The Permanent Check-Out

September is National Suicide Awareness Month. If you have ever lost someone to suicide please read this. If you, yourself, have ever considered it, if the subject baffles you, enrages you, causes you to say it’s “selfish,” please read this.

If you have a pulse and breath in your lungs please read this. 

Horrific. Shocking. Mind-Boggling. Any or all of these words may be seen as a reaction to losing someone to suicide. The following is an excerpt from National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) website: 

“Suicide is among the leading causes of death in the United States. Suicide was the second leading cause of death among individuals between the ages of 10 and 34.”

Additionally, the report shows that between 2001-2017 the suicide rate has increased by 31%.  Also, males are four times as likely to commit suicide than females.

What strikes me most about this is the top excerpt. The second leading cause of death is suicide for ages 10-34. That’s absolutely staggering to me. Yet, I can’t say the topic is foreign and it’s certainly not lost on me.

Many years ago I was suicidal. The ideation started in the 8th grade. I’d swing in and out of depression and anxiety, but of course I had no inkling or awareness of mental health issues. We went once when I was 17 to a pediatrician who put me on a prescription sleep med. That was it. It was a tiny Band Aid for an infected gash. Some weeks were fine, some were not, but things really began to peak my senior year of high school. It kept steadily creeping up until I had a full-on nervous breakdown in my freshman year of college. 

I began seeing a psychiatrist around around age 19. He prescribed me anti-depressants. It marked the first year of addressing my mental problems with a professional. Some gave moderate relief, some gave me problems I’d never had in the first place. In the span of three years my doctor also prescribed sleep aids, anxiety pills, and mood stabilizers. But primarily it was anti-depressants. 

A couple years later I was twenty and living in an apartment. So crisply I can recall opening the bathroom cabinets down below the counter. Over the years, I had accumulated a myriad of prescription pills. Many of them were sample starter kits. Others were just bottles that were partially used. In those cabinets I saw an answer, an end to it all. I saw a wealth of weapons to poison myself with.

Then I got really scared  and  I called a suicide help line. I told the woman about the thoughts. She was very calm. She told me to flush it all down the toilet. I told her no. This went on for a bit and after that my memory gets fuzzy. But the next thing I knew there’s a knock on my door. I answered and a  police man stood in front of me and said he had a report of self-harm. I confirmed it and he told me I had to go with him. I got in his patrol car and he took me to the police station. I sat in the lobby for a couple hours before my mom made the drive from out of town. They allowed her to take me into her custody, so to speak. 

By the grace of God and medicine I have been free of suicidal  ideation and attempts for the past twenty years. But I will never be “cured.” I will never be completely freed. Because there is no cure for mental illness. There’s only treatment. And though treatments help, they are certainly not a fix-all.  I have a great doctor and highly effective medicines. Yet, every four to six months I will hit a wall. I will find myself out of control. My ability to function becomes so impaired that I critically need to be “worked in” to my doctor’s schedule as soon as possible. 

True mental illness stems from a chemical imbalance in the brain. It can take many forms, manifest a wide variety of symptoms ranging anywhere from rage to depression, to feelings of invincibility, reckless and dangerous decision making, delusions of grandeur, and suicide. The list goes on and on.

And of course there are  also external circumstances that can push a person over the edge and change their brain chemistry as a result. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is just one of many examples.

But I’ve also been on the other side of it.  I lost a dear, sweet friend to suicide six years ago. The anger phase hit me hard and I stayed there for a few days. But then my anger morphed and I  just became  wholly gobsmacked. I asked myself:

Why, why, why did he do this? Why didn’t anyone see it coming? How did this happen? Could somebody have stepped in? Nobody had a clue? Were there any signs?

We, as a society, must have an open dialogue regarding mental health. It’s true that awareness has been slightly raised,  but I believe we have a very long way to go. I won’t delve to deep in this aside, but on a larger scale, it’s absolutely imperative we address it as a nation. Just turn on the news and learn of some new horrific shooting. 

There are a lot of desperately ill individuals out there who need professional help. If you haven’t already, please inform yourselves, particularly if you feel someone is at risk of suicide. Check in on them, ask friends and relatives about them, encourage them to get help. Stand in that gap between their hopelessness and their desire to permanently check out, leaving us all behind. Know the signs. Step in and step up. You could save a life. And if you can save a life, each one of us could too.

https://www.nimh.nih.gov 

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (Lifeline)

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

https://www.take5tosavelives.org

https://www.veteranscrisisline.net/get-help/chat 

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The Eternal Sunshine of Gilbert

We were nearing the Mexican border when we passed a car accident on the side of the road. I thought very little of it. But then I saw Gilbert performing the sign of the cross in a little prayer.

I was living in Austin and going through a really miserable patch of life when we met.  At this point, I was seven years into the hell that was my journey through psychotropic medications.  Five different shrinks had put me on at least15 separate prescprition medicines to treat my condition. “How long until we know if it’s going to work?” “Four to eight weeks,” each one of them would tell me.  Four to eight weeks. I spent seven years pinning my hope on four to to eight weeks. 

And so entered Gilbert. He lived in Corpus Christi, but visited Austin frequently.  Through a set of mutual friends, he and I became close in the midst of my mental mess. He was a devout Catholic who had been in the seminary.  During his schooling there, he learned about Christianity in other forms as well.  He talked to me about meditation.  He taught me what he called “the centering prayer.”  He loaned me books and answered my many questions. He prayed for me.  

Not only did he pray for me, but he prayed with me. This began a friendship that would alter the course of my spiritual life in a phenomenal way.

In my darkness he also loved me. It was not erotic love, but agape love.  He mailed me greeting cards with inscribed personal messages of encouragement  and scripture, sent postcards from his adventures abroad. He somehow managed to pull me, in all my doggedness, out of my comfort zone during a time when such a thing felt otherwise unimaginable.

When I was weighing the cost of accepting a 2:00-10:00 p.m. shift position at the Austin Children’s Shelter he was the only one who supported me. From my family I heard things like this:

You can’t do this. Look how messed up your sleep schedule is already.

You shouldn’t do this. You’re too sensitive.

But not Gilbert. When I relayed their concerns to them he laughed.

“I think this could be exactly what you should be doing!”

“Really? Why?”

“Because it will get you outside of your head. And you will be helping others by showing them compassion.”

I did wind up taking the job, received a promotion and worked there for four years, which is the longest I have ever held a job to date.

But still trudging through the mucky morass of depression, I wasn’t fully functional at work or otherwise. (Thankfully, a job in social work means that people get it. I was able to take a leave of absence within the first few months of working there).But I was beating myself up on top of it all. I was kicking myself when I’d already been down for years.

I’m not good enough. 

I can’t make it through the day without a breakdown. 

I am such a burden to my friends and family.

Nobody wants to be around me

I’ll never get better.

Then one night Gilbert and I were driving around drinking chocolate milkshakes from Whataburger.

“You want to go over to Justin’s? I think Jason, Nora and Anthony are over there now.”

Grimacing at the thought of it, I replied.

“I’m just bad company” I said, looking down and nervously pulling at the threads of my jeans, which had a tear in the knee. “Nobody wants to be around me.”

Again he laughed.

“What?! Christy you light up a room! Don’t you see their faces when you walk through the door? All smiles.”

While I certainly appreciated the comment I also wasn’t really buying it.

“Do you really think so? How could that even be? I can’t imagine it’s true.”

“Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

And so this became a pattern with him and myself. He was always turning things on their head to shift my perspective, or at the very least, to change my mind.

One day we were talking about escapism. I told him how l liked to escape by zoning out on the couch watching TV.

“No. You should be doing the opposite. You should be fully present.”

Now at this point, “fully present,” was a concept that felt like a pinhole prick in a world of black. I could see the tiny bit of light but any sort of breakthrough felt impossible. Still I was curious and interested in his take. He gave me a couple books. They were Sadhana: A Way to God, Christian Meditations in Eastern Form and Wherever You Go, There You Are Essentially, he provided a back door for a faith that I’d let grow stagnant since adolescence.

One night after I was finished with work Gilbert called me and we were just chatting. I was wondering if he was going to come up for the weekend and stay with our friend Justin.

“No. I actually have a wedding to attend in Monterrey.”

“California?”

“No, Mexico. Interior of Mexico.”

His family was originally from Chiuhuahua and he still had friends and family there in the country.

“Oh. I don’t even think I realized there was a Monterrey in Mexico!”

We laughed about it and then, in the spur of the moment, he asked if I wanted to come with him.

“Oh no.  I couldn’t possibly do that.”

“Why not?”

“No, no, no.”

“Come on, you don’t have work this weekend. Drive down here tomorrow and then we’ll take my car and drive together to Monterrey.”

There was a tiny silence and he jumped on it.

“Pack your bags.”

“What?! No way!”

“Yes way!!”

This silliness went on for a bit, neither one of us relenting, but he was determined to win.

“Pack your bags.”

“What? Gilbert, I am not packing  my bags.”

“Pack them. Pack your bags.”

“Ok,” I said.

“Ok you’ll go?”

And this is how God works, I believe. Gilbert was in my life intentionally and so personally, but only for a short season. It was less than a year. But he was a huge part of the tapestry that God weaves into this little life of mine.

“Yeah…ok…I don’t know..such late notice.”

“PACK YOUR BAGS.”

It had become even more comical at this point and I laughed a bit.

“Alright. I’m calling you in ten minutes to be sure you’re packing. Go pack.”

And I actually did! Somehow, like no other person, his tenacious and persistent love won me over.  I crawled out from beneath that black cloud for a bit. I traded it in for a big adventure.

And when we drove by that car accident and he instantly said a prayer, it flipped a switch within me. That was over 17 years ago. To this day, I say an instant prayer for anyone who seems to be in distress on the side of the road. I’ll even pray for pedestrians just walking along the roadside. When my kids are in the car with me we say a little prayer each time there’s an accident.

And this is how God works, I believe. Gilbert was in my life intentionally and so personally, but only for a short season. It was less than a year. But he was a huge part of the tapestry that God weaves into this little life of mine.

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What Sawyer Knew

Johnny Mathis was playing in the background as Sawyer rifled through a box of old letters.  How could it be that his stoic, void of a father could write such beautiful letters to his mother? Sawyer was a very young child when his father, Max, deployed to Korea. The gist of his memory was his father’s return; the vacancy in his eyes as he walked down the steps to greet them. Gone was the twinkle that Sawyer had so briefly enjoyed as a toddler. In the years to follow Max became distant. He withdrew mostly but when he did pay attention to his son it was to lash out and burn cigarettes into his Sawyer’s skin.

Sawyer stared at the portrait of his parents hanging on the wood panelling of his bedroom, right above the chest of drawers. With that, he returned the shoe box to its drawer.

He stepped out onto the porch for some fresh air when he saw his daughter out in the fields. He walked out closer toward her, having a feeling what she was getting into. Sawyer had seen the dead cat during his morning walk but left it as he was in a hurry to return home. Now he regretted his choice.

“Dammit Alice!”

Alice jumped back and turned around to see her dad coming at her and she winced. He grabbed her arm and pulled so hard he was close to dragging her. When he heard her cry he slowed his pace and released his grip on her arm. Instead, he held her hand and walked her back to the porch.

He made her sit on the steps while he went into his bedroom and reached for the quaaludes. But then his eyes scanned the nightstand and he saw his 30 day sobriety chip from Narcotics Anonymous. He clenched his eyes, dropped the bag of quaaludes and instead grabbed his cigarettes. He headed back out to sit with Alice.

He checked to make sure her arm was alright from grabbing it.

“You can’t be doing weird shit like that, Alice. Especially not now.”

Marcy came out to find her daughter and husband on the front porch steps.

“What’s going on, Sugar Bear?” She sat beside Alice.

Sawyer lingered a minute longer before going back inside. He had a ball game and a container of Skol waiting for him.

But when he turned on the TV it was only a string of commercials, which he routinely muted. In that mute, that silence his conscience tortured him. How could I have grabbed her so hard? What’s the matter with me? I’m as bad as my old man was.

His inner dialogue led to frustration, which in turn, festered as anger as he bolted toward the back of the house. He threw a punch into the guest bedroom wall, breaking up a small bit of drywall. It hurt his hand more than the wall. 

The anger gave way to hopelessness, to desperation and the desire to find solace without a substance to abuse. He laid down on the bed and closed his eyes. When he turned toward the nightstand he was surprised to find an old, tattered Bible. It had been Marcy’s before she’d relapsed.

He picked it up and held it close to his chest as he lie staring at the popcorn ceiling. He closed his eyes once more and remembered the last time he went to church. It had been the first time since Dana had run away. 

The sermon was entitled The Sins of the Father. He waited a bit for the small congregation to dissipate before he walked down the hall to find the Pastor in his office. 

“Pastor Paul?” He asked as he nervously rolled the bill of his baseball cap in his hands.

“Sawyer Davidson? That you, son?” He motioned for him to take a seat.

“Yessir…..um well, I guess you heard about our Dana runnin’ off…..”

Pastor Paul leaned back in his chair, furrowed his brow and picked a piece of lint off his coat sleeve.

“Yes, I hear something about that.”

“Umm…well I uh, I just want to know…umm, you think my sins had anything to do with that? I mean is this some kind of curse, Pastor?”

Pastor Paul had also remembered Sawyer’s father as a disturbed and violent man.

“I don’t believe in curses, son. But I do believe God disciplines us.”

“He’s punishing me ain’t he…” Sawyer’s mumble was barely audible but enough for the pastor to hear.

A long heavy silence separated them. Finally the Pastor spoke.

“You’ve got to look into yourself Sawyer. You’ve got to ask Jesus to reveal your sins and you have to face….”

At this Sawyer bolted out the office door. The pastor’s words were like kerosene to the fire within him. It was fueled by fear and guilt. He’d come to church hoping his feelings would be dispelled, hoping for some compassion. But he left feeling even heavier than when he’d entered.

The phone rang and jolted him back to the present moment. Leaving the Bible on the bed, he ran to the living room to answer the call. It was his brother Kenny. 

“Did you see that hit?!”

“No, I just turned it back on.”

But once back on the couch his eyes turned to look out the front window. 

“I’ll talk to you later,” Sawyer said as he hung up the phone, still eyeing the window.

He watched Marcy get into her old high school boyfriend’s pick-up. Worse than that, he saw Alice watching intently. She turned to ask Sawyer the question he dreaded was coming.

“Do you think Mr. Dale and…..”

He cut her off and rose his voice. Then he softened as he saw her delicate expression and motioned for her to come sit beside him on the couch.

“Come watch the Astros with me.”

She ran over to sit with him. He thought he heard her sniffle but he didn’t say a word. Instead he put his arm around her as he kissed the top of her head.

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Pushing Through the Little Pains

Pushing through the Little Pains 

I guess it started two years and a day ago. Two years ago I broke a toe and yesterday I stubbed the same toe pretty hard. I tried to shake it off.

About an hour later my husband Michael and I decided to go workout and drop the boys in childcare at the rec center.  The plan was that after we finished, one of us would take the kids to the pool around the corner as the other would go get Whataburger and bring it back for a poolside picnic. We were going to make a fun day of it! 

So I taped my toe up with its neighbor toe, popped a couple of Aleves and set off with and a sense of determined authority. I was going to own this day. No little toe was gonna tell me what to do. 

I lifted weights for about twenty minutes and then walked over to my husband and stubbed the same toe again. I told  him what happened and mustering every tiny shred of self-control,  I held back tears as I slowly hobbled out of the room. 

But we’d promised the boys a day at the pool.

“Let’s just go home, Christy.”

“No. We promised them.”

“You need to go home, ice it and rest.”

We went back and forth like this for a minute before he wore me down and I agreed.

Of course the news caused a ripple-effect meltdown that started from the top. The four year old started wailing and losing it in the lobby and the two year old followed suit. In his rage my younger one walked straight into and opening door, banging his forehead. 

Then it’s thirty minutes before nap time and I was wondering why we ever thought we had time for such an ambitious schedule in the first place. After buckling them into their carseats we get ourselves into the car. And then in an attempt to appease the screaming heathens, Michael assures them:

“We’ll still go to Whataburger,” he says in his loudest calm voice.

My nerves are on the edgiest ledge, my toe is throbbing and I immediately shut it down.

“No, it’s not worth it. It’s almost nap time..plus you just said I need to go home and ice it…it’s too much….I mean, why….?”

“Because it’s FUN!” 

“Yeah I’m having a lot of fun,” I smarted off just under my breath, but hopeful he heard it.

As it wound up, we did go straight home. The boys ate PB&J on a beach towel in front of the ultimate panacea, television. We called it a living room picnic and they were fine.

Michael and I were on the couch awash in the calm after the storming toddlers. With peas, a Ziplock, and rubber bands I fashioned myself a highly effective little icepack that wrapped around my now very plump piggie toe.

After putting the boys down I settled in for some of my own TV time as I flipped on Netflix and scrolled to my show, The Staircase. It’s a true crime documentary, a murder mystery involving a dead wife, a lot of blood and a blow poke. Michael can’t stand this genre that I love so he went upstairs to read, leaving me alone for some much needed recharging. Foot elevated and with icy toes, I let myself get lost in the courtroom drama, crime scene re-creations and the intricate details of blood splatter patterns.

I know it’s morbid, but it’s my morbid mid-day ritual, dang it.

Flash forward to this morning. Mostly the boys were playing fine but then Bradley loses his mind over something and demands to be held. Ninety percent of the time I oblige. But today I was trying to get dressed. I was rightfully and vigilantly guarding my hurt toe. I tell him NO. And his fiery temper sends him flying into my body. He’s grabbing and attacking me with his tiny raging limbs. Fearful of further injury to my purple toe, I wind up basically palming his forehead and he falls backward. Apart from his tender heart, he’s completely without injury but screams and cries even harder. I flee from the precious beast and head downstairs.

But PRAISE JESUS because my mom decided at the last minute that she wanted to take the boys for a few hours. And at this point my she’s about fifteen minutes away. Pretty much screaming at him, I ordered him to sit on the couch so I can turn on his favorite TV show.

Their MoMo comes and goes and I am blissfully left alone. It’s when I walk back upstairs to finish getting dressed that I realize I am wiped out and it’s just 9:45 a.m.

But it’s fine. Everything is fine, fine, fine. The boys are back home and it’s their nap time.  And I wish I had a pretty little bow to wrap up this piece for you but I just don’t. The truth is I’ve got a big ole’ bowl of obligations and chores ahead of me that I need to complete before tomorrow morning when we head out of town.

So um..ya know. Here it is:

THE END. 

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The Big 4-OH So What

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In a matter of hours I will turn 40 and while I still don’t consider myself old, I think it’s fair to say I’m entering the territory of No Longer Young. The Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” was the number one song on the day I was born. Disco, ya’ll. I was born in the era of Disco.
But you know what? I’m truly not mourning the loss of my youth or any such ridiculousness. In all honesty, I am the most content, peaceful and confident I’ve ever been. I am typically among some of the oldest moms in my group of friends. And while I can certainly appreciate their energy level, I would never want to go back and do those years again. So much of that time I spent trying to self-censor or bend my shape into something more pleasing to outside influences.
But what liberation comes with age! I’ve often jokingly said that I can’t wait to be an old lady because I am going to say and do exactly what I want. It’s like a free pass. But in that middle ground, there really is a freedom that accompanies wisdom. You’ve lived through enough junk and met enough characters to say with some loving authority “That’s bullshit.” And in regard to friendships, you gain a confidence in being able to tell a dear friend what she needs to hear even if it’s not what she wants to hear. These situations take trust, maturity and diplomacy. And not one of those things happens overnight.
I think of all the amazing women over forty that I know. These are women who are grounded, successful, and at peace with themselves. And when I say “successful,” I am not necessarily referring to wealth or status. Success looks different to me now. It’s opening your home and heart to usher in those coming after you. It means embracing a position of mentorship, loving more fearlessly and giving more freely.
There have been special people who have poured into me over the years. Former bosses, mentors, and friends have walked with me through dark seasons. With ease, I recall the comfort of their presence, the security of their wisdom. I needed them to look up to. They weren’t magic, they were just there ready to love and listen.
I’ve found in recent years that the tables have turned. If my friend is struggling I want to walk with her through it. And I do. And the best way I know how to do this is to keep growing. It means sticking around, embrace life at any age. You always have something to offer. You’ve got to stick around.
So whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother…well, you know. And if you don’t know, quietly congratulate yourself on your youthful inability to catch the reference.

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Rock and Roll Jesus

It’s impossible for me to recall my younger years without music. As a preschooler, I’d excitedly open my dad’s massive, heavy drawers filled with cassettes—The Beatles, Dire Straits, Queen, The Doors, The Cars, The Police, The Rolling Stones, just to name a few. When I was four years old I wanted to be Joan Jett. I’d sing along to all her songs. Pulling the sleeve out of the cassette tape, I’d admire her tough look, leather pants, and electric guitar. With each passing year, my love of music became more adrenalized. It was my dad’s passion for music that really fueled my fervor early on. He had speakers installed in the ceiling so we could be goofy; him singing along while “cooking” queso in the microwave and me dancing around the breakfast table.

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There was something else my dad was passionate about and that was his faith. Every Sunday we went to church with my grandparents. But even though I remember singing in the pews, that practice did not cement his faith in my young eyes. It wasn’t the big congregation or the fact that he taught Sunday school. What struck me, and has stayed with me, was the quiet solitude. He’d be the first one awake and sitting at the breakfast table with his coffee, Eggo waffle, and his Bible. Every morning, without fail, he read one chapter.

But as I grew into a young adult, my own lifestyle became a lot more Rock and Roll and a lot less Jesus. I don’t know if it’s fair to say I spent a couple decades “wandering” from the Lord. “Running off crazy in the opposite direction” feels about right though. That’s not to say I ever stopped believing. In fact, I still believed and I prayed when I found myself desperate. But I was not seeking Him. I was seeking myself and it got me into a heap of trouble.

Then one day, a sweet friend invited me to come to church with her. Reluctantly, I agreed. There was loud contemporary Christian worship music, lots of flashing lights, and stadium seating. It felt like a rock concert, as if they needed to make Jesus cool. Put bluntly, it was not good music. I did not want Rock and Roll Jesus. I wasn’t feeling the Hipster Hallelujah. And Jesus wasn’t waiting for me in those large crowds because he knew me better.

Several more years passed and one day a different friend suggested I try out a small church plant called Mosaic. Again I was reluctant but I went.

 

The congregation was small; there may have been twenty five people and the band was in the center of the room. I walked in skeptical and walked out renewed. The lyrics, rhythms and instrumentation…it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. These were new hymns to me. They were soulful and intimate. They met me right where I was and moved me to my core. For the first time in thirteen years I felt the presence of The Holy Spirit in a church.

These new hymns spoke to the brokenness in me. I was in the dark for many years and for the first time as an adult I went to church and heard music that was healing. It wasn’t “You should be feeling this.” It was “You are feeling this. And Christ is in it.” It was the vessel of God’s peace. He was calling me back and speaking my language.

Today my husband and I attend a church with a phenomenal pastor and a great children’s program. We’ve made many friends and I’ve been involved in a women’s bible study for the past few years. The only downfall is that the worship music does not resonate and, honestly, I don’t think we’ll ever find a worship band that impassioned us the way the Mosaic musicians did. They set the bar pretty high.

Nowadays, I begin mornings with my Bible and coffee at the breakfast table. Occasionally, I still sing softly in the quiet spaces of the early morning. I enjoy the old hymns, in addition to the Mosaic hymns.

My interest in secular music has never wavered and I still enjoy a wide range of genres. In fact, I usually have music playing in the background whenever I can. Since childhood, it’s always been the backdrop of my daily life and I think that’s cool. But I don’t need my Jesus to be cool. Let cool be cool and Jesus be Jesus.

 

PS: I still love you, Joan Jett.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Snow Way Jose!

This past week was not been my favorite week staying home with my toddler boys. It was a week of ups and downs…well, mostly downs. But it’s not how low the downs were, so much as it was about the general turbulence of navigating between the two.
It started Monday with the excitement of the alleged “Severe Winter Storm” alert. We had a 70% chance of snow for Tuesday! In what seemed to be an unprecedented event, the city of Austin and surrounding areas preemptively decided at 6:00 Monday that Tuesday was not happening. They shut down schools, businesses. Oh the overpasses! Oh the sleet! Oh the black ice! But then the snow?! One forecast even called for 1-2 inches and this is a BIG deal in our neck of the woods. Our boys have barely any experience with snow so we were all getting excited. My husband didn’t have to go to work! My three year old didn’t have to go to school!
Ohhhh but wait. My three year old did not have to go to school. And my husband “got to” work from home in our modestly sized home where there’s truly no escaping our boys’ and their hot, rough, shoving, screaming…then maniacally laughing…then bickering…then reading together sweetly…then throwing metal toys at one another’s faces…MESS. They’re a mess, guys.
Additionally, we were already about three days into our boys passing a low grade fever back and forth. Very minimal symptoms but it meant we couldn’t to any of our regular places that include childcare. We had no escape, no breaks from one another. I was thinking No way, Jose. No way can I remain sane…
But back to the weather that would calm and cover us in the purity of white snow. I’m sure it didn’t help that I was literally checking my weather app at least three times an hour. The radar looked real patchy so we were going to need to put on approximately 73 articles of clothing between the four of us pretty dang quick if we were going to catch any of it. Only the snow never came.
Wednesday we were fever free, which means we got to go to the recreation center. The boys could go into childcare and I could work out. Hooray! It was awesome right up until the point that I went back to get them and one of the workers was holding my two-year-old in a blanket.
“We were just about to call you. He has a fever.” Of course he did. This meant another 24 hour minimum of holing up in the house again. It meant missing my Bible study group for the second week in a row, due to fevers.
But then came Friday morning. Lo and behold, we were fever free again! Hooray again! This meant we all got to attend our MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group and the boys got to play with their friends in childcare! The sun was finally shining again and I was overjoyed to end the week on a high note. I was very much looking forward to the weekend and grateful for healthy boys.
We returned home, ate lunch and I put them down for naps. I exhaled. I started to make myself a cup of coffee. Then the tip of my brand new long sleeve shirt caught fire on the burner. Thankfully I wasn’t hurt and the smoke detector did not go off during naps. And honestly, I wasn’t really phased. At this point it was kind of like I damn near caught myself on fire? That seems about right in step with the rhythm of the week.
All that being said, it’s Saturday now. Last night I slept a solid NINE hours. It’s a spectacular, beautiful day here in my little Texas town. And I am blissfully blessed to be out of the house all by myself. So take that, false snow alert, fevers, and flammable fabrics! We survived you all!

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The Edge of X

In 2012 I did not want a smart phone. And it’s not because I’m a technophobe. A phobia is a fear. This was a genuine disinterest. I didn’t want one and I didn’t need one. And then I married an Apple man. He dragged me into the AT&T store and said “We’re getting you an iPhone.”

Inevitably, I began the process of becoming one of “those” people constantly on their smart phones. Bit by bit I became that person who compulsively checks my Facebook, weather app, and email. Oh, I’d do the occasionally scaling back on Facebook, once even axing 70% of my “friends” and I’d secretly pat myself on the back for it. (By the way, if you think that cool girl you graduated with and had barely spoken to since middle school won’t mind being unfriended, I’m here to tell you that she will. Surprisingly, she will. And as you walk up to her at a high school reunion she’ll scream “Christy Braselton! You unfriended me on Facebook!!”)

Oh right. I’m making a point….

The point is that it’s a tricky thing being born at the tail end of a generation, specifically Generation X. And being bullheaded, it’s easy to turn my nose up and believe my childhood and young adulthood was somehow more valuable because I used postage stamps and freely made prank calls in an age before caller ID. If I was driving in a new area and couldn’t find (or unfold) my giant State of Texas map, I had to pull over at a gas station and talk to a human person with a face and everything. There was no text message that could rescue me from the awkward, nerve-wracking silence when talking on the phone to a cute boy. And later when I lived in a dorm, alas, I was without social media to bemoan the existence of my Mickey Mouse-obsessed roommate who was enraged that I used “her” toilet paper that was in our shared bathroom. Instead, I had to get up, walk across the hallway, and gripe to a friend who didn’t suck.

A while back I met a younger acquaintance for lunch and she casually referenced how we both used MySpace when we were in high school. I met her words with a blank stare.

“Lindsey, I was born in 1978. I didn’t have my own computer until I was a senior in college.”

She glanced up at me from her Instagram.“Oh,” she said and returned her focus downward at her post, continuing to show me how it works. I continued pretending to care about it.

I often struggle to connect with younger people because our upbringings are so drastically different. Our shared experiences are few. And I will confess that I can be judgmental and skeptical. It’s something I’m working on.

That being said, I have much to learn from Millenials. I’m trying to settling into that truth. Yes, I do need to get on board with technology because I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that the internet is not going away. Undoubtedly, I will be asking the next generation for help as I do my best to embrace social media, blogging, domain names, etc. I’ll learn about plug-ins and other fancy things. I won’t like it but I’ll do it.

Just please don’t make me be the girl with 5+ hashtags after every single Facebook post. Please. I just can’t deal with it, guys. Or if you do, at least meet me for lunch first and give me some really good reasons. Teach me.

And do it without your Instagram.

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