31 days UNFILTERED - messages

Day 15 For your enjoyment.

These are the kinds of messages I receive from my sister:

"So I was driving by your old neighborhood, and I saw that they are redoing that Wendy's. It's going to be closed during the renovation. It's really a good thing that you moved when you did. I don't know what you would have done."

(She speaks truth.)

"Well, Hans' animal portrait was rescheduled because of the weather. It's probably a good thing. This gives him more time to get ready - lose some weight, get Botox . . . "

(She really has a point here.)

"You have to check out these Spanx leggings. They come up so high. They make me really excited to wear maternity clothes some day."

(The only problem with maternity clothes is that you are pregnant when you wear them, canceling out the comfort factor. But I'll just let her figure that out when the time comes.)

(And the time better come, ya hear me. I want to be an aunt. I want a turn. Tonight Morg called and asked to talk to Greta and I said, "No, I don't want Greta near me. Call tomorrow." And Morgan said, "How about I try next week." Motherhood has worn me down, people. I want to be the aunt for once. Is that too much to ask?)

Until then, I thank God for my sister who keeps me sane with her hilarious messages. Laughter does this momma good.

31 days UNFILTERED - meow

Day 14 For all y'all who were afraid that our recent acquisition of two cats (that turned into one cat that then turned into three cats) would turn me into a cat lady . . .

Today I bought the cats a cat house. And we placed it prominently on the front porch.

All that to say, I think y'all might be right.

It's getting a little bit cat happy up in here (and this is coming from the gal who once searched for a bumper sticker that said, "Can't find your cat? Look under my tire.")

Don't ever tell me people can't change.

31 days UNFILTERED - falsies

Day 13 It all started with a quandary. I want long eyelashes but I don't want to wear mascara. It's not the mascara itself that I'm opposed to. It's the daily ritual, wax-on-wax-off, that I despise. And I'm not even talking about the time it takes to put mascara on and take it off. It's a ridiculously quick process, I know. It's that no matter what, I have to embrace sometimes having dark circles around my eyes from smudgy mascara and/or remove the mascara with a product such as make-up remover in addition to the face cleanser that is already a part of my routine. And inevitably I forget that I am wearing mascara and rub my eyes. I'm just getting too darn old to pull off the smokey eye at 10am while running to Walmart to pick up diapers.

So I tried falsies. False eyelashes, that is. Basically a strip of someone else's real hair knotted together to form a row of lashes that I then glued onto my eyelid. With cement-grade glue. Because we false-eyelash wearing gals don't mess.

I'm not totally sure how or why I thought this was a good idea. My sister, who is incredibly hip and pretty and magazine-cover worthy on so many levels, she pulls off the fake eyelash thing like nobody's business. For her, it's just the next step after putting on deodorant and before glossing her lips. Effortless and lovely and all the things that I soon learned are not ever going to be a part of my fake eyelash experience.

My experience went like this.

I spent almost one whole hour attempting to glue the falsies to everything but my eyelids. I had glue in my eyeball, in my eyebrows, and in my hair. Did I mention that my fingers became affixed together with eyelash glue? I never back down from a challenge.

The entire process was made all the more encouraging when I went downstairs and received this reaction from my usually adoring husband, "Oh. Wow. What happened?" I thought that was a tad harsh, but I was so late for where I needed to be, having spent an extra hour getting ready, that I grabbed my keys and was on my way without thinking much of how I might appear to the general public.

As soon as I was driving, my appearance was the least of my concerns. Try driving with somebody else's hair glued to your eyes. Now is probably a good time to apologize to the squirrel that did not run out in front of me but I hit anyway because I was driving on the sidewalk. Just nevermind.

I soon realized how shocking my appearance was when I arrived at my destination, and rather than being greeted with, "Oh, hey, Ali, you look pretty today," I received a lot of, "Hi. Um, so, like, what's different?" and "Ali, I think there's something on your face," and the real confidence booster, when my friend took her hand and made a motion like she was casting a spell to my face and said, "What is going on here?"

I guess you could say I rocked those eyelashes.

Kind of like a clown rocks a red ball on his nose.

Except my lashes didn't squeak.

Needless to say, I peeled those suckers off my face as soon as I got back home. They took a couple layers of eyelid skin off with them, but at least I can now drive like the rest of the sober population.

And all the squirrels rejoice.

31 days UNFILTERED - songbird

What a coincidence. I published the following post exactly one year ago. It is absolutely fitting given that this morning I woke up to learn that this beautiful young girl is a Nobel Peace Prize winner.
Her hijab glows persimmon. Her voice, soft yet firm as the fruit.
Her years young, her spirit rich, a caged bird sings and her name a song.
A collective breath heard across the heart of nations as she answers, “If you hit a Talib with your shoe, then there would be no difference between you and the Talib. You must not treat others with cruelty and that much harshly, you must fight others through peace and through dialogue and through education. I would tell him how important education is and that I would even want education for your children as well. That’s what I want to tell you, now do what you want.”
Peace, her song. The voice of the silenced, a generation of women raped, slaved, burned, flogged. Brutality stifles hope.
A young teen, the songbird girl determines to have her hope song heard. Taliban determine her dead, a gunshot to her head as she rides the school bus home.
“They thought that the bullet would silence us, but they failed,” her peace message grows stronger with each threat to her life.
Her attack leaves her crooked smiled and warrior spirited and a weapon in her mouth.
Peace.
When a young Pakistan girl breathes peace to all, souls tilt heavy toward her like flowers to the sun.
We crave to be soothed, salve to violence and murder. Balm to broken and beaten. Life to empty. Peace we all crave.
A deer pants for water, and a soul for Shalom.
When the time comes to award peace prizes we root for the songbird girl whose innocence is a melody of peace.
Because we don’t want war and machine guns and chemical blasts to be the answer. What we really yearn for is rest for our soul.
As the songbird girl inspires peace without borders, I find hope in the One who has been singing this song all along.

31 days UNFILTERED - drive-thru

Day 9 Steam of consciousness, because that's the best I can do tonight.

Matt text me that he's boarding his plane, and fifteen minutes later he text again saying they are heading back to the gate because the plane has mechanical issues. I remember when my friend, Sara, flew to Orlando, and the same thing happened with her plane but they sent them back up in it anyway and the plane almost made an emergency landing because the what-they-thought-was-fixed-mechanical issue caused all this commotion during her flight, and the gas masks released and there was drama and tears, and so I text Matt and said I'm praying that they switch planes. Jesus, all I want is my husband home with us.

It's sobering when you desire to have your husband home because you really truly can't survive with these kids another day without him and that desire turns to just wanting your husband home alive because these planes, is it just me or have there been a lot of emergency landings lately? And so I don't care how long it's just me and the kids, all I want is my husband home safe.

And then I feel bad for what I said to him earlier today, when he asked how it's going, and I told him that if there was such thing as a drive-thru tubal ligation clinic, I'd probably stop by there after grabbing the kids dinner. He laughed, because he knows I've hit my limit, but now I feel bad because I should have said, "Oh, you know, we're doing fine, just missing you." I shouldn't say things that make him feel bad for being gone. I should feel badly for what I said anyway because what some women wouldn't give to have a baby and here I am joking about getting my tubes tied because I have enough kids.

And just as quickly as I feel bad for being an ungrateful smartass, I peek in to say goodnight to the kids, and Harper is in bed wearing my wedding veil. I had put the veil in her room for decoration, and every now and then she takes it off the shelf and plays with it, and there she was tonight, going to sleep with the thing on her head.

My heart.

And this is probably why there are not drive-thru tubal ligation clinics because surely then there would also have to be drive-thru tubal ligation reversal clinics. Because just as soon as you decide, "That's it. I'm done. No more," one of your kids melts your heart and makes you wish for more.

31 days UNFILTERED - pacifier

Day 8 Bedtime is still an hour away and my cup-of-care dried up, oh, I don't know, somewhere around today's "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" number 2784.  I've got nothing left, as evidenced by these actual conversations in my house tonight:

 

Greta, age 2: "Mommy, my water is all gone."

Me: "I don't care."

 

Harper, age 5 (holding up her artwork): "Mommy, remember when I made this for you."

Me: "Yes."

Harper: "Yeah, I remember too."

Me: "Is there a point to this remembering and why are you talking to me?"

 

Henry, age 6: "Mommy, can we load up a game on the iPad?"

Me: "If we do, will you not talk to me for the rest of the night?"

Henry: "Yes."

Me: "Bring me the iPad."

 

Greta: "Mommy - "

Me: "If anyone says Mommy again, they are going to time-out."

Greta: "But Mommy - "

Me: "That's it, time-out."

Greta: "But Mommy - "

Me: "Nevermind, Mommy is going to time-out."

Greta: "But Mommy - "

Me (fetal position, fingers in ears, rocking back and forth): "Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-I-can't-hear-you."

Greta (handing me a pacifier): "Here, Mommy."

 

Finally, somebody gets me.

31 days UNFILTERED - calling

Day 7 I found my calling.

I thought I had found my calling when I was living in Louisiana working at a group home. I was indirectly counseling the boys, and knowing I couldn't live in a group home forever I thought, "Where else can I help kids in a similar capacity?" I remembered my substitute teaching days and how much I loved working in a school but loathed teaching, and BAM! School counseling. Just like that I had found my calling.

Except I hadn't. Because then I got pregnant and had all these babies, and the job disappeared, and I thought, "I get it now." These babies, the nursing & kangaroo care - yes! This is so me. Mothering. This is what I was born to do.

But then those babies got bigger and became toddlers, and I was all, "I'm out." Kids, you're great and all, but parenting - NOT MY CALLING.

And then I started blogging, as a way to chronicle this journey of life and motherhood and family, and I discovered a love so deep. A love for words. And I was convinced - this is it. Writing. This is my calling.

But with the three minis at home, the part-time job, the house work, the hunter husband, all the things, the writing became more of a challenge. Try finishing a single thought, let alone writing it down, while a two-year-old wails and a five-year-old screams and a six-year-old growls like a lion.

The struggle is real.

And so I thought, there has got to be something - something - that engages all these loves - the school environment, the working with children, the mothering of souls, the writing.

And I found it.

I found my calling.

Publishing Shop.

Have you ever? Can you even? You guys.

Publishing Shop. This is it!

This is the place.

And not just because of the rubber cement fumes.

My son's elementary school Publishing Shop was in need of a couple people to take it over, and I have never jumped at an opportunity so fast.

Every other week, I will meet pint-sized authors and look into their hopeful little eyes and speak softly to their souls, "You did it. You wrote a book. You are an author." Heavens knows, I'll be weeping the entire time. I'll take their tiny hand and walk them through the publishing process, the paper-wrapped cardboard backing, the masking tape wrapped binding, the die-cut decorated cover. I'll seal their creation with an authored-by stamp, and I'll send them back to class with an over-the-top, "I'm so proud of you. Are you proud of you? You should be proud of you. Show everyone your book, and be proud." And that timid little person who entered the Publishing shop will leave with his head held high and a spring in his step.

And I get to be a part of that.

And I pray they don't look back. Because if they do, there's a good chance they'll find me doing the another-one-published-a-book dance on top of the Publishing shop tables.

Worst case, I can just blame it on the fumes.

31 days UNFILTERED - why

Day 6 My dearest friend is heartbroken. We both are.

Her niece, who is the same age as my Henry (6), might not live another day. The details of her situation are complicated, but the short of it is that 5 months ago this little girl was admitted to the hospital and put on a wait list for an artificial heart. The months spent waiting for this lifesaving technology have been a roller coaster, the greatest dip in her health being two weeks ago when she became ill from an infection. She's remained in the hospital all those months, and now she is on life support. This past weekend the doctors gave her parents a most torturous choice - they were told that they can withdraw treatment if/when they are ready.

And then. The artificial heart. It arrived.

This beautiful 6-year-old has been given another chance at life. Her heart arrived.

Except that's not what the doctors said. The doctors believe that this precious girl is too weak. They are going to turn down the heart. She would not survive the transplant.

Her heart arrived two weeks late.

And now she remains unresponsive in a tiny hospital bed, her fate a tragedy beyond any comprehension.

To empathize with this family is almost unbearable. When I put myself in their shoes, my chest knots fierce and I go breathless.

My friend's precious niece, dying without a heart, has stolen ours.

My conversations with my dear friend have been drenched with tears, pain, grief, and questions. We both have so many questions. And almost all of them are questions of God.

In a way, the questions are rhetorical. I find myself shouting the questions at God, not expecting an answer to fall from above.

I trust that God's hand is in this devastating situation. I have faith that He hears me and that He is good.

And so those questions - those emotional, grief-filled, angry-at-times questions - they have me wondering, do we allow ourselves to ask questions of God? Is it okay to say, God, I'm mad. I'm devastated. And I want to know why.

Does it make me crazy that I ask a good God questions about a heartbreaking situation even though I am not really expecting answers?

And yet I know that amidst my sorrow and grief, comfort and peace is not going to come in the form of answers from Heaven rather it will come in the form of Presence from Heaven.

For my friend's niece, she might experience God's Presence in seeing Jesus face to face much sooner than any parent would accept.

For my friend and her family, I can only pray that they experience God's Presence on earth amidst this excruciating sadness.

Whether it's knowing that He's there or praying that He is found, my questions all end up on one great big pillow of hope.

I can only hope and pray.

Even though that hope and prayer sometimes looks like me shouting at the sky.