10 #Random Things...

So many thoughts are currently swirling around my sleep-deprived brain, that I decided to make a list. Maybe this way, I can excise 10 things OUT of my brain, and can focus on a few more things that are probably more important:

• 1.       Your co-workers may only “pretend” to like you…but if you bring them chocolate, the feeling will be genuine for the 5 minutes it takes for them to eat it.
• 2.       Grief hits you at the most bizarre moments. I was standing at the fax machine, and suddenly realized that my daughter’s birthday is in exactly 1 week. For that brief moment, I wanted to sit on the floor of the office and cry. It was a fleeting moment; no one around knew anything different. But for me, I had to stop and catch my breath before I could continue…for just that moment.
• 3.       Waxing your own eyebrows while trying to have a conversation with your husband and keep an eye on a mobile child will undoubtedly result in half of your eyebrow suddenly going missing. Don’t look too closely at my face for at least 2 weeks.
• 4.       The more I listen to conservative radio, the angrier I get at the “Affordable” Care Act. If the government would have handled their first run at insurance in a cost-effective, efficient way (Medicare/Medicaid), then I wouldn’t mind. But the facts don’t lie: Medicare and Medicaid are a poorly monitored, overtly-abused mess that is enabling/entitling people. Medicare/Medicaid cost us billions, yet the same government wants to run our healthcare? Bad idea, guys. Let healthcare providers handle healthcare. The government messes up every single program they get their hands into. Healthcare CAN NOT be dependent on boneheads who simply will not get along! After a week of listening to conservative radio (why in the WORLD does Dave Glover play some stupid song about "Chimpanzees Riding on a Segway?!?"), I finally feel like I've caught up in the world of politics. I don't know if that's a good thing. I've become very familiar with Glenn Beck and Dana Loesch, and I'm genuinely surprised at how much I like their shows. We don't always agree, but I'm always entertained and educated...
• 5.       I see a lot of Facebook posts that insult people on welfare. I used to post those things, too, until a friend of mine made me realize how brutal it sounded. There are so many people who are abusing the system, that it’s made us forget that there are people who genuinely want to get off of it. They want a better life; they don’t want to be on welfare, or be attached to that stigma. They’re doing the best they can. You can’t post something anti-welfare and expect it to make an impact on the people who are milking the system. All you’re going to do is hurt the feelings of the people who need that system. And really, the bottom line? If the church did what Jesus called us to do, there would be no need for the welfare system. I get it—there’s nothing more annoying to me, then seeing someone with expensive acrylic nails swipe a food stamp card. That pisses me off. But I’ve been the mom who cries in her car because she has to get WIC and she’s mortified (we were both unemployed for most of my pregnancy with Hannah). I was so ashamed, and I’ve never forgotten it. You don’t know who is in what position, so stop the mean posts. It could be you (I certainly never thought it would be me).
• 6.       My son is mobile. He’s scootching forward (yes, “scootching” is a word) when he hits tile, and he’s into everything. He really, really likes cords, so I think I’d like to hire some magician to come into my house, and figure out how to keep everything running, but hide the cords. Any takers? Watching him try to figure out how to get something he wants is an object lesson everyone should see. I think he may have a determined streak like his Auntie..
• 7.  I'm not entirely sure who the baseball geniuses are that scheduled the games, but every home game is on a night that I don't have to drive downtown. I'd like to kiss the scheduler! #GoCards #WorldSeries (Speaking of, I'll never forget listening to the World Series while I was in the hospital waiting to have Hannah. It was a really fun time at MoBap! And I guess my children will both have baseball ties; JD was born on the day of Stan Musial's funeral.)
• 8.       If I hear the weatherman say “Alberta Clipper” one more time, I’m going to smack him. I have no idea why I find that phrase so annoying, but I do. #BlameCanada
• 9.       I just realized that there are a LOT of things from Canada that totally annoy me: Justin Bieber. Anne Murray. Avril Lavigne. Nickelba…can’t even type their name. People who say “eh.”  I’m sure there are more things, but I can’t think of them right now.
• 10.  I'm teaching a poetry workshop on Saturday at GHOP. I'm excited, nervous, and praying that I don't stick my foot into my mouth. I'm hoping that God pours an extra measure of grace on my brain, because although this is something I've always wanted to do, I've never done it, and I feel sorely underqualified!  I'm gathering my materials, and I hope I have a strong presentation for my first run...

And THAT is my list of 10 Random Things Swirling Around in My Brain! #GoCards

Dread, Monsters, and Muppets...

It's that time of the year. Every October, I can't help but reference my favorite children's book: "The Monster At the End of This Book."

In years past, as soon as October 1st hit, the dread would start...Her birthday is coming....

The days go by...the calender turns page by page...

 Every day that passed by would take me closer...and closer...and closer...

 Infant Loss Awareness Day (10/15)....the National Share Walk for Remembrance and Hope (10/19, this year)....It kept building....

You can try to stop time, but you're not going to be very successful. You can see the monsters coming...you know that on that day, you will consciously and subconciously replay

 Every. Single Detail. 

You will remember what the doctor said when he came in to see you that morning at 8:00 am. You will remember frantically calling your family in at 8:04. You will remember regretting the orange juice, but being thankful that you did because it held off the delivery of your perfect princess until everyone could be there.

You will remember being aggravated at the conversations going on around you, as a drug that felt like liquid death coursed through your veins. You will remember the strength of your sister's hand in yours, of her blue eyes looking back at you with concern, and of wanting to throw Taco Bell at your husband...

The lights were too bright...things were too rushed...the shaking, the smells, the sounds...

The cry...

You will remember your first look at the most perfect person you had ever seen...

Tiny, elegant grace...

A quick kiss, before she's whisked away to the NICU...

At 1:24 pm.

You will remember

Every. Single. Detail...

(Okay, that's not exactly true. It just sounds good...I do remember all that I just described, but there's a lot that was a blur. Going into heart failure means that your brain just doesn't work as well, and there are a few things that I'm missing. And as much as I hate to say it, some memories fade over time...But I remember a lot, and I cling to those memories ferociously. And hey--although part of me wants to feel guilty over not remembering every single detail, the rest of me acknowledges that deliveries--especially high-risk ones--are full of rushed decisions, quick procedures, and kind of a hot mess of what's-happening?!?!? So, realistically, I can't be expected to remember it all. I just remember what matters, and that's her beautiful face...)

Of course, it happens: The day comes.  You wake up in the morning, you start to go through your routine, and then you realize (if it hasn't woke you up already) that it's time: It's her birthday. 
The sky is still blue...The sun still comes up. You're expected to maintain your performance at work, unless you have vacation time built up that you can take off (I don't).
You find yourself wondering how you can "celebrate: Do you go to the cemetery? Not possible, this year...Do you cry? Sometimes. Is it awful, if you don't? No--it just means you're not at that stage right now.
I'd like to take the day off...to get a massage with my husband, to get a pedicure, and to indulge in things that make me feel relaxed and quiet...to do something that gives me a place to process my thoughts, and to be together with him. I'd like to let go of balloons at the cemetery (but we'll get the chance to do that at the Share Walk). Instead, the day will be rushed, and my time for reflecting will be done in the evening as I'm in bed. I might cry my face off; I might not. Grief is unpredictable in how it strikes, when it strikes, and how it presents itself. 
I'll spend a lot of time thinking of what Hannah Elizabeth Gayle means to me...how she smelled like Cheerios (and when I forget, I will literally buy a box just to sniff it)...how she felt (she weighed about as much as a gallon of milk, and when I forget, I will cradle that in my arms)...I might go through her memory box, though I know that's a definite trigger (but sometimes, I just have to look back at those tiny handprints).
I'll spend time wondering what she'd be like...in the first grade...I imagine she'd be doing a lot of twirling. I'm not sure why I think that, but every time I dream about her at this age, I see her twirling. I also think she'd be a redhead, and that she'd probably have inherited her auntie's blue eyes.
I think my house would be a sea of pink and glitter, and that I wouldn't mind.
I think she'd love her brother, and that I'd be saying a lot of "Stop changing his clothes! He's not a doll! Put the glitter down!"
I think she'd be smart and funny...but don't we all think that, about our children?
The sun will rise on October 30th, and it will set. Millions of children will be thinking about Halloween costumes and candy...but I will be thinking about my princess.
Morning and evening will pass. The world will most likely not end, and I will get up on Thursday, October 31st, and I will have not just survived; I will have lived through another birthday and another year, of not having her with me...I will be one more birthday closer to seeing her again.

It's been 6 years and 322 days (as of today, 10/16) since I last held my baby girl's hand, and kissed her goodbye. That's 2,512 days.
I am 2,512 days closer to seeing her again.
October 30th is Hannah Elizabeth Gayle Cooley's 7th birthday, and as a mother who has lost a child, I grieve; as a woman who is also a child of God, I have hope.

I reference this book every year around this time, and if you've read my blog, you probably know that. It really does explain this month better than anything I know. You consciously/subconsciously dread the date, it comes, you survive, and it's okay (it's not okay). It builds up as much as you let it; you break through it as much as you let yourself break through it. You can see the tsunami coming, turn your back, and let it hit you full force. It will drag you down into the bottom, and break you, and drown you in the process...or you can cling to Christ as an anchor, and turn and face the wave, knowing that it's going to hit you, but knowing that you're hanging on to something/Someone Who will protect you...He will keep you grounded, but He won't keep you in denial. You will have to face it.
But you will stand, with His help, after it passes.

Jesus helps you face the Monster At the End of This Book: Yourself. 

This time of year in particular, I am My Own Worst Enemy. I'm Grover--I'm The Monster. 

When I pull back the layers...when I embrace Him instead of my own grief...when I confront the truth of the loss, my own lack of understanding (does ANYONE ever understand why their child died?), and when I trust Him implicitly, the Monster is revealed for who he truly is: I am a broken woman, with scars and missing pieces that only He can heal, and He can only heal them when I let Him. 

He is my Anchor; He is my Healer.

He is the One Who calms the storm of grief, Who soothes the panic attacks and the questions that for now, don't have answers.

He is the One I trust.

And He makes ALL things new. 

Educating the Tiny Human in the Light of the Big, Scary "F"

There are things that as a parent, I have to wonder about even now. My little guy won’t see kindergarten for a long time, but when he gets there, what will he encounter?

One of the programs at my office exists to help children with learning issues. Some of these issues are related to vision; some are related to processing, and some are related to motivation. Although it’s foreign to me, some kids just don’t like to read.

That is one of my worst fears for my son.

Books opened up my universe. They expanded my imagination, they blew the doors off of my house. Books were my escape. To this day, I hate getting rid of books (even if it’s just to download the electronic version of the same story); I tell my husband, “But they’re my friends!!”  He laughs at me.  He didn’t have the same experiences I had growing up. He didn’t have a teacher that read to him every single day, or a parent that made sure the homework got done. I had teachers who hugged me and challenged me to do more, be more, read more, see more—I set records for books that I’d read, and when it came time to take those pesky ACTs, my reading comprehension score more than made up for my paltry math score.

Too bad I don’t get to read for a living!!!

Anyway, one of my current job responsibilities involves processing the outside medical records before the attending doctor reviews the chart. In doing so, I frequently come across schoolwork, and it almost always makes me emotional.  Today, page after page with a huge, red-lined, circled “F” marked the pages on this little person’s work. 

My heart breaks for this one.

Actually, my heart breaks for a lot of them, but this one stands out.  I understand the need for a grading system. I understand why that big, red “A” on my papers made me smile; I remember the pride of the gold star. And maybe it’s different for some kids—maybe they don’t mind the big, red “F.” Maybe they don’t feel the sting, the humiliation, the sense of worthlessness. Maybe they’re used to it.

I’m not.

Being branded with an “F” is the earliest kind of bullying, to me. It’s the earliest form of the destruction of self-esteem…it’s the earliest form of belittling, of knowing that you don’t measure up.

I had a year in school, during which I did my homework , but I didn’t turn it in. I can’t remember if it’s the same year my parents were married, or if it was the year before; I know my teacher was Mrs. Gately, and that she was kind. I also can’t remember if that was the year we first realized that I couldn’t see the blackboard? All I know, is that I got my first “D” on my report card, and I literally wanted to kill myself. Seriously.  My little world ended.

I was out on the playground, and I was so distraught that I stupidly dropped myself through the monkey bars. In doing so, my head went backwards, and I smacked it on one of the bright, yellow bars. Right between my pigtails.

I’ll never forget how much that hurt; I didn’t black out, and I didn’t cry; I was so shocked that all I said was “Ow!”  I don’t believe the latchkey worker noticed how badly I was hurt. I remember my mother’s face, when she saw the back of my head later that evening, and that she immediately got on the phone with someone who got a verbal beat-down. I remember the enormous knot on the back of my head, and I remember my mother not caring about my “D.”

I didn’t get into trouble. All she cared about was my head.

That’s one moment in my childhood that shines brightly, in feeling that my mom understood me—that she thought I was important because of who I was, not because of my grades.  I didn’t get another bad grade until high school, and it was legitimate. I was doing all of my work; I was simply lost in pre-calculus. Intensive tutoring brought that grade from a “D” to an “A” in one quarter, and my grades remained good until my Freshman year of college, when a social life became my Waterloo…but I digress.

I’ll never forget that first “D.” I was crushed and scared of being punished. I knew I could do the work—I just didn’t feel like turning it in. I have, to this day, no idea why I didn’t turn my work in. Not a clue. But I remember that grade, and the dread that went with it.

Do these children feel that? My heart breaks for the child that gets beaten down with the big, red, circled “D” or “F.” Do they understand the importance of the grades? More than that, do they understand that they are worth so much more than a letter on a page? Do they have parents that love them enough to challenge them, and understand them enough to know when to back down or when to get help?

This is making me re-think the education of my child. How will we approach it? How will we approach the bad grade, or the good grade? Will we succeed in teaching him that his grades do not define him; however, the work ethic he learns while pursuing academic excellence, will follow him throughout his life?

I hope he loves to read…

I hope he loves to learn…

If the big, scary, red letter “F” ever dares to appear on his schoolwork, I hope that he feels it…but not too much. I hope that it does bother him, because I want him to want better…but I want it to be for him, and not for me. I don’t want him to seek the “A” for “Mom’s Approval.” I want him to chase the “A” and find joy in not only the achievement, but in the quest. It’s a treasure hunt, of sorts, and I want him to see the fun of it.

I don’t believe in Outcome-Based Education. I don’t believe that everybody wins, and that everybody should get a medal for participating. Sometimes, my son will win; sometimes, he will lose. I hope that every time, he tries—to me, that’s the most important thing. I want him to understand competition, success, failure; but I don’t want him to be defined by it. If he tries, if he puts his heart into it and does his best, then I don’t care about the letter on the paper. If that little heart that tried so hard is crushed by the big, scary letter “F,” though, I may have to confront a teacher. I don’t believe any child that tries their hardest deserves an “F.” “D,” perhaps. But if they’ve tried, they haven’t failed; it’s only when they roll over and give up that the letter “F” is appropriate. That’s a failure.

I have so much to learn as a parent, and even more to learn as my son’s primary educator. May my biggest goal always be to teach him to love to be taught; to always reach for the next level; to keep trying until he gets it; and that the journey to education is a prize, in and of itself…May his heart never be frightened into apathy by the big, scary, red letter “F”…May his failures only serve to motivate success…and may we as parents be an encouraging, sometimes driving, force…