Moving at the Speed of Life

Life moves so fast…

Almost 18 months ago, in a state of grace-meets-panic-meets-medication, David and I brought a baby boy into this crazy world. At what was no doubt a pinnacle moment, we realized a miracle, saw God’s favor come to fruition, and had a lifelong dream fulfilled; the miracle of Jericho’s birth will always be altered by how close we came at delivery to losing our little guy (cord incident). I will never forget watching him turn from gray to pink, and hearing those first cries…seeing my husband stand up and cut the cord (he couldn’t, at Hannah’s birth—he was completely freaked out)…and that first kiss…Getting to have my son in my hospital room with me…Gosh. Just typing this makes me choke up. I can’t believe it’s been 18 months!  I have friends who have had 2, 3, 6, 13 childbirths; I don’t believe birth is ever “typical.” Perhaps “routine,” from a medical standpoint, but to a mother? Never.

Our little Teething Tyrant generally sleeps through the night, but for the past two nights, he has woken us at 4am. This wouldn’t be an issue, if not for the fact that my alarm generally goes off at 4:15 (with room for 3 smacks of the snooze button), Those last 15-29 minutes of sleep are my favorite, and losing them to a sad baby is…Well, it just stinks. Yesterday, I tried comforting him in between hastily throwing on my work clothes and running a comb through my mop of hair; I finally had to give up and wake up Daddy, so that I wasn’t late for work. This morning, I stumbled into his room; David actually woke up on his own and took over, telling me I could have my beautiful last 15 minutes of sleep.

I love that man.

I didn’t fall back asleep.

Instead, I listened to a father comfort his son. I’m pretty sure I heard the rocking chair (Old Faithful!)…a few softly-spoken words…maybe it’s just the smell of the one you love, holding you tight…Within a few minutes, he was back to sleep, and David was back in bed with me.  I took advantage of the few minutes I had left, and snuggled in next to him, myself.  Jericho’s on to something, there…there IS something wonderful about the smell of someone you love, holding you tight…

It’s the simple moments in life that mean the most. We’ve all heard it before—but think about your fondest memories. Sure, I have wonderful memories of amazing vacations with my family, but it’s not the location that made the impact: It’s the love. It’s sitting around a table and laughing at the fact that your mom just got presented with the biggest crawfish in history, on a plate of etouffee. It’s memories of washing dishes with my sister while my single mother sang Larry Gatlin songs about Mogen David. It’s learning to put brakes on my car with my dad, and laughing because I’ve somehow got grease on my forehead.

It’s snuggling into the shoulder of the man you’ve spent the last 13 years with, side-by-side, and still finding that he’s everything you’ve ever wanted…It’s the old t-shirt, sheets-are-a-mess, can’t-find-my-glasses kind of morning that you don’t want to end…It’s no alarm clock, because you know your son will wake you up at 6:30 (on most days) with coos and laughs over the baby monitor. 

It’s sitting on the couch, laughing over The Office, because you both have coworkers that match the characters on the show…

It’s BBQ on a Sunday afternoon…it’s ice cream on a Saturday night.  It’s “hey, I’ll take the baby so you can get 15 minutes more of sleep.” 

Time flies, and I find myself realizing the impact of the Simple Things…I find myself asking God to make the impressions…don’t let me forget…don’t let me ever take it for granted.  I love the developments Jericho is making; I love to watch him learn, walk, run, climb…I wish I could press “pause” and watch him for an extra hour every day. Slow down, little guy…Mommy wants to snuggle you a while longer…

Simple things…The Very Best Things…

9 ½ years ago, I married the Love of my Life (where it all began)…Although it seems like a lifetime ago, it also seems like yesterday…moments like remembering his expression when I started to walk down the aisle...finding out David forgot his vows…laughing about my Dad forgetting to have people sit down for the ceremony…that feeling of utter and complete panic before I left the Ready Room…and of singing “Bootylicious” with my bridesmaids before the ceremony in the Ready Room, not realizing that the ENTIRE congregation could hear us…(that STILL makes me crack up!)…

Realizing after the wedding that I’d done it…I’d made the greatest commitment of my life, and there was no changing my mind now…and realizing that was okay with me.

I find myself taking pictures almost non-stop, because I can’t get over how fast life changes…David is the photographer, but he’s taught me to capture memories…I can’t get over how the time is moving. 18 months—really?!?

It seems like yesterday.

Two people…two babies…a dog, a small house in the country…jobs, basic cars... a mortgage, some debt…Nothing fancy…

Everything I could ever want…

We’ve had our mountains and our deep valleys, but God has carried us through…We don’t have much, but we have so much that can’t be seen…

And I am so

Incredibly

Thankful…

The Look of Doom

Bill Cosby spoke about a situation in his comedy routine, in which his wife spotted him feeding their children chocolate cake for breakfast (“It has eggs! Flour! The basic food groups!”). Upon noting his faux PAs (get it?), he said her skull immediately split open and fire shot out of her eyeballs in anger/rage. 

Bill Cosby Chocolate Cake 

(And I have to say, re-listening to this monologue has me in stitches. I'm rolling!!!!!!!)

I’ve been on the receiving end of that skull-splitting-eyeball-fire-shooting glare before, from my mother. I’ve learned from the best, what it means to skewer someone with a glance, and I’m quite good at it when I need to emit a lot of emotion in a place where I’m not allowed to emulate the Shrieking Eels. Most recently, I utilized “the look” in our church basement, when my husband, being given the task of walking our 17 month-old son out to the car, glanced away from said child for a nanosecond.

I heard gasps, and BOOM! My son pulled a chair down on his head. I whipped my head around like a viper and shot my husband The Look of DOOM. I think an otherworldly force clamped down on my mouth, because by that point of my day, I’d been pushed just a teeny bit too far….Fortunately, I did NOT verbalize my exact emotion at his slight-but-significant oversight at that time; however, he has heard about it for two days now, as I am increasingly concerned at what appears to be a general lack of observation that plagues the male community at large. And for what it’s worth, I think my entire church saw me give The Look of DOOM, and probably read my mind, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t HAVE to say a word to get my point across. His fate was sealed.

I have come to realize that I will never be Mrs. Brady, that perfect suburban wife who has patented “Whatever you say, honey!” as a catchphrase. I will never be Ms. Edna, the beloved pastor’s wife who I viewed as an “extra” grandparent until she passed away at 94-ish. She emulated meekness, and in doing so, was a pillar of strength for my family. There are my peers that appear to have it all together in a SAHM-cocoon of championing their male counterparts as breadwinners, while they stay home and blissfully raise their young (this is how it seems in my head—believe me, I’ve spoken with many of them, and I know it isn’t the case in reality….it’s just how I imagine it HAS to be. I’m delusional—I get that). I feel like I will never successfully be that Submissive Wife.

I will ALWAYS have an opinion. I will ALWAYS be passionate, take initiative, and bulldog a situation when I feel like things are moving too slow. I will always tell my husband exactly how I feel, to a point; the question is how respectful in that expression will I be?  I do not feel like I fit into the church “mold” of a wife at all…partially because I’m a working mother, and that puts me in the minority of women around me who gave birth at the same time I did. I bring in 50% of the income (actually, 70% for the last few years, which is terrifically frustrating…thanks, economy), and I occasionally have to remind myself that doesn’t make me superior in any way, shape, or form. Part of me wonders if I ever became a SAHM, would I somehow magically be meeker? Would we somehow evolve into The Brady Bunch ideal? Is that what it would take, to carve off some of the edginess? Am I not supposed to be this way—at 36, haven’t I figured that out yet?

I was only slightly embarrassed at giving my husband The Look of DOOM in public, but then I just embraced it. Call me rebellious. Call me disobedient, or unsubmissive—do it. Walk in my shoes, and check yourself, because let me tell you—there are days when the limit has been reached (and lately, those days seem to all land on Sunday). Did it embarrass my husband, to get That Look in public? Probably, and that’s not good (coming from me). A little self-control on my part would have been good…but it WAS only a Look. I’m thankful that my eyes spoke before my mouth could.  I’ve been trying to think if I’ve ever witnessed someone give their spouse The Look of DOOM in public or at church, and outside of my mother, I don’t think so, which makes me wonder what kind of Kool-Aid y’all are drinking…More than likely, I’m just oblivious to other’s DOOM-face, because it HAS to have happened. My friends can’t be that perfect.

Sigh.

I have a long way to go.  Parenthood has pushed me further, drained me deeper, and dropped me to my knees like nothing else in life. And I wouldn’t have it any other way, in the course of learning to be the best wife and mother possible…It’s an adventure, a journey, and a quest; come high or low, it’s the best of learning opportunities, and I think David and I are embracing it all…even The Looks of Doom…