Day 8: Loving & Losing Imperfect People

My kindnesses for Day 8 are my least favorite. Today, I grieved alongside sisters that lost their brother and parents who lost their son. This was not the first funeral service I have sat through for someone whose life ended as a result of a drug overdose, nor was this our first family member to die as a result of drug addiction. On both sides of the family Tom and I have family members who battle drug or alcohol addiction, and today we said goodbye to Tom's cousin who died as a result of an intentional overdose.

For Day 8, the kids wrote letters to someone we love who is battling addiction and I spent time connecting with her. I reminded her that she is loved, that she is stronger than she realizes, and that she is not alone.

My brother's death was a tragedy. But, in a lot of ways my family is very fortunate. We can freely talk about what happened to Adam and (generally) there is no judgement, no shame, no assumptions about Adam's character. This is a luxury that many families do not know. Oftentimes, when people lose their loved ones as a result of a drug overdose or suicide, there is a cloud of shame that lingers over the surviving family members. The stigma surrounding the circumstances of these deaths often leads to secrecy and self-blame.

For my last act of kindness on Day 8, I want to de-stigmatize the topic of suicide and overdose so that survivors of suicide loss can grieve freely and openly, without shame. No matter how your loved one dies, it is painful and real and complex. Your loss is as valid as mine, your loved one was as loved as mine, your imperfect person was as special to you as my imperfect person was to me. And you are not alone.

Suicide and intentional/unintentional opioid overdoses are on the rise. There are lots of signs and symptoms to look out for and ways you can support an addict in your life. If you have already lost a loved one to suicide, mental health problems, or addiction there is a lot of online support out there. I guess I just want to free up anyone who might feel like they need permission to grieve just as fiercely and publicly as anyone else. Regardless of a persons' imperfect choices or circumstances of their death, each and every loss is profound. After all, there isn't anyone among us apart from God who has ever lost a perfect child.

Day 7: Videoblog featuring Tom's 2nd grade stories

We are one week in and #AdamsActs is on a mission to find and reward the unexpected kindness of Tom's long lost classmate. Please help us in FINDING FRANK! 

AdamsActs is on a mission to reward the kindness of Tom's long lost classmate.

Days 5 & 6: Sugar is All the Food Groups

When my sister BethAnn and I were little, one of our older siblings, Kristin or Adam would babysit us. When they did, they would serve one meal and one meal only. They would make an entire pan of brown sugar toast. What is brown sugar toast you ask? Well, first of all, it's perfection. Second of all, it's America's health crisis on a plate. In honor of Adam, I introduced my friends Lexi and Ben to a world where baking a thick layer of butter and brown sugar on an english muffin makes sense. And as part of my #AdamsActs for all of you, I now present:

Recipe For Brown Sugar Toast (or English Muffin)
1) Lightly toast the bread product of your choice. It doesn't really matter what you choose, the bread is just a vehicle to move that sugar into your person. If you make this correctly you won't know there is bread involved.
2) Heavily butter lightly toasted sugar transporter.
3) Add a hearty layer of brown sugar.
4) Nope, that's a reasonable amount. You'll need more.
5) Return to toaster oven or broiller until brown sugar goes through the melting phase and emerges as a hardened sugar crust.

Voila! Diabetes!
Source: Maybe my mom? I don't know. She should probably get the credit and/or be mom-shamed for allowing this to take place in her home.

In addition to this horrifying yet delicious breakfast, I also brought some homemade corn chowder to my friend Heather. She has had sick kiddos for a few days and her husband Josh is being all self-disciplined and only eating locusts and honey or something like that so I figured that Heather needed something warm, comforting and most importantly... made by someone else. Josh and Heather are a foster family and when I think of people who are on the front lines of loving people like Jesus, it's definitely them. You can learn more about their life HERE on their blog - which is insightful and encouraging and challenging at the same time. 

When you have kids that come from hard places, you measure "good days" very differently than most people. I know this from personal experience. Being a mom of a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder (which I share about HERE), there was a long time that "a good day" for us meant that mommy didn't get any fresh injuries. So, when Heather and her adorable children have good days - I really want to celebrate with them. When they have bad days, I want to be an encouragement because I know what hard days can look like in the world of foster care and adoption. And when they have the stomach flu, I really want to stay far, far away. But also send soup. 

I spent all day doing hair and makeup for 7 people in a wedding this evening, including the beautiful bride to whom I gave a discount for Day 6 of #AdamsActs. I also bought some materials for something I have planned for another day, but you'll just have to wait on that one. 

I have been on the receiving end of #AdamsActs this week as well. One follower mailed me a life changing pie from Georgia. It was like Adam's brown sugar toast crust made it's way onto a pie. Yes please. Hundreds of you have supported me by purchasing my devotional - which makes me ugly cry myself to sleep out of gratitude and affection for all of you. My friend Melissa came in from NYC and gathered her friends Jess and Peter, and cousin Tori, and forced them into manual labor at our old house that we need to sell like yesterday. My friends covered all the food groups: Nan brought my family donuts, Courtney brought us cookies, Lisa brought gluten-free cookies for London (my little celiac/hashimoto's baby.) Cheesecake from Danielle. Lexi and my mother-in-law Cindy tag teamed watching my five kids today so I could work the wedding. Cindy made me eggs. Lexi lent me this computer I am typing on because Tom was out of town presenting at a nerd conference... eh hem, I mean a technology conference and he had to take our only computer with him.

While he was away, I received my favorite act of kindness this week. This photo of my husband doing a presentation on team approaches to online nerd development... eh hem, I mean course development. In the middle of his presentation he shamelessly plugs #AdamsActs!! That's my man! 

Day 4: In Defense of Living

I found out in the middle of the night that Adam had been shot.

My grandma was in town visiting from the Detroit area and when she came to visit she often slept in my bed with me. I loved it because we would talk and say our bedtime prayers together and then she would gently tickle my back to help me fall asleep. The night Adam was shot, I can clearly remember her waking me saying, "I need a prayer partner." 

There was so much confusion and misinformation before we learned what actually happened that night, but in those early hours we mistakenly believed that Adam was shot by a police officer while toilet-papering a house. When my grandma woke me up to pray, I remember walking through my house looking for some sort of clue about what was happening. I remember walking into my mom's bedroom, knowing she wasn't there, and seeing her deodorant and toothbrush in the middle of her bed. There was no cap on the deodorant, that was on the floor. 

It was that small detail that caused the first bit of panic to clutch inside my chest. That image of my mom in a frenzied rush, washing up so she could fly out the door to get to the hospital, plays in my mind like a movie to this day. I picture her just throwing her toothbrush down, realizing in that moment that nothing else mattered, grabbing a sweatshirt and running to the car. I don't know how a mama ever gets back to a place where anything else ever matters again.

I didn't want to wake up my sister, BethAnn. My grandma would go back home eventually and maybe she could bring this nightmare with her. But, if I woke up BethAnn then it was all going to be real. This is how an 11-year-old processes trauma. This is how I was stuck for a really long time. When I started doing #AdamsActs 6 years ago it was as if I gave that little girl inside me permission to grieve fully and out loud for the first time. Six years (of opening up and processing) later, that little girl is almost a grown up. I feel that progress and healing in such a real way, I can't adequately describe it. 

I went so many years stuck in that little girl space when it came to this trauma that I made a lot of childish decisions. I was self-protective and hurtful and was looking for relief in all the wrong places. But the place that was "stunted" the longest was the ability to experience true and deep joy. Out of solidarity with death, I was prevented from truly and deeply savoring life. 

As a self-proclaimed empath, I feel things wholly and intensely. I feel and carry others' hurts and afflictions as if they are my own. I can easily allow myself to become paralyzed by the weight of these burdensome emotions. The past six years of honoring Adam's life have helped me to sever the ties of solidarity to his death. 

I recently discovered a poem by Jack Gilbert in which he describes all the great suffering in the world and still, somehow, the joy. He writes of the women's laughter in the harsh streets of Calcutta or the cages of Bombay. His words remind me of the obligation to live, to find joy and a stubborn gladness.

“ We must have the stubbornness
to accept our gladness
in the ruthless furnace of this world. ”

— Jack Gilbert

For Day #4, I allowed a stubborn gladness to peek through the logistics of my life. When my to-do list was a thousand miles long, I stopped and found joy in relationships. I put aside my chores and I sat down to visit with two of my favorite friends. I slowed down at the grocery store to chat with the cashier and bought her a candy bar and I said "yes" to two interviews that I didn't really "have time for." We hosted our community group in our home and we facilitated honest discussion about love and life and growth. I chose people over projects, and I got less done but in the ruthless furnace of the world, I chose delight. And according to Jack...

“We must risk delight.”

— Jack Gilbert

For more information about my process of allowing God to transform my grief into something beautiful and positive, you can listen to my interview with Donna Harris of Constantly Under Construction HERE or download my devotional e-book HERE. 

Day 3: For Sean.

In the past couple of years doing #AdamsActs, I have had the opportunity to share our story at my kids' schools. It's always an incredible opportunity to stand in front of a gymnasium filled with kids who are still blank slates in a lot of ways and get them all fired up about out-loving and out-serving one another. It's my favorite.

The best moment during one of these school visits was in my daughter Marlie's classroom. She was in fifth grade at the time and after explaining (in an age-appropriate way) the story behind #AdamsActs, I asked the kids to write down their own sad thing that they carry around with them every day. Some kids wrote down their parents divorce, the death of a pet or grandparent, one child wrote about having an incarcerated parent. It was some heavy stuff. I challenged them to keep their sad thing in their pocket during the month of October and every time they felt really sad, they could do an act of kindness for someone else. We talked about how it was okay to feel sad, and no matter how kind you are, the sad thing won't ever go away but that kindness can turn the sad thing into a powerful thing for good too.

Then one brave little boy, Sean, raised his hand and said that he knows how I feel because his brother died too. He shared that his twin brother passed away and that he is still very sad about it every day. This sweet boy and I both cried right there on the spot over having such a terrible thing in common. 

Now Sean is in junior high and he runs cross country with my two oldest daughters, Annalee and Marlie. I wasn't sure if he would remember that moment, but I haven't forgotten. For Day #3, I wanted to let Sean know that I remembered our moment and I remembered his grief. I gave him a Gatorade and some candy for after his race, and I wrote a card telling him how brave he was for sharing his story, and that I was thinking of both of our brothers today.

I remember being in 7th grade just a year after Adam was killed. I remember people asking me if I was really still sad about it. I remember when I would talk about Adam, some people would whisper that I was just "trying to get attention." And for a long time I stopped talking about him. But, Sean and I know better. Kids like Sean and I are still sad. Sean and I don't want that kind of attention. What Sean and I want is one more day with our brothers, our buddies. And if we don't get that, then Sean and I will keep remembering them. We will keep mustering the courage to raise our hand in front of all our friends to tell the story about our sad thing.  

Day 2: A Little Soap Goes a Long Way

Like most of you, I woke up this morning to learn of the devastating news out of Las Vegas. When I learned of the horrendous mass shooting, I asked the typical questions: Who was this guy? What could possibly drive a person to do something so deplorable? How can I help? How can anyone possibly help during a time like this?

My natural inclination is to feel overwhelmed with empathy and crippled by a sense of helplessness. My knee-jerk reaction is to feel really dumb, just flat out silly for trying to fill this dark world with light and love when times like these seem to prove that the world is, quite simply, too far gone. My impulse is to pack up this hope of mine and to stuff all my feelings with so much pie.

Then I checked my messages. And I read your notes of encouragement and thanks.  I read all the kind words many of you had to say about Adam. I saw that my blog has had over 15,000 views in anticipation of - and in response to - #AdamsActs. I saw all the invoices of people who bought my little devotional. I saw the Facebook, Instagram and Twitter posts. All the shares and comments and hashtags. And guys, my heart was full of hope again.

My #AdamsActs today weren’t anything life-changing or grandiose. I did some small, simple things that anyone can do. I chose to start with something simple because I don’t want people to feel overwhelmed or intimidated going into this month of kindness. Being purposeful and intentional is the point, not grandiosity. Besides, small kindnesses are sustainable throughout the year so cultivating the habit of making small gestures ultimately leads to more kindness in the long run!

The first thing I did was buy conditioner. See, I told you anyone could do this. There is a line of haircare products (I get them at Target) by a company called SoapBox and when you purchase one of their items you do an act of kindness. Here’s how… the company’s mission is to donate a bar of soap every time a product is purchased. There is a little hope code you can enter to see the impact each purchase makes. It’s pretty great! And such a small, easy change to make. (For all you curly haired peeps out there, the conditioner is actually really great and works on all the various ethnic textures we got happening up in here.) Handwashing saves lives, especially in developing countries where access to healthcare and education about healthy sanitation practices are limited.

The second thing I did was buy some other stuff. (I’m seriously low on some essentials ok.) Instead of using the regular Amazon site to restock on whatever it is you need, check out Amazon Smile. It’s basically the same thing as Amazon, except you can select the charitable organization of your choice and Amazon will donate 0.5% of the purchase price of eligible products. It is a very simple change to make if you are already an Amazon shopper. There are a lot of organizations to choose from and you can change your choice at any time.

The last small thing I did was send a quick note to a photographer buddy who took some amazing photographs at my friends' Ben and Lexi's wedding. He is a great guy, with a lovely family, he's super talented and I really wanted to encourage him. Plus it gives me an excuse to share his amazing work with you:

Photo cred: Samuel Maisonet Photography 

And if you want a little bonus treat, let's just zoom right in on what Sam had to deal with... my daughter in stage 4 of the grief process that her "Aunt Lexi" is getting married.

I guess she thought things wouldn't be the same after they got married... so she sobbed audibly through the entire photo shoot and half the reception. Sam was a champ though and the photos still turned out beautifully! 

Buying soap on Amazon Smile or sending a note to encourage someone is not going to directly help the victims in Las Vegas or change the world, that's true. Still, I am going to fight against that feeling that I can't make a real impact or that I am silly for wanting people to have soap or clean water or a kind word from a friend. I will do a million tiny little things to extend kindness to strangers this month and for the rest of my life because the alternative is to do nothing. And I will never, ever do nothing. Especially when I could just as easily do something small, but still very kind. In light of the hundreds of lives that have been permanently altered by the nightmare that unfolded in Las Vegas, it suddenly feels silly not to send a note or to share our soap. The small things may be simple, but they are also sacred and powerful and contagious. Perhaps the small, insistent acts of kindness are the best chance we have of preventing hate in the first place. 

If you have not purchased the 31 Day Devotional Guide to Greater Kindness, it's not too late to join in! You can purchase it here for $1.99

Day 1: The Hardest Story I never Told.

Six years ago I sat in front of my computer and I shared this story for the very first time. Sure, I had told people in my life bits and pieces, but this was the first time that I publicly shared the whole thing. As I sit here now, I am struck by the fact that I struggle each year to re-introduce the same story in a fresh way. But, that's death. Death doesn't change. It is final. The story doesn't evolve, so I find it very difficult to give a fresh introduction. 

To be honest, I got sick of that. So, I am starting here at the beginning and I will tell the same story I have told each year. But I am letting this story evolve. It's true that death is final, but that doesn't mean that death gets the last word. 

Day 1. 

----

I am going to tell you a story. 

I haven't done this before, told this story, so detailed and so publicly. But, I am going to try something big this month, and I think I need to tell this story in order to do it well. So, here goes nothin...

It was Halloween night many years ago, and my 17 year old brother, Adam H. Provencal, was driving home from the Regional Championship Soccer game. He was a senior in high school and the captain of the soccer team, and this victory was worth celebrating, and it was news worth spreading for our small Michigan town.

When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home and passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks, it was the perfect time to spread the news.  So Adam pulled the car over and was telling his friends about the big victory.  I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom. I imagine a boy - crazy about sports, working so hard to maintain his 4.0 GPA in mostly advanced placement classes, editor-in-chief of the nationally recognized school paper, and all-around nice guy - and the pressure that that brings on a kid. I imagine him in this moment, and the hard work (for now) is done and has paid off with a regional championship. And he's free. He is young and free, and he wants to tell to his friends.

So, he pulls over and he and his friends are joking around and talking and hanging out, and they are young and free in this moment.

The whimsical youth of the moment ends when a homeowner comes out and is irate about the pranks and, though my brother had not been involved in them, he had the car and perhaps that made him seem to be the ringleader somehow. I don't really know if that was why Adam felt the need to go to the door or not, but he did. He decided he would walk up to the door, to apologize for being there and to offer to clean up the toilet paper in the yard, and he no longer felt young and free. He was probably terrified that he was going to get in trouble. So, he dutifully walked up to the man's door and knocked twice. 

The man did not open the door and hear him out, he did not yell at Adam to leave, he did not call the police. When my 17 year old brother knocked on the door that night to have a hard conversation, he had a baby face and scrawny limbs and braces in his mouth. And when Adam knocked twice on that door, the man gave no warning before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun, sending one, single blast through the closed front door. 

One bullet.

One bullet changed many lives, some lives even devastated. But only one life was ended. My only brother, my parents' only son, my hero, my friend... the only person strong enough to jump on a trampoline with me on his shoulders, and the boy who led me to Christ, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble. He was gone. 

His murderer was in and out of jail after two years, for a boy's life taken in a rage over some harmless pranks.

Needless to say, when October rolls around I get stuck.  It is almost like my body involuntarily braces for a trauma.  The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful reminders of fall, and nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready. 

I started doing these acts of kindness because I had to do something. I had to be productive and focus outward or I would implode with this seasonal grief and cyclical depression. I wanted to commit myself to honor all the good Adam would have done to the glory of God if his life had not been cut short. This is why we call them #AdamsActs, because these are the types of things Adam would have spent his life doing. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 36 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing. 

For Day One, I am sharing this story. I am rallying the people around me to participate, and I am bossing you into participating too. You're welcome. This is the sixth October that I have asked and encouraged whatever participation you can muster. Please like and share these blog posts to your social media, and why not challenge everyone you know? (Unless you hate kindness.) Spread the word. Do any act of kindness you can, no matter how small. To follow along and contribute to our collective journey, please hashtag #AdamsActs in pictures and posts so we can all see how far reaching an impact our kindnesses can make. 

As I stated before, this story is no longer a stagnant memory. Death does not get the final word here. This year, I wanted to let hope and redemption get the final word. I wrote a 31 Day Guide to Greater Kindness which is a devotional that will coincide with this month of #AdamsActs. In it, we will explore some of the big, spiritual questions that I have grappled with in the years since my brother's murder.

Downloading my little $1.99 e-book here would be an incredible kindness to me, but whether you choose to explore God's kindness in the face of tragedy and suffering, or if you choose to participate without the companion study, my sincere prayer is that each small act of generosity, encouragement, compassion, thoughtfulness, and kindness will plant seeds of hope, love and healing in a world that could use a lot more of those things. Thank you for allowing me to share my family's story with you. If I can't spend my days watching my brother live out all the remarkable kindness that was in his heart, the next best thing is watching all of you do it in his memory.

In loving memory of Adam H. Provencal. For pointing me toward God's restorative kindness.

It Takes a Village (and One Pack Mule)

A few months ago I made an exciting announcement in this embarrassing video. If you haven't watched it, then you might still be operating under the assumption that I'm not an idiot. That's so nice of you! But you'd be mistaken. In the video I describe in an obnoxiously choppy and drawn out way a charming fashion that I will be publishing a 31 day devotional to supplement #AdamsActs and my blog in the month of October. The downloadable file will be available for $1.99 on this website starting on October 1st.

Before I go any further, I am going to give a micro-explanation of what I am talking about. #AdamsActs is a kindness movement that I started in memory of my brother Adam who was killed at the age of 17. We do 31 random acts of kindness in his memory to spread love and good cheer during a month that used to put me in a funk of sadness. When sharing this deeply personal part of my family's story, I can't help but share the part of my story that is even more significant: my faith story.

I am unwilling to cheapen my faith in Jesus by being pushy about it so I tend to share less than I sometimes want. Still, there are a lot of readers who want to explore this faith I speak of, and they want to do it in an environment that is not initimidating or judgey. I decided to process some of the deeper faith components of grief and suffering in a separate place than the blog so that readers can choose to participate or not. This thing that I am calling a devotional is simply a series of meditations and thoughts to consider as we go through the month of October. My hope is that it challenges you to examine your beliefs and explore/consider deepening your faith. I also secretly hope that you laugh at my funny jokes.

It has been a labor of love and so much nausea to get this devotional written. It has taken a village to raise up this little project. On the village roster we have my friend Lexi who would kick me out of my house and take excellent care of my kids so I could go to the library and get work done... only to ambush me at said library with coffee. She amused herself in the process by taking absurd pictures of my striking resemblance to a pack mule.

Next on the village roster are my three editors. Greta (pictured below - in the middle) worked as my copy editor, tirelessly deleting 484 billion commas. I didn't know that I had a comma addiction. But, apparently, I, do, and, it's, super, annoying. She cleaned up my work significantly, and if you find any errors or typos... it's because I couldn't part with all the commas and I also came up on my deadline before she could make one final pass for edits. Also, it's a $1.99 so why don't you go ahead and simmer down on the expectations mmkay? Next on the roster, we have Char (pictured on the right with all the tats and a wicked mohawk) who combed through for any theological issues. She helped me answer questions like "Is it okay to call Jesus a baller?" For the record, the answer is no. No, it is not.

And then on the left we have Melissa who served as more of a line editor. She did a lot of the heavy lifting when I knew what I meant to say, but the reader maybe wouldn't. The 4:55am editing sesh was not a one time thing. She lives in Manahttan, so for this side by side situation to take place... she had to travel all the way here multiple times to help a sister out. Her help was invaluable to me. 

My other villagers include a slew of people that Lexi and my friend Brandi manhandled into being on some sort of launch team to get a first look at the devo and share some of their favorite bits as a teaser for everyone else. Their positive reviews have been such an encouragement during these past few days of intense vulnerability hangover.

The mayor of this village of support is Heather (not pictured above) who is the designer for the devotional and is working on it as I write this. She sent me a sneak peek and I am telling you that she's a miracle worker because the crazy document I sent to her is looking clean, polished and professional, even if overly riddled with commas. 

It was not all fun and games and I learned a lot about my shortcomings. Which I could have done without to be honest. I spent less time with my family than ever before, but Tom happily took on the extra responsibilities while I was tied up with the editing process. The kids were proud of me, and have been so encouraging and understanding. The best thing to come out of this process is the excitement my oldest daughter, Annalee, has expressed in participating in the devotional with the rest of us in October. Her supportive offer to "buy it at full price" made all the work worth it. Even if I felt like this the whole time...

If you are interested in participating in #AdamsActs or in downloading the devotional then here are a few things you can do:

• Skip on one cup of coffee this week and the cost is already in the budget.
• Subscribe to the blog here so it's super easy to follow along through the month
• And/or follow me on Facebook so you never miss an update.
• Download the devotional on October 1st right here on this website.
• Spread the word by liking and sharing posts in October.
• Find a group of people who might be interested in exploring faith and invite them to read and discuss the devotional with you.
• Send me a private message here if you are interested in joining a weekly discussion group about the devotional just for the month of October. If there is enough interest, I will create an opportunity for people from all over to join me online via Periscope or Facebook Live to do a Q&A and discussion once a week about what we are learning. 
• Praise the Lord that this thing is finally done.

A Deadbeat Mom's Tips for Surviving Summer: Tip #3 Get a Puppy, or a Mulch Pile

For those of you who are rounding toward the home plate of summer’s end, I want to offer one more tip in this mini-series for surviving the summer with your kiddos home. I realize that my last tip was a bit more labor intensive… so for my final tip, I am offering two different options for summer fun, each requiring a very different level of effort on your part. It’s sort of like a choose-your-own regret-adventure, where you get to decide which approach best suits your family! What fun.

So, let’s cut to the chase. We did two really ambitious things this summer. While there are some fundamental differences between the two adventures, I submit that both have provided endless hours of entertainment for the children, both have taught our kids a sense of responsibility, both have taught me to release some control and live in the moment. Without further ado, I offer you your first option... 

Tip #3A: Get a Puppy

On the last day of school, we surprised our five kids with a puppy. (Nobody should ever write that sentence because it is foolish and simply reading it makes my blood pressure go up.) Still, we did it. Because how much fun is it to surprise children with a gift-wrapped box filled to the brim with baby dog? And that moment was so much fun. And now... we have a dog forever.

I honestly have zero regrets though, because I am surprised and pleased to announce that I actually like this one particular dog. Just this one. On planet earth, there’s one fantastic pup and I found her living with an amish lady and a small amish child that likes to sit on pupppies. So, yes, I consider her a rescue dog, because how would you like to be trapped under so many apron layers?

Anyways, we rescued a dog and she is adorbsies and we love her. The children have begged for a pet since infancy, so this was nearly 14 years in the making. But, the best part is because we waited so long (and because I am the meanest mom on this side of the Mississippi) the kids are actually taking an active role in training and caring for her. It’s been really fun actually. Plus it gives me this great thing to throw out there for Mom points.

Child: Can we go to Seabreeze (our local amusement/water park)?

Me: We decided that instead of spending money on things like Seabreeze this summer, we would get you this puppy. (holds puppy in front of child and makes it “talk” in baby voice.)          

Child: (Squealing with love and delight forgets that Seabreeze exists.)

--

Child: Can I have a snack?

Me: Well, we have no food in the house because I haven’t gone to the store since ‘98, BUT… I did get you a puppy! (**hunger pangs forgotten**)

--

Child: I think I might be growing out of my running shoes, do you think we could get new ones before cross country starts?

Me: Your feet don’t grow, we just got you a puppy!

Okay, so maybe it doesn’t work exactly like that. But, I do talk for the puppy in a variety of adorable accents which doesn’t annoy anyone ever. And having a new puppy does also provide a lot of great opportunities for the various sibling combinations to spend time together. Two kids are particularly whiny? Guess whose turn it is to take the dog for an extra long walk together!? Overall I would say it has been a sheer delight to have a pup in the fam. Oh, and she jingles a bell when she has to go out. #winning

I do realize that not everyone will want to rescue an amish dog, even if her ears are so big and adorable. So for those of you who are not interested, fret not, I still have a great plan for you!

I offer you...

Tip #3B Get a Mulch Pile!

If you can believe it, we’ve actually had our mulch pile even longer than our dog. In mulch years, we’ve had the pile for just over one century. We rescued the mulch pile from the town, because they just throw mulch in a huge parking lot and let people take it for free. It’s basically like a backyard breeding, mulch mill up in here. So, we brought home as much mulch as we felt prepared to neglect all summer long and we put it in a heap in the driveway.

Not our actual mulch pile. This is a dramatization. 

And, just like our puppy, we have zero regrets about bringing this lovable pile of mulch home to tarnish our reputation by taking up permanent residence in our driveway. Also like the puppy, this pile of mulch has provided hours of messy entertainment for the children. And I think it has also earned me a bonus Mom point or two this summer.

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Child: We have literally no outdoor toys.

Me: That is not true. Your brother has been pushing mulch around with a skateboard for at least two hours. Umm summer fun much??

Child: (admits how blind she’s been to all the exciting, mulch-based opportunities and we both throw our heads back in hearty, good-natured laughter. Annnnnd end scene.) 

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But don’t be fooled, just because mulchboard makes for premium outdoor fun, doesn’t mean there won’t be some whining. Remember the three kids that aren’t walking the puppy? That’s right, they’re also a little fussy and now guess who’s on deck for sweeping the mulch back into a pile? Hint: everyone. Because a mulch pile takes a lot of care and responsibility and people think kids aren’t ready for that kind of commitment, but I disagree. I think every child should experience what it’s like to grow up with a mulch pile in their yard.

Here are 5 Ways to Tell if Your Child is Ready for a Pet and/or Pile:

1. Your child is comfortable and respectful around animals or mulch.

2. Your family can agree on the type of pet or mulch that is right for your family.

3. Your child can hold a leash or broom.

4. Your child has given pet-sitting a trial run, or played in the neighbor’s mulch or something?

5. Your child is very sick of having zero outdoor toys.

Photo courtesy of vermontvalleyfarm.wordpress.com featuring the ever-ambitious dog-mulch combo pack. 

So there you have it. Two fantastic options to engage your kids all summer long by making a decision that will last so much longer than one summer, and ultimately be your problem when the kids go back to school in three weeks!

A Deadbeat Mom's Tips for Surviving Summer: Tip #2 Sibling Bootcamp

If there is one thing I did out of desperation in my early years as a mom (that I don’t actually regret) it is Sibling Boot Camp. I know it sounds intense, like a lot of work. And yes, I will be honest -  a lot of poster board was involved. But, this little blog series isn’t just about us “getting through summer,” it’s really about getting these kids through their childhood, and to a place where people actually like them when they are “grownies” as we say in my house. Just like Tip #1: Tattle Tax required some work up front, this tip will too. The question then, is will that work pay off? The answer my friends, in the words of every British judge on every talent competition on TV, is “a million percent yes.”

 And while we all know that one cannot be a million percent anything (because that is not how math works, or maybe it is?) I don’t really care about math, the point is that I wish I was British. And also that the work for Sibling Boot Camp is definitely worth it.

Sibling Boot Camp came into existence when my oldest daughters (now 13 ½ and almost 12) were in Kindergarten and 1st grade. They were arguing consistently about who got to be first for things. It was this constant back and forth about “you got in the car first last time, now it’s my turn to get in the car first this time.” Then the other one would chime in saying “Well, you got out of the car first, so now it’s my turn to do something first so I get to get in first again.”

And then my head would explode.

So one day, on the way to school, I gave them a moving sermon in the car where I exegeted the passage of scripture about "the first being last and the last being first." When we got to school, you know what happened? That’s right, they argued about whose turn it was to get out of the car first.

I maybe lost my mind a little and I told them that they had lost the privilege of school. I added that I would not allow them to go into that building and behave like perfect angels toward their teachers and friends if they could not get along with each other. I called the school office from the parking lot and said that my girls would not be back to school until they were best friends.

They missed an entire week of school. We commenced Sibling Boot Camp. And are they now best friends?

A million percent, yes.

So, I offer you...

The Five Phases of Your Very Own DIY Sibling Boot Camp:

1. Buy so much posterboard. Draw a line down the middle of the poster. At the top, write “Entitled” on one side and “Responsible” on the other.
2. Run so many drills. Take some time to explain to your kids the difference between entitled behavior and responsible behavior. Once they know the difference, test them by throwing out some everyday scenarios and have them file the behaviors under the headings, either the behavior is entitled or it’s responsible.                                                                                                                             Sample 1: “Okay my fallen cherubs, it’s time to get in the car to go to school, you both want to get in first. What is an example of an entitled response?”
   Sample 2: “You would both like to get in the car first, Child A offers to let Child B get in and out first, with the agreement that Child A can get in and out first on the return trip. Is this a responsible agreement, or entitlement?”
   Sample 3: “Mommy gives her precious baby sinners a really lovely sermon in the car. Now, is it responsible or entitled to immediately disregard her brilliant life lessons?”                                                                                                                                                                             
3. Sibling fun is now a privilege. Reward every correct answer with 5 minutes of fun time together. Catch and reward any responsible interaction with 5 minutes of sibling fun. Try to catch them doing anything right, and give them 5 minutes. This part is key though - END the sibling time as soon as their minutes run out! They will be doing great, and will just be getting into some kind of game… but when the time’s up, it’s up. They can’t play together until they earn more minutes. This ensures that they don’t have time to get into a conflict, and because kids will often strive toward what we pull just out of their reach… they will try to earn more time together. VOILA! They are trying to earn time to play with their sibling!

4. Introduce quiet sister/brother talk. When our girls started consistently showing more responsible (and less entitled) interaction we would celebrate by letting them stay up late for “quiet sister talk.” This works best if you are generally bedtime nazis, which fortunately, we were. But, no matter how lax you are about summer bedtimes, add time for quiet sibling talk. Little kids love to stay up late because they are small and foolish and they don’t yet realize how wonderful sleep is. Take advantage of their folly by reserving late bed times for siblings who love each other and get along.

5. Sleepover City. If you have successfully made it out of DefCon 5 of sibling bickering and into Phase 5 of Sibling Boot Camp, then… congratulations. You may celebrate by manipulating the children into becoming best friends. This can be achieved by letting them have a sleepover on any non-school nights. To this day my older daughters will jam all their gangly limbs into the same top bunk bed and stay up late talking. They do it all summer long and every weekend. They tell each other everything. They whisper and giggle and make up ridiculous stories and inside jokes that turn their whispered giggles into full on belly laughs. It is magical.

They both still remember Sibling Boot Camp and I have never had to do it again. The younger three sort of followed suit and they all get along pretty well considering. We have some special circumstances which prevents them all from having the sleepovers, etc. but the overall mission remains the same. Engaging with other people is a privilege. Can that privilege be taken away if you are behaving like a child criminal? You betcha. But can it be earned back with consistency and three dollars worth of poster board?

A DeadBeat Mom's Tips for Surviving Summer: Tip #1 Tattle Tax

In New York, our summer weather lasts for five whole entire minutes. And not, like, five minutes in a row or anything. What I mean is that from May until September there will be five perfect minutes dispersed willy nilly throughout the months. Half of those precious, sunshiny minutes will take place while you are in the waiting room at the orthodontist. The other half of the minutes will appear, without warning, sandwiched in between hail and an inexplicable windpocalypse. And this half of the minutes are magical. Like a unicorn.

Because of the severe lack of awesome weather here, it feels like a crime against humanity that our kids go to school until nearly the end of June. This year, they missed ⅓ of the nice weather minutes because they were still in school. And it wasn't like they were even being educated at this point… they were just barely contained because everyone under the age of 100 goes absolutely bananas when there is finally nice weather. So, the kids are learning nothing but Flag Day songs, while the NWM (nice weather minutes) are just evaporating into the atmosphere - to be immediately replaced by 99.75% humidity.

By early June, I start seeing pictures on Facebook of kids’ last day of school. By mid-June, people are camping and hosting neighbors for bonfires. By the end of June, everyone else is enjoying the “staycation” portion of summer. But oh no, not here in New York. Here, at the end of June, we still got field day so…

But here I am now, four weeks (and 4.5 NWM) into the shortest summer vacation in America, and I am wondering how on earth I will make it to September. I don’t know about everyone else, but summer days are longggggg when you’re home with five kids (and it won’t stop raining.) Now, don’t get me wrong here. I love my precious angel babies, and by the time school ends I am equal parts excited, relieved, and terrified. It’s “a different kind of busy!” than the school year, I cheerfully tell people at the grocery store as a gaggle of children follow behind me, just wanting gum so bad.

And it’s true, it’s definitely a different kind of busy. It’s the kind of busy that makes me hide in the basement for three minutes and forty eight seconds, so I can just watch one America’s Got Talent audition video on youtube. Because, those auditions are life. Those auditions make me weep, and then believe in myself. And I am inspired to go on.

And in the spirit of going on, I will be doing a mini-series of blogs about how to survive the remainder of the summer. If you only read one tip, this is the one to read, because it will not only change your summer with your children… but it will change your whole life.

You will want to make out with my husband after you read this, because he is responsible for the brilliance that IS... Tip #1. You may not make out with him - you homewrecker - but I can understand why you’d be tempted, because this tip for summer survival is the single reason that my children are still allowed to live in my house. Without further ado, I offer you…

TIP #1:  Immediately institute the TATTLE TAX.

As citizens of our home, the children have certain inalienable rights. Not many, but, whatevs… everyone’s eating, alright? Our citizens also have certain responsibilities. These vary depending on the child’s age, ability, special skill set and whether or not I am spazzing about company coming. And then there are the privileges. These can be earned or lost depending solely on my mood and how many times that day I have been asked for gum. Beyond the rights, responsibilities and privileges, we also offer our citizens certain services.

Enter: taxes.

As benevolent dictators, one service that we will provide the citizens of our home is that of conflict mediation. If our citizens cannot or will not independently resolve a conflict, and we receive an “incident report” (formerly known as tattling), we happily provide the service of mediation… as long as both parties have paid their taxes. For the reasonable tariff (one completed chore) we will provide our citizens with the invaluable service of conflict management. The plaintiffs must complete the chore TOGETHER and to my satisfaction and once the tax has been collected, conflict resolution will be promptly executed.

Guess what my kids don’t do anymore?

That’s right. Tattle.

You know what they do now? They talk it through like the angelic creatures I taught them to be. Or they stuff their feelings and move on. I honestly don’t care which it is. Because all I know is that I have gotten hours of my life back, and my kids are learning the valuable lesson of letting go of an offense instead of always getting their mother involved. Do you know how much better they will be at life because they are learning to solve and/or avoid their problems? So much better.

I will say that I have, on occasion, allowed tax exemptions for extenuating circumstances. If someone comes for help because they or another child is in danger? Tax break. If an older (trusted) child is appropriately coaching a younger citizen, and the younger party is still, I don’t know, let’s say… licking the window like a feral cat, backup will be provided and read my lips, no. new. taxes.

But apart from these unusual scenarios, tattling is virtually a thing of the past. In it’s place is the very lucrative business of tax collecting. And - all kidding aside - my kids really are learning the valuable lessons essential for the success of all human relationships: Which offenses are worth sorting out? Which issues must be accepted vs. hashed out? Is it more important to win an argument or to come to a compromise? How do we deal with irrational people? How do we speak up for ourselves and/or negotiate? How to listen and forgive and repair relationships.

And, most importantly, how to make vacuuming a two man job. 

The Fear of Being Found Out

Living inside me for as long as I can remember, is a book. I have always known it was there, or, perhaps, I came to believe it was there because I was never told any different. During all the hours spent telling stories around my mother’s dining room table, in every exaggerated tale I recounted for my friends, in every blog post I write… there has always been this sense that the rest of the story was tucked somewhere inside me - too young, too fragile - to make its way out. I can’t count how many times someone has said to me, through laughter or tears (and oftentimes both), that I need to write a book.

And they’re right. I need to write this book.

Because it’s always been there, and I can’t carry it around any more.

Back in November, a friend of mine decided to submit some of my writing (without my knowledge) to an acquisitions editor at a reputable publishing company. I was terrified and unprepared for the feeling of vulnerability that came with her telling me that she did this, but I could hardly be mad at a girl for believing in me. Especially since, after reading the pieces she submitted, they asked to come to see me speak at a small event in Michigan and then that led to the longest lunch meeting known to man. Our three hour lunch led to a notoriously heavy and daunting door, which opened to me, ever so slightly. The door was cracked just enough for a little light and hope to come through, along with the whisper of an invitation. That glimmer of an invitation was for me to submit a book proposal. 

Do you want to know what happens to the book that has always been inside of you when someone invites you to finally attempt to write it?  

You know what else happens?

It disappears. 

Yes, the book that has always been there, vanishes. But it doesn't just disappear. Oh no... it disappears and then you also have an existential crisis. And you begin to wonder if it was ever really there to begin with. And you question your own truth and your ability to share it, and you question everything you thought you were so sure about. And you panic, and maybe you start to write a fiction manuscript, because you have completely lost your head at this point. And then you stop letting yourself be afraid to learn from the people who have gone before you - even if you think they got it wrong - and you stop feeling so alone, and so afraid. And you start to find your book again.

 At least… that’s what I hear happens to people.

This process has taught me how much fear - thick and pernicious - runs through my bones. Fear that what I have to say won’t matter. Fear that I have no right to say anything at all. Fear that all this fear will hinder the quality, and reach, of my message. Fear that I don’t even have a message, at least not one that is unique or meaningful. Fear that I will get it wrong. Fear that I will get it right (and then people will think I actually know things!) Fear that this will take more away from my family than it gives. Fear that the door will close as quickly as it has barely cracked. Fear that I will be embarrassed when my book proposal is rejected (they almost always are - many, many, many times.) Fear that I will quit before I even get a chance to be rejected. Fear that I won’t ever quit and I will just keep forcing something that isn’t supposed to be. Fear that I will actually care about publishing and writing won’t feel pure anymore, that the pursuit will ruin my honesty, my integrity as a writer. Fear that I won’t care enough about getting published and so it will never happen. Fear that everyone will finally know that I am a phony, and will confirm to me that I am, in fact, the worst possible perception I have of myself.

So. Much. Fear.

 And gosh, so much ego it’s sickening.

So, I am all done processing this privately. It’s just not in my DNA to be scared all by myself. What makes me audacious is that I can’t keep my big mouth shut for more than a minute. What makes me relatable is that I will tell the beautiful, harsh and sometimes ugly truth about my life. What makes you come back is that I can sometimes be brave. Telling you all about what I fear most makes me feel really vulnerable, but that is also where I feel most brave.

So as much as I would like to curl up inside my fear, and hunker down for good... I won’t, because that would keep me small. That would keep my truth, my GOD, so small. And so, as much as I fear you all discovering that I am a total fraud, I will risk rejection and I will walk into this thing exposed and vulnerable and maybe sometimes even a little bit brave. I will let my stories, my truth, my God, be bigger than my fear. I will invite Him to show up in ways that are so much bigger than my fragile ego, and my concern for how the world will perceive who I am or what I do.

And I will invite you all into the process too. Because when you have a book inside you for 35 stinkin' years, it simply must get written eventually, even if it’s no good. And you, my beloved readers, are the ones I want with me as I go. Writing for you has made me feel brave. Finally brave enough to let that - too young, too fragile - story inside me, grow big enough and sturdy enough to come out.

Are Kids "Lucky" to be Adopted?

I have never been so thoroughly pursued by a man in all my life as I have been by my four year old son. I am telling you, this child proposes marriage - not daily - but hourly. And those are on his weaker days! Sometimes the professions of love and desperate proposals come incessantly. When he kisses me goodnight, it is with both of his sweet, almost-always-sticky brown hands pressed on each side of my face (a romantic proclamation of my beauty is usually involved at this point) and then he kisses me in a frenzy of uncontrolled emotion. With these bodacious lips.

It is the most adorable and unnecessary display of passion I've ever been the recipient of. And it happens all. day. long. Quite simply, the boy is in love. But, there is something peculiar about the urgency and intensity of his affections for me. It has taken me some time to put my finger on why exactly that is. He seems almost desperate in his expressions of love, to the point that he seems almost exasperated by it.

"I'm gonna marry you so much!" and "I'm just lovin' you, UGH I'm just lovin' you so MUCH." He picks flowers for me every time we step foot outside - one bunch of dandelions "for now" and the other handful "for our wedding tomorrow, or yesterday." I have never met a four year old boy so preoccupied with getting married. So, I decided to get to the bottom of his romantic shenanigans.

After several long discussions, I think I have come to a place of understanding. He is afraid.

Jay was about 24 hours old when I first met him in the hospital. His first mom, the lovely Miss N., and I had been in contact over the phone during the weeks leading up to his birth. Tom and I developed a fast connection with her, and because we had already had a previous adoption fall through, we knew that the child she was carrying may not end up being part of our family. And while common sense, previous experience, and all of our loved ones told us to be cautious, we loved her. We weren't thinking about "protecting ourselves" or "not getting too attached." Our relationship with her was developing not because we hoped to parent her child, but because she is adorable and not loving her would be impossible. We made a promise to her that we would be there to help and support her in any way she needed, regardless of the decision she ended up making. She invited us to come to the birth and seemed firm in her decision to place Jay with us when he was born. Still, we reminded her that giving birth is an unimaginable game-changer, and we wanted her to have plenty of room to feel free to change her mind if she felt at any point that she wanted to pursue parenting opposed to placing him with us. We tried to be supportive and encouraging throughout the emotion. To be completely honest, as much as we loved Jay from the first moment we laid eyes on him, we were pulling for her to parent. We really believed she could do it. 

For her own personal reasons - reasons that are hers to tell, not mine - she allowed us to be his parents. It was a gift, a great responsibility and an honor, of course. But it was also a tragedy. 

For a baby and his mother to be separated from one another is always an utter tragedy. The grief that Tom and I experienced on their behalf was minuscule in comparison to what they endured. This is true for both of our children who came to us through adoption. And while it looks so different for them both, every single day I see the primal wound that this separation has inflicted upon my babies. And their first mamas.

Since realizing this, Jay's romantic advances, while precious, have become just like every other aspect of adoption. There is a bitter-sweetness underlying every kiss, a complex fear of being apart from me that drives every impassioned sentiment, a child's desperate attempt to guarantee that he will never lose another mama drives every marriage proposal.

Both of my boys are perfect, but they are both hurting in their own way. They both long for the security that comes from a mother's love. People often downplay the pain that adoptees endure, assuming that a child who was adopted in infancy "never knows the difference." These same people will watch nature documentaries and marvel that a sea turtle can travel all over the ocean and make its way back to it's home. (I don't actually know if sea turtles do that, but you get my drift.) If an animal has a primal instinct to find it's way home, how much more does a human child have that same pull?

And I may not know much about sea turtles, but I do know this... my boys, in some sense, will always be longing for home. And people say that they are "lucky to have us." But, when my nine year old son wakes up with his heart pounding in his chest because he dreamed of meeting his beautiful birthmom for the very first time, lucky isn't how I'd describe him.

Whether they can understand all the nuances at this point or not, they will always know that in our home, they have the right to feel sad about their adoption. And they have the right to feel happy about it too, and angry, and confused, and relieved and all the things. Even... unlucky. 

My prayer is that as they grow and mature, and really begin to feel the weight and implications of their adoption stories, that they will forgive us for all the ways that we could not meet their needs, for every shortcoming and every imperfection. My prayer is that our flaws will only make them long for another home, and eternal home, where our perfect Father waits to hold them and love them and meet every need they ever had. 

Somewhere Between Solid & Liquid : One Journey of Infertility

I invited my friend Sherri to blog here today because her story is one that so many men and women can relate to. I know that those of you who face infertility - and the exhausting emotions that come with the cyclical hope-disappointment-despair - will be particularly blessed by it. And for those of you that do not face such a battle, my prayer is that Sherri's words will make everyone a little more aware, a little more sensitive, and a lot more compassionate. I know that you all will show Sherri so much love for sharing her story here. I have the world's best blog followers. (Or technically the worst since like 0.001% of you that read the blog regularly have actually subscribed. So, go ahead and fix that first by subscribing below... and then show Sherri some love.) Many, many thanks to Sherri for her beautiful, honest, and wise words. 

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When you mix cornstarch and water together, you end up with a sticky yet somewhat stable material called “oobleck”. It’s on the fence of deciding whether it is going to be a liquid or a solid. Under pressure it feels hard, yet when you try to hold it- it liquefies. Oobleck is an accurate description of me walking through years of infertility. I was a solid form, working in a dental office, married, attending church, paying the bills. Yet as the official diagnosis came into perspective, I became messy and fragile underneath a hard exterior.  

Something I learned is that infertility doesn’t discriminate. There is somewhat of an age factor, but it crosses the lines of all socioeconomic levels, race, ethnicity, etc. I was 24, and I believed the doctors when they said to not worry, pregnancy will happen. Instead, I endured years of painful, violating tests with little results.

The urologist, who was pregnant, of course, did not take our situation seriously. She waved her hand in front of her protruding belly and said, “Don’t worry, you’re young! We’ll get you pregnant!” As a dental hygienist —a healthcare provider— her statement steams me; I never promise anyone a particular outcome. She probably was not as daft as I am remembering, but that’s what infertility does to you, or me, that is. It makes you angry.

I was hardening on the outside, and at the same time I was a crying, snotty mess whenever I was home. My intimate life that I shared only with my husband and God was furled out on display for all to see. I felt dissected.

We wanted our pregnancy announcement to be an exciting surprise, and with every holiday that came, I daydreamed how I would tell Jeff and our families that we were expecting. I thought of everything.

I dreamed of a baby in Autumn, so January was the target month. I was careful to plan sex around ovulation in March because I didn’t want my baby to have to share Christmas. I planned every holiday and the pregnancy announcement gifts for our parents, and every holiday that passed by was a reason to start thinking ahead for the next one. It’s probably good that Pinterest wasn’t around then. I was happy for friends who announced their pregnancies and I dreamed about sharing the experience of pregnancy with my friends and with my sister.

I stopped purchasing clothes altogether because we were on limited finances due to the testing (Jeff and I had a couple of years where we didn’t have insurance, so our budget was blown). The truth is, I blamed ‘no shopping’ on the budget, but what I was secretly hoping was to be saving for maternity clothes.

I stopped planning trips, and whenever someone talked about going away or flying, I would think to myself, “Well, I’m not sure if I will be able to travel in x months”. I visited my bestie— Melissa, in Italy, which was great, but leading up to the trip, I wondered if I’d even be able to travel or if I’d be pregnant. The constant waiting for our little miracle was wearing on me, month after month.

I lived my life in two week chunks. TWW is an abbreviation for the two week wait that occurs after ovulation and before you start your period… it’s pretty stressful. It was even more stressful when Jeff started traveling for work. He is an awesome husband and a provider for our family, but it was very easy to hate his job. It was my own hurt, expectations, and hormone driven craziness that made me angry and take it out on him when he spent entire weeks out of town. The window for conception is pretty slim, and I know that my brokenness inhibited our relationship.

I yearned to have morning sickness. Any time I thought I could possibly be pregnant and I had some feeling of an upset stomach, I was elated. There were two times that I thought that I was pregnant because I was a couple of days late - and I was never late. But, as cruel as AF is (Aunt Flo for the non-infertile people) those periods were worse. I have always wondered if I miscarried, and though I told myself that it shouldn’t matter, I was still curious. I took a lot of pregnancy tests… and ovulation tests. There were times that I was so sure that I was pregnant that I would stare at the line hoping that another one would show up. One time, okay probably more than once, I took a test out of the trash. It’s called BFN (Big Fat Negative) when that second line doesn’t appear. I bought the tests at a CVS near my office— that way no one would see me buying them. Same with the multivitamins with DHA in them— I didn’t want anyone to know before we were ready.

The hardest part was succumbing to reality— this was never going to happen. Honestly, right up until the week before my hysterectomy, I believed that God could change our situation, that I could have a mini-me.

Once I realized that Jeff and I were most likely not able to carry a biological child, we were years into our journey, and I was mentally fried. We were tired of discussing it with each other and exhausted from walking this path alone. I didn’t realize this while in the process, but I had intentionally yet unknowingly isolated myself from my friends and family. It was easier to talk to my patients than it was my family, because I would be a teary, crying mess.

My wall went up brick by brick with every pregnancy announcement, whether it was real or on television. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I stopped watching Grey’s Anatomy because a character was pregnant. Incredulously I would exclaim, “They can’t just write that in a script and have it happen!” and cry myself to sleep. The Nature Channel, Springtime with all those baby animals being born, any children’s advertisement on television, and new Disney movies —they all were reminders of what wouldn’t happen for us. Okay, I also hid every post, story, or live feed video of that pregnant giraffe on my newsfeed. Quite honestly, I’m just glad that the birth is over with.

I remember hating Christmas. I’m a Christian, Christians can’t hate Christmas! Well, if you are an infertile reading this, what I am going to say is not a surprise to you. So here it is for everyone else wondering how I could have possibly hated Christmas: Mary was a VIRGIN. Then, pregnant. I know. I know the Christmas story, but I also know the feeling of grief, the loss of my dreams and the bargaining that comes hand in hand with infertility, and when you see a pregnant virgin, well, you don’t always think clearly. Also, I have an issue with children out with their parents shopping at 11pm and the Christmas season seems to bring all the craziness out. (I’m mostly referring to my own feelings here, not the overtired children in large chain stores when I believe they should be in bed.)

When I think of how I felt years back and what it may be like for you now, I feel the urge to vomit. Infertility is so unfair. My heart aches for you, longing to hold your child, waiting to hear the name, Mommy. Infertility is not your fault.

Hear me, dear one. Infertility is not your fault and it is not “part of God’s plan for your life”. The reason that you are unable to carry a baby is not because you haven’t believed enough, prayed enough, learned enough Bible verses, or that you don’t trust God enough. (Or, that your hubby is wearing briefs and taking a bath instead of airing out the goods in boxers).

So, I have some news for you: you don’t have to mimic oobleck, and thank goodness, neither do I. It took me many tear-filled years reading books on infertility, reading scripture, and praying to see that I needed to give myself a break and break free from my own expectations. I forced myself to sit through countless baby showers, baptisms at church, holding friend’s babies, and many other uncomfortable tasks because I felt I had to display that hard exterior. It’s okay to do those things, and sometimes they are fun, but if you feel like you will end up a drippy, snotty mess, stay home and pamper yourself. I’ve learned the power of the word, No.

I’ve also realized that it’s okay to share my story, and when I have, people have shared with me their hurts because they’ve felt comfortable with me. I was debilitated by my isolation, and I carried a heavy burden —opening up allowed me to see how many people supported us.

No matter your situation, I would encourage you to seek out counsel— whether professional or online through a group site or a blogpost, or read a good book. I follow “Waiting for Baby Bird”, and she has been a blessing to me, I wish I had her posts years ago. One of the books that was pivotal in my life was Kathe Wunnenburg’s “Longing for a Child: Devotions of Hope for Your Journey Through Infertility”. Her insight inspired me to free myself from my expectations and to take a break when I needed it. In one of her devotions, she connects anxiety with her birthday, and I realized that I did the same. Understanding that increase in anxiety, I purposely surrounded myself with the ones that I love and that love me.  

Dear friend, you are not alone. You may feel alone in your walk, but know that the Creator of this universe —the God of Heaven— is holding you, gathering your tears, and longing to heal your broken heart.     

"It’s on the fence of deciding whether it is going to be a liquid or a solid. Under pressure it feels hard, yet when you try to hold it- it liquefies." - Sherri Kurtz