The Christmas Post...

My Christmas cards went out this week, and although I still have some to pass out at church, most of them included this little blurb...okay, it's lengthy, but I usually am. Here is the Annual Christmas "Letter" from The Cooley Family:

I genuinely love Christmas cards. I love the fact that someone invested the time into writing to my family, into making us part of their family, with something as simple as a card. There’s such beauty in the written word, isn’t there? I love knowing what’s going on in your corner of the world, beyond Facebook and Instagram!  It’s crazy when I think of how social media has impacted how our world “communicates,” and the lost art of using more than 140 characters…

Christmas cards are probably so exciting to me because my parents are retired postal workers. In fact, every time I walk into a post office, the smell of paper and ink makes me smile. Taking my son to the post office to drop off packages is so fun to me; I think I was just about his age when my mom started working for the postal service, and I have so many fond memories of her office. It’s sweet to see his little face when the packages disappear into the “magic box,” and when we walk past the LLVs (mail trucks—“PawPaw drove that!”).  My earliest memories in life were from when I was around 2-3, so as Jericho approaches 4, I wonder what things we do that will leave those indelible impressions in his little brain?

I never realized how much parenthood effects the littlest moments. He repeats things (often to my chagrin); he remembers things (“Mommy, you like shopping!”); he replicates things that we didn’t know he noticed; and basically, he grows up and makes these memories from his unique perspective of how we live. There’s a lot of pressure to not mess up this amazing tiny human being with our own faults…and there is an increased reliance on the grace of God to undo the bad and to emphasize the good, in how we raise our son.

Watching Jericho transition from 3-to-almost-4, has been wild. I don’t think anything could have prepared us for experiencing this stage of parenthood. He’s such a PERSON! He’s opinionated, hilarious, expressive, messy, loving, ornery; he’s the magnification of so many wonderful things that I see in David and even in myself. And, he’s likewise the magnification of so many ornery things I see in David….(see what I did there?  Bahahahahaha!)…Okay, AND in myself. My son is every bit as stubborn as his father and as persistent as his mother…and maybe a little more.

I hope that the memories we make for him are as wonderful to him as they are to us…

Major changes for David and I are….Well, NOTHING, and for those of you that know me, THAT’S AWESOME. In January, my cancer cells decided to do this gnarly cloaking-thing, and be non-reactive to the traditional body scan they do for thyroid cancer, so I had to do THAT test, and then the PET scan, which cost a small fortune. The results showed the cells were still there, but had decreased, so in July they decided to start with an ultrasound. That test showed no activity, and we’ll repeat that at the end of this month.  It looks like, for the first time since 2012, I’m about to escape 2016 surgery-free, which is AMAZING.

I continue to be employed by the University of Missouri-St. Louis College of Optometry, as the Credentialing and Compliance Specialist. My position expanded last year to include more responsibilities in coordinating the Mobile Eye Van services to underserved public schools in our community, and I have to say that’s my favorite part of my job. It’s amazing, how many children go through school and are told that they’re learning-disabled, when they’ve never had an eye exam! I also had the opportunity to do some guest-editing for a friend’s series of children’s books, which is a dream come true (look for I Can Color a Prayer by Sarah Hanks on Amazon. There are 3 books in the series, & a 4^th on the way).

David is employed by Met-Life as a Dispatch Specialist and really likes what he does in coordinating services. He has opportunities with this company that he is excited to take advantage of, and I’m excited to see him pursue new adventures. He purchased a new-to-him truck this year, and he really loves it; I’m sure our family loves the fact that we no longer have to borrow a truck every other month or so. J

And as for Jericho, well, every day is a new adventure for him. He is excelling at academic things, but struggles a bit with his fine motor skills, so we have goals to work toward. Earlier this month, he went on his biggest adventure of all when we went on a family vacation on the Carnival Fantasy. He would LOVE to tell you all about his experiences on the “party boat” and how he met Santa on his trip! Or, he can tell you aaaalllllll about the “chicken nugget fries” that he ate EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.  Sigh.

Anyways, after 6 years of not taking a vacation (and no, medical leave does NOT count as a vacation!), we decided that if the price was right, we would take a much-needed break. We explored as a family, and made some amazing memories.

I think that’s really what it’s all about—the memories. Facebook and Instagram puts a lot of pressure on society to present these images of a life that’s altered, filtered, and condensed into something palatable, but that’s not what our memories are made of. Our memories are made of the messes, not of the finished product…the paint on the floor, not the canvas on the wall. There is a tendency to be stand-offish, and not to get involved in the mess of intimacy with each other.

I love the mess (just look at my house). I love to know that my husband and my son, and our extended families, are all parts of actively creating memories with each other. Sure, there are a lot of funny pictures, but behind those pictures is a nucleus of people who ferociously love one another, and who are grounded on the amazing foundation of Jesus, Who gives us memories to celebrate, and Hope for a future with Him. He makes the messes into a perfect tapestry of testimony, and I can’t wait to see the Ultimate Finished Picture.

I’m sure that when Mary and Joseph went on their mess of a journey to Bethlehem, they were not prepared for what the Ultimate Finished Picture would look like. Every time I reflect on Mary’s trip as a young, heavily pregnant mother who had to give birth in a disgusting stable, I cannot help but think of the mess of it all, and what she must have been thinking. I wish the Bible gave more insight into her personality, because I’d like to think she was a normal human being. She was highly favored by God, and devoted to His Will…but she was a human being, about to give birth and making a really uncomfortable journey on a DONKEY that ended IN A BARN. That’s messy.

But it was God’s Will.

He makes messes into amazing things.

I am a mess. We all are—in spite of our lives on social media, we’re all a hot mess that only Jesus can untangle. I like being part of your mess, and I like knowing about your mess. I love watching how God makes our messes into amazing things together.  

This Christmas, let’s thank Jesus for the memories and the mess. Let’s thank Him for the Hope for our Future. Let’s thank Him for the journey, blisters and all.

Let’s thank Him for the messy birth in a messy stable, and for the messy Cross…

Let’s thank Him for the Holy Resurrection…for the fact that in Heaven, because of His messy Sacrifice, there are No More Messes…

I am grateful for Christmas…I am grateful for our lives, for our memories, and for the opportunity to celebrate one more Christmas together.

Merry, Messy Christmas to You and to Your Family, from my Hot Mess of a Family. J We love you!!!

Birthdays and Blogs and the Joys of Naked Cowboys...

I just realized that I haven't posted since May. That's a really, really long time, but it's been a busy summer...
A friend of mine recently noted that I process things through Facebook posts. That's actually not true; Facebook statuses are a mini-alert message of what's going on in my world, but I wouldn't call it "processing." I'd call it "Miniature Lunatic Rants and Anecdotes."

Blogging is how I process. Writing in long-term is how I process. And when things get too difficult to sort out, writing is my method of dumping the paint all over the floor, and using the mess to paint a mural on the wall. This time of the year, there is so much to process that I don't even know where to begin.

So here I am. 

I’m only writing because this time of the year beckons it…this time of the year demands that I sit down and process the feelings that are lingering in the back of my head, those feelings that I’ve temporarily been trying to suppress with Chinese food and bad TV…But they won’t be silenced, and I really don’t want them to. You deserve the processing that is the biggest part of the remembrance.

I’m not overwhelmed in sadness, although it’s there. It rears its head when it’s least convenient, like right before a meeting with strangers that may ultimately determine the course of my employment. It rears its head when I’m trying to process delicate data that requires focus that I just don’t have; it rears its head when I tell my boss why I have to leave without notice…when I stammer out that “I’m suddenly not feeling well” and by her quick response, I realize that I must look like it’s true. These incidents are far from common, but this week has been hard….just like it is every year leading up to your birthday.

The weight of the memories is too much. I know exactly where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. I remember the feelings leading up to your birth, and the incredible, incredible joy…the photos my husband took are beautiful and painful and everything I could ever ask, and I’m so, so grateful in retrospect that he peppered my days and your days with the flash of the camera…Back then, I thought it was too much, but now? Now I’d give anything for one more shot….but would I?

As your little brother gets older, the reality of your story gets even more convoluted, even more difficult to balance out in my brain. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if you would not have died, he would have never been born. I know it, and therein lies both the confusion and the gratitude…I can’t figure any of this out, and I’m no closer now, 10 years later, than I was when you were here.

From time to time, the guilt strikes, along with the fear and the intense, soul-gripping anxiety that is medically untreatable. It is always a conscious effort to stop the derailed-train of emotions and get it back on track with prayer and focus. I know from the very bottom of my heart that your birth and death were part of God’s plan—that’s not saying that part of the plan didn’t suck and I don’t understand it—but it is freeing to know that faith that fills in the gaps when we can’t figure something out. I don’t understand why He decided you would be born only to die so quickly after. I’m still angry; I’m still devastated, and though those feelings are tempered with time, they’re still there, and I am comfortable saying that they always will be. Jesus knows how I feel; why would I try to hide it or act like I’m at peace with it? No parent is ever at peace with the death of their child—never. It’s the most unnatural event in the human experience, and it’s not the way life is designed.

Your birth (which nearly killed me—then again, so did your brother’s birth, so you kids are even) made my heart explode (literally) with happiness that I never thought I’d experience again…but I did!!!  I DID, and it’s because the joy of your birth infected my soul to pursue another chance at motherhood.  The joy of your birth confirmed what I’ve known since I was 3 years old: I am meant to be a mother. I was meant to be YOUR mother; I am meant to be your brother’s mother, and that is all I have ever wanted to be, second only to being a wife. You and your brother are my deepest heart’s desire, and for the longest time, I was so unfulfilled and empty…I held you, my soul was complete and my role in life had purpose…and then you were gone, and so was everything in me that had just been made whole…

Hannah, the emptiness in my life….
I can remember exactly how my days and nights felt in the days—weeks—months---years after your passing.
It’s so hard to juxtapose the fullness we say we have in Christ with the emptiness of the aching womb…

Having your brother didn’t “fix” me. He’s not a “band-aid” baby; he’s a Rainbow Baby, through-and-through.  He’s my Promise, my Answered Prayer, my tangible reminder that Jesus loves me, that God heard me and your father. I’ve never been more grateful for a human being than I am for you, your father, and your brother. The three of you make my heart so whole, so light…The reality of the Family Picture, of the incomplete nucleus of us, is heavy and confusing but also full of gratitude and realized hope…

Hannah, I can’t celebrate your birthday without mourning your death…without mourning the unanswered questions, the unrealized dreams. You were here, but then you were gone, and it still hurts. It still hurts…what else can I say? Christian rhetoric be damned; yes, I know you’re in Heaven, blah, blah, blah. I’m still your mother, you’re still a part of me, and we will always be connected in some inexplicable way. I will always wonder who you would have been…what you would be like. I look at nieces and other families and try not to think about dates of birth that come across patients’ paperwork…I look at forms that detail disabilities and think of the split-second where we thought you’d survive, but would be critically handicapped and think of how we would have stopped time to care for you…I pass the section of clothing for your age group in the store and still, to this day, think of the glitter we would have in our home. I saw a toddler dressed as a flamingo at a Fall Festival last week and my heart stopped…

And then I looked at your brother dressed in his cowboy-finest, and it started again. There is little time to process the things that threaten to overwhelm me when I’m chasing a pseudo-nudist/cowboy.

You led us to him…the love we have for you led us to him, and he is everything we could have ever dreamed, even on the hard days. I don’t know how or when we will tell him about you; you’re certainly no secret, but as he gets older, he will start to understand that those pictures on the wall are not all him…he will have questions, and I am praying even now for the words to answer. The answers we give now will set the stage for the deeper questions he has later on…for the times when the enemy comes to steal, kill, and destroy his self-esteem, for the times when he hears the whispers and the lies that say he is not unique, that he is not special, that he is “second,” or that he is a “replacement.” That day will come…I know it, because in my own way, I’ve been there. I hope that by the time we have that conversation, that he reads the words I’ve written to both him and to you that share the deepest love in my heart…that he understands the love I have for him, and how utterly unique and special it is. I hope he gets even the tiniest inkling in his heart of how grateful we are for his smile in our lives…of how blessed we are, of how great the reward is for the hard-fought Battle of Jericho. He is such a tremendous gift…I hope he understands, and grasps that there is no pressure in being who and what he is; there is only love and appreciation for him, and for the great, mysterious grace of God.

10 years is a long, long time; it seems like yesterday. Your birth was a traumatic experience; I didn’t realize how awful it was until I had your brother, which was peaceful and planned, and so exciting. In retrospect, I actually feel somewhat violated by my birthing experience and by a doctor who seemed more concerned about how “perfect” his incisions were, rather than the long-standing damage done to my body by symptoms that pointed in every direction to cardiac complications. I’m not angry with him; I’m frustrated with an industry that has made the most human experience of giving birth into a highly-marketable commodity that is a minefield of lies. Giving birth is difficult, natural, raw, and messy, yet we’re taught to expect a stylized suite in luxury accommodations that look lovely but fail when we look at statistics. Since your birth and death, the façade of American healthcare has been shattered in my life, and now I know: 1 in 4 pregnancies in our country end in loss. 25%--we don’t even rank in the top 10 countries with the lowest infant mortality rates (http://www.mapsofworld.com/world-top-ten/countries-with-lowest-infant-mortality.html)

Our nation is failing our children.

We’re facing an election over the next few weeks, and there’s a candidate who thinks you--you, my perfect, 34-week angel—do not matter. She thinks that babies like you are trash. I can’t even look at her face on the television. She even thinks your brother, at 36 weeks, is trash. I don’t understand this kind of disregard for humanity. That is a woman who has never known what you and I have known, what you and your brother have known. She has never known the love of a mother, not even for her own child. She doesn’t value life, and she doesn’t even know what it is. She couldn’t; she is blinded by deception. I feel so sorry for her; a life without love just isn’t a life at all. Maybe I’m being terribly judgmental, but how could anyone—anyone—look at your sweet face and not be in love?

I am sad for our nation and for the place we are now….for a nation that feels that we are an accidental collision of cells without purpose, and are therefore worthy of nothing but destruction.

You, you beautiful girl, were created by God. So was I. I know your brother was, and so was your Daddy. God cares for us; He loves us, and He sacrificed His own Son—I can’t imagine—so that we could all be reunited someday. This is my hope, this is why and how I breathe; this isn’t rhetoric or myths. This is Truth. Jesus is real; I know you know that better than anyone.

I don’t know what your life is like in Heaven, or if you remember me…I don’t know how you pass the days, or what you will look like when we meet again. I know I have my own beliefs of what happens to babies that die before they’re capable of making decisions, and I feel those beliefs were whispered into my heart by the Holy Spirit when I needed them most. I believe we will have our chance together, and I do not believe that has to make sense to anyone else.

I believe in reunion and restoration.
I believe the Word of God is true, even when I do not understand it.
I believe in the Hope He gives, and I rest my life on it, even when my life is not easy.

Hannah, I miss you. I miss the way you felt, all snuggled up on my chest…the way you smelled like Cheerios…the sounds you made, the way your fuzzy hair stuck out…your beautiful eyes and your gorgeous fingers and tiny toes that were shaped just like mine…I miss the way you looked at me, and I miss holding you in my arms most of all…I still feel you, even now, and I remember…I will not forget, and neither will anyone in our family.

I hope that if for some reason, you can sense me where you are, that you still feel the love I have for you and that it has never faded. I hope that you know you are thought of every day, and that I am so incredibly grateful for you.  I am grateful for the fight you put in me, for the faith you put into your father, and for the days we are living right now…I am so grateful for the life we have, for Jericho, for our family…you made me never give up. You showed me and your father what we are capable of going through, and what we have in each other, and every year that goes by, that gets stronger.

Most of all, I am grateful for Jesus, Who walked us through the darkest days, Who has grace for our anger and for our confusion, and Who truly does trade beauty for ashes. I am grateful that in death there is life, and that nothing is for nothing.

Hannah Elizabeth Gayle Cooley…I am grateful for every second I spent with you, so for your birthday, I am going to set my face and celebrate our time together. I never want any emotion other than gratitude to cloud your memory or my celebration of the gift of you.

I love you…
And I always will.
Happy 10^th Birthday, Beautiful Girl…

I get an "F"

Yesterday was pretty much a complete failure for me. I tried to go to church. I tried to be "normal." I failed. As soon as I got there, a well-intentioned person mentioned my daughter, and though I made it through worship (barely--all of those songs about Heaven? Not cool. Some days it's just not a comfort, you know?!?), I was ready to leave....and then the same well-intentioned person stopped me mid-flight, and oops--there went the embarrassing ugly-cry.
I give up.
I have no intentions of going to church on Mother's Day ever, ever again. I don't like feeling like I have a target on my head...like, even if there's really not a spotlight, and no one else really thinks about what my husband and I have been through, all it takes is one person, and I'm in the weeds. I just don't want to feel like a spectacle, and since I seem unable to do that, I'm just DONE with church on Mother's Day. FOR. GET. IT.
That being said, in the midst of my flight out of the church (and subsequent ugly-cry/sob/bah!), I neglected to have conversations with two very special people that I simply wanted to hug.  I GET the whole "I don't really want to talk about it" thing. I don't want to talk about it unless it's on my terms. I'll start the conversation if/when I want to; you just don't know how fragile someone can be until you hit them with that subject right out of the gate, and watch them crumble. I was keeping it together for the sake of my own dignity, for the sake of my husband...I really didn't want to talk about my daughter yesterday. I have days like that. It's incredibly intimate, regardless of how many times I've blogged about Hannah-girl. So, for the two people I was thinking of, I just wanted to hug them in silence.
I appreciate silence.
Please don't laugh...if you laugh at that sentence, you don't know me very well.
There is such a deep, deep unpredictable tenderness with grief...10 years now, and I am still so fragile certain days of the year.  This was my 10th Mother's Day without my daughter...I can't put my feelings into words, and if I can't, why would someone else try?
I can't.
David and I have walked such a searing path...we understand the timing of the discussion between ourselves, as we are the only ones who went through Hannah's loss in the ways that we as parents went through it. He asked me yesterday why I wanted to leave church, and I got aggravated--"Do I have to freaking explain?!?!?" He didn't know I'd been "triggered;" he also had the sense to not question me any further. He did what he does...he took me to a park.
That man takes a lot of crap for being thick-headed sometimes, but darn it if he doesn't GET me so incredibly well...Sitting outside while he played with Jericho was what my heart needed...sitting at home, drinking a margarita, eating barbecue and binge-watching The Office? Perfect.
He makes me feel as normal as any post-loss-anxiety-struggling-post-thyroidectomy-stuck-with-stupid-cancer-loon-of-a-wife can feel.
It's very easy, post-embarrassing ugly cry, to beat myself up for not being able to keep it together.
I really shouldn't care.
I cried. Big Deal.
Yep--10 years later, it still hurts. Last night, I had a phone call with my bestie from elementary school, where we basically told Hallmark to suck it, because Mother's Day is an atrocious stick in an open wound that makes us want to drink. That's such an awful thing to say, because as a daughter, I want to honor my awesome Mama (we celebrated her on Thursday due to logistics). But as a mother, MD makes me want to scream at the universe for all of the questions that are answerless...and as a Christian, I guess I'm supposed to be okay with that.
I'm not.
Neither is my friend, who lost her Mama and her Grandma...who never conceived, and who will never conceive, in spite of the fact that she and her husband would be AMAZING parents. Or my other friend, who lost her mother as she was becoming a mother herself...Or my other friend, who has spent the better half of a decade trying to conceive, only to hit one obstacle after another, and has a whole new series of appointments looming....Or my other friend, who just had her second failed attempt at IVF...
Why do we go through these things?
What is God thinking?
Do I trust Him enough...do I love Him enough...to set my questions aside and keep going?
I do....
That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, and that doesn't mean I have to wall off that hurt. Do that, and watch your life be over as you know it.
Mother's Day is so, so hard...so many unanswered questions, so much heartache, for so many people that I know, that I love...for myself, for my family...
I love my friend at church that mentioned my daughter, that had the best of intentions...she couldn't have known that I was just hoping to survive the day. She couldn't have known that she knocked on the door of a glass house...because normally, I don't consider myself to BE a glass house. I can normally discuss my daughter and keep it together.
Well, I didn't yesterday, and rather than apologize for it, I'm just gonna own it and start over, today...
And give up on it for next year.
Next Mother's Day, I'm sleeping in and watching Netflix.
(BTW, the best part about Mother's Day, besides barbecue? Rico-Bean--who never saw me cry; it's important to me that he not, at this point--tried to "kiss my freckles off." I thought that was the sweetest thing in history, and gave me much-needed warm fuzzies.) :) 
For every heart out there that struggled this weekend...who dreaded another Mother's Day full of confusion, secret hurt, public hurt...who dealt with a tender heart, or even a broken heart...
I am so, so sorry you're hurting...
There is no perfect way to grieve, and no one can tell you how you're supposed to feel. If they try, they're not your friend.
I will not slap a churchy-answer-band-aid on your hemorrhaging heart and feel like I've done my Christian duty...You are allowed to grieve your loss, your missing piece, any way you need to. Give yourself permission to hurt. Don't clean yourself up to approach the God you're questioning, the Jesus you don't understand. He gets it. He gets YOU, and He knows how it is to hurt and feel like the heavens are silent...He will love you in the dredges of sadness or in the sidelines of grief.
Please don't feel like you have to "church up" in the process of grief, regardless of where you are in the process...I struggle with that.
You are loved, I am loved, even when we don't understand or have the answers, or when the answers just plain suck. We are loved, even when we ugly-cry and leave church or accidentally cause a scene, or stand in our backyard and yell, "SUCK IT, HALLMARK!!!!" with our bestie over the phone.
So, yeah...
That was my Mother's Day.
Ugly-cry-missed-conversation-fleeing-church-sitting-at-a-park-post-ugly-cry-nap-barbecue-margarita-The-Office-freckle-kissing-yelling-at-Hallmark
And waking up the next day, pouring my heart out to God in my morning commute, and getting reminded once again that where I am in this process, this never-ending process, is where I am supposed to be...that I don't need to explain myself to Him, or rationalize myself to Him...that He hears me as I am, and He hears you as you are, and He Loves Us, even when we're ugly-crying over things society tells us we should be over. GOD NEVER TELLS US TO GET OVER IT. He says "Let Me help you through this."
He never tells us we're stupid or silly for feeling the way we do; He honors our hearts, because He created them.
Jesus gets me...He gets my husband and my son, and for that, He GETS me for eternity...and I get Him...
I remind myself of eternity on a daily basis...
And I remind myself that there is no "right" or "wrong" way to navigate this process...the only thing we have to do is to trust Him (which is sometimes the hardest thing of all).
One foot in front of the other, y'all...
Just keep swimming...
Even on Mother's Day...

Observation vs. Apology

I want to clarify something in my blog that I wrote yesterday. David (my husband) commented on Facebook that he loved "most" of my blog (frankly, I was surprised as h*ll that he even read it--that's two, now!--not that I'm keeping track---Okay, maybe I am). Well, that's a loaded statement! 'What do you mean, "most"?!?' I said. "Well, I feel like you kinda bashed some people," he said."
"Oh....You do?"
My heart sank.
"That was never my intention...I wrote a disclaimer at the beginning of the blog...."
"Well...."

Sigh.

I don't ever want something I've written to hurt someone. My intention wasn't to make anyone feel singled out or "bashed;" it was only to record an observation I'd made as a parent, and that I'd felt as an adult in making/forming relationships (and in failing). I'm not good at making friends, personally, despite what you may think. I say dumb things, I have bad timing, and I'm far better at sympathy than empathy (which sucks). I am AWKWARD, I feel awkward, and social gatherings tend to bring that out in me at its worst. I tend to stay close to those I know, because they know me, and they know when to write off my quirks.

Matter of fact, I tend to do the same thing that I accused others of doing in the blog I wrote yesterday: I limit myself to the familiar when surrounded by the unfamiliar. The difference was that I was in a situation where everyone around me was the unfamiliar (beyond a surface level), for the most part, and I was miserable. If I wanted to, I could have worked my way into any number of conversations; I chose not to, and I chose to stew over the fact that no one invited me into a conversation. That's the truth of the matter. I limited myself, and got pissy over the fact that no one catered to my subliminal pleas for acknowledgement.

So, please, please, PLEASE do not think I was insulting or bashing anyone. I was surrounded by lovely people, and I wouldn't for anything want any of them to think I thought otherwise. Social situations are so incredibly uncomfortable for me; no one would generally guess that, but my anxiety levels are through the ROOF on occasions such as that--especially at church. I'm not taking down the blog I posted yesterday, because it wasn't about WHERE we were; it was about my journey as a parent, watching my son grow in to a little boy. It was about my hopes for him, my struggles to relegate myself to being an observer, and my love of just being in his world...

Sometimes, I write something that is more brutal than brutally honest...If you're hurt because of something I wrote; if you felt it was accusatory or "bashing," please let me know. I can guarantee you that was never my intention, and I am truly sorry if I made you feel that way.

I am learning...and maybe this time, I knocked someone else down as I was skinning my own knees...

An Open Letter to My Son: You Are Not A Dinosaur

*Nothing in this blog is written with the intention of offending anyone. It is simply my observation of a recent social situation I found my son in, and that I found myself in. This is a real-life event that was revolutionary to me, and this is my perspective of it/response to it.

Dear Son: 

I’m not sure you’ll ever read this…but you might. Maybe someday, you’ll realize that your mama talked about you online, and you’ll decide to root through the archives to find out what I said…and I hope you do. Because in spite of the mistakes that I have/I will made/make, I think the biggest thing you will glean from these archives is that I love you with my entire heart and soul, and that my hope for you is nothing less than a personal relationship with Jesus…and that I am endlessly grateful to Him for you, your sister, and your Daddy…But, I digress:

Son, I want you to know that in spite of your best efforts, You Are Not A Dinosaur.

I know, I know—To be a T-Rex, in all of his roaring, short-armed glory, would be a wonderful, exciting thing. You get to be the biggest thing on the playground! You get to be the center of attention! You get to command the room, to be the most frightening, coolest, awesomest thing around!!!

Buuuuuut, you’re not a T-Rex.

You’re a you.

And while you’re pretty much the center of my world, to everyone else you’re another person in the room…and in some situations, your roaring and stomping about is kinda scary/annoying/weird (although I think it’s adorable).

Over the weekend, I had the chance to watch you in a different social circle. You were the only boy in your age group; the only boys in the room were older, and they were related. You haven’t learned about “cousins” yet, because we don’t live near our families. We don’t come from what’s called a tight-knit family, and although we’ve been fine with that up until now, I’m beginning to wonder if that should somehow change (I have no idea how, being as you are considerably younger than most of your cousins on either side, and/or we live too far away). I watched you play with the little girls that were close to your age, until they decided to run off like little girls do, and play amongst themselves. Then I watched you try to break into the group of boys/cousins that were older than you…You went up to them; they carried along with what they were doing. You tried to be a dinosaur and to chase them (it worked on the little girls), but they paid you no mind. You went over to them and roared louder; they still paid you no mind, and one of them actually kicked you.

You weren’t hurt (physically), and he was duly reprimanded; you continued playing like nothing had happened, and I kept my distance, following you around the room in case you decided to jump off of something/attempt to injure yourself.

I realized something in that moment.

I realized that you were echoing what was in my heart…I had wanted to talk to a group of women that were my age, but they formed a tight circle, and I continued to be on my own. If I could have roared like a dinosaur (something that, in my head, translates to, “Hi! Will you be my friend? I don’t know anyone around here very well, and I’m a tad lonely, being as my husband seems to know/like/be liked by everybody, and I feel like a total freak show, so could you just talk to me so this cafeteria doesn’t give me a high-school flashback?!?”), I might have…It is EXHAUSTING, to be in a group of people that you’ve known for several years but don’t really know, and to smile and act like that’s all okay, when what you really want to do is just leave and never come back, because it all feels like a complete waste of TIME.

In my heart, I was roaring.

In my heart, I felt totally rejected…and when I saw you trying to get the attention of the boys by roaring like a dinosaur, it broke my heart. You’d roar, and your bright eyes would dart back and forth between their faces, looking to see if they’d heard you….looking to see if they would accept you into their circle, and to see if they would play with you.

Sure, you were fine (it seemed), but I was not. Feeling rejected for myself is one thing, but seeing it happen to you? I’m not cool with that.

I realize that you’re 3. You’re not drawing the same things from perceived social rejection like I am at 38. You’re not looking at things through a lifetime of being a perceived extrovert (when you’re actually totally NOT). You’re 3. You have a lifetime of rejection ahead of you, because you’re a human being, and that’s what we do to each other, regardless of whether or not we’ve slapped a “Christian” label on our shirts. You will spend your lifetime making friends, losing friends, being made fun of, making fun of people, and learning the ropes of relationships. I can’t learn these things for you, especially since I haven’t learned them well enough yet myself.

I wanted to pick you up and carry you out of that cafeteria. I wanted to hold you, to tell you that it’s okay—you don’t need to be friends with those boys, anyways; you’ve got ME. And later on in the day, I called my own Mama, and told her about my own perceived rejection, because even when I don’t have or can’t make friends, I have MY MAMA.

Oh, son…You are so bright and shiny, and the world is so new to you. I know that learning the ropes of social situations will be a process for you, and I’m certain it will be an intense process for me to observe. I have to wonder if I will ever stop wanting to collect you and hold you, and carry you out of the room when your attempts to make friends go south.  I think of all of the times my mom had to rescue me from the cliques and the bullies and the peer pressure I faced even in my Christian school, and I wonder how different/same it will be for you as a boy…I think of the times my mother didn’t intervene, and let me learn my lesson (or when I didn’t tell her what I was dealing with, because I figured she had enough to handle).  I think of the unsolicited advice my mother probably got (granted, with all of the sancti-mommies online, I think unsolicited advice is a greater issue today than it was in the 80’s), and/or the comments other parents made at her methods of parenting (“You’re not letting her drive when she’s 16?!?  What’s wrong with YOU?!?”).

(Sidebar: Unsolicited parenting advice is yet another form of mom-shaming. You don’t like that my son sits in his stroller while we eat dinner in an establishment that doesn’t have a high chair, instead of running around like a hellion? KEEP IT TO YOURSELF. I can see that you don’t agree with my methods; I really don’t care. Thank you, but no thanks.)

I’m going to do my best for you. I’m going to try to watch you learn your lessons; I’m going to try to take the necessary steps back, to let you jump when you need to…but I will be close enough to catch you if I have to.  People may tell you I’m hovering. They might even be so stupid as to tell you that I’m so close because I’m afraid to lose you, because your sister passed away (if anyone EVER says that to you, let me know, because I will handle them. Harshly.). 

Son, I love you more than words. I will be here when no one is impressed with your dinosaur impression, and you can roar all you like. I might even roar with you.

I will not tell you that you are the smartest, the cutest, the best in the world. I will tell you that you are the smartest, the cutest, and the best in MY world. The World will show you that you are simply YOU…that you are not a dinosaur, no matter how much you want to be. You are just another little boy, growing up and figuring life out with millions of other little girls and little boys, who have mommies and daddies who have different rules, different goals, and different priorities.  I can’t make that any easier for you.

What I can do is to point you toward the Lord…I can love your Daddy, and in this unstable world we can provide a stable home for you to grow up in. We can love you, kiss your boo-boos, hug your little chest, and let you cry when you need to. We will laugh and play with you, and you will continue to be the center of our world; hopefully, you can carry that love and stand on the foundation we will lay in your life. That foundation can carry you through the rejection of friends, girls, whatever…you will always know you can come home and be the biggest dinosaur in the room. And you’ll always know that if you need us to pick you up and carry you out of a situation, we will…We will discipline you as needed, we will make mistakes, we will forgive and ask for forgiveness, and we will all grow in this process…

Our family is just….well, we’re a bit different, and you’ll figure that out. In our social circles, lots of mommies don’t go to work; lots of kids go to school at home; and lots of families have lots of kids. We don’t do/have any of those things, for multiple reasons that I constantly second-guess. There are things you won’t get to be a part of, but there are really cool things that you WILL get to be a part of, and we will do our best to keep you as involved as possible. Your family is really unique, and you’ll learn to appreciate what makes us special, and what makes us perfect for you. You’ll also learn that your family is fierce, incredibly loyal, independent, co-dependent, colorful, hilarious, messed-up, and awesome on every side…just like a lot of families. We’re all going to be here for you, and we can all roar, together.

Life is all about learning. We never stop, whether we’re 3 or 93. Just like this weekend, there will be so many times that I will look at you and learn about myself (good and bad), just as much as I try to teach you by my own example (also good and bad).  We all have times where we feel overlooked and uninvited, and we all have a dinosaur in our hearts that just wants to be acknowledged and loved…We all want to belong.

My little guy…my brave boy…how I love you, and how I wish I could learn it all for you, to keep you safe and unharmed. I wish I could take all of your hurts for you (and therein lies an entire volume dedicated to the grace of Christ), and make life as easy as possible. I wish I could make all of your friends for you, and filter out those I don’t want you to know…in my Type-A mindset, I wish I could make all of your plans and run your life to be as bump-free and methodical as possible. We all know that’s completely impossible and unhealthy. You have to grow, learn, discern, process, evolve, and eventually, break out on your own, away from our carefully-cultivated nest and out from under my ever-vigilant watch.

I’m absolutely terrified/exhilarated/petrified of that day…

But it’s coming…

And every day is one day closer.

You are going to be so amazing…I can’t wait to see what God has planned for your life. These things, these worries I have, and this journey you’re on, are so far beyond you right now…you have so much to learn and to grow into.  Take your time. Go slow.  Be free to be loud/annoying/weird to the world.

When you’re grown, you’ll learn that you are not a dinosaur…

But for now…

Roar as loud as you want.