I Know Nuthin'

I am a seasoned mother. There are so few experiences I have not encountered through the raising of my four kids, that I am without a doubt an expert in the subject of parenting. I speak with such overwhelming authority to the parents of the students in my class, because, after all I know everything.
Well...
I think God has an enormous sense of humor. Just to make sure we don't get a little too carried away with our opinions of ourselves, He throws us curve balls every now and then. Like after I had Emily, the most docile child on the earth, I was convinced colic was just something bad parents made up because they couldn't make their babies happy. Enter Baby Elizabeth...I became convinced that I had been wrong with my initial hypothesis. Colic was not only real, it was enough to send someone over the edge.
One would have thought that lesson would have been enough to teach me that my limited experiences, do not make me an expert, but no. (some people never learn)
My final child is Patrick Bryan. Anyone who knows him, knows him by Patch. Patch was what Tucker and I decided to call him way before he was born, in an effort to prevent the inevitable Pat or Patty, and to bless him with a fun and unique name. Thus, Patch. It conjures up images of doctors who dress up as clowns, happy scarecrows, energetic mutts, and dastardly pirates. Perfect!
So this little guy was born and has by far lived up to his name. Every thing I learned in my years as a preschool teacher and a mother is null in the face of my Patch. It is not that he is bad, per se, he just is well, Patch. The only thing I know for sure, is that I can expect what is unexpected.

I miss my friend.

I miss my friend.
She passed away in February of 2008, but I feel like I just talked to her the other day. It makes me sad to think that life has been able to resume normally since she died; shouldn't daily operations have been altered forever in her absence? I logically know life doesn't work that way, but my heart does. I really miss my friend.
From the moment I met her, even before I met her, she was warm and welcoming to me. She made me feel accepted and special and wonderful. She personified grace in every way, and even though the same has never been true for me, she loved me and she showed it unwaveringly.
I have never met anyone who did not like her. Whenever anyone learns of my connection to her, they always respond with, "oh, she was such a sweet lady." And she was- such a lady and so very sweet. She spoke to everyone and wanted everyone to feel taken care of and spoiled. She treated the house painter as she would treat a friend. Everyone was entitled to respect, and she went out of her way to show it.
She loved to throw parties. From big, garish holiday parties, to backyard croquet matches, every detail was thought of- the food, the drink the music. She relished in making sure everyone was having a ball. Truly, nothing made her happier.
She loved her dogs. They were just as much members of her family as anyone. They would follow her around the house all day, and the little one would often ride along on errands with her.
She always was such a classy dresser. She wore bright colors that showed off her dark complexion and she always had her hair and nails done. She had what seemed like millions of different pairs of shoes to coordinate with all of her outfits. Again, no detail was overlooked. In fact, after she died and I was cleaning out her drawers, I was amazed that her drawers were organized by color! It was when she began to put less effort into her daily wardrobe that I realized my friend was really sick.
As wonderful as she was to everyone around her, she did not feel the same way about herself. She never felt good enough. No amount of praise could penetrate the level of disapproval she felt for herself. She constantly tried to ease her hurt with all of the wrong things. She knew it wasn't good for her, but it was what she had. The people who loved her tried everything to help her. Everything. I always hoped that one day I would say something in a way that would really click inside her, and she would be okay. I guess I never did find the right words.
I watched my beautiful, vivacious friend slowly poison herself. This fiercely independent spitfire, became a decrepit and home bound woman, who relied on paid around the clock care. Up until her dying day, I was convinced she would come out of it. If anyone could turn it around, I believed she could. She had been given so many second chances before. I guess we all took for granted the fact that they would one day run out.
The day she died, she didn't open her eyes at all, but she responded to what was being said by smiling and different facial movements. I sat by her side almost the whole day. I talked about funny things that had happened and how silly my kids were. I told her how much I loved her and how sorry I was that I wasn't always the friend to her that I should've been. I held her tiny, little hand and I brushed her hair out of her eyes. When she seemed uncomfortable, I tracked down a nurse to ease her suffering. Maybe I somehow thought that if I was diligent enough, something would change. Maybe I was just so scared about losing her that I couldn't stay still or be quiet. Maybe I was so worried that she was frightened that I wanted her to know that there were people around who loved her and were looking after her.
I was not there the moment she died, but many people who loved her were. She died peacefully and gracefully. And with her dogs.
I miss my friend. In a few months, she will have been dead two years. That thought takes my breath away. How can anyone so full of life, be no longer here? How does that happen? How is that fair?
In the time since her death, I have called on her often. I have heard her voice and seen her smile in my mind a million times. For that, I am so extremely grateful. I hope that I never stop missing her. I don't want to become complacent in my sadness of her passing. She needs to be remembered and talked about. Her good qualities need to go on in the people who loved her, and her illness needs to be etched in our hearts and mind forever. It is crucial we never forget how she suffered, so that we too, will not follow that path. That is what she would want for us. I do know this.
I believe she is looking down on me. I know she can hear everything I am saying now, and she doesn't want me to be sad. I am confident that if she could call me right now, she would try to lift my spirits with some slightly off-color humor and the promise of a lunch out together soon. The thought instantly makes me smile, but also breaks my heart.
Oh, how I miss my friend.

My Emily

The other night I was reminiscing about the day Emily was born and someone asked me how I remembered all of that. My answer? I remember everything about the pregnancies and births of each of my kids. I ordinarily have an awful memory, but something about those times in my life has left indelible marks within me.
Emily turned 12 years old the other day. Twelve. That is a whole new realm. (sporadic heartbeats occurring) She is in middle school, has tons of friends, talks on her cell phone all of the time, and has an obsession with a certain Hollywood vampire. Pretty typical, really. She is a very well adjusted, happy 12 year old. But, she's twelve...
When I found out I was pregnant with her, I was an unmarried 20 year old with a less than stellar record. I was a really crazy kid. But the moment, sitting in the upstairs bathroom of my Grandma's house, when the two lines appeared, changed my life in an instant. I cherished the life that grew within me. I was thankful for the rescue of my life that it represented. I read every book I could read and prepared in every way possible for this new little person. Tucker and I were married and began our lives as young, completely naive, children playing adults. Overnight we grew up. The transformation was immediate, and enormous. There was no other option.
Emily was born on the coldest day of the year. Perhaps God's way of shaking us awake and saying, "Here you go, get ready!" There was our Emily. More beautiful than anyone could have ever imagined. Everything I knew about life up until that point was suddenly void. All that matter was this angel squirrming in my arms.
Now she is 12. Twelve! How has it been twelve years? It feels like one of those movies where they fast forward a decade in the next clip. I watched her grow into the beautiful young woman (breathe in, breathe out) that she is, yet somehow, I feel as though I just brought her home from the hospital.
It is inevitable that our little chicks grow up and fly away. People have been telling me that since the beginning. I just can not fathom that one day that means that that precious, little newborn will be off in the world without me.

A Little Drop Of Rain

I was recently talking to a single friend of mine who claimed his life was so different from my cushy, suburban lifestyle, that I would be "terrified" to live in his shoes. This all stemming from a conversation on responsibility and growing up. I believe I was somehow meant to feel inadequate to handle his "edgy" life. Oh, my.
Terrified. Yep, I have been there on more than one occasion, but honestly, "a little drop of rain can hardly hurt me now."
These are lyrics from a favorite song of mine. It would be hard to find many words as true. You get to a certain point in your life, through certain circumstances, where your soul has literally grown armor to withstand tragedy. I have had my fair share.
I do not wish to in any way downplay the experiences anyone else has been through, by claiming mine were more tragic. I believe we all get our fair share. But my life challenges belong to me, and have made me who I am.
This friend announced in this conversation that he is an atheist. Hmmm.... for so many reasons I did not know how to respond to this. It seems often times this is the card rebellious teenagers pull when they are hoping for shock value. My theory is that he is in the same place in his life for whatever reason. So, supposing he is an atheist, yep, I would be terrified to be in his life. Without the love and guidance from our Lord, being completely susceptible to evil...yep, I wouldn't want to be there. On the other hand, suppose he was just blowing smoke about the whole atheist thing to make some point. Again, I would be terrified. Last time I checked it is not a smart move to denounce God for any reason. I am not sure he is terrified enough, but unfortunately he is still in that "if it feels good- do it stage." Ahh, we were all young once right?
A little drop of rain can hardly hurt me now. It took me so long to get to this point, and on some days, I still run screaming from those little drops. But I know one thing for certain. God is with us. At all times. Whether we want Him there or not. He knows our troubles and He knows the outcomes. He promises us an everlasting life in His kingdom. Our earthly troubles are so inconsequential compared to the Glory of God our Father. This is why I know that I can handle whatever it is that is in my path. This is why I will not become "terrified" in the way that this friend expects. This is where the armor has come from.
I hope my friend is able to enlighten himself enough to realize that he will not lose his "edginess" by committing his life to God. Perhaps, he might find that all of the things in his life that are missing, might suddenly be found. He too, can learn to walk in the rain.

Sweet Caroline's

Somehow, somewhere, I picked up the fine art of obsessive cookie making. Don't know how this has come to be, but it has, and it has consumed my life!
When Emily was a little baby I tried making press out sugar cookies, because I thought that that what mommies were supposed to do. It was a disaster. I was so frustrated that I swore off cookie baking for years after.
When I moved to Columbus, my mother in law gave me her large stash of cookie cutters. I thought they were so neat because they represented pieces of my husband's childhood. From time I would come across them and think about trying to bake again, but life just always got in the way.
Over the past few years I have begun to get back into baking. Slowly I have been tweaking my recipes and methods and I have become quite fond of it! Through the encouragement of a dear friend I have slowly begun to "advertise' my cookies. To my utter shock and surprise I have gotten a phenomenal response that has kept me very busy. It really is something that i am actually profiting from something that I was so dismally bad at a few years ago!!
I do not hope or expect to be a world-famous gourmet cookie maker. I do not believe my new hobby in any way will allow me to quit my day job. I am excited to be able to share this new talent with my friends and people I care about. I want to know that these cookies make people smile!

Desperate Housewife

I'm a desperate housewife. I hate to admit it, but it's true. And if more women would admit it, I bet they would say the same for themselves.
I have a good life. 4 beautiful and healthy kids. A loving husband. A roof over my head. Enough money to meet our needs. Great friends.
Yet, I am desperate.
I think the conflict comes from the fact that deep within me, in the part of me that seems so hidden at times, I am still the teenager from so many years ago. Anyone who knew me in those days would be frightened to realize that I still identified with that person IN ANY WAY.
I never got in any real trouble, but my life was a whirlwind of constant drama. I was incredibly emotional. My highs were as high as the heavens and my depths were as low as the pits of hell. I dreamed so large and my behaviors so often were crazy and without thought.
I used to sing. I lived to sing. I would have aching in my heart to be heard. I was never a very good "technical" singer and it stood in my way from really going anywhere. But when I was put with the right creative soul, who would let me just go, it was awesome. I can still remember the intoxication of the applause. (How narcissistic) All of my fantasies would include me on stage somewhere wowing a crowd. It has been over seven years since I have sang publically. I rarely even sing in the shower anymore.
I used to honestly feel that if I walked the straight and narrow, then I would be selling out; that to be me, I had to go where my emotions led me- safe or not. Those years were often so destructive.
Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of the Line from years past. Sometimes it will be after hearing a certain song, and I can feel her tugging to get out. Sometimes its during a ferocious thunderstorm, and the solace is so overwhelming that I am reminded how I used to allow myself to literally get lost in them. But more often than not these days, she is buried so deep inside me that I forget she ever existed. I am Mommy now. I am Ms. Hearn. There are responsibilities. The luxury of being able to wrap up completely in the world, just is obsolete.
I really do love my place in the world. I love being a mother and a wife and a teacher. It's nice to have security and stability.
But still, sometimes, deep within the most hidden recesses of my soul I can feel her. And as desperate as she is to come out and let loose, I am reminded that I am a housewife now, and in my soul she will remain.

The "New" Me

Tomorrow I am going to a meeting at the church where I have been worshipping. During this meeting, I will learn more about Methodism and the church and begin to make the decision on whether or not I will officially "join the church."
This is such a huge deal for me. I grew up Catholic. Everyone in my family is Catholic and Catholicism is a really big part of my history. I married a devout Catholic and baptized my four children in the Catholic church. But for a long time I have felt that it is not who I really am. Over the past several years I have gradually felt more and more lost within the Catholic church. Although the familiarity was comforting, I was feeling more and more isolated. I prayed that the Holy Spirit would enter my heart and show me what to do. I kept waiting and waiting.
Tucker and I went through a major adjustment period about a year ago. It was a time where we both had to take a serious look at who we were, and who we wanted to be. Hiding behind what was comfortable had to be put aside to find what was authentic. It was during this time that I began attending a non-Catholic church -alone. My life began to change. My marriage began to change. Most importantly my heart began to change. This was the work of the Holy Spirit. This was the answer to my prayers.
Although, me attending this new church meant a division on Sunday mornings at my house. Tucker and some of the kids would go to one church and I and the rest of the kids would go to another. It was not an easy choice, but it was without a doubt the right choice.
I have taken this past year slowly. I have not denounced my Catholic roots (nor will I ever). I have not claimed to be Methodist. I have just begun to build my heart back up, and learn to truly love the Lord once again. I am at the point now, where I think I am ready to take the next step and fully embrace my new spiritual home.
I thank God for so much. I thank Him for giving me an understanding and supportive husband. I thank Him for giving me the courage to branch away from what was "easy." But most of all I thank Him for making His presence so available and abundant; to allow me to learn and love in a way I never thought I could; and to carry me when I was to weary too try and find my way by myself. I really think I am on the right track now. I am excited to meet the new me.