Thirteen

I can't believe it's been thirteen years.
THIRTEEN.

But it feels just like yesterday.

I remember finding out I was pregnant.
I took the test right before work. Something you should probably never do if the results may be shocking.
I remember just sitting on the edge of my bathtub and staring at the two dark pink lines.
They had come up instantly.
There was no 3 minute wait.

I stayed in shock for a long time. Not sure how to tell anyone.
After all, I was 22 and single and was raised to know that that was just not how you did things.
I didn't even tell my parents until I was 4 months along.

At the time I lived in the smallest one bedroom apartment ever known to man.
The stove top was practically the same measurements as the bedroom.
If you sneezed hard, you could blow out a window.
But it was what I could afford on my deli worker salary, and Jared's the only person I know who ever got rich off of a deli.

I remember wondering where I'd put a baby.
Worrying I'd have to move back home.
I remember feeling sad I wouldn't have a nursery to decorate.

It was going to be hard, but one thing was for sure. Whether or not to keep the baby was not negotiable.

I don't remember feeling scared, though.
I had been born wanting children.

But all those years of wrapping up Cabbage Patches could never have prepared me for what was next.

Alena Nicole Santorineos was born in room 7 of Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital on July 15th, 1999.
I would later go on to have three of my four daughters in that very same room.
She weighed 7 lbs. 2 oz. and was 19 inches long.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid my eyes on.

I'll never forget the feeling the first time they laid her naked, just-born body on my chest.
She immediately turned her little face up towards mine and squinted to see me.
It was like she was sizing me up.
Making sure I was prepared for the job.
Like she was saying,
"So. Are we in this thing together, or what?"

There was a lot of bustle that day. Grandparents being called. Visitors popping in. Passing her back and forth. I barely got to see her.

But then night came and we said our goodbyes.
Visiting hours were over.
Time to rest.
But I couldn't.

I will never forget sitting in that quiet room with the murmur of the tv on in the background. There was just one dim light on as I sat up and laid her between my legs on the bed.

Who was this little person?

The heaviness of sole responsibility laid heavy on me.
I prayed over her and her future.
I prayed for myself.

Then I started to unwrap.
Slowly.
Layer by layer,
until there she laid.

She was so tiny!
Red and wrinkled and completely asleep.

I was overwhelmed by the wonder of that moment.
It remains in my mind as one of the most life changing moments I've ever had.

Like putting a drop of food coloring into water and watching it spread until slowly it's all transformed.

-The moment when it hit me that it was just her and me-

The two of us were a family.
I was responsible to feed her and clothe her and to make her a PERSON.

I can honestly say that that moment turned me into who I am today.

And now she has grown.
I hardly recognize her.
Did that beautiful thing that's as tall as I am really come from ME?

THIRTEEN.

I think back to being annoyed when, at three, she HAD to give a sticker to every person who walked through our door.
"Alena! Not now, Honey! They might not even want one of those!"

I remember fussing at her that she really didn't need to bring 15 books with her everywhere that she went. (something she STILL does)

I remember her fascination with Sleeping Beauty and how she'd fall asleep with this old fabric rose we had clutched to her chest so she'd be prepared for True Love's kiss.

I remember worrying that surely she was Autistic because she didn't so much PLAY with her Polly Pockets, but she categorized their clothing into rows based on type and color.

I remember all this and I can't help but think that I didn't hold on enough.

Maybe when she came out with an arm-full of books, instead of fussing, I should have just helped carry.
Maybe I should have worn my stickers with pride, instead of peeling them off before I went out in public.
Maybe I should have told her more that she didn't need to pretend to be a princess.
She already was.

We had it hard.
It was lonely and hot in that one bedroom apartment.
Money was tight, and I was so tired.

And in between the giggling, tickling times, there were times I wanted to bang my head on the wall.

But that little girl made every long day worthwhile.
The feel of her hand in mine was so comforting, because it meant I'd never be alone again.
I was hers and she was mine.

As time has passed she has changed so much.
She is smart and beautiful and incredibly funny.
But she isn't the one who has changed the most.
She changed ME.

What a beautiful gift to be given.
Newness.

She is my helper, my friend, and my most proud accomplishment.

I look at her and think, "I did that."

And what a joyful thing it has been to do.

So Happy birthday to the book carrier.
Happy birthday to the sticker-giver.
Happy birthday to my very first princess.

The one who changed my life.

Your Child at Age Three

I took the kids for their well-child visits the other day.

When we were done, the doctor handed me a developmental checklist for each of them.
I took one look at Tessa's and laughed.
Were they sure they'd gotten the right age?

Here is what it said:

Development:
All kids develop at their own rate. At this age, you may notice that your child:
*Climbs up and down stairs
*Jumps off the floor with both feet
*Balances briefly on one foot
*Pedals a tricycle
*Eats on his or her own
* Washes and dries his or her hands
* Copies a circle
* Unbuttons clothes
* Says more words
* Describes actions in books
* Speaks in sentences and asks questions
* Knows his or her name, age, and sex
* Counts to three or higher
* Joins other children in play
* Starts to take turns and share
* Starts to know the difference between boys and girls


I just blinked at it, then made an amendment to the checklist.

This one is more accurate.


Development:
All kids develop at their own rate. At this age you may WANT TO RUN AND SCREAM AND ROCK IN THE FETAL POSITION BECAUSE TWO IS BAD BUT THREE IS PETRIFYING.

You may now notice that your child:
* Climbs up and down stairs TO MESSAGE THE RUSSIANS SHE WORKS FOR IN THE PRIVACY OF HER OWN ROOM

* Jumps off the floor with both feet FROM AN AIRPLANE TO COMPLETE A MISSION GIVEN BY SAID RUSSIANS

* Balances briefly on one foot BEFORE DOING A ROUND-HOUSE KICK TO A SIBLING'S HEAD UNPROVOKED

* Pedals a tricycle THAT POWERS A GENERATOR SHE HAS BUILT FOR HER VERY OWN SECRET ENERGY SOURCE

* Eats on his or her own PLATE BEFORE EATING OFF OF YOURS, YOUR MOM'S, YOUR FRIEND'S AND POSSIBLY YOUR FRIEND'S FRIEND'S.

* Washes and dries his or her hands. YOU HOPE. BECAUSE GOD ONLY KNOWS WHERE *THOSE* THINGS HAVE BEEN

* Copies a circle ON TRACING PAPER AS PART OF AN ESCAPE ROUTE MAP SHE IS CONFIGURING

* Unbuttons clothes TO REVEAL A GIANT "S" LOGO ON HER CHEST

* Says more words THAN YOU THINK IS HUMANLY POSSIBLE. EVEN WHEN YOU TELL HER YOU'LL PAY HER A QUARTER IF SHE CAN WIN THE 'QUIET GAME'

* Describes actions in books TO ADULTS IN WORDS THAT THEY CAN UNDERSTAND, THEN ROLLS HER EYES IF THEY DON'T

* Speaks in sentences and asks questions THAT CAN RENDER EVEN DOUBLE MAJORED ADULTS SPEECHLESS

* Knows his or her name, age, and sex AND CAN ENTER IT ALL IN COMPUTER FIELDS IN ORDER TO LOG ON TO YOUR COMPUTER AND SET UP HER OWN AMAZON ACCOUNT.

* Counts to three or higher WHEN NAMING THE AMOUNT OF SNACKS SHE WANTS YOU TO MAKE HER BEFORE 10 am.

* Joins other children in play THEN HAS MOST OF THEM CRYING SHORTLY FOLLOWING.

* Starts to take turns and share, BUT THEN RE-THINKS IT AND STOPS ABRUPTLY.

* Starts to know the difference between boys and girls AND THEN SAYS TO YOU THAT SHE SURE IS GLAD SHE'S A GIRL BECAUSE "THAT THING IS WEIRD ON BOYS' BUTTS."


I know kids develop differently, but that just had to be a joke.
Tessa wouldn't surprise me if she could recite the Pythagorean Theorum.
Just NOW being able to count to three or higher?
Sometimes I WISH.
At least then I'd have time to catch up.

She's almost too smart for me.
I spend a lot of time feeling confused when I'm trying to reason with her.
Like I've been blindfolded and spun in a circle and then told to run.

This morning I saw her eyeballing the same scissors that she'd used to cut her own hair last week.
I told her not to even think about it.
That cutting hair made it SHORTER and I knew she wanted long long hair.
She didn't reply with a question of why.
She didn't say OK and wander off.
Instead, she started weaving a tale:

"Once there was a girl who had magic scissors, and those scissors made hair GROW instead of be shorter. And the more she cut, the more it grew...."

"Tessa. That girl doesn't exist."

"Yes she does. I saw her at the pool."

.......


Then five minutes later, Justin came downstairs asking who it was that had doodled on Buddie's mail.

"No one. No one did that. Not me and not Chloe."
"Well SOMEONE had to have done it because it was there."
"It was Phoebe. Phoebe did it. "
"Dogs don't doodle, Tess......I know! Whoever tells me the truth gets a surprise."
"ME! ME! It was ME!" She shouted as she raised her hand and bounced up and down.

I'm not sure if she actually even HAD done it or if she was just volunteering in order to get the surprise.
She was disappointed when the "surprise" ended up just being a kiss on the cheek, followed by a lecture on lying and drawing on things that aren't ours.

When we have to punish her, secretly we're having to hide that we're laughing because darned it if that evil genius isn't a FUNNY evil genius.

I feel honored that God saw me as capable enough to manage parenting her.

I've got so much love for this little Tazmanian.
But there is no checklist on earth that can prepare anyone for what to expect from her.

The Robotic Elephant of Sleep

At first I thought maybe it was a one night thing.
That he was just really exhausted and his nose was stuffy or someting.
But now, on day 14, following night after night after NIGHT of snoring that is so loud I'm positive it can be heard from space,

now I'm starting to worry.

I've tried everything.
I've tried nudging him.
Telling him to turn over.
Poking him, kicking him in the shoulder blades, hitting him with, and even just *lightly* covering his face with a pillow.

It might not be such a problem if I wasn't such a light sleeper.
Something that has served me well through years of having babies in the house who might need attention.
If left to Captain Coma, all three little ones would have choked to death on mucus at one point or another as he slept a mere foot away.

He sleeps through anything.
Car alarms, and earthquakes included.

Thank God I don't.
It's saved our lives before.
There was one time when the next door neighbors had put a lit cigarette but into a dry tree stump that separated our properties and the faint crackle of embers was enough to wake me up.
I got us up, called for help, and got us all to safety.

In minutes there were flames 8 feet in the air.

So I've been conditioned.

Now I'm ruing the day.

I've tried to drown it out.
I turn on the fan and the cd player and the humidifier.
To any other person that alone would keep them awake, but THAT I can sleep through.

His incessant Hoover powered breathing three inches from my ear,
I cannot.

And I get bitter.
I imagine all sorts of evil things to do to him.
All sorts of un-Christian things.

Last night I imagined capturing large spiders and dangling them until JUST the right moment of inhale, then......RELEASE!
Into his mouth they'd descend.

I thought about how great it would be to own an air horn.

I wondered if holding a pillow over his face would REALLY kill him or if it would just put him into a deeper, more silent, sleep.

What's worse is that when I DO wake him and ask him to turn to the other side, he gets all confused.

"Justin, can you turn over?"
*insert confused, scowly stare*
"Can you TURN OVER please?"
*blink. blink.*
.....
"What are you asking me?"
"I'm asking you to TURN OVER. Like I do every night. Multiple times."
Non-Discernable mumble...."I can't figure out what you're saying."
"TURN. OVER. On your other side. To sleep. Sleep good. Cheif wantum sleep."

Then he sighs like I'm asking him to write a six page essay on sleep, and turns over.
Only to start snoring literally 4 seconds later.

Last night I didn't drift off until after 3:00 and even that glorious three hours I slept was broken by episodes of wall vibrating snoring.
THREE HOURS? Seriously? This just can't be.

I'm trying t figure out nice ways to tell him I'm kicking him out of our room.
I've thought about pitching a tent in the yard and luring him in with smores placed on the path like in E.T.

He likes the outdoors.

I used to sort of place scorn on couples who had separate rooms.
Now I realize how fabulous it could be.
All that leg room.....

I tell people about his snoring and almost every time get back a look of concern and a comment about how "Sleep Apnea can really shorten your life expectancy" or something.
I nod, and inside am tapping my fingertips together and thinking,
"Oh....So there's a chance it could be over soon?"

I know I've got annoying habits, too.
He often asks if I need him to build a retaining wall to keep all my clothes I have piled on my dresser from avelanching off onto the floor.
But piles of clothes don't keep you up at night.
Piles of clothes don't lead to bad moods the next day and bug eyed children gawking at "scary mommy" who's got THAT LOOK again.

It's really not my dream to glance over at my 34 year old husband and see him wearing a C-Pap machine.
Looking like some sort of Robotic Elephant of Sleep.
But, you do what you have to the keep your wife from ending your life....er....stay alive.

He's otherwise mostly healthy.
If you forget about things like the bad ju-ju of being Native American while eating a Costco sized box of cinnamon rolls, that is.

This just has to stop.

I'm getting mean.
Er.

A person is not designed to take care of four kids who are all perpetually on the verge of nervous break-downs on only 3 hours of sleep a night.
It's not good when you start recalling old Dexter episodes as you lay in the dark.

It's not good that when he kisses me goodbye in the mornings as he heads off to work, I'm tempted to bite his lips because I'm mad at his loud snorey mouth.

I just heard a motorcycle drive by while I typed this and I jumped, then thought,
"Oh great. Now I have PTSD from it."
I wonder if I'd qualify for a therapy dog.......

I've thought about Breathe Right Strips, but I just don't see how those would work. The sound isn't coming from his NOSE, it's coming from the deep recesses of his being.
Like instead of a skeleton, his insides are formed around a leaf blower.

Now I must go.
I need a nap today.
It's the only way I can function and have the energy to set up his tent later.

The Alone Time Unicorn

People.
It's happening.
RIGHT NOW.
I'm actually having
wait for it

ALONE TIME.

Quiet, blissful, rare as gray hair on a baby alone time.

Well, if you remove the dog's weird reverse breathing that she does it's quiet and blissful.
She only does that when she gets excited, though, so maybe she's loving the moment, too.
Her giant Boston Terrier eyeballs bugged out with glee.

The baby is in bed, the little girls are finally sleeping, Justin's at work, and Alena got invited to go see The Hunger Games for the sixth time down at the ghetto three dollar theater.
The theater that hasn't been vacuumed in about 14 years.
That's why they can charge so little.
They save on things like cleaning supplies and fresh paint and warm water in the bathroom sinks.

Also, Alena's at the age where it doesn't matter what it is or where it is as long as it's away from home and it keeps her from having to go upstairs and get something for me.

I don't even know what to DO with alone time any more.
I always think I want it and I'll use it doing spa-like things.
Soaking my feet or painting my nails.
In reality I watch things on YouTube, stare at my reflection in my magnifying mirror and sigh, or scrape dinner leftovers into the trash while the dog drools giant saliva bubbles beside me because she wants some of the brown rice.

All glamor
all the time.

I feel like there's so much I WANT to do with alone time that when I get it, I get so giddy trying to decide what to do first that I spin in circles and hyperventilate and before I know it, the girls are standing in front of me asking for snacks all over again and I've wasted it all.

*POOF*
Gone.
Back to reality.

It seems magical, this alone time.
Like a unicorn.
Powerful, mystical, and never ever seen.

I needed it, though.
Those brief moments of silence.
This has been quite a week.

I have endured so much whining this week I deserve some sort of prize.
At the very least a mylar balloon.
I picture the Pope kissing MY hand.
The girls have taken turns crying like they're in a relay race, passing the baton of terror, and the time-out chair has stayed perpetually warm for days.

It's getting to the point where I'm trying to figure out new consequences for them.
Bigger than taking toys away.
Bigger than going to their rooms to "think about their behavior."
(see: Scream bloody murder and kick the walls)

Like - Den of lions,
maybe.

I might have even considered posting an ad for them on Craigslist if I could ever remember my stupid password....

And it's not only been the little girls.
I'm seeing in Alena this week the beginnings of what other parents of teenagers have warned me about.
Here I thought I'd get by without dealing with it.
She was so sweet. So innocent.
Now I see the look.
The, "I will be mortified if anyone knows we're together" look.
The look of distaste in anything remotely related to family time.

I could set her up with a week at a chess camp and she'd be like,
"I don't play, but I'm there. As long as there's WiFi."

We got invited to a baseball game in a suite last night that had 18 seats available.
She waited to see where we were sitting and then chose her seat.
If we had been seats 1-4, she would have been in seat 18.
Across the aisle with the other group.
The group she'd never even laid eyes on in her life.
Then she spent the whole time casting mournful sideways glances at us then slowly returning to her book.
I tried taking her picture and she'd just make lame faces on purpose to ruin the pictures.
They were already bad enough from that far distance.
All grainy from the zoom I had to do to try to capture her that far away.

Then the girls cried tonight about VBS.
They don't want to go tomorrow, they said, because today they'd been separated and they "don't like being apart."
Uh....
You could have fooled me with the daily torture and drawing of blood they try on each other.
Most days I think they'd as soon hit each other in the temples with rocks than play nicely together.
Now they can't be apart?
Go figure.
I guess that's just siblings for you.

I SUPPOSE I was that way.
I mean, I did tell Branch Roth to remove my brother from the trash can he was sticking him head first into in high school.
Even though I agreed with Branch that wearing a matching sweat-suit and transition lenses was grounds for trash can dunking, I didn't want anyone to do it other than me.
We stuck together when we were in public.
We saved the flogging for at home.
Well. I DID.
Darren just laid there minding his own business eating his microwaved burritos.

On top of all this week's crazy, I've had a sick baby and daycare kids, birthday parties and trips to the city. Father's Day and shopping trips. Return lines and grocery stores.

I just never get a moment's peace.
Whatever happened to laying all afternoon on a Fun Island listening to Bob Marley in the summer?
When is a girl supposed to tweeze her eyebrows?
How does one stay on top of their DVRed Master Chefs?

I deserve some down time now, right?

Wait.
WHAT?

Well.
I did.

But now it's over.

Alena just walked in.

I think I'll make a memorial bumper sticker for my car window.
"In memory of Alone Time 2012.
Gone, but not forgotten."

Wake Up Call Barbie

This morning it came to me.

I wonder if I could use the same technology they use in race horse gates to build a bedroom door for the girls that won't allow them out until the buzzer sounds.
They'd be in there pawing at the ground - eyes on the prize - until it was at LEAST past 7:00 before theyd be released.
How in the WORLD do they have so much energy?!

They wake up at 6:00 giggling and within five minutes they've dressed up in costumes, built something out of foam blocks, logged on to the computer dismantled 2 rooms and gotten in a fist fight.

I've been wondering the last three days why I'm so tired.
Like
eighty year old, supportive shoes and soft foods tired.

But then I realized that's just how one FEELS with four kids.
I seem to keep forgetting I'm not 20 anymore.
The WORD twenty feels like a foreign language when I say it, actually.

I still feel the same inside.
In my mind.
It's my body that isn't keeping up so well any more.

I mean, I WAKE UP tired.

That's just wrong.

And it doesn't help me ease into my day when the first thing I see with my sleepy eyes is a naked Barbie that just has to be dressed this very second.
Who cares that it's still dark out?
This, apparently, is Nocturnal Barbie.
Haven't you heard of her?

And have you ever tried dressing a Barbie?
It requires the focus and skill of a vascular surgeon to get their arms in those sleeves.
Every single Barbie outfit we own is shredded by the cuffs because those blasted hard, pokey thumbs just
Won't.
Go.
Through.

I am completely convinced that whoever designed them actually hated women.
They wanted not only to give them messed up body images, but they wanted to completely infuriate every sleep deprived mother who'd ever have to help dress them.
Doing it without contacts just by feel while your kids laugh at how funny your hair looks is not exactly top o' the day material.

And my body aches now.
All the time.
I thought I'd be at least 50 before that started, but boy was I wrong.
I've had a stiff neck for so long now I'm forgetting what good mobility feels like, and that has me turning around to look at things like my spine has been fused.

It's made backing up the van pretty hard.
I just pray a lot and try to do it fast so that my window of possible time I could spend backing over someone is a smaller window.

I'm basically completely falling apart.

Yawning.
Limping.
Unable to look behind me.

And the kids.
They're so ENERGETIC.
And unappreciative of all that energy, too.
The things they have to complain about are that their hair band is too tight or their sock seam is funny.
They don't even know how good they have it.

I used to ride my bike miles a day to visit my friend Katie across town.
Now that much riding would put me in traction.
I used to think the cereal pieces in Lucky Charms were just there to make the bright colored pieces you REALLY eat stand out more in the bowl.
Now I have to think about fiber intake and if I ate that much suger my heart would jump out of my chest.

In the last few days alone the girls have run and climbed and swam and jumped and chased and spun and all they have to show for it is some sun on their noses.
Me?
I almost need Hospice tonight.

Chloe acts like her growing pains are enough to earn her an AARP card.
Just wait till she's my age and she realizes she's spent over 85% of her day daydreaming about a foot rub.

The mental space that used to be taken up by thoughts of My Little Ponies and coloring pages will be replaced by fantasies of deep tissue massage and a well fitting Dr. Scholl's gel insert.
And SLEEP.

Oh. Sleep.....

Life just GOES FAST.

You never really understand that when you're younger.
Summers stretch out forever.
Time stands still.
I have childhood memories that, in my mind, were 40 hours long, but I know now were probably mere moments.

Maybe realizing this is what has made me really want to just spend time with the kids this summer.
Crafting, baking, creating.
Living vicariously through them. Remembering what it's like to stay out as long as the mosquitos will let you.

And good thing I have Pinterest.

I have prepped crafts like a crazy person.
I've used so much food coloring there's probably some sort of government surveillance on me.

I guess there's my answer to why I'm so tired lately.
It's probably some sort of food coloring toxemia.
It's probably some rare thing that nobody ever gets, but with my luck, I would.

I mean really - What person in ONE YEAR gets Lyme's, a rare serious reaction to a medication, pre-eclampsia, high blood pressure, a life threatening blood clot and goes into A-fib?
Now a day when I get sick I just assume it's probably the most rare random thing. That way, when it's not, I'm pleasantly surprised.

I've learned to push on, though.
To try harder to enjoy each day as it comes, because there are no guarantees.
See your friends and tell them they're important to you.
Hug your kids even if earlier in the day you used those same hugging hands to pull out clumps of your own hair.
Be kind to your family even if it's easier to take them for granted.

I guess I shouldn't complain that the girls wake me up at 6:00.
At least I have them to wake me up.

One day they'll be gone and I'll get to sleep as late as I want.
Or as late as Justin's Hoover powered snoring will let me.
Instead of buying 4 pairs of new tennis shoes, I'll be able to buy that deep tissue massage and I'm sure
while I'm laying there in perfect peace I'll miss it all.

I'll miss Barbie's dagger hands.
I'll miss wiping down the ENTIRE bathroom after their bath because there was so much splashing.
I'll miss cleaning up the ice cream bar that got left on the coffee table for a half hour and melted all over the shag rug.

OK.
Maybe not that.

I just want to enjoy every day as it comes.

Even if it comes at 6.

The Peace Speaker

I was dreading today.
Dreading grabbing the lab slip that the pediatrician had filled out for Chloe when I took her in yesterday because for a month now she's been telling me her legs feel funny.
Like she's
"going to fall."
She's complained of dizziness, too, so I thought better safe than sorry and I took her in.

She's had bloodwork before, and actually did amazingly, but I still wasn't too excited to have to explain to her that they'd be poking her again and that she needed to be brave.

The nurses looked scared when they realized we were there for a blood draw.
Like they wanted to shout, "1,2,3 Not it!" and scatter, but we checked in and they showed us to the waiting room and told us we'd have to wait at least 20 minutes.

"Do you want to watch something on my iPad, Chloe?"
I asked her to try to distract her.
I saw her swallow really hard with tears in her eyes and say,
"Yeah. I want to watch that show where tgfggfgfgfgfgfhyhe kids dress up and their parents buy them fancy dresses."
I thought for a minute.
"Do you mean Toddlers and Tiaras?"
"Yeah."
So we watched it.
She commented that those moms seemed crazy.

Every time anyone walked by, she looked up. I could tell she wasn't really watching it.
Her mind was too focused on if they were coming for her.

And then they did.

"Chloe Green?"

She looked up at me with the look that every parent hates most.
The look that says, "Help me."
But you can't, and you have to be strong and show that you're brave so they can be, too.

I took her hand and told her she was going to to so so good, and we walked in together.

The room seemed cold and overly white.
Four phlebotomists stood staring like a row of sheep at us and Chloe decided to bolt.
I had to go retrieve her and literally pry her hands off of the door handle as the tears started.
Then came the screaming.
The total panic.
She had absolute TERROR in her eyes.
I've almost never seen anything like it.
I'm sure all four of the phlebotomists have asked for a raise now.

She pulled my arms around her body and screamed at me not to let her arms go. She was shaking, violently, and begging to leave. She didn't want to. She didn't want to. Please let her go. Please! PLEASE!

I tried reasoning with her. I tried talking more sternly. Then more gently.
One phlebotomist said they didn't think we'd be able to do the draw.
It was fear as intense as I've ever seen it. And I've SEEN it.

It went on and on for probably 15 minutes until finally I decided just to
pin her against me.
The phlebotomists took my cue and before long there was one holding each arm, me holding her toso, one holding both legs and then another one ready to do the draw.

It was a nightmare.

I had tried everything to get her to calm down and hold still.
At this rate there was no way they'd even CONSIDER trying to poke her for fear they'd seriously harm her with all her writhing.

All I had left to do was pray.

Now I know some of you aren't praying people. I know this might be the part of my story where you stop reading or roll your eyes, but I AM a praying person and I know what I have experienced in my life and I know that God is real.
He has met me in places no one else would go and I felt like I'd done all I could do on my own.
And that's the thing I've found about God - That's the moment when He really likes to show up.
It's almost like He's saying, "Are you done yet?"

As I struggled to pin this child that felt like, at that moment, had the strength of 3 adults, I whispered a prayer too quiet for her to even hear with her head pressed against me. Her screams were muffling all other noise.

"Father. PLEASE. I need you to be here with Chloe."

And in that space between that last period and quotation mark, He did just that.

INSTANTLY she was quiet.
The tight balloon that was her body deflated and as I clung to her every muscle in her body relaxed almost like she'd been drugged.
She offered her arm to the tech and sat. Still.

It seriously kind of freaked me out.
My own firey furnace moment.
And if that moment had a sound effect, it would have been,
"WHOOSH!"

2 seconds later the draw was done.
She was smiling.

I wasn't.
I was crying and totally unable to talk.

It had been palpable - the answer to my prayer for my child.
The most important prayer a mother can pray.

HELP THEM.

Today I was reminded that God cares about the things that matter to us because WE matter to HIM.
And I was also reminded that maybe next time I should START with the
prayer instead of trying to do it all alone.

My Nonnie

B

My Nonnie died today.

She wasn't a Grandma, or a Nana, or a Granny.
She was a Nonnie.
To the core.

My mom called to give me the news.
I stood in shock.
It wouldn't settle in.

The kids were screaming. The dog was spinning. Baseball was on. It wouldn't compute.

But tonight, as I settled into a hot bath after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet.
Then it set in.

I couldn't stop the tears.

Memories of her flooded me.

The way she clenched her eyes tightly closed and tilted her head back when she told a story.
How she'd do it again when she told the story the second time. Because she always did.

Then the third.


I thought of her soft fingertips tap, tap, tapping on the dining room table as she did this in a way that belonged only to her.

I thought of her walls so covered in pictures of family and nail holes from HANGING the pictures of family that you could barely see the wallpaper.
It looked like had a woodpecker for a roommate.

I thought of her love of a good republican president.
How she'd dedicated the only walls that didn't have pictures of family - The main bathroom walls - to be a place to hang THEIR pictures.


It was always strange to me to be sitting there, doing what business people do in a bathroom, and looking up to see Ronald Regan smiling down on me.
But she was proud to be an American and it showed. All over.


Nonnie loved cats.
Pictures of cats.
Cards with cats.
Clothes with cats.
Statues of cats.
But most of all - STRAY cats.
It took an entire family intervention to convince her that cats really, truly did not require a casserole sized pan of biscuits and turkey gravy every day to survive.
She was never convinced.


Nonnie was an early riser.
And she wanted everyone else to be.
We'd go to visit, drugged by jet-lag, and still she'd be banging on our doors telling us we needed to get up and eat breakfast because it was already 7:00 am - which was only 4:00am to our tired bodies.
I think she was positive that if people waited past 8:00 for breakfast they'd surely die of starvation.

If the banging on the doors didn't wake you, though, the banging of the pots and pans would.
We'd stumble out, not the slightest bit hungry, and before long would be having our mouths crammed with an 18 course breakfast.
As we gulped that down, she'd start making lunch.

No person on the face of this earth was louder (or more efficient) than Nonnie in the kitchen.

Even now, If I'm clanging around looking for a lid to a pot, Justin will say, "Hey Nonnie, do you need help?"

But she could clang and bang all she wanted because that woman could COOK.
You have never tasted a biscuit so flaky and perfect.
You've never had corn bread like Nonnie's.

I once mentioned that I liked these cookies she'd made when I was little out of ritz crackers, peanut butter and icing, and then returned later after taking a nap to see that while I'd slept she'd made literally hundreds of them.
There were pans on the counters, pans on the table....Even pans on top of the refrigerator.

Over the years she'd fed more people than you could even believe.
It was her call to fame.
She could whip up a pone of corn bread with her eyes closed.
What she couldn't do is give you the recipe, though, because she didn't have one.

I once asked her how she made her world famous hot fudge and she said,
"Oh. I don't know. I just do it"
Like it was part cocoa, part sugar, part magic.

I sometimes wondered if she REALLY didn't know, or if she just didn't want to tell because she wanted it to be something all her own.
Something no one took from her.

I thought of how many times in my life she told me she'd been praying for me.
How I knew that she had.
And hard.
How every page of her Bible had parts underlined. How the pages were bent and you knew that they'd each been read over and over.
And not just read, but LIVED.

I thought of how she rooted for me.
How she'd find ads in the Reader's Digest for becoming an illustrator and she'd cut them out and mail them to me.
The same ad every time.
Dozens of times.
No note.
No commentary.
Just an envelope and a clipping that said ,without actually SAYING, that she believed in me.

I remembered sitting at her table trembling and dreading to ask.
Just she and I in her kitchen as she stirred the soup she was cooking.
I was a single mom and I was struggling HARD to survive at the time.
Something had come up and I desperately needed money.
I didn't know who else to turn to.
"Nonnie....I need to ask you something. I hate to ask, but is there any way you can help me. I need to borrow some money...."
I held my breath waiting to see what she'd say.
Feeling ashamed for even having to ask.

She turned around with her wooden spoon still in hand, clenched here eyes, tilted her head, and said something I'll never forget.
Something that summed up my relationship with her, and the relationship I hope to have with my own grandchildren one day.

"Honey, Of course I'll help you. I'd jump in a runnin' saw mill to help save you."

Then she turned around and kept stirring.

I could go on and on.

About how she re-laminated her own kitchen floor when she was in her 80's.

About the stories I've heard of a fight between her and her second husband that involved something about burying a gun in the yard.
Something that was probably a good thing, because she had a true Irish, Murphy temper.

I'd tell about the way her skin smelled when she'd kiss you goodnight right before bed.

How as a kid I'd beg her to take her teeth out and she'd spit them out and suck them in in a way that would make me laugh and laugh and beg her to do it again.

I see her puffy permed hair and feel her soft, perfect-for-hugging body.

All my life, as my musical family has gathered, there's always been singing.
Every time, all the kids get together, with her in the middle and they sing about the River Jordan.

Nonnie sang the bass.

We'd all laugh as the low tones echoed in the room. A sound you didn't expect from an old, shrunken woman.
We younger cousins would give each other sideways glances and smiles.

Now, I know her voice will always echo in the room,
bigger than you'd ever expect,
in the empty space that will be left here that only she could fill.


Because no one will ever be able to sing Nonnie's part.

Today Heaven welcomes one of the truest saints it ever knew.
Norah Hitte-Hammonds.

She will be so VERY missed by us all.

My Nonnie, my fan, and my friend.