Bigger Rooms

Andrew Wyeth's Big Room, 1948

I feel crowded. The good news? My rooms seem bigger when I put less in them.

Less clutter. Fewer activities. Less sugar. And caffeine. Fewer late nights. Fewer of my own words. Fewer of other people's words and ideas. Fewer phone calls, e-mails, and texts. Less Internet and television.

Less. Fewer. If you're feeling hypersensitive, overstimulated, overwhelmed, crowded: I recommend it.

**Linking up with friends at The Mag.

Movie Review: The Odd Life of Timothy Green

Jim was wondering aloud if he needed to undergo surgery, again, in order for us to have some alone time. Fortunately, our friend Jymmi came to the rescue. (She's a grown-up, but she's one of the girls' very best friends.)

Jim and I went to McAlister's. I ate a grilled sandwich (Smoky Pepper Jack Turkey). He had a spud with chili...or part of one, anyway. I didn't take photos.

Then we went to the movies to see The Odd Life of Timothy Green. We loved it!

This film includes fantastic elements, but what it offers is not only beautiful but also believable, relatable, even universal: for adults. I'm thinking it will go over your children's heads unless they're at least thirteen, and--if they're teenagers--they'll appreciate a different movie more, so leave them at home.

Do, however, take Kleenex. I was sobbing by the end of the movie, and in my efforts not to frighten the children in front of me by making horrible gasping noises, I missed, at first, the fact that my beloved was mopping his face with his shirt. "It got me a little, Brandee," he said.

But look: there's a difference between a movie that's worth an emotional investment and one that (like Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close) isn't. The Odd Life of Timothy Green will probably get you a little if you're a parent. It might get you a lot if you're not a parent but desperately want to be, but you may well appreciate its message ("Never give up!"), regardless.

It's hard work to build a family, and it's hard work to grow that family once it's complete. The parents in The Odd Life of Timothy Green (like many parents I know in real life) struggle in getting their son, and--once they have him--worry too much about some things and not enough about others. They love big, and they make mistakes. You'll just adore them.

What's Up

We've been living quietly and close to home, lately. I feel like we've been pretty durn happy, especially considering that we've been a little boring and extremely messy.

Jim's recovering well. He was released, this week, to drive and eat mush (tuna, mashed beans, etc.), and--since he's sleeping better--he's returned to work: for now, from home.

I'm waiting for the results of a one-hour glucose test. I tolerated it better with Cade and Charleigh and much worse with Clementine. Times have changed: I was permitted to take the test in the afternoon after eating a couple hotdogs, so I may well have passed. Regardless, as I enter my third trimester, I've learned the hard way: eggs and water (or a sugar-free drink) are pretty much my only safe bets for breakfast.

Temptation got the better of me, the other morning, and I ate a Toast'em Pop Up with purple icing. It took me six hours to recover. Let's just say: I think there's something not quite right about a non-drinker getting so up close and personal with the porcelain goddess, also about a grown woman having pee pants.

The girls had a summer cold (courtesy of Cade) last week. It slowed our roll, a little, and they got bored. Clementine snuck off with my camera, again. Here are some of her latest shots:

Cade's dad. The girls LOVE him.

Charleigh will turn two later this month. She's in the middle of one of those fascinating phases of development; seems like, every day, she's knocking me down with a feather. She sings her ABC's (minus only the "K") and rolls her shoulders when she runs. When I ask her what she wants to be when she grows up, she says: "Firefighter."

Here's a photo of the girls' new chore and behavior chart:

Today, each girl earned stars for picking up all the toys in the living room; putting dirty clothes in a laundry basket; and going down, easily, for nap. In addition, Clementine earned stars for feeding the cats; putting trash in the trash can and dirty dishes in the sink; and being mommy's helper (by emptying and cleaning Charleigh's potty). Charleigh earned extra stars for putting shoes in the wooden box where we keep them; peeing in the potty; and not biting, hitting, kicking, or pulling hair all day.

So today went extremely well, but I'll be honest: I could use a little bit of prayer for sticktoitiveness. I've started things like this several times, with Cade, only to drop the ball. It didn't seem like such a big deal when I had only one child; now, it seems like a very big deal.

All these years of my being a slacker, and I find it challenging to get Cade to do his part. He's super sweet, but he's back and forth between houses, and he's simply accustomed to being a disorganized mess like his mom. I really want to do a better job of training the girls from young ages, and I need their help around the house. I've floundered, my entire adult life, in the housekeeping department. I know I'll never be Martha Stewart, and I'm ok with that because, well, I don't want to be.

But here's to controlled chaos, also to a potty-trained Charleigh before Baby Chip comes along.

What It Means to Be Blessed

"What does it mean to be blessed?" Emily asks, and I find it's easiest for me to answer in people: to tell stories about how they love us, how they show up to help, how--with gratitude--I empty some hands of gifts, fill others with burdens.

I can tell you about our friends' bringing dinner that Saturday before Jim's gastric bypass surgery, and I mean everything: chicken and veggies for the grill, nuggets and mac cheese for the kids, dessert, soda, and juice boxes. I can tell you how they listened to us, distracted us, made us laugh.

I can tell you about the friends who sat with me while Jim had surgery, how I wasn't for one moment alone from 6 AM until well after 1 PM, when my man and I were reunited. The surgeon said, at 11 AM, that Jim had done well, that I could see him in two hours. I hadn't been able to eat until that point; my friends joined me, for lunch.

I can tell you about my mom, who traveled eight hours and, for four days, made it possible for me to pour all my attention into Jim. And about my dad, who kept up with their East Tennessee farm for those four days plus the two she lost to the road. And about my ex-husband, who never squabbles over time and was happy for Cade to be here as long as we needed, helping with the sisters.

I can tell you about those who've mowed our lawn, brought meals for those of us who can eat regular food, taken away our garbage, sent cards, offered prayers. I can recount acts of love until I lay my head over and cry: so much love, and that's always how I see Him best.

A friend took me to dinner the week before Jim's surgery, and she asked how she could pray for me. I told her: just pray for Jim and my brother because, if they are well, I will be well, too. And Jim is so well! He's down thirty(!) pounds in less than two weeks; he's finally getting good rest as of the last 24 hours; his one, troublesome incision site seems better; and here's my favorite part: he's got this look in his eyes that I hadn't seen since we first reconnected, five years ago Easter.

I can't tell you how many times--over the past 5-plus years minus two weeks--I remembered that old look and wondered if he loved me the same. Now I know I had it all wrong; the look wasn't, and isn't, love. It's hope. And it transforms his face completely.

I am blessed just in watching.

**To read Emily's and others' reflections upon blessings click here, and feel free to join the conversation!

If You Like to Talk to Tomatoes

It started because I fell in love with Peter Peter's pumpkin at Idlewild's Storybook Forest. I came home obsessed with the idea of having a giant, pumpkin play house for our back yard.

I e-mailed Mark Cline. He offered to make my dreams come true for only three thousand dollars. I figured the work of a genius was more than worth it. Jim encouraged me to start playing the lottery. "If you win three thousand dollars," he said, "I won't say a word."

In the meantime, I started doing some serious research on how to make my own, giant pumpkin out of fiberglass. "I'm going to do it," I told Jim, "and then I'm going to make a giant shoe to stand beside my giant pumpkin. And then I'm going to start selling giant shoes and pumpkins. I'm going to be just like Mark Cline."

"We'll figure something out about the pumpkin," Jim said.

I love that my husband never really laughs at me, also that--if he thinks it will make me happy--he'll do everything in his power to make it happen in some sort of frugal way. It's brilliant, really; he's still in touch with what pleases children (and me), but he's also a financial genius. 

So this morning, Jim hollered: "Hey, Honey! Come look at this! It's not a pumpkin, but it's pretty close!" I couldn't believe my eyes. "You need it, don't you?" Jim laughed. "I've already sent an e-mail."

I heard from the seller while Jim and the girls were napping. I crept upstairs and leaned over Jim. "I'm taking the truck," I whispered, "to get the play house."

"I don't know if I like the idea of your going by yourself," he whispered back.

"I'm not going by myself," I told him. "I'm taking the Black Belt."

He touched my face. "I love you," he said. "Be careful."

I sang the Veggie Tales Theme Song, off and on, the whole way there.

If you like to talk to tomatoes

If a squash can make you smile

If you like to waltz with potatoes

Up and down the produce aisle

"I'm so excited," I told Cade. "Every little child should have a giant tomato playhouse in the back yard."

"The thing is, Mom," Cade said, "I don't know of any little children who have giant tomato playhouses in their back yards."

"That's only because their mommies don't have the vision I do," I joked. "I'm imagining this as a giant tomato of happiness. Jim and I are going to want to spend time meditating in there. Your friends--Sam, Andrew, Landon, Evan--are going to want to come over and hang out in there, and you're going to say: 'Not this week; I'm in the middle of a good book and using it, myself.'" 

Cade rolled his eyes and laughed. I bought him a root beer float for being a good sport.

So, at the end of the day, it isn't a giant, Mark Cline pumpkin, but--at 1/30th of the cost--it's good enough for me. Until I win the lottery.

To Be Redheaded. To Be Free.

This week, I learned and unlearned that redheads are in danger of becoming extinct in 100 years. (They're really not!) I also learned that--in order to produce Charleigh--both my beloved and I had to pass on a recessive trait: more specifically, a mutated version of the MC1R gene (source). I find that kind of sexy. Don't get me wrong: I know that every child is the genetic product of his or her parents. But I can't tell you how many times people have looked at Charleigh and asked me: "Where did she get that red hair?"

I've always shrugged and said we don't really know; Jim and I both have redheaded cousins, and my great-great-grandmother had red hair. I've joked around, on occasion, and said how comforted Jim is by the fact that Charleigh has his nose. But, honestly? We never in a million years expected to have a redheaded child. And I'm in love with the idea that--from now on--I can say: Jim and I have in common the same, hidden gene, and, together, we produced a fireball...

Speaking of whom...this week, I learned that our little Charleigh is slightly less likely to scream: "NO!" and more likely to do what I ask if I follow up my request with: "Yes, Ma'am? High five?"

(It frightens me a little, lately, to know that Charleigh will be the one to take care of me when I'm old. Her not-quite-two-year-old self really isn't very nice, sometimes.)

Photo by Rachel Huff

Anyway. The most important thing I learned (or relearned) this week has nothing to do with Charleigh and everything to do with me.

It's simply this: I am free.

I'm responsible for submitting to the Lord and my husband, but, otherwise, I get to make my own decisions. The world presses in on me, sometimes, and I'm more sensitive to its voices than I'd like to admit. I start to feel bombarded, confused, and--worst of all--pressured to be something I'm not or behave in a way that's not me.

But you know what? If I feel cornered like a rat, that's on me.

People might just judge me every day of the week and twice on Sunday. If I concern myself with the judgment (real or imagined) of other people, that's on me.

And here's the thing: other people are free, too.  They don't have to be like I am. They don't have to think like I think. They don't have to behave like I behave. If I allow other people to get to me, that's on me.

I am free, and so is everyone else. I'm going to trust the Lord to judge who's right and who's wrong, and I'm going to focus on tucking myself just as tightly against Him as I possibly can. And if I allow myself to become distracted by so much noise? That's on me.

The Trap of Body

When he opened the door to me, just over five years ago, I knew by the sickly sheen of his skin: he was beyond nervous. He took a couple steps back and asked: "How do I look?" and the honest truth was that he was much larger than when I'd last seen him, and, well, green. His eyes, though, were the same, and I still loved him, so I opted to answer with a kiss.

We talked non-stop, that weekend, and I feel a little like Larry Boy in saying as much, but we laughed; we cried; it moved me. He talked about an injury he'd sustained while on a cruise 6-7 months earlier. He was fairly fresh out the wheelchair, and he was down well over a hundred pounds. When he showed me a photo of himself from before the fall, I cried; I couldn't believe he'd been that out of control. He looked at me, though, with bright eyes and promised: it was behind him. He wasn't going back.

We didn't have sex that weekend but slept side-by-side, and he rubbed my back until I fell asleep. We went to church together and prayed together, and it makes my eyes well up to remember how he felt like home to me, and when I say that I mean I'd been far from home: desperate, broken, lonely, and weary, and he pushed wide the door to shining home. He made me feel known and understood and beloved. I begged him not to let me go again.

So he didn't. Instead, he rearranged every single thing in his life to marry and move to me three months later. He lost even more weight for our wedding, and we could feel God smiling down on us. It's been a crazy five years, though, and my Jim has always eaten for comfort. For four years, I didn't say much: it was a sensitive subject, and after awhile, just about any situation starts to seem normal. About a year ago, though, a close friend of mine came to visit and expressed concern. When I looked through her eyes, I knew she was right: there was reason for concern. Before going to Jim, I went to the Lord, and I felt like He said to me: "Unless things change, Jim has ten years to live."

The ensuing conversation with Jim was one of the hardest of my life, but that man: he loves me, and he loves our children. To his credit, also, he's never disbelieved anything the Lord has laid upon my heart. So, last August, he went to the doctor and started the ball rolling.

Turns out, it was a really big ball. Regardless of one's history or weight, (s)he can't have just have weight-loss surgery on a whim. Despite our insurance company's long list of requirements, however, we had no reason to believe Jim wouldn't be eligible for surgery last spring. When, in January, we miscarried a baby we'd expected in July, I said over and over: I'm scared of July. I just couldn't understand (especially considering things I'd heard, related to the pregnancy, from the Lord) why the miscarriage...unless there was a reason we shouldn't have a baby in July. Jim's surgery was finally scheduled for June 6...only to be rescheduled for July 25. Our miscarried baby had been due July 24.

It's crazy the things that went through my mind in the year of waiting for Jim's surgery. Imagine knowing the love of your life will be involved in an accident. No one can say whether he'll come out unscathed. No one can even assure you of his survival! Two weeks ago, I had to acknowledge, by signature, that I understood 3-4 pages of risks, up to and including death. Again, it's crazy the things that went through my mind...things like: How much responsibility do I hold for Jim's current, physical state? Will I be capable of caring for him and our children as he recovers? How much responsibility will I--having prompted this course of action--feel if something goes wrong? If something goes wrong, have I loved him enough? And even: What if losing a ton of weight changes him, and he doesn't want me, anymore?

Last Wednesday, I was sitting in the hospital waiting room surrounded by my pastor, a dear sister from my church, and two friends I'd specifically asked to sit with me. We were a happy, lively circle. But, every now and then, there would be a lull in conversation, and I'd remember: my beloved was under anesthesia, and a surgeon was cutting him apart, inside. Those were sobering moments.

I'm so relieved that the surgery is behind us. I'm excited, too, to watch the person I love untangle himself from the trap of his body. Please keep Jim in your prayers as he recovers. He's doing well, for the most part, but he returned to the doctor on Monday for some antibiotics; he has the beginnings of a bacterial infection (heat, redness) in one incision site. And he isn't getting good rest; he's been discouraged from sleeping with his CPAP machine--at least for now--because he could potentially swallow air and damage his new stomach.

We remain so deeply thankful for every single prayer you've offered up on our behalf.