America….Stop Being So Sensitive!

Why are American’s so easily offended theses days? I really don’t get it. I don’t care what someone else says, does, writes, or “tweets.” They cannot change who I am, what I do, or what I believe in . Why does everyone have to watch everything they say so carefully? One wrong, most likely unintended word, and the whole context of the statement is blown out of proportion.

The other day an NBC announcer tweeted the word “real” in a statement about an adoptive child and her parents. What they really meant was “biological,” but because of one word the news exploded. It was like a call to the country, or at least those who feel the need to be easily offended even when it has nothing to do with them, to validate adoptive parents.

I am an adoptive parent. I know who I am to my daughter and no one can change that.  I am not offended by that statement and neither should anyone else be. No one can change who you are or what you do with a word, or a statement. Why do we as Americans feel the need to place so much weight behind another individual’s off-handed comment? Why do we feel that everyone has to use specific terminology or we will immediately be offended for whoever it may remotely apply to? More often than not it does not apply to the offended one, and does not offend a majority of those who it may apply.

This is merely one example of what continues to be a growing  issue in this country. I could go on forever.

Please America…..STOP BEING SO SENSITIVE!

 

 

Second Mom Love

My husband is playing loud, peppy, music on the Amazon Echo, the 12-year old is trying to comfort me with talking, but what I need is silence. Today has taken a sharp turn for the worse. That day has come. It’s the day I knew was coming for a very long time, but I pushed it to the back of my mind. The day I have to prepare to say goodbye to someone I love. I guess I am lucky, at least I get to say goodbye.

She did not give birth to me, I did not live in her home, I did not give her snarky, teenage lip, but she is still my mother. She’s had more influence on my life than she’ll ever know. She gave me plenty of advice when I was younger, a reprimanding when necessary, a hug when needed. Without saying a word she has taught me to be carefree whenever possible, and that worrying wasn’t something to waste time on. She taught me that kids running in and out of your house are a blessing, and the more the merrier. That if your best friend’s six-year old daughter shows up at your door looking for one of those yummy yellow apples you always have in your refrigerator, invite her in for one. She’s taught me so much that it’s hard to separate it from what I learned from my other second mom, or my actual mother.

There were three of us. Families that lived on the same street in a time when kids were outside playing until dusk.  Between all three families there was someone for everyone to play with. Mrs.Ps kids were my brother and sister’s age. My other second mom, Mrs. E., had kids that were my sister and my age. The youngest, Lynn, has been my best friend since she was born the year after me.

They called themselves The Three Musketeers. They did everything together. Every week they would go bowling. They would throw all nine kids into the back of an old “Woody” station wagon and head to the local alley. We would go to the in-building daycare while they played a few games. They only left a kid once, and only for a few minutes, but lesson learned to count before leaving.

Along with the other neighborhood kids, we could always be heard and seen hanging out on the block after school, on the weekend, or on a hot summer day. I remember once when we had  a massive rain storm,  Mrs. P’s kids pulled out the fishing boat, and we rowed around in the flooded ditch. It was the highlight of the year on our street, at least for us kids.

Eventually all three families moved, and we had to stay in touch from afar. Same state, same county, different cities. We visited plenty, but no more walking down the street for a yellow apple for me. Even later still, my family was the only one left in the state, but no matter how far apart or how busy our lives got as we grew older, the bonds have remained strong. They are my family. They always will be.

One of my mommies is leaving this Earth soon and I’m not ready. I never will be. I thank God that He put her in my life though. She will always be a part of me, and always have a piece of my heart.

 

“How Fast Are You Going?”

Yesterday my parents and I were on our way home from the hospital after my mom’s major back surgery two weeks ago, and a subsequent rehab stint.  She was sitting in the front passenger seat, and due to restrictions from the surgeon, could not lean over to see the speedometer. My mom likes to have control of every situation. She is a worrier. As we were heading down the expressway towards their home she patted my leg and asked me, for the second time in 5 minutes, “How fast are you going?”  I was not speeding and there was no clear reason why she was asking, but she is my mother, and I have known her all my life.

After spending two weeks sitting in hospital rooms for long hours, making special meals due to her restricted diet and incessant worrying, and more time with my strong-willed mother than I am used to, I was reaching my limit.  In the end, that comment in the car was a reminder for me. I have seen how stress affects her and promised myself years ago that I would not do that to myself. Life is too short to sweat the small stuff. Appreciate what you have. Look for the positive side of everything. Find  beauty in the world.

My parents are only in their seventies, but at some point in the last few years I realized that my time with them is limited. Many of my friends have already lost their parents, so last night when I tucked them into bed, and I mean that literally, I felt pretty lucky. My dad was already laying down, and I finished helping my mom into the bed, covered her up, and turned off the lights. Oh, and I offered to read them a bedtime story, sadly they declined. For me, it was a moment I won’t forget. Coming full circle.  Role reversal at its finest.

In the wee hours of the night she called from the bedroom in a small voice….”help!” I stumbled out of bed to assist her in the journey to the bathroom, reminiscent of the kids’ younger years,  but for her I am a spotter of sorts. As I walked behind her to make sure her legs didn’t go out on her and held  on to a safety belt wrapped around her chest, she pushed her walker across the carpet while comparing the pile to a field of corn. Her arms were weak and it was tough work. We had to take breaks along the 30 foot trip for her to catch her breath, yet she was also impatient to get to the destination. In her rush, she was a terrible driver. Banging the walker into everything, she failed in her mission to allow my dad to sleep and she giggled all the way. She’s pretty cute in the middle of the night, making me laugh, and unknowingly saving herself just like a child does. When she starts giving me step-by-step instructions for a menial task today, I will remember those late night antics.

I will not let the little things get to me.  Instead, I will pick the moments  I never want to forget. These  are the memories I will treasure when they are gone.

Will you do the same?  “How fast are you going?”

 

 

“A Storm’s a Brewin'”

We have had a house guest this week. A nasty and violent visitor reeking havoc where it is not wanted. We have been free of its wrath for several years. I guess our time was up. Stomach flu, we abhor you.

Bill stayed home Tuesday, to keep tabs on me…..from a distance whenever possible. I had spent the night with the porcelain prince, and although he proved useful, I did not ask for, nor want, the date. It had been years since I had spent such time with him, and hope it’s years before we meet in this manner again.

Shortly after 9am, Bill came running to the bottom of the stairs in concern. The visitor was raging again. Loudly. Once he found me resting peacefully, he started searching for the source. The youngest child was at school, the sleeping, middle child,  was fine, and the oldest was at chemistry class….or not. Ethan had made it to school, taken a quiz, turned in a paper, and told his professor that he was ill and would have to make up the lab. He raced home at break-neck speed, pulled into the driveway, grabbed his bag, opened the car door, dropped down to the ground, and decorated the front lawn with his breakfast. He was driving my car.  Bonus points for keeping it outside. Number one child, was the second victim.

It was at this point that Bill and child number two started to bond in brotherhood, to protect their right to health.  The Clorox wipes and Lysol came out. Lines were drawn. We are here. You are there. Do not cross this line.  They went to the raw juice bar, and downed immunity ginger shots together, then questioned their sanity as the intense spice burned its way down to their bellies. They each had an extra large green juice chaser, cooling the flame,  and cleansing the body, in hopes of further protection. They swore their allegiance to health. They would not fall.

Yesterday, for whatever reason, after 24 hours of reprieve, it felt safe. I don’t know why I thought it was okay to take a deep breath, but I did. I continued washing the linens, towels, and bacteria-laden clothing, optimistic that a full family infection had been avoided. Unfortunately, as I walked past Brennan late in the afternoon, he angrily mumbled….”a storm’s a brewin,’ and I blame you.”  Dad walked in minutes later, pumped his fist in the air as he saw Brennan, still residing in the land of the living, and shouted “Solidarity, son! You’re still on the island!” He was answered with doubtful head shakes. As I write this, the second child is the third to go down.

There were only two left on the island. Father and daughter allied. Fist bumps ensued. Who would be the last family member standing? How long would they last? Realization hit. The allies became competitors.

At 3:12am, unusual activity is heard from the bathroom, and lights are being turned on. From a dark bedroom the sounds of the third child…..”Hey, Dad?! Are you off the island?! I imagine a fist pump may have taken place n that dark room. The fourth has succumbed. Survival of the fittest.

Carleigh is still going strong. I fear she may be dripping in germs, but she has a reading at mass today, and she has no signs of illness. May God protect her and her classmates from our unwanted visitor, and me from their parents, if things go awry.

 

 

Hiding in the Bathroom

Let’s face it. We’ve all done it at one time or another. You just can’t handle it anymore, and you head into the bathroom for a few minutes of peace and quiet. It’s one of the few rooms in the house where you can lock the door, and convince all but the smallest of children, that it’s best to give you your privacy.   If your lucky, you can sneak in with a glass of wine and a good book. Turn on  the shower, and  up the music, to block out noise (and claim you couldn’t hear, if called), and you never know, you could get mommy-alone-time for…..and I may be overestimating……….10 minutes?!

For whatever reason, men do not have the same problem as us. No one follows them and sits outside the door. No one screams from another room, begging for their attention.  If this does happen, they ignore it, and it goes away. The persistence just isn’t there if it’s not the mom.  In my house, the men use this to their advantage.

Bill goes into the bathroom every morning to get ready for work. He takes his iPad with him, and listens to music, and reads his book. I’m pretty sure he has no intention of spending a long time in there, but he gets distracted. “I’ll just finish this chapter.” “Listen to _______ song.” “Hey! That reminds me of _______song.”    I have to strategically plan my bathroom usage around this habit. Do I go in before him? After him? Or do I just go in once I hear the shower water go on, and screw the privacy rule?!

When Brennan was little, if a situation came up where he was asked a question that made him feel uncomfortable, he would say “I have to go to the bathroom, ” and sprint away from said conversation. As he’s grown, it has continued in some form or another, and although he doesn’t actually leave conversations anymore, he won’t hesitate to avoid them before they begin. He uses this method to escape unwanted tasks, as well. When it comes time to unload the groceries, or put them away……nature calls. Time to vacuum……going into the bathroom may result in parents forgetting for a few more hours, and due to the fact that I can be absent -minded…it works!

Ethan doesn’t even try to hide the desire to flee. If I am going into his room to ask him questions he doesn’t want to answer, and he feels he can’t escape the conversation with half-hearted responses, he will push past me to relocate to the bathroom, and  will hide for as long as it takes, reading, or watching videos, until he feels the coast is clear. He is a stubborn kid, and can outlast the best of us, so this tactic works amazingly well.

After years of finding safe haven in this room, the boys have found that they LIKE hanging out in there, even when not avoiding the wrath of mom. Overall, I don’t mind, but even though we are lucky to have two bathrooms, we do not have an endless supply of hot water. There are nights I hear the boys’ bathroom door close, and I make a beeline for the upstairs bathroom, so I can take a HOT shower. Who would have thought that I would have to worry about my teenage BOYS  bathroom time more than my daughter’s?! No one warned me!

As I sit here writing this post, Brennan is in the bathroom, sucking every ounce of deliciously toasty water out of the hot water heater. He should be out in an hour or so. I will eventually go bang on the door and ask him to save me some hot water, and later I will take a less-than-satisfying lukewarm shower, while the family finds ways to need me, immediately……..if not sooner.

 

Second Chances

Part II……  Repost in honor of Crohn’s and Colitis Awareness week. Share the  post, raise awareness.

The first thoughts that crossed my mind, while I was recovering in the hospital, were very basic. How do I dress now? Can I wear the same clothes, or will I have to wear overalls, or baggy dresses, for the rest of my life? Will the bag show if I wear jeans? Will I ever wear a bathing suit again? Will people know by looking at me? Am I going to have a perpetual bump on my front, right side? How do I take care of this new “appliance?” All of these things were a little scary for a 33 year old woman. It felt like these were things I shouldn’t have to worry about at my age; like I was robbed of some of my younger years.

Once I returned home, however, I discovered all the positive results of the surgery. I required no more medication to control my disease. It was finally in remission. I didn’t have to know the  location of each public restroom before entering a store or restaurant. The innumerable foods that I hadn’t been able to eat for four years were ecstatically served to me by my mother who was such a blessing and a help during those years.  I could easily hide the Ostomy bag. I didn’t have to dress differently, and if I didn’t choose to tell someone, they had no idea that I was any different then them. Finally, my kids. I could be there for my kids. I could help at school, take them to the park,  and play with them, without having to do it while lying on the couch.

Over time, I realized how strong this experience had made me. If someone had asked me if I could go back in time and change things; if I had never had Crohn’s at all, would I do it?  The answer was “NO!” Crohn’s made me who I am today. If not for this disease, I would not love life, the little things and big, in the way that I do now. I would not notice God’s beauty in so many everyday ways, and appreciate them on a daily basis. I would not have stepped out of my box to do things that I was not comfortable with, but I did……..things I never thought I would be able to do.

Mama

I’m one lucky girl. My mom has always been there for me, through thick and thin, good times and bad. I don’t remember ever having to question whether I could count on her when I was in need. I just knew. Considering she didn’t have much of a role model (her alcoholic mother died when she was 13, and her dad, of a stroke, when she was 18), she has done a phenomenal job.

When I was a baby, I was allergic to almost every food, as well as mold, dust, pollen, and animal dander, and had severe asthma, as well. Although I eventually outgrew them, they were a daily obstacle throughout my infant, toddler, and young childhood years. My diet required that she co-ordinate my food not only at home, but also at school, friend’s houses, and even the occasional restaurant. She spent many weekends fishing with a family friend for blue gill, to add to my limited diet of lamb, rice and apples. She bought soy baby formula for me until I was 10, as regular soy milk was not on the market yet, and ordered special rice bread which was delivered to our local Sander’s freezer. She didn’t even have to ask for it, she went right into the “employees only” door and got it out herself. She has always been a friend to everyone, and they trusted her. That’s just the kind of person she is.

As the mother of a special needs child, she was ever vigilant of my food, and surroundings, and I was in a never-ending state of testing her skills. I was constantly finding ways to sneak the food I wasn’t suppose to have, and hiding under tables, or outside, to relish it. She was continuously in fear of me dropping dead of an allergic reaction or asthma attack. The poor woman could never let her guard down.

My mom and I had a rocky relationship in my latter childhood years. We fought frequently. We are very much alike, and we were constantly butting heads. We both felt we needed to win any given argument. When I was a teen, and young adult, our conversations were confrontational and loud. She worried about so many things, and I was constantly defensive. She had a difficult childhood, and between that and my stressful younger years, she spent her days in protection mode. She was always trying to help, and I  resisted. In my defense, if I had followed every bit of advise she’d given, there are many things I would have never done, a number of which helped me to become the outgoing, semi-adventurous, person that I am. I have always been headstrong, and prefer to do things my way. I have never really felt comfortable accepting others help, even when it was obvious I needed it.

In the worst of my Crohn’s years, when 105 degree fevers were a daily occurrence, and my husband had to travel often for work, I would tell her I was fine, and she didn’t need to come stay with me. She has had serious back problems since an injury when she was in her mid-thirties, and I knew it would be rough for her to take on my daily chores, and spend the night in a bed that was not adjusted for her back. I had a very active 1 year old, and a 4 year old, and thought that it would be better to do it on my own, than risk her further problems. I was feeding the kids wrapped in a blanket, shaking with fever-induced chills. I concentrated on tiny increments of time, just trying to make it from breakfast, to lunch, to dinner, to bedtime, but would not take her up on her offer for help.

My mama is not one to take “no” for an answer, so she came anyway.  She took over the household, and caring for the boys, so I could rest. She drove me to doctor’s appointments, did the grocery shopping, made meals, and doled out medication. She may have even tucked me into bed. Following my abdominal surgery, she came again, and even though Bill was no longer traveling as much, she stayed for several weeks to help him with the kids and me. We spent more time together during those years, than we had since I was very young, and I started to realize she was not only a loving and attentive mother, but fun, and I actually enjoyed being with her.

When Bill, the kids, and I packed up and moved to Shanghai, we only saw my parents when we returned in the summer, and not many times at that. We’ve all heard the old saying, “Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” and it proved to be true. It was while in China, that my mom and I had some of our best telephone conversations. At least up until the line went staticky and we realized we had said something that the Chinese monitors didn’t like, and we had to end it for the day.

My mother was never comfortable with us moving to China, as I’ve said, she has always been a worrier. She would much rather have her children tucked safely under her wing . It was while living abroad, that I started trying to calm some of her fears and worries, instead of taking offense or fighting them. It was then, that I started being an adult on the phone with my mom, when I finally stopped arguing and started listening, and discussing, that my mom and I finally fell into step together.

In 2013, and again in 2014, I went down to my parents’ winter home to help care for my mom after back and neck surgery. It felt good to return the favor, and spend some time with my parents by myself.  We had the best time together, especially our 5 AM mother/daughter coffee talks….. and it takes something pretty special for me to enjoy anything at that time of morning. She shared stories from her childhood, and her young adult life, and we reminisced about our early family memories. Of course, one of my favorite things to talk about with her as an adult, has always been the things my siblings and I did that she never knew about. And, hey! We lived to talk about it! There was never any time of day better than those crack-of-dawn mornings, in the rocking recliner chairs, in their tiny TV room.  I will always cherish those moments.

My mama is a giving and compassionate woman. She will go out of her way to help a friend or family member. If you are good to her, you are a friend for life. She doesn’t take friends or family lightly, and she will not let you down. She is as good as it gets, and more than you could ever hope for in a friend or relative. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I am forever grateful for the gift from Heaven that is, my mom.

 

I am JUST a Homemaker

I recently read a post from a friend who was belittled for what she does for a living. She has many, many talents, and is constantly looking for ways to impact the world around her with the use of those talents. Her biggest passion, one of her finest  talents, is loving and caring for dogs. She has three of her own, and she walks many others for a living, for people who trust her with their precious pets while they are away at work. She is always happy and smiling, and has a peace within her that most do not. She works hard. She has found a way to make a living doing something she loves. It’s unfortunate that some do not find that to be a worthy job. That one would diminish another, who is making the world a better place for others.

I am JUST a homemaker. I have been so since the birth of my second child. I do not work for a paycheck. I DO work outside of the home, though. I have a job that requires travel. I spend hours traveling to, and waiting outside of my children’s schools, going to doctor’s offices, guitar lessons, rock climbing gyms, volleyball, baseball, and swim practices, meets, and games. Driving children to and from work, and friend’s houses. I don’t get paid for gas or mileage in the typical way. My payment comes in the form of happy, healthy, well-rounded children. We don’t force them to play sports or take lessons, they only do what they want to. We let them explore their talents, and find their passion. It is worth every penny I  ” lose”  by not working for a paycheck.

My life involves daily professional development seminars. I am constantly learning FROM my children, and FOR my children. They share with me. They talk about subjects that they are excited about learning, goals for their future, and  what they are worried about. They ask advice. They look for reassurances, and guidance. I am always there, doing the best I can to provide it, and constantly looking for, and refining, ways to help them meet their goals.

I have odd hours, and I am constantly working overtime. My busiest times of the day during the “work week”  are between 6:30am and  9am, and 2pm and 11pm, but that varies day-to-day, and I am by no means “off” during the time in between, I am merely working independently. I don’t have weekends or holidays off. I am constantly on call, and I can’t leave my “work” at work, at the end of the day. Vacations are severely limited. The pay raises and bonuses are not traditional, and may not be fully realized until years  later. They come in the form of growth in my children. Kindness, gratitude, honesty, empathy, courtesy, morality, love. My bonus comes in ensuring that  my children are raised to be decent, thoughtful, giving, caring, happy adults who don’t diminish others for what they choose to do.

This is NOT a thankless job.  I know I can never be replaced. Job security is never an issue. There is no possibility of a lay off in my future. The health benefits are variable, but the retirement benefits are countless. I have never regretted this job. I will forever be grateful for the opportunity I have been given.

SEE: Strength, Endurance, Enlightenment

Years ago, when Ethan was very young. Bill said that he wanted to send him on an Outward Bound trip when he was older. Outward Bound is an amazing organization that was developed during World War II by Kurt Hahn. It was developed to help seaman to deal with the harsh conditions. To build character, confidence, and the ability to survive in those conditions. For many years now, it has helped both youth and adults all around the world to do things they never thought possible. In July 2010, at the age of 14, Ethan went on a two week trip to the Smokey Mountain National Forest near Ashville, North Carolina to backpack and mountain climb. Scary stuff for both child and parents. He returned a new kid. Almost a man.

In October 2012, Billy came up with a “GREAT” idea, at least in his mind. Brennan and I had been having a hard time making it through his tween years with a constant battle of wills, remember he is me in male form, and Bill thought an Outward Bound Parent/Child trip was just what we needed. I disagreed.

First of all, I am not a camper. I have always said that my idea of camping is going to a Howard Johnson. In other words, I don’t camp. Ever. At least I thought that was who I was. Secondly, how would I deal with my Ostomy? I didn’t want people to know about it, and I didn’t know how I would deal with hiding it with no bathroom facilities…….and in a canoe. The trip was a four-day camping, and canoeing trip through the Everglades. Hours and hours, miles and miles of canoeing, and camping on little islands at night. But with my recent experience-it-all attitude. I couldn’t say no.

The day after Christmas 2012, with a fever brewing and illness setting in, Brennan and I left on a plane headed to Fort Myers, Florida. Bill said that maybe we should cancel since I was getting sick, but I wouldn’t do it. We had already had to cancel a major family vacation that summer to deal with a mysterious stomach virus I had for a month. I wasn’t going to do that to him again, so off we went. That night in the hotel my fever seemed to spike. I don’t know how high, but I had chills and asked Brennan to cover me with a second giant, down comforter, then popped a few NyQuil. I was going. Period.

The next morning I woke up feeling a little better, but not…”Hey! Let’s go paddle a canoe 10 or 15 nautical miles and be on, possibly, alligator-infested dark water until 10pm tonight”……kind of better, but that was what this was all about, right? Doing something you didn’t think you could. If I got too sick, they had people that could come get me. I never did tell them how sick I had been. I just asked if it was okay if I had cold medicine with me, as our paperwork said they had to know what everyone had medication-wise. This rule was generally for the kids on trips, as the counselors doled out medication when parents weren’t included.

After our half-day of getting to know one another, team-building, and loading boats, we were on our way. Sunset would hit about an hour after we left, and I asked for aspirin, saying I had a headache, but knew my fever was starting again. Luckily, that was the last time I would have a fever. The remainder of the trip was just cold symptoms and bodyaches.

That first night, because of our late start, we paddled through the dark Everglades until 10pm. They had started the trip by mixing up the groups, and I was in a canoe with a 13 year old girl. A tired, young girl, who had to go potty. Together we were a sad team that first night. We were always at the back of the canoe pack, and crossing the big bay areas in the dark was scary! Maybe more for me than her, as I had someone else’s child with me! The area was full of Mullet fish, but everytime I heard a “plop” in the water, I feared being followed by an alligator. I was also worried that the rest of the group wouldn’t realize how far behind we were, and that we weren’t with them anymore. On the last large bay before the island we were to camp on that night, God and I had a little chat. He came through for me. Good guy that he is.

As dawn broke on that second day, I woke from my sleep under the tree I had hung my mosquito net from to birds chirping and flying overhead. I will never forget it. It was beautiful. It was the first moment that I thought…. “I got this.”

We had breakfast and cleaned the dishes, packed up our stuff, had a group meeting with charts and compasses and planned our route for the day, loaded the boats, and we were on our way again. On this day, the boats were filled with either two kids, or two adults. Another long day, and 15 to 20 nautical miles later, we arrived at a peninsula on a small island on the Gulf of Mexico. It was dark, but only about 7pm, and the winds were pretty rough. The canoes were slamming into the beach on the wrong side of the peninsula from where we had to camp. We had to get out of the canoes to pull them around the tip of the peninsula, over razor-sharp, crushed, oyster-shells-of-death. We were required to wear tennis shoes at all times, and now I knew why. Brennan was behind me with another young man, maneuvering their canoe around the beach. God and I had another chat. Luckily, we all came through unscathed and we spent the night sleeping on a beach on the Gulf of Mexico. We awoke to a beautiful sunrise.

The final day of heavy paddling was a test. We had to plan our route, use our compasses, and help each other to arrive at our destination without help from our counselors, who followed at a distance. It was a shorter day, and we were in the boat with our own child. The route ended at The Everglades National Park where we went ashore, ate dinner, and wrote notes to our child, or the child to the parent, to be mailed six month later. We discussed what we had learned about each other and how the experience had effected us. Following dinner, the children were to direct the adults on how to turn our five canoes, and the boards that were stored in the bottom of them, into a floating island to camp on. The adults were required to follow the children’s directions without comment. We paddled the “island” to just outside the park limits to camp for the night. Each of us had an area of about 2 ft wide by 7 ft. long to sleep and store our stuff on.

As as I said, I was still experiencing cold symptoms. I had run out of medication, and this would be the first night without it. As I fell asleep, I apparently started snoring. Loudly. Brennan elbowed me in the back. I stopped. Fell back to sleep. Another elbow in the back. Repeat. I wanted to sleep. I was exhausted. Finally, I fell asleep, apparently acceptably quiet, and so did everyone else.

It was COLD that night. Really cold. I was so glad that I had Bill to snuggle up behind. Until I realized…Bill wasn’t there.  That would be one of the guy counselors I was spooning with. Aaaaaaah! Turn towards Brennan…go back to sleep. Still cold…..so glad Bill is snuggling up to me…..”Wait a minute….! Now he is spooning with me!” Awkward! Apparently they had warned the kids that this might happen, due to the space limit, but forgot to tell the adults. In the morning, when we woke, I apologized for the unintentional spooning, and for what Brennan called my snoring. He said it sounded like I was “calling to the whales.”

After breakfast, we paddled back to the park on our floating “island.” We passed by individual canoes going out for the day. We looked like we were rolling in from the ocean, and got a kick out of the look on people’s faces. We cleaned the canoes, and all the equipment, then we met to talk about what we had learned and how we felt we had grown as individuals.

By the end of the trip, we were physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, but we had achieved great things, and seen some amazing sights. We had learned how to read compasses, and nautical charts. We learned how to navigate the hundreds of small islands in the Everglades, and use natural landmarks to identify where we were. We had made and cleaned up three meals and a few snacks a day, and packed and unpacked canoes more times than we wanted to count. We had worked as a team. Four adults, four kids, and two counselors. We had also seen beautiful wildlife, phenomenal sunsets and sunrises, a bright, big, full moon, and been visited by dolphins.

After returning to the hotel in preparation to fly home, I would summarize the trip on Facebook. Perfectly. “It was amazing and miserable, frustrating and enlightening, ugly and beautiful. I hated it and loved it. It was the most  precious time with my little man.”

No one can ever take that time away from us. No one will ever know how awesome it was. We will never be the same.

 

 

Second Chances

The first thoughts that crossed my mind, while I was recovering in the hospital, were very basic. How do I dress now? Can I wear the same clothes, or will I have to wear overalls, or baggy dresses, for the rest of my life? Will the bag show if I wear jeans? Will I ever wear a bathing suit again? Will people know by looking at me? Am I going to have a perpetual bump on my front, right side? How do I take care of this new “appliance?” All of these things were a little scary for a 33 year old woman. It felt like these were things I shouldn’t have to worry about at my age; like I was robbed of some of my younger years.

Once I returned home, however, I discovered all of the positive results of the surgery. I required no more medication to control my disease. It was finally in remission. I didn’t have to know the location of each public restroom before entering a store or restaurant. The innumerable foods that I hadn’t been able to eat for four years were ecstatically served to me by my mother who was such a blessing and a help during those years.  I could easily hide the Ostomy bag. I didn’t have to dress differently, and if I didn’t choose to tell someone, they had no idea that I was any different then them. Finally, my kids. I could be there for my kids. I could help at school, take them to the park,  and play with them, without having to do it while lying on the couch.

Over time, I realized how strong this experience had made me. If someone had asked me if I could go back in time and change things; if I had never had Crohn’s at all, would I do it?  The answer was “NO!” Crohn’s made me who I am today. If not for this disease, I would not love life, the little things and big, in the way that I do now. I would not notice God’s beauty in so many everyday ways, and appreciate them on a daily basis. I would not have stepped out of my box to do things that I was not comfortable with, but I did……..things I never thought I would be able to do.