December 28, 2014

December 28, 2014

Our world is a marvel.  It is glorious, humbling, majestic, and breathtaking.  We require oxygen to breathe, water to drink, and food to eat.  We depend on a planet that has the right climate to sustain, well, life.  God could have created a world that did exactly that and nothing more and it been all in one texture, one scent, one invariable shade of gray and one unchangeable landscape. We could have been born, lived, and died in a vast place of blech and never been the wiser.  The thought alone gives reason to pause and reflect on the grandeur we are privileged to behold and experience every single day.  Thinking I would never know the beauty this world contains sucks joy right out of my soul.  Instead, we live in a world that not only sustains us, but also provides us with magnificent feasts for all our senses.  I glory in the work of His hands and the opportunities I have been given to witness and experience so many different varieties of his handiwork. 

Exploring in the mountains today brought a swirl of thoughts and emotions to the forefront.  I have discovered that adventure itself does that; it awakens a sense of marvel everywhere I go.  It lights my imagination on fire.  It expands my capacity to think, breathe, understand and feel.  But the ancient, weathered peaks, hidden waterfalls, blanketing mountain laurel, the very aroma of the Smoky Mountains hold something special.  There is such a pull for me in this place.  Somehow my spirit instinctively knows I am rooted here.  Silly as it sounds there is a part of my soul that hums when I have the opportunity to be in these mountains. I feel connected: to family, to heritage, to nature, to God. 

This is the wilderness all of my Cherokee and Appalachian Shawnee ancestors called home.   This wilderness that sheltered and fed them, that felt their soft tread and heard their laughter and cradled them from birth to death, generation to generation to generation.  This place they understood and reverenced.  This is where all of my European ancestors who came to America seeking freedom in the 1600-1700’s (seven of them having fought in the Revolutionary War) settled on this edge of the unknown and carved out a life by the sweat of their brow.  And this beautiful home is where all of these lines from both sides of my family eventually joined and became one.  I can’t help but to contemplate the realities of their lives.  Without disregarding their joys and sorrows I understand as much as I am capable that their existence was centered on survival. Work for shelter, for food, for clothing…I now live in a way that would be unimaginable to them.  Work is still required, but by and large the attainability of the necessities of life is unprecedented, and yet I also know this is not the case in numerous places in the world today. This naturally evokes the “why me?”  Honestly, I just don’t know.  But I feel like the answer is something along these lines: If I have been blessed with the gifts of time, energy, and resources then I am accountable to do all that I can for others.  To waste away my life holed up in front of a television or computer screen or spent wiled away in nonsense that has no meaning and brings no joy or comfort or relief or hope is a dishonor to all of those who came before and labored so hard that I might have a better life than they, and an affront to the God who gave me such a life.

I stood in stunning places today.  I watched the rain clouds part and the sun peak through the gloom sending a rainbow across the gorge between the mountains.  I held a hand as we gazed over the edge of majestic falls.  I smelled the earth and heard the forest and felt the past.  It expanded my capacity to think, breathe, understand and feel.  It connected me to my family: feeling their hands in mine, hearing their laughter, and sharing in wonder.  It connected me to my heritage, helping to shift perspective and renew and recommit to living up to who I am because of them, who I am supposed to be, and what I am supposed to do with the blessed life I have been given.  And it connected me to God, bringing waves of thankfulness and reverence for His handiwork and greater trust in His plan for me.  I glory in the work of His hands the opportunities I have been given.

Ready, Set, Focus!

November 10th.  A warm, sunny fall day in the south.  I am home.  Mack isn't napping.  It's beautiful outside and the leaves are still pretty.  If we hurry, I can get pictures of the kids.  I holler through the house, "Let's go take some pictures while we can!"  Blur through the running upstairs and assessment of what could potentially be deemed as photo shoot worthy and forty-five clothes-slinging, hair-brushing minutes later we pile out the front door and go for "a walk" in our woods.  Naturally Biggun (our seven-year-old loyal and protective half chow, half golden retriever) and his two pestering chocolate lab little brothers without a lick-a-sense between them decide that it is their duty to make sure we don't chase any squirrels without them.  I expect this to be like pretty much every other photo shoot I do.  It shouldn't take long, I tell myself.  I just need one good one for a Christmas card.  Just ONE.  Just one has to turn out.  I feel like this is a reasonable expectation to walk into this session with so I am feeling pretty relaxed.  We find a beautiful spot with nice lighting, I raise my camera with a smile on my face just knowing these are going to be awesome and then all heckfire breaks loose. Click. Dogs barreling. Click, click. Two kids will cooperate but two won't.  I get three rounded up and the fourth goes flying off into the oblivion. She gets chased down, rounded up and is now actually looking in the general vicinity of the camera but someone else is pouting.  Oh, oh... (click, click, click!) everyone is looking and now there is a dog face about two inches from my lens and one trying to knock him out of the way so he can get a good sniff too.  Three happy faces later, we almost have it and then BAM! CLICK! One gets plowed over by dog #3 and leaves the scene in tears while the eldest roars with laughter so two more follow suit. "It's not FUNNY!  That hurt, Erika!" followed by, "It's not funny you got hurt.  It's just the look on your face when you got hit...."   I later hear Erika talking to her Daddy on the phone dying laughing and saying, "Yeah, Mama was all calm and chill and then she just exploded!" followed by copious amounts of laughter.  I do it.  I flip out.  "That is IT!  Get in the car!"  I practice breathing in and out slowly as we drive down the road after I literally sling gravel, of course, because the light is now fading.  For some reason my offspring find this to be hilarious. Five minutes later I slam on the brakes and swerve onto a dirt lane.  Again, the kids find this to be hilarious.  Pretty spot, light is still fairly nice.  I'm still trying to breathe normally.  My kids are still laughing.  "Get out of the car.  Now."  We try for round seventeen.  Two kids will cooperate, one is pouting, and the other has gone flying off into oblivion again.  Round thirty-one. More of the same, just different kids doing it.  Somewhere around try forty-two...oh, oh!...three are looking and are actually really smiling and, wait, Mack is looking too, we might actually have one that works.  Somewhere in the middle of all of this I have stopped fuming and started laughing again.  I go home, call Honey and say,  "If I ever think a photo shoot is hard all I have to do is take them out and remind myself what hard is."  I later discover as I begin to edit them (which I put off for weeks because I dread how bad I just know they're going to be) that even though I lost focus for a minute, my camera never did.  The photos are brilliant.  They will never end up in a magazine or win any awards.  I will never use them for advertising.  The color is kind of flat.  Some are even blurry. But I see in these photos my kids.  I see their personalities and their relationships with each other.  I laugh out loud.  I get choked up.  I think to myself how thankful I am again, that even though I lost focus for a minute, my camera never did.

 

"The Clobbering"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Discovery

"There are two great days in a person's life - the day we are born and the day we discover why."  I have a friend who comes up with a quote at least once a week that always seems to ring true with me (thanks Amy and keep 'em coming!!!!), but this one (maybe it was the timing with the arrival of our new joy maker, McKinley) really hit home. I've spent many an hour pondering that very thought.....why am I here.  I think it is a natural question everyone asks themselves at one point or another.  Especially when faced with adversity or a fork in the road.  Unfortunately I wasted a lot of years looking to others to answer this question for me, unable to really find anything I liked about myself and thinking maybe they could give me insight into, well, me.  It's kind of like a little book I read my kids about a caterpillar that goes through all these ideas of what he will become; a bear, a bat, a lion, etc., and none of those things fit.  I love at the end of the book how he decides he'll be a butterfly and says, "That's what I'll be.  That's just right for me."  It is a beautiful thing to be at a point in my life where I finally like who I am.  On my road to discovery I have given quite a bit of thought to the opportunities afforded me just simply from the geographical location I was blessed to be born at, the time in history, and the family I came to.  I have often thought how I wished I were born in a simpler time when everyone really knew each other.  They would sit gathered on a porch and visit or make music.  They toiled alongside each other and a person's word really meant something.  Strangely I don't feel that way anymore.  I am a firm believer that there are no coincidences, and my place in life right now is exactly where I am supposed to be.  How do I know that? Because I do my best to be the best person I can be, and when we're doing the right stuff, we end up in the right place at the right time....just like the perfect timing of a note in God's grand orchestra.  I am to be that person who brings a "simpler" life to my family now, who looks past the superficialness of "How are you?" today, and who lives up to my word being my bond. And, as my children will attest to, pretty much everything routine in our lives is accompanied by one of Mom's crazy made up songs.

I think often about how remarkable it is that I was born in the United States, both lines of my geneology running back to it's beginnings and beyond (and an entire volume of subject matter for another blog as I am quite passionate about the freedoms they fought so hard for).  Born to a country where I not only enjoy freedom, but where that freedom also gives me more opportunities than any other country on the earth.  Born in a time when education is at my fingertips and is not available to primarily one sex.  Born to a family of hard workers with giant hearts and extended hands, who raised me to stretch and reach for whatever I set my mind to.  Just the good solid, sweet home full of love I was raised in and that I enjoy now is enough to say that my life has been a priveliged one, for from within those walls I have been molded to look upward and outward, to learn from looking backward, and to try to make a difference moving forward.  Knowing that less than 5% of all the people who have ever lived on the earth have had the opportunity to live in freedom (and even less than that if you are female), simply looking around at all that I am blessed with, recognizing that I live in a day and a place replendant with opportunity, the question I ask myself daily is, "Why am I here today?  What is it that I am to do?"  Just like I don't believe in coincidences, I also don't believe that we are born for only one reason.  I think that in the journeys of life we discover a myriad of reasons we are born, and a myriad of ways to fulfill that purpose.  In the journeys, discoveries, and fulfilling of those purposes I find contentment, and even more so as I see my children do the same. 

After some serious introspection and a lot of thought and prayer, I have discovered a  few things I know I was born to do (the list is actually longer but doing those things will come in time):

1) Love.  Love without judgement.  Love without criteria.  Love without being asked. 
2) Teach.  Not because I know it all, but precisely because I don't. 
3) Be happy.  Being able to find the joy amidst the tumultuous journey of life is one of my most cherished gifts God has blessed me with.
4) See beauty.  I am grateful to live in a day with technology that allows me to try to capture the incredible beauty in this world.  My poor old camera has been around the block. And am I ever grateful to have eyes and ears and senses to capture what cannot be caught on any medium other than our hearts.  Every day that I get closer to hearing aids I listen more carefully to the sound of my children's laughter, to the beautiful strains of music I hear, to the soft sighs of my sleeping baby cradled in my arms.
5) Listen.  Which is hilarious considering the rate at which I am losing my hearing.  I am grateful for the gift of empathy.
4) Mother.  In a day where so many women who give birth are not capable of having a mother's natural affection, how I treasure the profound joy I find in my children.  I do not wish them away. I do not feel they have "kept" me from my career as I have the entire rest of my life to pursue that and only a short number of years to wholly devote myself to them. I do not celebrate the days they return to school except in the joy of knowing they are blessed to receive an education. I do not feel the need to take vacations from them, they are my vacation.  They are my stand-up comedians and not just on a weekend night.  They are the most important career I will ever have, and the most important job I ever do right.  There is no deeper joy than having my arms so full of my very own children that I can barely fit them all in at once.

For a long time I felt like saying these things out loud was some form of pride.  I have just recently realized that accepting certain traits about myself only empowers me to use them to help others more.  So the question is, what was I born to do today?  Maybe just sit and rock my baby and memorize her face.  Even something as simple as that is profound.  It reminds me of the greatness of God and the miracles he works, it makes my heart burst, and it teaches her that no one on this earth loves her like I do.  Actually, I'd be thrilled if that was all that I had to do today!  As insanely busy as life is, asking this question helps sift through the things that jocky for my attention but in the larger perspective just don't matter.  It helps me do what I set out to do a couple of years ago which is not waste my time here doing things that have no meaning, that do no good.  I know that I haven't figured it all out yet, and I'm okay with that.  That is for tomorrow.  For now, I'm busy discovering why I was born for today.

Sometimes I Forget

Today I ran out to pick up Chinese food for lunch.  A rarity around our house.  I was completely alone.  Another rarity.   I sat down at a table to wait on the food to be ready and noticed a woman sit down with her plate of food.   Actually, I noticed her shoes first as I had had my eyes downcast staring into nothing.  I noticed that they were houseshoes and I giggled.   And as is totally typical, this led to a whole train of thoughts lasting about a minute or less before they called me up for my order that started with, "Hmm.  What would it feel like to have zero inhibition to walk out of the house and go out to eat at a restaurant with houseshoes on?" and ended with a sobering reminder.  She was sitting just diagonally up to my right facing away, and as my eyes drifted from her shoes I noticed that she was alone.  She wore worn and faded shirt and shorts that, in all likelihood, served as her "Saturday clothes".  I noticed she wore no ring on her not-pampered hands.  Tanned hands that bore the signs of wearying hard work, and not the tan of a tanning bed.  My humor at her fuzzy houseshoes fading, I took in her posture, head down, shoulders slumped.  Shoulders that looked like they carried the world alone.  She looked, in a word, tired.  Not the tired worn on the face of someone who just put in a long day at work, but the tired worn on the face of someone who is tired to the core.  You can see it in their eyes, and though I could not see hers, her body told me what I would more than likely see if I could.  There was a stiffness about the way she held herself that said, "I don't want your help or your pity."  The kind that oozes from a person that has fought one to many fights with their back to the wall and done it alone.  Aloneness.  That is what emanated from her.  It's difficult to put into words the emotion that gripped me as I sat there those literal few seconds.  Mostly because it was a whole plethera of emotions.  From empathy came the swell of emptiness, sadness, aloneness, the desire to ease the burden somehow, some way, and many more and then I hit an empathetic brick wall as I came to the startling recognition that I couldn't think of a time in my life that I have ever truly been alone.  I could not put myself in her shoes because I have never walked that barren mile. I'm not talking about physically being alone.  I'm talking about even when I am alone, even when I have waded through a hard spot in life that I had to go through alone, I have always lived knowing that I am not.  I have always carried the knowledge with me that there are people out there that care about me.  That love me.  And each of them are a blessing from the one who is always only a prayer away. The thought actually caused me to suck in my breath. The ache of sadness for her and gratitude for the strength that comes from knowing, if that makes any sense, both deepened.  I realized that that minute or less was a reminder.  A reminder not to forget those who do feel completely alone.  The ones who fight their battles with their backs against the wall and more often than not do it alone.  I was ashamed that wrapped up in my world I forgot that for a minute.  I am even more ashamed that I didn't go up to the counter and anonymously pay for her meal for no other reason than to lift her burden even a little, or just simply reach out to her.  The thought didn't register until I was already driving down the road.  Much to my chagrin I realized that I didn't learn my lesson very well.  I drove home with a somber reminder and greater resolve to pay more attention, think a little sooner, and act a whole lot faster.  I drove home with a prayer in my heart of thanks.  For the reminder, and for the blessing of simply knowing that I am never alone.

Finding My Voice

Six and one half years ago we drove to a nearby town, got out of the car, and had a pasty white, malnourished, filthy 21-month-old boy named Jackson placed in our arms on a doorstep with a t-shirt, a diaper, and not one other thing to his name.  Within a month he was diagnosed as having Reactive Attachment Disorder.  It was the beginning of the longest, hardest, most excruciating journey I have ever, or will ever embark on. Not because of him, but with him.  A journey that tragically has cost me the love and affection of a couple members of my family (just exactly like our therapist said it would from the beginning which at the time I refused to believe), but has entrenched a deeper well of love and respect from the rest of our families and friends.  Make no mistake about it, I will not describe in detail here the things that we have experienced or most especially the details of his life before coming to our family because, quite frankly, it is none of anyone else's business and he doesn't deserve to have it announced to the world.  That, and I have found more often than not that others have a tendency to package us up and never allow us to grow and change.  Something I do not want for him.

Over the years I have, for the most part, remained silent about Jackson's disorder to everyone that is not close to us.  I have had my reasons, and solid ones at that.  Yet I have felt for a few months now that it is time for me to find my voice.  Why not sooner?  Because I have been in the trenches, head down, expending every single ounce of effort and energy I have had to help my son overcome the life he was forced to endure before he came home to where he belonged.  It has been very much like I've been in the middle of drowning and someone comes up and asks me what I did to get in that situation. My goal has been to survive, not waste energy explaining. The time for sit-down answers is not when you're focused on survival. It's only when you're safely on the shore that you have the breath to explain.  Secondly, because my time and energy have been such precious commodities I chose not to waste my time educating those who only want to judge and never really wanted to understand in the first place, and those who truly have cared have done one thing that all of my critics haven't.  They have asked. They have made an effort, understood, and have ended up becoming the pillars of support that we have so desperately needed. 

I wish to address in this blog a few things that may help those we come in contact with understand why I do the things I do.  First, before reading any further, please take the time to go to The Mayo Clinic and read more about Reactive Attachment Disorder.  Here is the link:  http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/reactive-attachment-disorder/DS00988  After reading this you may better understand when I say that while Jackson exhibits both inhibitive and disinhibitive behaviors, he leans mostly to the disinhibitive. Although he has come a long, long way, the more anxious he becomes the more he reverts to these disinhibitive behaviors.

The easiest way to explain this is that Jackson has no stop button.  Dependent on his emotional state he often exhibits autistic-like symptoms.  I am not saying that he is autistic (although he does rank a solid 89 on the Autism Index based on the GARS-2 assessment performed by our neuropsychologist Dr. Sarah Richie, which under normal circumstances would place him as being Autistic).  I am saying that like a child with autism he becomes highly over-stimulated by things that would never even register on our radar. (Here is a great link to help explain how the brain functions affect our emotions and vice versa:  http://www.wholepsych.com/site/physician-reactivity-temperament.aspx)
When you and I get excited about something or find something extremely funny we can feel our adrenaline start to flow.  When it's all said and done we can take a deep breath, say, "Wow! That was fun/hilarious!" and then we find ourselves returning to a normal state of calm.  Because of the emotional distress he endured as baby and the constant state of turmoil and fear he lived in he never learned how to bring himself back down once his stress level was up.  Whenever he gets over-stimulated, from something bad or good he gets stuck there.  Now imagine for a second what it would feel like if something so funny happened that you laughed so hard you cried, but then you couldn't stop.  What at first would feel great would soon hurt.  Now imagine that something startled you and you were left hanging in that state of alarm.  When he is left hanging in this state of high stimulation, either from good or bad, not only is it painful for him, he also has lost his ability to think clearly.  Can you imagine what simply playing peek-a-boo feels like to him?  Now, let me be very, very clear about what I am about to say.  Understanding this lack of ability to regulate himself coupled with his history of abuse and abandoments and it's long-term effects on his ability to interact with others, especially women, motivates every single decision I make involving him.  Having been repeatedly abused and abandoned as a baby, can you imagine what it feels like to him when someone who is practically a stranger (including family we only see once every year or so for a day or two because "family" is only beginning to even have meaning to him) begins to try to tussle his hair, or play fight with him, or reach out and poke him in the stomach to play, or wants to cuddle up and read a book with him.   He is instantly on high alert.  His history has taught him not to trust anyone (It took him four years to trust us, so expecting him to trust anyone else after a few minutes or hours is ludicrous!  My own parents were only able to do simple things with him like read a book a year ago!).  I know every single signal he has that tells me a situation is going from enjoyable to frightening for him.  His pupils dilate, his smile goes from the natural-smiling-with-his-eyes to the smiling-to-survive smile, he begins to stand on his toes, he starts to tremble, his laugh turns from an adorable gut laugh to a "tuh ha!", he starts to talk incessantly and ask off the wall questions, he begins picking at his fingernails, and I can visibly see practically every muscle in his body tense up.  All of that for starters.  The more signs I see that he is spiraling out of control the sooner I a) pull him in close to me (even with a "smile" on his face his hand is usually balled up into a fist hanging on to my shirt or hand for dear life), b) attempt to remove him from the situation, or c) do both.  Not because I wish him to not have fun, and most definitely not because I have to be in control.  Because I'm trying to save him anxiety and hurt!  Does this mean I never let him do anything fun/exciting/new or engage with anybody other than his immediate family?  If it did why would we ever have taken him to Disney World?  Or to the beach almost every year?  Or signed him up to play soccer?  Or flag-football?  Or tickle him?  Or take him swimming?  Or canoeing?  Or play baseball or flag-football in the front yard with him?  Or any of the normal things a parent does with a child they love?  Why not just let him have fun with everyone else regardless and then bring him back down?  Because when he is in that state and he has lost his ability to think clearly he ends up hurting himself, and often someone else.  Every single time.  And that in itself interrupts his ability to return to calm and keeps him in a state of dysregulation for days.  It use to be weeks.   One of the major things people don't understand:  The more they back off and let him have space, the more they allow me to bring him in and calm him down without their interference, the sooner he can go back out and play.   What appears to be me not allowing him to have fun or engage with other people is in every actuality my attempt to spare him from hurt and help him find his way back to calm.   Easy enough to believe when you're reading this blog, but difficult to believe when you're watching my beautiful boy with a smile as big as Texas on his face doing his best to charm the pants off of whoever he feels most vulnerable with.  Something that endlessly paints me as the evil, fun-killing, control-freak Mom who won't let her son do anything fun therefore she must not love him.  Again, I know which smile is the real one, and which one is the if-I-act-wonderful-enough-I'll-survive one.

Is he better yet? Yes, he is better. He is light years ahead of where he was. But he isn't well yet. Think about the relativity of time for a minute. Going from three years old to four feels like years. Going from thirty-six to thirty-seven feels like a week. So if going from three to four feels like years, imagine what one month feels like to a baby. In those terms, 21 months must have been eons, and crucial ones at that. His personal history is part of his present and his future. And though my baby who screamed at the sound of music now asks me to dance, he still has so much to reconcile, to sort through, to undo, to let go, to heal from.  Jackson currently is chronologically eight, but in every other way, he is very much a four to five-year-old.  

Another major thing people don't understand is that how we are in public is nothing like we are at home.  Leaving the house consistently puts him in a mild state of stress.  Add a trip to that and he is already having trouble maintaining.  Throw some well-meaning folks who want to eat him up because he is so adorable in the mix and it is a disaster in the making.  I do not doubt for one second that I appear to be an over-bearing, up-tight, child-differentiating freak when we are out. He is in a state of hyper-alertness, therefore I am too.  What few see are the sweet, relaxed moments at home.  They don't see him crawl in my lap for a story to be read.  They didn't see him teach himself how to braid my hair because one of his favorite things to do in the whole world is brush it.  They have not seen him go from a child excruciatingly terrified of the water to a child who loves to swim.  They were not there to hear the first time he ever laughed a real, distinguishable laugh.  They do not know, nor can they comprehend what it is to watch your son sleep, truly relaxed and unafraid for the first time in his life.  And they certainly cannot fathom what it is to be holding him in your arms safe and warm, wishing with all of your soul that he had been your baby from the beginning.  Weeping for the things you know he endured.  Aching to have been there to protect, to comfort, to nourish, to love.  Promising that every single day of his life, whether he will accept it or not, to do those things for him now and then doing it in spite of his tenacious rejections of it.  They have not felt the despair, and they certainly have not felt the hope and the belief I have in him.  They have not witnessed the miracles in his life. 

Life caring for my Jackson has very much been like drowning in quicksand and trying to save the both of us.  More times than I can count I've had my head pulled under by the weight of despair.  More than once I have had my head pushed under by criticism from people I loved dearly and thought I could count on, leaving me in a place with no air, no light, and almost no hope.  A place where very much like being in the middle of quicksand I am telling him to be still and hold on tight and everyone else is yelling at him to move.  I jumped into a pile of quicksand up to the top of my head to save a child and by the grace of God he has brought both of us out.

I am not a perfect mother and I am the first and loudest to admit it.  I make mistakes every single day.  But God doesn't require me to be a perfect mother, only to have perfect love. Fortunately, that is the one thing I get right. And those of you who know me best know that when I say I love my children fiercely, ALL of my children fiercely, that I mean it.  Do I treat my children differently than each other?  Absolutely.  Every one of them.  Because I know my children as individuals.  Because meeting their individual needs requires individualized parenting.  Because I want each of them to be better than okay for themselves.  I want them to fly.  Having said that, I am asking for two things.  1) Help me to help my son.  Give him space.  Just as you would a child with autism, allow him to come to things on his own, at his own pace, in his own way, calmly.  Without trying to touch him.  Let him make the first move.  If he wants someone to read him a book, he'll ask.  If he wants to have someone touch him, he'll reach out.  If he wants to participate in any activity, again, he'll ask.  And sometimes I may say no.  Not because I'm mean.  Not because I don't love him, but exactly because I do and want what is best for him.  2) Please, and I do beg this, do not punish my other children for Jackson's disorder.  Please don't make them pay for Jackson's inability to handle strangers or for me bringing Jackson in to help him find calm again.  The world will never know how much they have sacrificed for their brother, most especially Kail.  The world could never know how much they love him.  And yet God certainly knew exactly who he would need to be his sisters and brother, who would love him unconditionally.  The first two selfless beyond comprehension through it all.  The youngest a healer.  Please reach out to them.

I am not asking for people to like what I have said, to approve, to understand, to advise, to pity, to show sympathy, and most certainly not to praise. I'm not even asking anyone to take my word for it.  Below is a list of individuals who have all but lived in our home, or taught him, or both.  They have been around for the long haul.  They have witnessed us at our best, and absolutely our worst.  And they have all willingly offered to speak with anyone who might have questions. 

Darice Spackman  615-477-8964
Thomas and Missy Winterton 435-823-0129
Sherri Robison 731-333-1247
Rebecca Niazi  253-278-9107
Amy Montana  770-359-9867

What I have written may have a bit of defensiveness to it.  But when you get kicked in the teeth enough times you learn to be on your guard.  Whether anyone will listen to what I have said or not in the long run just doesn't matter.  I will keep doing what I know is right for him regardless of what anyone else thinks.  There is a reason I call Jackson the son of my heart.  What very few know is that at any point in time for two years after he came to us I could have "given him back".  His adoption wasn't finalized for two years.  I could have taken the easy way out.  But I didn't give up on him.  I don't.  I never will.  I love him.  I believe in him.  I believe in miracles.  Every step of progress he has made over the years has been one.  I know.  Because I have been there.  Because I will be there.  Because he is my son.  Because I carry him in my heart, sometimes kicking and screaming, but still I carry him.  He is worth it all.

Anchored

This evening I turned "Anchor" on by Mindy Gledhill, a song that seems to have been written by someone who took a peek at my soul, found a perfect little portion of me and how I feel about my family, and put it to music.  I picked McKinley up in my arms facing outward and began to waltz around the great room.  I had barely begun to twirl when Kail stepped forward, took Mack's feet and began to waltz with us.  She reached forward, placed her hand on his cheek with that adoring look she wears so well, and we three danced.  I cannot adequately describe the sweet magic of that moment.  I cannot adequately describe the deep resounding, overwhelming joy that filled every ounce of my soul as we floated in our own little world of heaven, the reflection of us caught in the windows dancing along.  It felt as though we had danced like that before, had always danced like that, and in those breaths everything became that one moment.  Simple.  Pure.  Golden.  I was entirely wrapped in a cacoon of bliss.  Unpenetrable.  I have never taught Kail to waltz, but our three souls were in perfect harmony and we each knew exactly what to do.  His feet in perfect step with mine like it had been rehearsed time and again, her hand on his cheek, his gaze transfixed on her and mine on them.  A sweet reminder of who we really are and how anciently we have loved each other.  And again, time has stood still, sung, and burned it into my heart forever.

Meet Little Mack!

Introducing McKinley Elaine Rebecca Blaine

Born Friday, July 1, 2011, 4:37pm

7lbs 5oz. 20.5 inches

McKinley: My great-grandfather's name, "Payton McKinley Scott", went by "Mack".  Irish for "daughter of the learned ruler."

Elaine: Clint's mother's first name, my mother's middle name, and Clint's sister's middle name.  French form of Helen meaning "light".

Rebecca:  Our sister's first name.  By blood she is Clint's, by heart she is mine.  Hebrew for tied or bound to.

All fitting for this baby, our sweet little McKinley.  Our lives feel so complete now that she is here.  I've known for years she was coming, I'm just glad she and God finally decided it was time.  I am looking so forward to discovering who she is, but not in any hurry for that time to rush and get here.  I am so content to sit and dream with her all snuggled up in my arms.  My favorite things about her?  That she has laughed in her sleep since the day she was born, that she makes a sound like a baby goat when she stretches, that she already smiles back at us and coos, that she has her Nana's and her Daddy's one-sided grin, that she is my baby, and that she brings such a sweet feeling into our hearts and home. We are all definately wallowing in a deep pile of smit.

Startling Thought

My last blog just prompted the most startling thought!  What if McKinley has her Daddy's big ole head with a Honey-sized body?  She'll never be able to walk!  Great....now I'll be biting my fingernails 'til she's born....

Fly Sandwiches

For me one of life's greatest pleasures is knowing exactly who I came from and feeling the connection that binds all of us together.  I love to look in the mirror and see the shape and color of Granny's eyes, Grandad's nose, and most especially PawPaw's dark, wavy hair.  These traits remind me of them every day.  They remind me not only of who I came from, but how I am the link that binds them to the ones who will follow.  I didn't mention MawMaw in there.  Of all four grandparents, she is the one that I look absolutely nothing like.  But genetics are funny in that they don't just show up in our eye color and facial features, but in our personalities as well.  I have always found genetics fascinating.  Like how I'm tempered like PawPaw and Granny in terms of being happy pretty much all the time, but didn't get an ounce of  PawPaw's nature to worry (thank heavens!).  Honey and J got the giant doses of that, poor ole souls.  I'm tempered like all four in the aspect that they all had a great sense of humor and were fun loving.  I failed to get Grandad's temper, and I failed to inherit MawMaw's pouting abilities, but I did inherit the great love of music that Grandad, PawPaw, and MawMaw all shared.  I can still hear Grandad's and PawPaw's voices singing and it always makes me smile.  When I think of MawMaw singing I never fail to remember the first Christmas home from college that Honey, MawMaw, and I were sitting together in church and MawMaw came in a full measure ahead of everyone else in "O Little Town of Bethlehem".  The "Oooooooooooooooh" still rings loud in my ears and still makes me bust out laughing just like it did then.  In fact, I had to get up and leave I was laughing so hard.  Honey was about 2 seconds behind me.  I believe it took about 20 minutes to compose ourselves enough to go back in only to have MawMaw say to the lady next to her (in her most somber voice), "I'm sorry they acted that way."  The lady's response (in her most somber voice) was, "We just raise them the best we can".  Those comments naturally did nothing but get us going again.  One of the best things I got from MawMaw, aside from a definite and pretty serious mischevious streak, are her crazy dream genetics.  She dreams the craziest stuff I've ever heard aside from the crazy stuff I dream.   In fact, a couple of years ago she and I died laughing on the phone as she told me about one dream in particular that I've never forgotten.  She dreamed that Honey and Uncle Bud were little, they were hungry, and she only had one rotten tomato left to make a sandwich out of.  So, she cut off as much of the bad parts as she could to make them a rotten tomato sandwich when someone showed up at the door and she felt that she needed to give them the sandwich instead.  But that left her with nothing to feed her poor little youngins with, so she saw a fly buzzing around, caught it, and made them a fly sandwich to eat.   The best part to any of the descriptions she gives of her dreams is when she finishes the story and ends with, "Now ain't that crazy?"  Ha ha ha. That's exactly why I love them!  They are crazy just like mine!  The other night I dreamed a big ole black bear was coming after me and the kids and I got the kids behind me, picked up a giant rock and waited to see what the bear would do.  It ate some sort of dead animal about ten feet from us and when it finished it turned our direction, stood up on it's hind legs and roared.  I knew that with black bears if there is no way of getting away, then you should get to higher ground, make yourself as big as you can, and make as much noise as possible, so I lifted the giant rock over my head and roared back.  It roared again, so I roared back.  It roared a third time, and in my dream I let out the loudest, deepest, most inhuman roar back and it turned and ran off.  The next morning I wasn't the least bit suprised to learn that I had, alas, roared out loud in my sleep.  Oh the things poor Clint has to put up with!  Fortunately after all these years he's used to it.  I broke him in quick the second night we were married when I dreamed I was fighting somebody and kneed him right in the butt cheek as hard as I could while I was asleep.  I hit him so hard I woke myself up just to find him jumping around the motel room (lit only by the dim light coming through the drapes from the street lamps below) with a cramp in his butt.  Needless to say for some reason he has always slept with his back to me since and I can't for the life of me figure out why.  I guess it's a good thing, otherwise we might not have ever had children.   So far, none of my youngins have exhibited any signs that they might also carry this gene.  Who knows, maybe it's one that skips generations.  I sure hope not.  I'd really hate for them to miss out on the joys of waking up after a full nights sleep of crazy dreams.  I also failed to pass practically any of those good Lail/Scott/Whaley/Sutton genes on to them since in appearances I did nothing but incubate them.  The only evidence that they are mine are in the shape of Erika's eyes, which are shaped like mine and Granny's.  I'm hoping that at least maybe they'll have inherited some of those characteristics passed down to me that don't just show up on the outside.  I guess only time will tell.  I'd hate to be a complete recessive gene.  After all, it would be a terrible shame for them not to inherit any of the good stuff coming from my side of the family, because there is a whole big fat pile of a lot of good.  I've always known I was super blessed to be born to the family I was, and the older I get the more I realize how rare and wonderful of a gift it was.  I'm one of the few people who's very first emotion when thinking about their family as a whole is pure, undiluted happiness and love followed instantaneoulsy by laughter.  Lots and lots of laughter.  Most people are embarrassed by their "weird" family.  Hogwash I say!  Every family is weird.  I'm just grateful I was sent to mine...face-making, prank-pulling, song-singing, laughter-loving, hard working, adventuresome, giant-hearted, bug-eyeing, parable-speaking, sunny-side-of life, loyal, loving lot that they are.

One Last Treasure

It didn't take very long at all after discovering that we were expecting another baby that our thoughts turned to Nana accompanied by the sense of hollowness at not being able to tell her the news, of knowing that she won't be here to hold this little one and cuddle her in her quiet, unassuming, unobtrusive way.  This baby will only know her from the photos and stories that we'll share with her.  We've talked several times about how even though McKinley won't have her Nana here with her in person, she is getting some great one on one time with her right now while she's waiting to make her appearance, and we've laughed about how if Nana has anything to do with it, McKinley will have a few tricks up her sleeves and a mischeivious twinkle in her eye too.  Among those thoughts and others, we both recognized that one of the things she won't have is a blanket made for her by her Nana.  Fast forward to last Monday, the day after Mother's Day.  I opened a box we got in the mail from Rebecca to find this blanket inside with a short note about it being a blanket for a girl grandbaby made by Nana.  It's a good thing the note was so short because I couldn't have read any further anyway.  I stood in the kitchen in shock with big ole fat tears running down my face, grateful for a sister-in-law so selfless to share one last treasure from her mother with us.  The story goes something like this:  Last summer while Rebecca was cleaning out the house she was going through a stack of quilts that Nana had made and came across this baby blanket.  She said she knew it wasn't for her, Jessica said she knew it wasn't for her, and Rebecca said she knew Nana had meant if for somebody and it must be meant for us.  So, she decided to put it in our box of things, but felt like she should take it home with her instead because she didn't know when we would be able to come get it.  None of us had an inkling last summer that a miracle was about to take place, but having been gone already almost two years somehow Nana had known and had made this quilt for our baby girl.  So typical of who she was and how in tune she always seemed to be with her family and things that truly mattered.  Two and half years after she left us, she is still blessing our lives, still letting us know that even though we cannot see her she is still right here with us.  How fortunate I feel to have been blessed with this extraordinary woman as the mother of my husband (whom I can see her reflection in daily), as my mother-in-law, and the grandmother of my children who also remind me of her almost daily in their looks and personalities.   I am so reminded by her of the words to the song "A Mother's Eyes Relfect the Love of Heaven" by Steven Jones:

"A mother's eyes reflect the love of heaven.
A love borne long before this life began.
A love which grows each day, which will not fade away,
A love inspired by Heavenly Father's plan.

A mother's hands reflect a life of service,
A life of sacrifice for those she loves,
And with her giving hands she shapes the soul of man,
Prepares him for eternal life above.

A mother's life reflects itself in our life,
Her ways of living are engrained in ours,
And through the changing years and days of joys and tears,
Her love will lead us on."

Keeping These Things In My Heart

I've got to admit that that little leg looks an awful lot like mine.  As inconceivable (get it, inconceivable) as it sounds, it sure looks like mine.  Maybe because this baby is mine.  I can't even describe the total and utter shock I felt at discovering that once again I was carrying a baby.  Just imagine me standing in our room looking at Clint with eyes the size of saucers exclaiming the first thought that came to my reeling mind, "I'm 35!"   For seven years we had believed that we couldn't have any more children.  I had consigned myself to knowing that I would never again feel the movements marking the growth of life within me again, not with bitterness, but looking forward with faith that God knows all and unspeakably grateful for the children I do have.  How could I find reason to complain when I have already been so blessed?!?  There has always been the feeling of someone missing, so I just assumed that adoption was the answer, and that once again God would bring whatever baby into our lives that belongs to us, just like he did with Jackson.  Thyroid surgery not quite two months past, mid-renovation on the building we bought to open the studio, adoption papers in and literally 2 days away from publishing, learning I was pregnant was literally the LAST thing in the world I expected.  How could I thinking it was no longer possible?  Days of walking around in a complete stupor ensued.  Days that turned to weeks and still I could not fathom the possibility.  12 weeks we hear the heartbeat and I cried at the sound I never expected to hear again. And still the shock remained, the surrealness overwhelming.  But amid the daze of those first few months was an incredible pervading sense of absolute wonder that permeated our home.  Telling the kids was unimaginable, especially when they had all three been begging me for a couple of years to have another one even though I kept telling them I couldn't.  Sometimes kids just know things we don't.  I'll never forget as long as I live sitting around the kitchen table that evening after we told them talking about "If it's a girl, what would we name her?, "If it's a boy, what would we name him?"  Leave it to Kail to come up with the most perfect name ever.  In fact, his exact words as he threw his hands up in the air to stop our conversation were, "Wait! Wait!  I've got it!  If it's a boy we should name him Shipper Glunky Blaine.  It's perfect!"  Is it any wonder that after that moment we called the baby nothing but "Shipper" until the ultrasound revealed that they all three got their wish of having a baby sister?  Remarkably we asked the kids not to tell anyone and they didn't.  Not a soul.  We made it five months before anyone besides family and a few very close friends knew a thing.  Even six months in some cases. Clint would've shouted it from the rooftops from day one, but me, I couldn't say a word.  I had the hardest time finding a way to put into words the reason why I just couldn't share it, but I couldn't.  As odd as it sounds, the joy was just too much.   The wonder so thick it was palpable.  I understood on a level I never comprehended before the words in Luke 2:19 where it talks about how Mary "kept all these things and pondered them in her heart".  When you're living part of a miracle talking about it to any and everyone is just too much.  So for those who didn't know, I didn't share our joy as soon as usual not out of selfishness, or out of fear, but out of deep marvel and respect for another literal miracle in my life.  I was simply just keeping all these things and pondering them in my heart. 

(Me and McKinley at six months)

The Pinball

Some of my very best memories throughout my life are those where MawMaw has come for a visit.  I remember after we moved to Arkansas J and I could hardly bear the anticipation of waiting for her and PawPaw to arrive when we knew they were on their way.  I remember one year not long after we moved there she was playing "Come Closer" with us in the back yard and she fell.  It made Honey mad, and it made me and MawMaw die laughing.  I believe that incident was a couple of years after the visit when we went shopping in Fort Smith, she stepped off the curb, and the next thing we know she was laying on the ground.  She didn't even fall, she just sort of rolled gracefully down.  I was six at the time.  No matter how much Honey threatened me, I COULD NOT stop laughing.  MawMaw was laughing too.  She seriously looked exactly like a roly poly wollering around on the ground in my six-year-old eyes.  I nearly stopped breathing I was laughing so hard.  I don't know if it was her laughter or her legs that wouldn't let her get up from there, maybe a combination of both, but somehow I know she eventually did or she'd still be layin' there to this day I guess as much help as I was.  Let me reiterate...she was laughing too.  I remember that I wouldn't let Honey wash my sheets for at least a week after they left because they smelled like her. 

In September 2007, I got to go on a grand adventure with her in Colorado and New Mexico for Uncle Bud's wedding.  Driving Ms. Lail around in the Jeep Liberty I had rented on those New Mexico dirt back roads was nothing short of awesome.  There had been a rare rain storm the day before the wedding, so there were some really nice mud puddles I made sure to hit going about 30 just to hear her holler when the water would go up over the vehicle.  There just so happens to be a tie between the best moment of that trip though, both involving her and her control-top pantyhose. We pulled, and we pulled, and we pulled trying to get them things on.  However it wasn't until AFTER she got sick from dehydration (Ms. Lail is notoriously stubborn and REFUSED to drink water) and we got her back to the room that we discovered that she had a girdle on too.  (Apparently at 81 years old she had decided unbeknownst to us that she needed to not only wear support hose, but a girdle as well).  We pulled, and we pulled, and we pulled gettin' them suckers off.  At one point I had one leg of the hose stretched pert near all the way across the room.  I think any human being that had squeezed themselves into a girdle AND a pair of control-top panty hose on a typical hot-in-the-desert-day would be woozy.  Imagine the consternation of feeing terrible for her because she was so sick, and recognizing the hilarity of the circumstances surrounding the situation all at the same time.  That's one of those memories that is forever burned into my brain.

At 83 years and 11 months, I am so happy that she is still wants to, and is still able to come spend time with me.  So, last week I took off to North Carolina to get her and bring her back home with me for a two week visit.

                                                (Me and MawMaw 3/8/2011)

Now when it comes to MawMaw, we have discovered a few tricks to keeping her happy.  It is widely known that MawMaw is almost always affable as long as you stick to these "tricks".   First, is the "feed and water" method.   You do not EVER let her get hungry.  She gets ill as a hornet if she is hungry, and if you let her go too long without taking care of her dietary needs you WILL get stung.  Chinese food will get you bonus points.  Second, as long as you take her on some kind of little "field trip" almost every day she will be as content as can be.  This can be as simple as a trip to Dollar General, Dollar Tree, etc.  It is this second trick, combined with the third (do not get between her and candy if you don't want to get run over) that has earned her her latest name, "The Pinball".  This trip I have discovered what I should have seen for years, but never seemed to be enlightened enough to grasp.  I don't know, maybe it's the hormones from carrying this baby that have helped me gain it, but I have come to the conclusion that alas, MawMaw is a pinball.  She moves as slow as molasses (which at practically 84 she has earned the right to do), but take her to a store and she can move as quick as lightnin'!  It's just like drawing back the spring on a pinball machine...getting her to the store is the draw back, walking through the front door is letting the spring go.  I say pinball, because when Ms. Lail shops there is no rhyme or reason to her scurrying.  She goes from the back left of the store to the front right, from the front right to the middle, from the middle back to the back left, to the front, to the back right, to the middle, to the front left.  And you know how on a pinball machine up at the top there are usually two or three bumpers that if your pinball gets between those it bounces back and forth really really fast and gets all kinds of points, well that's the candy and cookie isle in the store.  DO NOT get in her way or you will be peeling yourself off the floor.  Ding! Da-da-ding! D-d-d-d-d-d-Ding!  Da-Ding! Da-Ding!  Mr. Goodbar!  SCORE!

(MawMaw checkin' out the shams to the new bedspread she bought...she'll chatter all the way home now.  I love it!)

Now, just for clarification, I am in no way making fun of or picking on my MawMaw.  I couldn't ask for a better one, and can't imagine why in the world I would want to!  I have always appreciated her sense of humor and how fun she can be, and treasure the adventures I have had with her.  All these years I have looked forward to our visits together, knowing that we will always find something to die laughing about.  And first thing tomorrow morning I expect to be woken by the sound of her little scuffles on her way to make her coffee, I expect to find her sneaking cookies for breakfast, and I expect to watch her doze most of the afternoon in the chair next to me.  Maybe I'll be fortunate enough to get some of her good tales about working at the "asylum", or tying PawPaw's big toe to the bed post while he was asleep and laughing about him falling on the floor when he tried to get up, or about the time she put a baby mouse down her older sister's dress, etc.  Needless to say, she has always been a mischevious one, and that's one of the things I love the most about her.  My little Pinball MawMaw.  Spit-doing!  Watch her go!

(Contents from her cart today.... 1 box of moon pies, 1 pack of mini hershey chocolate bars, oreos, apple fritter bread, dentyne fire, and a prescription of Actose for her blood sugar....Ha ha ha ha)