, Three, are responsible for chubby fingers and princess panties. Your favorite game is chase and you love to be captured and tickled. Because of you, my sweet Char grabs my face and turns it towards her in the morning so we can sleep nose to nose.

Darling Three, I take back all the things I said about you. You are like all of us, you have just as much good as you do bad. Don’t leave Three. Stay. Please stay. I will cry when you go. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again Three, but I know I’m not ready to say goodbye. I didn’t know how much joy you brought us, and though I like your friend Four well enough, my heart will ache when you leave. I will remember you fondly Three, thanks for everything.

Love,
Momma

Showing Up-it’s not as hard as you might think.

9 / 2 / 169 / 2 / 16

As of last month, my church had roughly 200 spots to fill in the Children’s ministry.

200.

I hear the number is much less now, but still. That seems like a lot of people.
There are plenty of things I like about my church: I love the way it takes care of its members, and all the different classes they offer to cover every need. I love our Sunday school class (even though I haven’t been there in a while) and the women’s bible study I go to where women my age ask really good questions and get honest answers from their leaders. I love that my community group members continue to try to come to our meetings after all these months. I looooove the coffee and the blueberry donuts at the cafe on Sunday mornings. The coffee is free, and the donut is literally one of the driving factors in pulling me out of my bed, dressing the kids and hustling them out the door by 8:30 AM.

But donuts and coffee are not the only reasons we make the weekly struggle to church. Erron and I both volunteer for the first service, he drives golf carts in the parking lot and I coordinate a team of volunteers for the 4 and 5-year-old Sunday school classes.

Before you roll your eyes at our good behavior, rewind three and half years. Erron and I are still in Dallas going to a large church that literally requires some type of volunteer service from you in order to be a member…and there we were: not doing that, for YEARS. I mean, we did a short 8-week stint as small group leaders for a pre-marital class. We figured that should count as enough service to earn us several years of church membership. (We might have well been taking the class by the way-but that’s another story.) The point is, on Sunday we rolled up to church when we woke up early enough, dropped our kids off to the volunteers, pleased that our church had such an amazing children’s program, and then patted ourselves on the back for a job well done at “Christian Adulting.” Getting there was hard enough at that time. We LOVED our church, we just didn’t think that serving part completely applied to us. We were realllllly busy and traffic on 635 was bad.

In fact when we moved to Oklahoma, we picked our new church primarily on the basis of it’s location. It’s a 5-minute drive from home. By then, we recognized if we couldn’t make that 5 minute drive on Sunday then we were kidding ourselves that we were the church going type at all. Yet even then, it was touch and go for a few months.

So, after three months of living in Oklahoma and sort-of attending our new, conveniently located church, we were flooded with an outpouring of love and support towards our family as we dealt with the sudden shock and heartache of Shep’s drowning. Inundated with prayers, care packages and words of encouragement; we were moved to tears by how well our family was loved by close friends and complete strangers. Once we got our family back home from Children’s Hospital and slowly began the process of living again, Erron and I both understood that our days of just taking from the church were over. We had been given so much by the church body (believers all over, not just our church) and we felt a strong need to begin paying it back.

I reached out to the children’s ministry in Shep’s age group, and when the woman in charge asked me what I’d like do I said, “ Welllll….what do you need?” She proceeded to tell me her biggest need was a coordinator, but it was kind of a big job—was I up for it? I said, “Ummm, sure?” And that was that, ignorance was bliss. I inherited a team of faithful volunteers and took on the job of communicating with them throughout the week and making sure as many of the kids’ Sunday school rooms were filled with volunteers as possible. Then I ran point for them on Sunday morning. It was a bumpy start, I felt out of my depth for a good 4-5 months, but my team didn’t seem to mind. They kept showing up on Sunday-so I did too.

And you know what? That was enough. I have realized that SO much behind service/volunteering is just about showing up. And think about who you are showing up for-your kids, my kids, the thing we care the most about. I heard about a study once that said the majority of people felt it was their personal responsibility to instill spiritual values in their own kids, not the church’s. I feel that way too, but really, how hard is that? I’m tired. And by 8:30 on a Thursday night I could be reading from their Children’s Bible, but in reality I’m going to read them whatever they want or whatever’s short, so I can kiss them and say goodnight. I know I will be repeating the process over and over for the next hour anyway. But showing up once a week? I can do that! I can physically be there on Sunday and model for Shep and Char what “showing up” looks like. My kids can experience it, volunteering can become the standard for them, and at the end of the day, that’s what keeps me setting my alarm on Saturday night.

That, and the fact that my team consistently shows up too. On my team alone I have stay-at-home mom’s, single moms, working moms, dads, grandmas, a mom with 4 kids, women who aren’t moms who have full time jobs, and a few volunteers who are currently volunteering in more one place, on more than one day. That’s just my team!

Listen, in the Bible I’m pretty sure God didn’t always use the best and brightest to achieve His big plans. You don’t have to be an ex-teacher or even a parent to love on kids for an hour and half. Moses tried to squirm out of his gig several times when God first sprung it on him. He actually said, “Oh Lord, please send someone else to do it.” (Exodus 3:13) Ha! Sound familiar? But at the end of the day what these big players in the Bible had in common was that they showed up. Even if it wasn’t their first choice or they didn’t feel up to it.

I get that there are times in life where showing up is not an option, life is seasonal and demands on people change. But the next time you hear of a need, do yourself (and your kids) the favor of considering it. Consider if you have enough margin in your life to show up for an hour or so. I have not talked to a volunteer yet who regrets saying, “Yes, I do, and YES, I can.” Saying yes for me was a game changer. My large church immediately shrunk in size. I was pushed out of my comfort zone but the stretch felt good. Some weeks, I may want to quit my volunteer job on Wednesday night when I can’t find enough subs to fill the rooms for Sunday morning, but when Sunday finally rolls around and I see the littles singing and spend time catching up on the lives of those I’m serving alongside, I LOVE it.

P.S. It doesn’t have to be kids, service is service. There are needs everywhere, in and out of church. But if any of you feel like showing up for the 4 and 5 year olds…. You know where to find me. 😉

June 21-Two years out.

6 / 17 / 166 / 17 / 16

Well, in 4 days it will be the 2nd anniversary of Shep’s drowning. Entering into summer this 2nd time felt much different than last year, way more fun. Anticipation trumping anxiety. Still as the date creeps up on us, Erron and I admitted to each other that we were wrestling some with fresh emotions from what happened that day. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about what happened, even if it’s just a passing thought, or a quick gut- check at the end of a tough parenting throw-down. But fortunately those terrifying memories rarely haunt like us in 3-D like they used to.

It helps that Shep is doing incredibly well! We are encouraged and amazed continuously as he continues to mature, learning new things and growing into this interesting, thoughtful and super creative boy who wears his heart on his sleeve. We have a few minor reservations about what issues, (if any) Shep will come across in the future, and we’ve discussed logistics of what that might even look like. We are feeling overwhelmingly positive, but recently some of those difficult feelings have been brought to the surface for both of us. A few days ago I had a nightmare that our lives had moved on without Shep, and watching the little guy struggle with a fear of swimming (since we added the clothing factor) has been somewhat of a trigger for me, especially since his little sister is officially a fish.

Erron and I touched base about the poor family at Disney the other night. Obviously, it could of been us. My God, it nearly WAS me, only played out in a different scenario and with a much different ending. After we exchanged a few sentences trying to put ourselves in those parents shoes, having your whole world ripped away from you when you least expected, I quickly ended the conversation, telling Erron, “Babe, having kids is terrifying. Being a parent is just the scariest thing there is to do in a lifetime.” He agreed. Because it is.

Please hear also: It’s the BEST thing. It cracks your heart open in ways you can’t fathom until you become a parent yourself. But giving your heart away like that puts you at great risk. For loss. For heartache. For worry. For realizing in an instant that you cannot always protect your babies from everything life puts in front of them. By the same hand parenting opens up avenues to experience wild joy, humility, pride, and faith in something bigger than yourself.

It’s heaven on Earth, worth all the risk and then some.

Last year we marked June 21 with a giant party. I’m not sure what we are going to do this year. The timing is tricky because it falls in the middle of the week. I’ll think of something. It doesn’t need to be big, I just want us all together, marking that day as a family, making happy memories. June 21st was the day we almost lost what was most dear, but found it returned to us. We will never stop being thankful.

Decisions, decisions….

6 / 13 / 166 / 13 / 16

Think back to when you were faced with a really big decision. Maybe it was choosing where to go to college, whether or not you took that job, bought that house, or tried for that 3rd baby. A decision you intentionally made that had potential to significantly impact you or someone you loved. How did you make it? How much time did you spend on deciding? While I’m throwing out rhetorical questions, I’d like to add: Why are these decision so hard to make?

My obvious guess is because we can’t see the future, we can only imagine outcomes. The true reality of a decision is hidden from us at the time we make a choice. So we are constantly hedging our bets. For the most part I’m SO glad I couldn’t see what my future held for me, I appreciate that God designed life to work that way, but it does makes decision time challenging, especially when there’s not an obvious “Most Right” decision.

Erron and I are in the process of making one such decision and it has been DIFFICULT. We desperately want to do the most right thing by all parties involved. We want the effect of it to be positive. We want to be sensible, above reproach, and true to our hearts…except we’re still not exactly sure what our hearts are telling us. It’s a sensitive decision, with lots of complicated emotions attached to it.

The cherry on top is that as a couple, Erron and I could NOT be more opposite in how we approach big life decisions. I’m dangerously impulsive, swinging dramatically back and forth depending on the day. When it comes to hard decisions, I’d rather rip it off like a band-aid. The more I think about it it, the further away I get from a decision, and the less I can be trusted to be secure in it. On the other end of the spectrum is Erron. Infuriatingly methodical, he logically calculates in each and every possible factor. He will not be rushed and once he makes a choice, it’s made. The End. So, you know, that’s super fun for both of us…Oh, Marriage: You think you’re so funny.

Anyway. Together we’ve sought out council from people we trust and respect, we’ve consulted scripture, and we’ve been praying. Then just when think we have it nailed down, we learn new information, and find ourselves back to the drawing board, most our options changed, new ones we didn’t even know existed popping up.

Eventually however, we will be forced to choose, and then we’ll have to step out in faith and trust that even though we picked a path, The Man Upstairs directs our steps. One thing I have to remember when dealing with all parties involved, is that God knows our hearts, he knows what matters to us, and I pray he appreciates the struggle. Some decisions you make never knowing if you made the right one, that’s why they call it hindsight. Lots of times you never learn if a decision led to the “right” outcome, you made a choice, and now life just IS what it IS.

A good friend put it this way: At the end of the day, we are not as powerful as we think we are. It was such a perfect thing to hear. Together, Erron and I will chose the path we think we need to go down, and then it’s out of our hands. We don’t have control over much after that, our decision could lead to lots of different outcomes, and our lives are not quite as up to us as we want to tell ourselves. I will make a thousand more decisions that affect my family, and I have to keep believing God is the underwriter. He drives the plot line so the only decision I need to really focus on is, “Am I actively pursing a relationship with Him?” Waaaay easier said than done, I’m preaching to myself. But I’d like to point out that some pretty big players in the Bible made some really dumb decisions. God stuck around for them, so even if I get this one wrong, I’m counting on Him doing the same for me.

Anxiety: A confession

5 / 6 / 165 / 6 / 16

Did you know May is mental health awareness month? I had no idea until it crossed my screen the other day, on Instagram or Facebook. I scrolled by it so quickly, barely acknowledging it at the time. But then it got me thinking. I’ve avoided writing this post for months, afraid to be this transparent. But as usual, if it takes up real estate in my head for too long, it’s at high risk for getting written out, and I think it’s important. So, I have a confession:

A few months ago, over Valentine’s weekend, Erron and I had a ‘Come to Jesus’ conversation that had been boiling over for weeks. We were driving back from a weekend getaway with friends where we spent the majority of the weekend separated; guys fished, girls talked. It was probably for the best because Erron and I had been treading on thin ice anyway. I was totally exhausted. Like, turn on a show for the kids, napping in the middle of the day kind of tired. (I never nap.) Work wasn’t busy but I could barely keep up with the house. Thinking about cooking dinner made me want to cry. (The daily responsibility of feeding my people can still have this unfortunate affect on me;) Around that same time I wrote this post, documenting my memories of Shep’s accident making a fierce comeback and reeking all kinds of havoc. The point is, Erron’s words on the drive home from Valentine’s Day confirmed what I already knew. As much as I wanted to be, as much progress as I had made… I hadn’t really recovered.

And I was sinking.

Since Shepherd’s drowning, I’d filled my life with positive distractions, a new career, new community group, volunteering, this blog….and sometimes that worked….But I had to fess up to the truth, things were not going so well. I was defensive, agitated, and mostly, I was just So. Freaking. Tired.

I knew I had anxiety. I knew it. But I kept wanting to label it as temporary, conditional. I continued to blame my exhaustion on Char’s terrible sleep habits, when the truth is I was out running hard and pushing a double Bob stroller full of kids only 8 weeks after having Charlotte. She certainly wasn’t sleeping through the night then either. It wasn’t adding up. And when I REALLY took stock, critically looking back over my adult life, it was glaringly obvious that I’d always danced with Anxiety. The tempo just ebbed and flowed depending on circumstances. I took Anxiety to work with me on my first job, fighting panic in the middle of classroom when things where moving sideways on me. I thought if I changed jobs I could leave it behind. But I unknowingly packed Anxiety up and brought it with me to my second job in Highland Park. Anxiety followed me around like a shadow dressed as Standardized Tests and intimidating standards. After a rocky initiation into motherhood with Shepherd’s extra early arrival, I was over it. I made it one more year, then ran out of the classroom as fast as I could, vowing I would only feel that anxious over my own kids from that day forward.

And for a while Anxiety took a vacy. Then I had Char, and 9 months later, I found myself back at the doctor running all my labs, checking my thyroid desperately trying to figure out why I was so tired all the time. My levels came back fine, and my doctor looked into my eyes and asked me straight out “Could you be anxious, or depressed?” I fought back my tears and shrugged my shoulders. I had NO reason to feel anxious, or depressed. But something wasn’t working. After weeks of hearing me doubt my mothering skills, my Dallas community group asked me the same question. Still, I wasn’t ready to own it. Soon after, we got distracted by Erron’s new job, and moving to Oklahoma. Then Shep happened.

Flash forward to the Valentine’s Weekend drive home with Erron. It was messy. And painful. I was going down and Erron was going down with me. He was at a loss. I’d known I was running out of options before the weekend even started so I’d already scheduled an appointment with the same doc I’d seen right after Shep’s accident. I’d tried medicine for anxiety then too, (I had felt justified in taking it to combat the awful memories) but the prescription put me in a fog and I‘d quickly bailed, preferring to talk it out with our counselor. That helped, SO much. Yet it was clear Anxiety had made a massive comeback and was pulling out new tricks I hadn’t seen. I was finally at a point where I was ready to not only own it, but hit it with the big guns. So I sat in the doctor’s office and laid it all out. “It’s like I’m spending every second of the day, capturing a thought Anxiety is feeding me, then having to pin it down and say, “You’re not true.” Or, “That won’t happen.” And I think it’s wearing me out.” He agreed, if you’re doing that all day, no wonder you’re tired. We decided to try something new.

About 10 day’s later, I finally felt a shift when I realized I wasn’t SO tired for the first time in a long time. I made it back to the gym for the first time in a year and half. When work picked up and I had to negotiate deals and write contracts for the first time, it became clear that a glass wall had been put up between me and Anxiety. I could see my anxiety through the glass, buzzing like a hornet trying to sting, but this time, I could choose whether or not to engage with it.

Game Changer.

There are a lot of opinions on this, especially in the Christian community. I know the verses, trust me…I’ve said them to myself over and over when I fight off images of Shep poolside, blue, still, and staring. I pray them at night when I’m stressing out about Shep ever learning to read, or us having enough money to pay for private school long enough to get him reading. I pray them with my littles before they go to bed. There is power in those verses, God is big enough to take my anxiety. Jesus swallowed Anxiety up whole when I should have been tucked into a ball on the hospital room floor. But that doesn’t mean that the daily battle with anxiety, or depression isn’t legit, or that it sometimes doesn’t take some help to push through. Sometimes, it does. And I did. And it’s working. Hallelujah.

The Shut Out

4 / 12 / 16

The Weig babies are back in swim lessons. Char is crushing it, (no surprise there) but Shep still has some fears he has to conquer at the beginning of every lesson. It’s hard to say what his fears are based on. Shep was scared of swimming even before his accident. The summer before he fell in I did Mommy and Me lessons with him in a backyard pool and they were a total disaster. If Shep is afraid of something, it’s a whole THING, until he alone decides he’s not afraid anymore. So, I’m not taken totally off guard by his apprehension over lessons, even though this is round two. But I do wonder if a memory has resurfaced. I always will.

While Sister napped, a tearful Shep and I discussed his upcoming lesson and I tried to get a read on him. He’s afraid of sinking, he says. “Shep…did you remember something about falling in the pool?” It’s not the first time I’ve asked him, but this time the conversation feels a little different so I decide the question is warranted. I gently push a little more than usual, trying to see if there is anything else my normally forthcoming little man feels like offering up. There’s not. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, so we drop it and look up funny videos of him and Char instead.

It dawns on me though: This won’t be the last time I’ll be blocked from crawling inside my child’s head to sort out what’s going on in there and make it less frightening. He didn’t want to let me in today, and that’s going to happen again…and again. I don’t love this annoying truth about motherhood. But’s a reality I am unable to change. I tell Shep if he ever wants to talk about it or ask us any questions, we are here and have some answers. I throw up a silent prayer that Shep will come to me if there’s something he needs to work through and I feel surprisingly better about the whole thing. I can model honesty, but I can’t force my kids to tell me things. Instead, I can consistently pray they will use me as a sounding board, and that I’ll be ready for it when they decide it’s time to start talking. For now, we’ll be sitting in bed watching slow-motion home videos. Not a bad way to pass the time.

Speaking of miracles…A conversation.

3 / 29 / 163 / 29 / 16

Until now, we have not let Shep in on just how close he came to loosing his life. He knew he got REALLY sick when he fell in the pool. He understood that he rode in an ambulance, that doctors and nurses worked incredibly hard to make him better. He likes to talk about how mommy and daddy, all of our friends and family, and a ton of people we didn’t even know where praying for him to get well.

But the fact that he almost died, that death was supposed to be his outcome, has never been mentioned.

Erron and I knew we’d let him in on the details eventually, but we figured we let much of that play out naturally, and offer up more detailed information organically as conversations arose.

Last Thursday, on the way home from school, Shep started asking me about the story of Lazarus. He was quizzing me on all the details until I finally just told him to chill and I’d read it to him straight from the source. When we got to the house, I quickly tried looking it up in his Jesus Storybook Bible. I couldn’t fine Lazarus but I found the one about the Dad who goes running into town desperately searching for Jesus to save his daughter from dying. Before they get back to his house, Jairus, the father, hears he’s too late. They didn’t make it time to save his daughter. Everybody’s devastated. Except Jesus, because he knew the story wasn’t over yet. Instead he walks into the girl’s room and wakes her up as if she were only sleeping. P.S.:She’s hungry, can somebody please get this girl some food? It defies logic. A total miracle. Can you imagine how Jairus felt? I have an idea.

As Shep’s question’s continued, it became obvious it was the right time to let him in on some of the more difficult truths from his drowning. We talked miracles and I revealed to Shep that he was our own miracle. “Did I die?” Shep asked me. “No…but you came really close.” The doctors did great work, they did everything right, but God was the ultimate player in that game. I have no reservations saying this because it’s what every doctor who’s had professional experience with Shep’s case has confirmed. Before Shep was discharged, our favorite super doc from Children’s PICU told us he could count on one hand cases he’s seen like Shep’s. He just did not see it turning out the way it did. He’d done his best to consistently to prepare us for the worst, or at the very least, a different version of Shepherd… until eventually it was undeniable. We had gotten Shep back.

Having that conversation with Shepherd wasn’t difficult, even though some of technical “why” questions were hard. All in all, I’m impressed by how easy it was, and how appropriate it felt. The opportunity basically fell in my lap, and the fact that it led up to Easter, a time dedicated to the ultimate defeat of death, made the conversation feel special instead of painful.

I can’t truthfully tell you what I’d be like if we hadn’t gotten our miracle. When I really think about how our story should have ended, I’m honestly not sure I could’ve survived it. Even with Shep’s incredible recovery, I nearly fell off the deep end last year more times than I’d like to admit. But I believe that because of Jesus, death is not The End and I’m banking on the fact this belief would have stayed true for me even if Shepherd was not mine to keep. In fact, I’m counting on it being the only thing to get me through an unimaginable loss like that. This belief, this hope in something unseen, was the only reason Erron and I made it through our first night in PICU without loosing our minds. We had a peace that was greater than our circumstances. It was bigger than us, and bigger than Shep. As time moves us further away from Shep’s accident , it’s a feeling that’s undeniably harder to grasp now, but I will never forget it and I know I didn’t make it up. Nothing about it made sense, it just was.

Like that father in the Bible, I’m so thankful for my second chance. I’m just as grateful for a God who prepared a way for Love to trump death. I adore Shep’s storybook bible because it makes that point so clear. LOVE is what wins that battle. I know not everyone subscribes to this belief, maybe they are made of stronger stuff than me…but there’s no question, I couldn’t get very far without it.

Shep Easter 2016 — Shepherd Boy-words cannot describe how we feel about this kid.

Strep took our family down Easter weekend, so this is the best, and only family photo I got. — Strep took our family down Easter weekend, so this is the best and only family photo I got. I LOVE this crew.

The Sweet Spot

3 / 8 / 16

I’m crazy to admit this for risk of jinxing it, or turning up a positive pregnancy test…. but we’ve entered into that magical sweet spot with the kids right now where things just seem to work. It snuck up on us…until one day about three weeks ago, Erron and I realized we were breathing a little easier. Both kids can ride a bike now, at the same speed. We can go out to dinner and no one is crawling under the table, at least for not for very long. Shep now gets dressed with out drama (this is huge) and feeds the dog before school. He also learned how to make coffee on the Keurig so things are are looking good for me. And this week, Charlotte went to sleep without her five pacifiers and nobody died.

To be clear:It’s not Dreamland. At three years old, Char is fully exercising her right to be impossible. Shep still throws out a predictable, “I hate you!” directed towards me or Sister at any given point in the day. What’s different is how quickly I get an apology afterwards. Shep’s negative attitude shifts faster than it used to, thank God. Char is gaining independence every day, so I see the two of them enjoying each other often, seeking one another out for companionship and help. I still play referee constantly, but at 3 and 5, they are beginning to solve their individual problems often. Lately, Shep’s frantic demands for lego crisis management are interrupted with a quick, “Nevermind! I figured it out!” before I even make it to his door. Plus, right now they are totally FUN. We can have legitimate conversations in the car. Most of it it revolves around poop, poopy diapers, poopy pants…but we are talking in sentences and there’s lots of laughter. My requirements for what makes things funny has been dulled to little boy potty humor yet sometimes Charlotte’s belly laugh makes it actually funny. They say please, and thank you… to me, after I make them lunch, and without any prompting. It surprises me Every.Single.Time.

It’s so encouraging to recognize the consistency of these positive character traits after the phases of panic I’ve cycled through in the last year and half. I think when your kids are really little, you can’t help projecting their current behavior into the future, and sometimes, lots of times, that’s scary. I see their worst moments, and then I imagine them on a ten year old, a thirteen year old, a teenager… and I mentally freak out. I forget to project the good things I see. Especially when it comes to Shepherd. The possible impact of his accident tends to loom over me during tough parenting seasons. Weeks of meltdowns bring up waves of fear and guilt that make it hard for me to maintain perspective. Now that we have moved out of that phase, it’s easier to recognize how Shep genuinely doesn’t like to get in trouble at school and lots of close contact with those who do makes him a little nervous. I can appreciate his gift for inclusiveness and how quick he is to introduce me to his friends by name when I pick him up from school. Or how when he’s not punching his sister in the face in a moment of rage, he’s offering her help, asking her questions. Sometimes he even tells her she looks pretty. When I project these qualities onto an older child, or a young adult, it’s an awesome feeling. Add to the mix Char’s hilarious zest for life and right now we are living it up at the Weig house. (It’s worth noting that this morning the kids worked together to spread toilet paper all over the kitchen floor so I’m sure the spell is going to break soon.) They’ll probably turn back into pumpkins by the end of the week. But it sure is sweet while it lasts.

The Loaded Question

2 / 7 / 16

Last week Shepherd asked me what the word drowning meant.

We were walking up to school, juggling coats, backpacks and lunch boxes and as casually as someone would ask for the time, Shep looks up at me and says, “What does drown mean?” I was struck dumb. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I tried to form an answer a second time…. but images, instead of words clouded my head.

For the first time with Shepherd, I dodged the question.

Instead, I looked back towards Charlotte, feigned a new interest in helping her walk faster, and I changed the subject. How could I tell my son what it meant to drown, when he’d done it? How do you explain a lack of oxygen, not being able to take in a breath, only water, to a child who’s gone through that experience, but just doesn’t seem to remember? It makes me want to scream just typing the words down. Memories of Shep’s accident have resurfaced. The baby-faced ambulance driver, the initial conversation with the doctor. He laid out our most likely outcome with thoughtful but direct sentences. Words that hit my brain like a hammer, shattering my world and caused my body to double over the coffee table in the waiting room.

Maybe it was Shep’s loaded question, his neurology appointment, or maybe it’s the decision Erron, his teachers and I recently made to hold Shep back from Kindergarten… the triggers can be illusive, but I can feel my anxiety ramping up, and I’ve spent a lot more time on my phone before bed than I used to, dulling my senses before closing my eyes.

I want, more than anything, to believe my son is fully restored, and that his brain and emotions were untouched and protected from the horrible experience he endured. And no, I honestly don’t think he remembers falling in the pool. But it happened, and I remember enough for the both of us.

We go through cycles with Sheppy, like all parents do with their kids, but as my mom describes it, Shep’s cycles can feel amplified. Shep has seemed worried in the last few months, a little anxious himself, and he’s picked up a new tic to replace the old one that had faded away. Fortunately, at school he seems to keep it together just fine-he’s a normal 5 year-old boy who loves to play and hates to write. But at home, it feels like tug of war, always calculating my tone when I speak to him, making ever-conscious decisions about when to remain calm and neutral and when it’s appropriate to let him know he’s on thin ice, and Momma’s about to crack, so he’d better figure it out quick.

To add insult to injury I feel guilty for worrying, we’ve been given so much medical information to rejoice over. We walked out of Children’s Hospital sixteen days after coming in. I’ve hugged mommas and prayed over precious toddlers who lived for months in step-down rehab facilities, re-learning how to walk, swallow, and form words they already knew. I’ve cried on the phone with a stranger who’s little nephew never made it out of the hospital this side of Heaven. All because of that one dirty word Shep wanted me to define.

Who am I to be ungrateful for the miracle we received? Is it not enough for me to kiss my boy goodnight, drive him to school, fuss at him when he’s picking on his sister? Yet, I’m told children who experience trauma can take months, even years to manifest symptoms of anxiety from their experience… but isn’t it just as possible his anxiety is a by-product of mine? I’ve heard and internalized every suggestion out there: Medication, play therapy, essential oils, PANDAS/PANS, food allergies. I’ve also seriously considered the possibility that God gave Shep a sensitive soul, anxiety is in his genes, so the best course of action might just be more family time and a glass of wine (or something even stronger) for me. The last thing I want to do is breed new issues and stigmas for Shep when time and maturity might shake it all out eventually.

But I am struggling. Shep’s emotions are simmering beneath the surface, and so are mine. I keep thinking someday the intensity will wear off for good, I’m so curious to hear from other mommas further down the road if it ever does. Does it? I thought the sting would be gone by now, but it isn’t. Not entirely.

I think it’s the guilt that drives the fear. There’s a very good chance we’d be wrestling with the same issues we are now even without his drowning history. But the preventability of Shep’s scenario add a layer of insanity to every decision making process. It’s what haunts me at night and drives me to my knees in prayer in the weakest moments. No doctor can offer up concrete answers as to what our future will look like, the crystal ball remains cloudy.

I may have lost my composure at Sunday school today after being up all night stressing over Shep’s future. On the way home, I told Erron how embarrassed I felt over the tears that failed to stay put as our teacher discussed how God continued making provisions for Moses and His people even though that process took a lot longer than they ever would have thought or preferred . Shep piped up from the back seat, “Mom, maybe you need to get under the covers and watch your favorite show!” Noted. Shep is going to be fine, we are going to be fine. We have been and will continue to be provided for. Whatever that looks like, I believe it is true. One day at a time. But for now, it’s Netflix under the covers.

The gift of Charlotte

2 / 4 / 16

This sweet face is how Charlotte feels about life.

Monday, baby girl turned 3. I say baby, because she is the Last Little, the baby of our family. The way I remember it, when I looked at three-year-old Shep, I just noticed how big he was getting, but every time I look at Char I still see Baby Girl. Let’s be honest, she’s way more self-sufficient than Shep ever was at 3, still… I have blinders on when it comes to her age. I can’t explain it any better than that.

Every so often, the curtain will part, like it did this week when I was cleaning out her old toys and clothes to make room for bigger clothes, and big girl dolls…and I will see Charlotte for what she really is: Three, going on ten. It sucked the wind out of me in that moment. I had a mild flash of anger at the odd mix of emotions mommas experience over birthdays. Sifting through her clothes, I was forced to admit my baby days really are over. Char has been looking forward to her birthday for months, and while I love celebrating another year with Sister in our life, I ache just little each time she blows out a candle.

Fortunately, the melancholy feeling didn’t last long as it’s just hard to feel sad when Char is around. She is such a gift to our little family, her joyful nature and appetite for fun balance out Shep’s thoughtfulness. Charlotte rounds us out and brings out the silly in all of us. She is carefree and hungry for a good time. Shepherd is her helper and caretaker, but in turn Char helps Shep feel brave. I’ve seen him study her as she fearlessly scales a jungle gym at lightning speed and then ask her how she did that, would she show him how? At her party, the cousins were taking turns working up the nerve to jump off a tall retaining wall in the back yard. It was a process for most of them. Until Birthday Girl came running down the path and launched herself off the highest point. We froze, unable to catch her in time and watched wide eyed, as she landed hard in princess heels, then sprung up, ready for more.

And that’s Char in a nutshell. Happy Birthday, Baby Girl. We love you to pieces.