Dragon Sized Goals

“Fairy tales do not teach children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales teach children the dragons can be destroyed.” G. K. Chesterton


I have been thinking about the concept of Goal Setting lately. I guess it's just what happens when the end of your “early to mid” 30's are but a few short weeks away. I have NEVER been a real goal setter. I HATE lists. I'm great at making them, just not so good at following them (or actually making it from the house to the car and then the car to the store with them at all).
I suppose I have been successful at setting and meeting short term goals: I plan to have had a shower in the next 30 minutes; Dinner will be cooked at some point this evening; I will verify the toilet rim is clean before my guests arrive.
I tend to function more whimsically: I'm going to clean out ALL the closets Right Now!; What a nice paint color on that TV show. I'm going to to Home Depot so I can paint the kitchen today; Let's get ALL 500 pictures from the past two years developed so I can scrap book this afternoon.
But the term “easy come, easy goes” definitely applies when you do things that way. Then it's three in the morning and I'm surrounded in a sea of pictures, paper, and glue sticks when I get bored or tired, so I shove all the stuff in a box for another six months to a year until I get that wild hair again.
There's a lot of risk in sitting down and saying “THIS is my goal”; like, “I will have met my goal if I weigh 130lbs by such and such date(yeah, right)”, “ I will have met my goal if have such and such education by a certain age”; “ I will have met my goal if I have the perfect job in my preferred industry in five years”.
But, because God loves the stupid and blesses the unworthy, I have been the recipient of a life full of all things good and beautiful without really setting or fulfilling any sort of long term goals. If I knew me, I'd sorta hate me. It may appear from the outside as though I haven't had to work toward anything- I fall ass-backward into blessings and I don't think you'd be wrong. I guess that I've been lucky by NOT setting goals so far. I figure, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.(Does that sound really braggy? Because I'm really trying to communicate grateful and undeserving, but it may sound braggy....I hope it doesn't.... Sorry). I am blessed -NO question. I am content......or am I really just complacent?
As a child, I was QUITE the daydreamer. I romanticized EVERYHTING. I was the Micheal Scott of Eaton Elementary. We would have planned a trip to Disney or someplace and I had already imagined the entire experience in my head, and was disappointed when things didn't go according to fantasy. Not that the experience was BAD in any way- just not like I had imagined it. And what could ever live up to the unrealistic expectations of an 8 year old Dreamer? Just because I could control the Barbie World in my bedroom floor I thought I could control everything else.
Then, I think there was a time in my youth when life was so unstable that “rolling with the punches” just became my natural response to anything. I began to get tired of the disappointment. And instead of being realistic, I went to the other extreme and thought “If I don't want or hope for anything, then I won't be disappointed”. So when “Oh my goodness- they gave me a part in the school play” or “wow, they gave me a spot in whatever singing group” happened, I was totally blown away and grateful. But, as a teenager, I had to look cool and act like it was “No biggie” because I was afraid that somehow if I put out there how happy I was, it would be taken away from me. When in reality, I was FLOORED at being given the opportunities.
When it comes to the unpleasant things in life, I have abandoned the “it won't happen to me attitude”, and adopt the “yes, it very well MAY happen to me, and I'll walk that line between Faith and Denial if it does and get through it”. When it comes to the cool stuff....I can just say “WOW”.- and I no longer feel the need to feign the “no biggie” attitude. I am okay with being all nerdy and excited about things now. No one can take away my happiness. I can only give it away. Which is really neat, but I think there may be also something cool to say, THIS is what I want to accomplish, be focused on it and reap, not only the blessing of what you have worked for, but also the satisfaction of taking on a challenge and succeeding. (I know all of you are going “Yeah. So?” but this is a new concept for me so cut me some slack).
The real reason I don't set goals is I assume failure. Assuming Failure is easy. It requires no risk, emotional or otherwise. Setting and working toward a goal requires action and often sacrifice without the guarantee of success- no matter how hard you work or how “good” you think may be at something. Often in order to achieve something you have to deal with people or obstacles you have no control over. (Hello, Excuses! Come sit by me!)
Or just maybe I have this goal setting thing all wrong. Perhaps it's not the “goal” I'm afraid of, but what the goal says to me about feeling validation. “I will be VALID when I weigh 130 lbs”; “I will be VALID when I have such and such education by a certain age”; “I will be VALID if I have the perfect job in my preferred industry in five years”. If actually set the goal, when I fail, I have to recognize that I am not valid. I'm happy now. Why rock the boat?
My favorite movie of ALL time is Sleeping Beauty. As a kid, I wanted to be Briar Rose- beautiful and more than she believed herself to be, and waiting for Once Upon a Dream. As I got older, I wanted to be Maleficent- in control, powerful and Dangerous (I do so LOVE Maleficent). I think now, I need to work on my inner Prince Phillip- work toward “the goal” (did I actually commit that to writing) of slaying the dragons of insecurity, fear, and excuses. Recognizing at the same time I'm going to need a little help from some fairies and a magic sword along the way.



Thanks to Jhon- my Dancing Nietzsche- for the Chesterton quote

18 year-old Catharsis

Today is one of those milestone type days, and one which I would only typically celebrate in my heart. However, in the interest of being real with myself and working on that part of me which struggles with finding courage, I write and I post. (sighs)
Eighteen years ago today, when I was seventeen years old, I found myself in the surreal position of being a hospital, in pain, giving birth. It is a chapter in my life that has influenced who I am today, in every aspect. A pivotal circumstance with many choices, and the acute awareness, even at that young age, that decisions I had to make would rule the fate of many (oooh, how Lord of the Ringsy of me).
It did not begin in that hospital, or even nine months before, but was the fallout of years of confusion, insecurity and bad choices mixed with a bit of hope, and an even smaller bit of common sense.
I knew pretty much early on that I was pregnant. I knew, but I denied. I tried to push the possibility to the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay farthest corner or my contentiousness. But when your monthly bill does not arrive and you're consistently late to your first class because your puking your guts out every day, you have to face some realities in your life.
My family, as I had known it, had completely fallen apart months before. It would have been kinder if it had truly “disintegrated”, because then all the pieces would have just vanished rather than writhe around on the floor in pain. My father was holding it together and making the hard choice to simply breathe in and out each day for the sake of his children, and I had to rip out another piece of his broken heart and confess how I had further disappointed him.
I wasn't “out loud and proud” with all the gusto of Juno. I continued the last half senior year, and all the activities that went with it without a word about it, even to my closest friends, save to one or two people. I was quieter, and truthfully, less obnoxious than I previously had been, but it was easier to let people think I was just a bitch than admit the truth. Many knew how my family situation had been, so they just dismissed the fact that I wasn't much fun as having to do with that. My weight had always been up and down, so the fact that I was putting on a few pounds was unremarkable. And if the odd person DID have the balls to ask, I would lie, of coarse.
I was surrounded by a sea of 4000 high school students and felt completely alone. My dad was always there, but I felt I had let him down so terribly that emotionally, I pushed him away. I completely retreated into myself. Just me, the baby inside and God.
I never doubted God was there. And though I knew I had blown it Big Time, I also knew that He loved me and would never leave. I knew I was TOTALLY out of my league and had to let Him take the drivers seat, at least in this situation, because I obviously was completely incapable of handling things myself. God provided not only comfort, but people to guide me during those nine months. And he led me and those who would be this child's parents to each other.
I looked at a binder full of letters and pictures from prospective adoptive parents. I came to a couple who had adopted a little girl three years previously. I loved reading their cheesy love story of how they met in a Roller Disco. They were people of faith, and wanted to live in the country to raise pygmy goats. I had an affection for pygmy goats. Whether or not they every DID move to the country to raise goats does not really matter-it was the “sign” I was looking for. I knew right then and there. I still keep their letter to this day.
So, on October 6th, 1992, I gave birth to an 8lb 11oz baby boy. I held him in my room that night, watching TV bits on the upcoming presidential election and David Letterman. Feeding him and smelling him. Keeping the reality that tomorrow he would go home with someone else out of my mind for the time. Being absolutely 100% present for the first time in my life, for those precious moments.
The next day, his parents came. They were fun people. I had felt very at ease with them. We laughed a lot and I asked if they would like to hold him. And in that moment, something close to magical happened when I handed my son to his mother- the only time in his life the two of us would each have a hand on him- when he physically left my world and entered hers. A forever joining of hearts wrapped up in this tiny creature. Later, when she left room, she looked at me tearfully and said “Thank You”. You see, I wouldn't understand until years later and I had my own children what those tears were about. I never considered that I was giving them anything, but that they were taking him for me. I was only truly grateful that they allowed God to bring them my way so that they would accept and care for my child truly as their own. And I have continued to be grateful all these years.
So, Happy Birthday, wherever you are. I am confident you are well loved and successful and have a wonderful family who have raised you well, physically and spiritually. Because of you I am a better mother to my children and do not take the honor of Motherhood for granted. You will always have a piece of my heart.

Scary Naked October

No, This is not a pro or anti Halloween Celebration Rant. Nor is it a sad statement regarding the STL Cardinals and their non-playoff standings (because I don't care, being neither sports fan or gambler).
I recently found myself as one in a company of women in a religious setting, who were all there for the purpose of spiritual wholeness and healing. While sitting in this group of strange women, and I found myself noticing their shoes. The woman next to me was wearing the cutest pair of brown leather heels with a peek -a -boo toe. Women wearing lovely accessories (I am distracted by shiny and sparkley things) and flawless make up coverage. Suburbanites donning apparel that minimizes our flabby tummies, camouflages our wide hips and maximizes our bust lines (well, not me so much on that one. If I maximized my bust line, I'd hurt someone). Even those of us who were hiding in extra large hoodies (you know I'm a hoodie girl) wore a pound of mascara and lip varnish. We came on time with our neat notebooks and writing implements, like the first day of Junior High, ready to share our prepared answers and insights. Introducing ourselves in AA fashion- “Hello, my name is Kimberly, and I'm Fearful and Bitter” (“Hello, Kimberly”), sharing our goals and expectations. You know how we gals dress to impress one another. Wanting to put our best foot forward and give people the well put together impression of who we want them to think we are. Um......Hello? This is the MESSED UP PEOPLES GROUP. We are fighting an uphill battle if we truly are there because we want “spiritual wholeness”. Doesn't that require vulnerability, honesty, and (dare I use the popular buzzword) authenticity? I'm not suggesting roll out of bed and show up. I am definitely PRO HYGINE. But, It will take the ten weeks to crack through the Cover Girl Foundation, let alone get to the Spiritual Foundation.
The world's perception of Christians is that we're fake. Guess what? THEY'RE RIGHT! Once upon a time I used to sing in a church setting. I don't today because babies and excess poundage have played havoc on my diaphragm muscle and it would take committed retraining not to suck now, and I don't identify with the skinny girls spotlighted on the platform in their Aeropostle and American Eagle T shirts. I do not fit the image the suburban American church is now marketing in the name of being “spiritual-seeker sensitive”. I am really not hating on the skinny girls (Hello, my name is Kimberly and I'm bitter) You can tell who is there to assist in facilitating corporate worship of God and who is there to bring attention to themselves. I am also not suggesting that Self Promotion is absent by any stretch of the imagination in the more traditional religious setting. I've been a Priam Donna in a choir robe, the robe just gave us one less thing to worry about, our appearance, and gave us one more thing to hide behind. I think the in most spiritual, honest worship setting, we'd all be naked. And when we are all spiritual beings, I believe we will be, but as physical beings we can't just turn off the Carnal, so clothing, for now, is necessary.
So, What the heck is the point? Do I EVER have a point? Not really. And NO I am not starting a Clothing Optional Home Worship Experience. I simply ramble on. I am very much into looking pretty and being girly. And though my Beloved loves me plain jane and naked, he also appreciates when I put effort into my appearance. It helps me look and feel confident, and I'm sure it makes him feel worth the effort. After all, HE'S the one who has to look at me all day. Dressing up is fun and can help you express yourself. And Micky Mouse Dooney and Burke Handbags are cool. Makeup can make you feel like a masterpiece and being the center of attention at times is awesome. However, a setting where you are really trying to gain truth and perspective, may not be the place for all that. So, for the month of October, I will be sans makeup in any setting where by being truly vulnerable with myself and others I can work toward spiritual wholeness and healing. SCARY, I know, but for me, necessary. You have all been warned.

Thank You, "Autism"

It may seem pretty messed up of me, but I get bothered by the word “Autism”. I get a pang in my gut every time I read or hear it. It bothers me because it reminds me that my son is required to function in a world which he can't understand and that doesn't understand him. The endless debates on vaccines and and applied behavior therapy and chemicals in food and the environment have no clear cut answer or compromise. They are divisive, play havoc with your emotions and are simply exhausting. The existence of autism seems so unjust for any child to deal with that we need something to blame. Blaming helps us feel like we didn't do anything wrong to cause our child to have to suffer with this disorder. There's part of us that wants to know why. And if there is a why, there must be a solution.
I do not subscribe to popular causes of autism theories. If it were to be vaccines, better autism than death caused by measles induced encephalitis. My odd theory is that God has called us to become more like Him. He calls us who are chosen to be parents to be refined through our children. As life saving vaccines have spared us the horrors of many life threatening and physically debilitating diseases, we needed something else to force us to look outside of ourselves and look to Him to provide strength and comfort. If that is the "why", then the solution is to press on. To depend on God for what only He can do. For His example of perfect selfless Love, and His provision of peace, understanding and relationships.
But as much as I am uncomfortable with the word, I am also grateful to it. At two years old, my child could speak but but only in repeated phrases. He had the receptive language of a seven month old infant. He wouldn't eat anything unless we took a bite of it first because he was unable to categorize what was food and what wasn't. He had all his upper and lowercase letters memorized and one to one correspondence of numbers to 14, but was unable to comprehend that navy and robins egg were both called “blue” because they were clearly two different colors. He would scream if we attempted to put jeans on him but demanded that his bathwater be scalding hot or ice cold.
The label “autism” was a gift that gave us a direction. As much as it frightened me, as much as I didn't want it to be true, it helped him on a path of coping with the foreign world he was born into.
When I look at my son, I don't see “Autism”, I just see my kid- my wonderful, funny, loving, genius, super kid. And this is a list of some of the people the label autism gave to us who didn't just see “autism”, but an amazing, terrific, albeit quirky, little boy-and whom we could never possibly thank adequately for all they have invested in him and us:
Kristina Bratlund, Don Hakenberg, Sharon Balduf, Denise Haffner, Brenda Aflito, Michele Wheeler, Craig Vroom, Laurie Olsen, Ed Hightower, Tanya Patton, Missy Potvin, Karen Bertles, Kelly Hess, Capri Strieter, Laura McNicholas, Roxanne Howald, Chris Treres, Paul Santoro, Jo Marie Yancik, Linda Plant, Jocelyn Garner, Carol Kohlfeld, Amanda Rustio-Murphey, Lea Shabangi, Kelly Baird, Tara Fox, Jennifer Mulvihill, Heather Chapman, Barb Kinsella, a probably a bunch of others.
You can never know how much you mean to us.

"Feels Like I'm Walking on Broken Glass"

Why is it that just when you are confident that you have shut the door on the past, it has come around with it's crowbar to break a window? I mean, seriously? You've done everything you possibly can to deal with it. You've gotten to the point with therapy, prayer and medication that you can finally come into the room where the door is without worrying about it, and there it is! And you're, like, “what the Hell are you doing here?”, and there's broken glass everywhere and now you have yet another mess to clean up and you're left standing there with all the anxiety and insecurity that of being 15 years old. It'd be nice to just leave and go see a movie, eat and drink yourself in to the sweet cradle of numbness for a few months, but then you come back and it's still there and now your another 15lbs overweight and nothing has been resolved. How does someone successfully infuse the horrors of the past with the wonderful of the present? I've given up hope on any fantasies of entitlement to there being a Happy Ending, but can't there be a “happy-ISH” ending? One where I can have backbone and boundaries without being a complete bitch?
To get the door closed in the first place took a long time. My first step was facing the fact that I will never be the Hero. I can't fix people. I can't change things that have already happened. “Couldda Wouldda Shouldda...” doesn't help anyone. And any delusions to the contrary are setting a person up for the absolute failure. Not that I am against failure. There's security in futility.. Sometimes, the thought of actually succeeding is much more frightening. Success would mean having to live differently. But it's much more palatable to fail because you were lazy, did nothing and ignored the situation than if you really tried and just didn't measure up to your own unrealistic expectations.
And THAT was the second step- IGNORE IT. In the name of “moving on”, just go on and pretend like that ugly part of you never existed. It's like carrying luggage and trunks around with you everywhere you go, and when someone asks if they can help you, you're quick to say “what baggage?”. And you try to open doors and go up and down stairs with it, and it's obscuring your vision and you try to get other things accomplished while you're carrying it. Then when you can't possibly deny that you're carrying it, you're pride says to people, “oh this? It's nothing. I got it. No, these bags aren't the reason I'm having trouble. I'm just an idiot.” because, of coarse any normal person would be perfectly able to navigate life carrying 400lbs worth of luggage. Shit happens to everyone. Just get over it.
Then, eventually, you're just tired. You can't possibly carry these bags another moment. And you begin step three- being RESENTFUL. You hate these bags. You hate the people who gave them to you. You hate yourself for lugging them around all this time and you are very unappreciative of the people who knew you were carrying all this stuff and did NOTHING! (Except ask you if you needed help about a million times, but thats completely beside the point).
Now I have declared myself entitled to -step four-BITTERNESS. I can sit here and stew and do nothing but be immobile because I've carried bags around for years. I hereby absolve myself of any responsibility. I can sit on top of these trunks which are an epitaph to my suffering and self medicate because the world owes it to me. I don't have to unpack them or deal with whats in them or move forward in any way because “do you really want to add to my pain?”.
While you were sitting there, bitterness built up walls so you could now -step five- ISOLATE. The easiest way to not be disappointed or be a disappointment is to distance yourself from others. It's how you survive. It's how you can wear your hurts as a badge of honor while avoiding being hurt any further. And theres a large part of you that truly believes that you really are helping the people you love
by keeping them away, but in truth, you're giving them their own bags to carry around. Bags with your name on them.
I woke up one day and realized you can't “get over” things, I had to do the work to “get through” them.
So, with the most supportive loving husband and the two most amazing children ever to walk the Earth as motivation and encouragement, I began the journey of unpacking and identifying things and patterns for what they were. I could look at them and see how A plus B equaled D. I began to tear down the old steps, build new ones that actually worked and repair the foundation of my life. Relationships would be different because I was different. And the good things about myself that were always there could finally be seen and appreciated. I could admit things that were and how they affected things that are and relearn how things can be. And I began to know Joy that I was completely clueless was even real. And I got through, and got on.
But, what to do now with a broken window and remembered feelings and severed ties that want reattached? I don't know. I guess I just start by sweeping up old glass, repairing the window, and not live in fear of opening the door.

A Day in the Death of......

The phenomena of Reality TV has been of interest to me since I was a teenager and the first episode of The Real World, New York aired. It was GREAT! It was a crudely edited experiment of putting 7 very different twenty somethings together in a house and tear each other up. People and behavior tends to crack me up, in general. So I found it hysterical watching these people put their best feet forward and attempt to show the world the people they would really like everyone to think they are. I know some people who are really good at faking their way through life, but not one of them could keep it up 24/7 in a house full of crazies for very long, even with cameras in their faces. It wasn't long before the residents “stopped being nice, and started getting REAL”. And what American teenager in the early 90's didn't find entertainment in the misery of others? Thus, MTV made a new brand of Superstar out of average nobodies. Over the years, casts have become more controversial and the personalities more psychotic, and the shows too numerous to count. And why do we like it? The same reason we like Harry Potter or Cinderella or Charlie Bucket. At our core, we harbor a deep longing to be discovered as something special, unique and worthy, weather it be by way of a fairy godmother, a golden ticket or reality TV show.
But, reality TV has changed over the years, and though we're still bombarded by the raunchy petty angst shows (why do we give a crap about the Kardashians? Will Buffy get voted off Top Chef?) television has given us a glimpse into lives that are very different than ours. Not just the young and glamorous, but people just making a living, doing what they were doing long before a TV show came along.
I have never made a secret of the fact that I'm a Discovery Channel junkie. “I love the mountains...I love the stars at night.....boom de ada, boom de ada) A big part of the reason I became such is a program called “Deadliest Catch”. I remember watching the pilot episode while living in Corona, Ca, thinking, 'these guys are nuts! They risk their lives for CRAB?”. Then I saw their pay day, and it made sense. In Deadliest Catch, Discovery was not just making voyeuristic shock TV, they were documenting an industry that a very few number of people will ever be a part of, with people very few of us could ever know (probably because they're on a boat in the middle of the Bering Sea nine months out of the year). I have been a fan since that that first season, checking Discovery.com each year to see when the new season is airing and stalking the websites of Fishing Vessel's Time Bandit, Northwestern, and The Cornelia Marie. This, the shows sixth season, came back into the general spotlight due to the death of one of it's Captains, Phil Harris, on February 9th. His passing was not due to an accident at sea, but caused by a lifetime of drinking, smoking, stressing and general “hard living.”
No Captain of any crab boat is likely to have a healthy lifestyle, but evidence of Captain Phil's health problems came two seasons ago, when a pulmonary embolism went through his heart while setting and hauling crab pots. And next to him filming during all of this was cameraman/producer, Todd Stanley. His job, to capture the story of the lives of men who fish the Bering Sea. As a cinematic storyteller, he was commissioned to capture a beginning, middle and end to each of the small stories he encountered while living and breathing with the crew of the Cornelia Marie. He had been the camera operator in the wheelhouse at the Captain Phil's side for three years. The initially reluctant captain began to take Todd into his confidence and, eventually, the two became close friends. Phil's kids say that Todd knew Phil better than anyone in the world, sitting beside him through profit and loss, health and illness, triumphs and tirades. When Phil was found face down in his stateroom, victim of a stroke, Todd put down his camera to rush to his friend's side. There he would remain until Phil's final breath.
I thought it was odd that they allowed the cameras in the hospital, but there we were, watching the struggle, the family turmoil, then seeming miraculously quick progress, followed by the telephone call from one son to the other that their father had a second episode and passed. And there was Todd- friend, comforter, and storyteller. I wonder at what point Todd understood, if at all, that he was no longer chronicling the story of a Crab Boat Captain making a “beat the odds” recovery, but the story of a man's death.
Last night, a “behind the scenes” episode aired in which the plight of the unseen camera man is highlighted. They started doing this a few years ago, and it usually starts with a “pewk montage”, because all these guys are sick as dogs at first. This year, it began with a shot of Todd Stanley at the bedside of his friend, Phil Harris, offering tearful encouragement that he was “gonna' be alright”. Phil tries to speak, but is unable. Todd asks for something which Phil can write on and gives him a pen. He holds the tablet, Phil writes to his friend, “got to get the ending to the story”.
Now, before the season began, It was well known that Phil Harris had passed away February 9th. And, as an avid watcher of this show I can tell you that Discovery spent A WHOLE LOT more money on production, editing and marketing this season than previous seasons. A reported 8.5 million viewers tuned in to watch “Captain Phil's final episode”. No ifs, ands, or buts- we all tuned in to watch a man die.
How do I feel about that? Well, if it had put to me in those terms before I saw it, I would have probably had all this righteous anger and said it was in poor taste. But I'm glad I watched it. It was probably the Loveliest thing I have ever seen on television. These aren't characters or petty scripted Jersey Shore Crap. This is humanity, and humanity can be brutal and cruel and unfair, but it is also beautiful. And to see someone who pretty much knows he is about to leave that humanity behind and face whatever waits for him on the other side and be at peace with it is lovely and humbling and inspiring. (And none of us know the condition of Phil's soul but his creator. It is my hope he knew (knows!) Jesus).
I have cried during a Biggest Loser finale, bawled with a family after hearing the words “Move That Bus”, but I have never been so moved as I have with this season of Deadliest Catch.
Thank You Harris Boys for sharing life and death with us. The world seems smaller, and the understanding that we don't need to totally understand one another to love each other is a bit closer. It's what happens when we stopped being entertained, and start getting real.

The Lunatics Guide to Somewhat appearing to Have it Together

I will never claim to be wise, and don't think I am of the opinion anything I may have to comment about anything implies wisdom. All I have are my experiences and my perspective on them at the time, so PLEASE don't take what you may read here as TRUTH. There is nothing black or white or factual about it, and none of it can be proven. My aim is to vent and hope some of you can identify and gain perspective on your own experience. And perhaps, through that perspective, we may have compassion for ourselves and each other and form a sibling hood from our level of understanding.
That being said, I'm going to be all ignorant and judgmental for a moment. It cracks me up as I parooze the library, bookstores and Blog-o-sphere to find parents of five-year-olds writing authoritative information on parenting. People who have been married ten to fifteen minutes spewing marital advice. High profile wives whose husbands had an exposed affair and addiction giving an account how they've “delt with it” six months later. Arguably, someone must care, because, there they are, in Borders with their face on the back cover of “Busy Mom's guide to Successfully Having it All” by Bunny Lewis, age 26. I am in NO WAY trying to say that twenty-something mom's have nothing to contribute, but don't suggest you know how to raise healthy kids if you haven't, at least, sent any of yours to college. Now, if your title is “The Second Anniversary; A Young Couples Opinion of What We Think Might Be Working up to This Point”, well, to me, it seems a bit more honest.
Once Upon a time, there was a handsome prince who wore flannel shirts and drove a Honda. I was the lucky Cinderella who married that prince, and though the term “happily ever So Far” definitely applies, it is a general statement indeed. We continue to be madly in Love and “Happy” simply because we CHOOSE to be, and our experience is that will continue as long as we keep choosing.
Our Princess is a Perfect thirteen-year-old who is beautiful, brilliant, wise, creative, gifted and kind. If you ask me how anyone who has had to live their first 13 years of life in a house with me and is still all of the above, then my answer is simply Grace. I have NO CLUE. And I would whole heartedly still describe her as such even if I had just bailed her out of jail and staged an intervention to send her back to rehab for the third time (I may back off on “wise”, though) . Her choices in life would not change who she is, but simply expose her challenges working through the stuff of life to reach her God given potential.
The young Prince in our house is an eight year old like NO OTHER, and I say that with complete confidence. He is intelligent, loving, clever, self-assured, focused and funny. He has an autism diagnosis which makes each day a new adventure. He continues to work hard at dealing with people and navigating his way through a world full of relational inferences and gray area exceptions. And all I can do is bungle my way through equipping him to succeed the best I know how. But other than that, his progress is ultimately up to him ('cause God knows, you can't “Make Him” do it).
Both of our children seem to have a profound effect on people. They give people joy and inspire them. But, again, that all seems to be in spite of their circumstances of who their parents are and their current place in the world. The Bible tells us God won't give us anything we can't handle. Perhaps He knew I didn't have the coping skills to manage a husband or children who where any less than amazing.
So, this is my hypocritical contribution to a world already littered with Know-it-All's. The Secret of my Eventual Success:
Here's Hope- God Loves the Stupid and Blesses the Unworthy.