Finding Myself in the Wild Orange

The first time it happened, she was dressed to the nines, and we were driving to Maryland to celebrate my grandma's 94th birthday. I turned around to check on her and discovered her holding her sippy cup upside-down and shaking it (hard as ever she could) into an open, not-quite-three-year-old hand.

The hand and the fancy-schmancy dress were covered in strawberry milk.

I'd just started to roar--I do, sometimes, having not yet transformed into a mother of the Michelle Duggar variety!--when a memory came out of nowhere. I was three. I was already wearing my white dress, so we must've been about to walk out the door for my dad's company picnic. My mom was probably stacking food or topping off my baby brother; I can't remember.

What I do remember is thinking I'd look even finer if I shaved my face. (I didn't seriously injure myself but bled all over my white dress.)

So, in February, for the first time--I swear!--in almost three years, I thought, suddenly: maybe there's more of me in that Wild Orange than I'd like to admit! I didn't much like the thought of that at all, so I just took her sippy cup; shot her some serious stink eye; and reverted to denial.

But, the other day, I came across a portrait of myself at three and thought with surprise: Clementine looks like me! I called her over and held up the portrait. "Do you know who this is, MeMe?"

She looked carefully, smiled, and laid her hand across her chest. "Me?" she asked, and I saw the uncertainty in her face because of "her" short hair and the unknown, fat-cheeked baby.

I heard the Lord whisper into my heart: You're in there. I tilted my head and studied her, considered (as if for the first time) the chattering social beast of her, and I knew the Lord was right. I wondered: is it the me in her that offends like fingernails on a chalkboard? And I was flooded with regret for all the times I've roared and spanked (and roared while spanking), and--loving her more than I ever had--I prayed for help in becoming the mom she deserves.

Counting Cars

I dreamed, last night, that I was bleeding out something that looked like creamy tomato soup. In my dream, Jim wrapped his arms around me and said: "Maybe we tried again too soon. This doesn't mean that, later, we can't..."

"No," I interrupted. "I can't do this anymore. I'm done." And it was all so real: in my dream, I was thinking crazy thoughts like I do in real life. I thought, first: I've been feeling unconfident because somehow I knew this was coming.

I promise: all of this makes me sound more distressed than I actually am, which is only slightly, also significantly less than last week.

I'm not sharing because I want to worry anyone, but because I was thinking, today: it's a gift not to know what the future holds. Not knowing should enable me to live in the moment...not in anticipation or dread. I lose time when I choose to place more importance on a day other than today.

When I was a little girl, someone told me that--if I were to count all the cars on a train as it passed by--I would learn the number of years left in my life. Even thirty years ago, the thought creeped me out.

I need to remember who I am, and I'm not a car counter.

Thought of the Day

 

It's much better to have yourself

on the monkey's back

than the other way 'round.

Wild Orange Photography, Pt. 2

Clementine has asked me to remind you: Wild Orange Photography is pleased to meet your graduation-photography and cover-shot needs.

Enthusiastic photographer with a unique eye. Payment accepted in the forms of cookies, crayons, and Play Doh. You can view more of her work here.

Incidentally, said photographer has also become an excellent washcloth folder.

Freaking Out

The sad truth is: I have absolutely no confidence in this pregnancy. None, zero, zip, nada. My complete lack of confidence is squelching any and all positive emotions: happiness, joy, peace, etc.

I went for my 8-week ultrasound expecting it to be like that other, 8-week ultrasound. Considering what had happened a few months before, I forgave my wariness. I thought: if everything goes well, I'll be able to celebrate.

And everything did go well, but I still haven't celebrated. I went to my 12-week appointment, this week, expecting the worst. It took me by surprise to hear the baby's heartbeat.

My doctor said my lab work had shown a low platelet count. He didn't want to talk about it, he said, unless a second test revealed the same.

So, of course, I've been freaking out for days. The nurse finally called a little while ago and said my count had risen from 115 to 131, which is still low; evidently, it should be at least 140. She said I should switch to Flintstones Plus Iron and expect to take another blood test.

I don't ever want to be pregnant again. Seriously. Whether this baby makes it here, or whether (s)he doesn't, I'm so done. My nerves are completely shot. Like, I don't want to leave my house; I don't want to deal with the girls; and I don't want to mop the kitchen floor or wash my hair. I don't even really want to talk to anybody.

Maybe this is where faith comes in. Then again, the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. There's no guarantee or promise that I'll have a healthy baby. I can be sure: God won't leave me; He has a plan; and He will work all things to my good.

Right now, none of that feels so very much comforting. And, I mean, it is what it is. If you're waiting for me to apologize for sounding like a spoiled brat...yeah...keep waiting...

To Fight a Good Fight

After they'd demonstrated (for ninety minutes) their basic, combination, and self-defense moves; performed Kata routines; and sparred four rounds, their instructor sent them from the gymnasium to shed their equipment.

My boy had fought well but trailed the rest of the pack a bit, his arms wrapped around his midsection, and I said to Jim: "He's hurt." I wondered if Cade were badly bruised, if his rib were broken.

When the students returned, their instructor spoke to their sticktoitiveness. "Look around," he said. "Not everyone who started this chapter, has finished. But you've finished.

"Take off your Senior Brown Belts," he said. "Put them behind you. Don't ever wear them again. They represent the past."

Photo by Anjie Henley

Soon, each student had donned a Black Belt and taken a swig of juice. One by one, they shook their instructor's hand. I noticed: when he could, Cade continued to cross his arms in front of him. Another student wore a bloodied nose. Still others cried; whether from pain, exhaustion, or adrenaline crash, I don't know. To one student (who cried in little gasps for breath), the instructor said: "You've done well. Hold your head up high."

When I asked Cade, later, if he were hurt, he said: "Just my toe." He lifted his foot to reveal: he'd lost an entire layer of skin off the bottom of one of his big toes. And I guess I didn't know he holds his stomach when he hurts; I'd never really seen him hurt, before.

I tried to tell him how proud I was, and of course I teared up. "You're so pregnant," he laughed, not unkindly, and he draped his Senior Brown Belt around my neck.

For days, I've turned this response over in my head, also that of the girl who gasped for breath. I've wondered: what if--fresh from the fight--a person can't see it all?

I don't mean to make a (wo)man into God or (worse) God into a (wo)man. 

But what if we're fighting our way, all the time, to new levels? What if God, watching, whispers: Leave the past behind. You've gotten somewhere. Be who you are right now. Hold your head up high: not in pride, but in an absence of shame. Not everyone who started this chapter has finished. You've done well, and I'm proud of you.

Photo by Anjie Henley

Cade's Black Belt Test

I can always gauge just how amped up I was by how weary I feel, afterwards. Had I taken that Black Belt test, myself, I don't think I'd feel more exhausted: nodding off in church, yesterday, and falling asleep on the couch the minute Jim put the girls to bed, tonight.

And, yet, Saturday was a perfect day. Everything about it exceeded my highest expectations. I could tell we were every one of us being bathed in prayer: so much big love for the boy of my heart.

Family members and friends had traveled from Texas, Tennessee, Maryland, and various parts of Virginia to watch Cade test for his Black Belt. I found myself surrounded by the family into which I'd been born, and--knowing the obstacles they'd faced in the getting there--I received our togetherness as a miracle.

My friend Darlene stayed home with the girls, which was such a blessing; I was able to concentrate fully on what was happening on the gymnasium floor. Darlene is one of those rare babysitters in whom I have such confidence that--for a few hours, anyway--I can completely forget I have tiny, crazy children.

Likewise, my friend Anjie photographed the entire event. I've blogged about Anjie, before, but didn't mention: she's the finest sports photographer Powhatan has to offer. I had no idea when I met her. (You can see more of her work, here.)

A year or two ago, I saw a photo that Anjie had taken of a girl suspended mid-air, jumping a hurdle, and I told her: I'm going to need you, the day of Cade's Black Belt test. I'd been told there would be restrictions regarding photography, but Anjie had everything straightened out within five minutes.

I'd never seen Anjie at work, and it was truly a beautiful thing: so much fluidity of motion and, really, just the perfect ability to do so much while simultaneously blending into walls. I can't tell you the joy and peace I experienced in knowing: she (with her amazing eye and big ol' camera) was capturing it all. She's made 334 photos available to me, but here are some of my very favorites:

This photo makes me cry; I really FEEL that expression.

That would be called: proud mama.