Shalom

I chased Ella today through Trader Joes today. She had one of those mini carts that fits just right, filled with things she loves like hummus, tomato soup and Candy Cane Joe-Joes. I like watching her walk through my favorite place with authority and confidence. Right now, she doesn’t remember all the things that stress us out.

I’ve been finding myself a bit lonely lately. And to be honest, I’ve been feeling quite sorry for myself. My mind is attempting to wrap around ideas like “your child may never talk” and “she might need a computer as her main source of communication.” I’m finding it quite difficult to do. I’m unsettled. I do not want to accept these things as my reality. I’m still hopeful. I’m still ridiculously hopeful on most days. Or at least I’m trying to be. Or at minimum I’m breathing most of the time.

The constant comment lately has been to the tune of this: Ella’s tongue is too small.

And of course, as the one who cannot afford to give up, I got a second opinion. And a third. And a fourth and then I just stopped asking. And I stopped praying. And she stopped asking me to pray for her tongue, too.

Next, I got pissed. Why the hell does my kid have to have all these problems? Why can’t we have some resemblance of “normal? Why does everyone else’s kid talk so well?

You should see me as I watch these early talkers I often meet—just like my Owen. I eat up every word they say, listening to the intelligibility and articulation. But then, those feelings quickly turn to jealousy and anger and then we do a full swing around to sorrow. I know I’m not the first person in the world to go through all this, but it feels like it. And my brain can’t make my feelings change their mind.

Ella’s surgeon, Dr. Dan Danahaye—or “Hi Ang, this is Dan” as he says when he calls me on the phone—recommended we head to a major medical center for a fresh perspective. We have the best therapists around, but wanted a non-emotionally attached opinion. I made an appointment with the cranial-facial clinic at Peyton Manning’s Children’s Hospital in Indianapolis. We were to see a Speech Therapist who would listen to Ella talk and give us an extensive amount of big words that were all going to be a filter for the 2 words I was looking for: yes or no. Everything else is just fluff.

If it wasn’t one thing this morning, it was another. Ella had no clean shirts, I had no clean anything. I had to pick up a prescription for my Dad and also one for me. Owen had to be at school at 8:30 today, which we found out at 8:15. And while I was sitting lazily in CVS' version of the massage-chair-from-heaven, I got a call saying the Speech Therapist is sick today and they would like to reschedule. In my moment of peace, I said no problem. When I got to the car and told Nick, he was not so peaceful. He promptly reminded me that all the arrangements and us taking the day off cost us several hundred dollars. This was a good point. He got back on the phone and within an hour, they had found another speech therapist that would be coming to see us. They apologized and we were on our way.

I worried about lots of things on the ride down to Indy, like where we would eat lunch, would my friend get the job, would we have time to buy cookies from Trader Joe’s? Nick is rather charming and instead of saying “You need to be in a home,” he said “You need some shalom.”

Peace—does that exist anymore? I had a hunch it did and hoped I would feel that someday.

I hate the waiting rooms where you have so much time to think about all the possible outcomes. Ella was nervous, as I mentioned to her that someone was going to be looking in her mouth. As cute as humanly possible, she yelled “Oh no!” and covered her mouth with both hands.

I was feeling a bit overwhelmed/nervous/tired/ and prayed that God would hold me in the palm of his hand during our appointment, that I wouldn’t feel alone anymore. I also resolved to cry if the information warranted it and to not be afraid to do so. I figured it was probably not the first time a parent snotted all over the room and probably wouldn’t be the last.

And to be honest, I don’t remember much about what was said by Nina, although she is very knowledgable and wonderfully nice. I was too busy trying not to keep the tears north of those dark circles that seem to be taking over my face these days. And so finally I said, with voice trembling and all, “Do you see any reason that she shouldn’t talk well/normal eventually?” And to my joy, she said no. I had to keep my eyes off Nick from this point on because eye contact would have caused a serious leak in all of our wells.

We walked to the car a little lighter than we had walked in. And before I knew it, we were searching for Candy Cane Joe-Joes at Trader Joes, following Ella as she confidently threw the things she loves in to her cart.

And I felt a little bit of Shalom. And it wasn’t all so lonely.

We both agreed that all we needed was the possibility that all could be well. That one day this mess of a situation would be in our past and something that is just a story to her. And she heard those words too. She knew what Nina was telling her about her future and I wonder if that didn’t take a way some limits for her that day, too.

In other not-so-coincidentally related news, Ella said some new words this week like “yee-haw” (pronounced mmm-maw) and back pack (wack-pack). She even said with utmost seriousness, “Oh no, I left Dora in my room!” which was heartbreaking enough to send Nick up 3 flights of stairs to get it. Never mind that “D-D-D-D-D-D-Rora” was lost somewhere in Ella’s womb, (room) I was so proud of her for trying. I hope that will continue on to her school. And I hope the kids are gracious to her.

We received a $10,000 computer in the mail this week. In its most computerized voice, it speaks the words my child cannot. Easter Seals was generous enough to loan it to us to see if she likes it, which saves us from a very expensive trial and error. And I’m afraid she does, as her joy level is increasing as buttons pushed yell things like “I don't like that” and “My name is Ella.”

Actually, she has been pushing the “Leave me alone” button quite frequently. We are also hearing a lot of “I’m mad and I’m going to my room.” Dang. She seems to finally be saying what she has been wanting to say.

It’s all so jacked up. It is not normal or comfortable or something that is east to grasp for me. But, it brings a little shalom to a 2 year old girl who was in desperate need of some.

In turn, bringing some peace back to me.

May you feel much shalom this Christmas. May you not get too wrapped up in traveling and presents to remember that Jesus came to give us abundant peace and overflowing joy. He always comes when you call, grieves when your heart breaks and loves you even though you’ve got more issues than Sports Illustrated.

Have a wonderful Christmas. Thank you for reading this year, even when it was hard to write and in turn, hard to read. Love to you.

Further Thoughts on Plan B

You should see Miss Ella, strutting all around with her extra-cute hair cut and new glasses. Her purple glasses had been abused and battered more times than not and were forced in to an early retirement. I'd stuck with the same frames for her for the last 4 pairs - in purple, of course. It was her signature. When she was a baby, people would stop us and say "I remember her from the glasses!" It was a serious step-up from "I remember her from the feeding tube!"

And now she is sassy as ever, with transition lenses and all. It's the perfect distraction to keep people from noticing her recent weight loss. She was getting so big, growing so fast and then in an instant, she is swimming, hiding behind the mass of fabric.

We decided several weeks ago to try and wean her off the feeding tube. Her 26lb self had made it to the 25% percentile. I was more than overjoyed. But, it was time.

Her feedings skills have drastically improved in the last few months. We are not sure if it was our prayers or her tongue or what, but this kid can eat. In her former eating life, we'd give her scrambled eggs because they are good for her and she likes them. But, after chewing them for a while, she'd leave us a pile of a quiche-like substance. She'd get a napkin and wipe out her mouth, take a drink of water and eat again. I try to give her space when she eats, let her eat wherever and whenever, not worrying about the mess till the end. But, it was hard not to cry and stress as she spit all her precious calories and nutrients on little piles on the floor. And so as her skills increased, we knew the Pediasure must decrease.

Week 1, she had the flu. Week 2, she made up for week 1. Week 3 she didn't seem quite so hungry. Week 4 was a weigh-in. I've been bracing myself for the weight loss she would experience this time around, but knew it was the cost of doing business. We've controlled all her gaining so far and now we are letting her take over.

Almost 2 pounds. Crap.

But this does not deter us from trying, as "this is to be expected." But on days like today, where she refused to eat, I found myself fighting with her about food. And when the anger wears off, I am sad and anxious. Ella just has to figure it out, eat like a normal 2 year old and her parents have to let her. (that's the hard part.)

First Day of School - August 2009

In other news, my kids both started preschool this fall and are in love. The weekends are no longer fun, as they don't include school. Owen has so many friends, has learned so much and can almost write his name: NOW.
Owen "Now" Liskey - Age 3, School pic 2009

Sometimes I feel like my name is NOW, too.

Ella has a little harder time with telling me about what she did at school today. I'm not sure who her friends are and if she can say her names. I do know that she is loved by her teachers and the kids in her class make her feel so special as she enters the room. It has been a good experience for her so far.
Ella Liskey - Age 2.5, School Pic 2009

But, her teachers have told me that recently she has become self-conscious and stopped attempting to talk at school. She doesn't want to say anything "wrong." That broke my heart. These kids are the exact same age as her, but are talking in complete sentences. It's hard for me not to notice when I'm around a talking toddler who is younger, but talks better. I try so hard not to compare or get mad, but it is damn hard. I was a bit surprised that she noticed, really.

And so I rushed her back to the dentist to see if she all-of-the-sudden had a frenulum that could be snipped to free her trapped tongue, but she didn't. And I've been asking around, calling, stressing about ways/contraptions/procedures to make her tongue grow, but there isn't any. And I even checked in to that medieval torture they do down at Riley Hospital to see if I would have done that when she was little if it would have made a difference and they don't know. Thankfully, her SLP slapped me around a bit with that one and reminded me that I'd never have forgiven myself if I'd let them sew her tongue to her lips for a couple years. She was right.

I just want to drink coffee and yell out the F word. Lots of times.

But, then, when I feel like I'm going to have a M-E-L-T-D-O-W-N, this strange peace falls over me like a blanket and I remember that I am not alone. God still hears and sees, even if I forget to pray. He still knows my heart and my worries, even if I don't say them aloud. I often have to remind myself of the miracles we have already seen, like the healing of Ella's eyes. For further proof, her eye doctor said last week, "I can't even believe these are the same eyes!"

Plan B.

If He can do something impossible like make her optic nerves grow, why can't he stretch her tongue just enough to grow in proportion to her body? Plan B is the new Plan A.

My heart gets lighter when I share my burdens with you. Even if you don't know me, thank you for reading. Thank you, if you do, for praying.

I think we need to be better at sharing each others burdens, helping each other through the muck.

Like MckMama's baby Stellan, who flat lined and almost didn't make it this week, you should see her prayer map of where people all around the world are praying. Carrying that burden with her.

And like Olive Hope, a sweet girl belonging to friends of one of my favorite friends, who was born premature in Thailand. There are many times when she shouldn't have made it, but has pulled through. Her parents, Rusty and Lynnette, are missionaries in Thailand. There are many people that have been helping to carry their financial burdens, as their health insurance has ended up being more of a bother than a help, capping at $25,000! Those of you with kids who were in the NICU know that only covers a few days! But, some good Samaritans have donated money and are paying for a commercial flight for them back to the states--with an entire team of medical personnel on board! That kind of love and generosity is unbelievable! But, they still have many financial needs. Check out their auction blog or join their Facebook group: Praying for Olive Hope.

Taking on a small piece of someones burden costs us nothing emotionally, but for the family you help with prayers, gifts, money, time, meals, etc, it is the world. I know from experience, of course. It's what love is about. It helps keep the world in one piece.

It may be one ugly, cracked, glued-all-over, mangy looking piece, but at least it's one piece

All shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. - Julian of Norwich

I'm alone for the first time in a week. My kids contracted some variation of the flu - hippopotamus flu, I believe, and they have been too sick to go to school. Or anywhere, really - other than the 'FREE KIDS VIDEOS' section of Family Video. Today, Owen felt good enough and so we shipped him off to his favorite place.

Miss Ella has not recovered quite so quickly, as her ear, nose and throat regions are a little more connected than most people. Ear infections, allergies and getting a new bloody tooth cause the kid to get a sinus infection on the back end. Its always sick x 2 for her. Right now, she's napping on her IKEA princess bed, covered in all sorts of blankets, animals and snot. Maybe more snot than you've ever seen.

Owen turns 4 next Tuesday. He's been waiting all year- seriously. It was at 3+1 day he started saying "When is my birthday?" The kid is in love with presents. What can I say? He learned from the best.

The tentative plan is going birthday shopping in the morning, where he can pick out what he wants. As of this afternoon, it was a new skateboard, a flying remote control plane, clay and Spike the Dinosaur. Have you seen Spike at Target? He's like 3 feet tall and loud and he costs $150 bucks. Seriously? We'll head over to the Mandarin House for some Chinese, per Owen's request. Then, he wants to bring his class a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. Original glazed.

I was thinking back to his birthday last year when we did similar things: pick out lunch, pick out presents. We spent the night with our family at Grandma's house. She did her best to act and move as normal, although she'd spent the last week at the University of Chicago, getting poked and prodded. They tried several times to put stints in to her veins to block the blood clots from moving to places they shouldn't go. It worked, somewhat. She was so swollen with fluid before those days, looking like the Marshmallow Man.

When she finally lost all that water weight we saw how frail she had become. Some days I still have horrible visions of watching her die. In her last days, she looked yellow and her breathing was loud, as her lungs filled with fluid. Her organs were shutting down, one by one, and it was "just a matter of time." The kidneys no longer could filter, the heart beating slow, slow and slower. Those long pauses between what is left of life, making us wonder if it had been her last.

I'm feeling a little better about my lingering grief, as the monument was just put on her grave this last week. No matter how creepy I think cemetery's are, what was made is beautiful there. The dark marble was shipped from India and cut in to a bench enough for 2. The top is engraved with the last line of her dissertation. I know I would freak to see my name with a dash next to it, just waiting to put the date my journey ended. But, my Grandpa seems to take comfort in the fact that their bodies will be together always, as well as their souls someday.

I'd been avoiding the cemetery since the funeral, where I was able to "disassociate," laughing at all the off key singing. But, this past Sunday, Papa wanted to have some sort of "memorial service" and there was no getting out of it. On the 5 minute drive there, I was frantically looking for some old sunglasses to hide the tears that I knew were coming. I found some, although a little small and immature. I was sporting a pair of Cars sunglasses, with Lightening McQueen sitting on my temples. Owen saw my find and ordered I give them to him. I explained the situation and he showed no sympathy. Three minutes later, I could hardly breathe. Thankfully, the only witnesses were my parents and my children.

Owen, overcome with compassion for his mom, rolled his eyes and handed me the glasses. I quickly reminded Mr. Attitude who buys the presents around here.

I got all reflective that afternoon, trying hard to remember the details of the final years with her. The last time we went out together was some random weekday in mid-January. I called her and she didn't feel like doing much, understandably so as we were soon to find out the cancer had spread to her bones causing chronic pain. But, she agreed and the whole lot of us Liskeys picked her up and took her to Steak 'n Shake. She loved Steak n Shake because of the BLTs - always on whole wheat toast. After she found out she was as sick as she was, she started ordering Jr. milkshakes and french fries, too. Why not live it up?

On this particular day, she ordered a steakburger for the first time ever. It was the best burger she'd ever had and wished she'd ordered one sooner. She wondered if I'd take her to Meijer to get the socks she loved and a new purse. At first she wanted me to go in and do the shopping for her, but I convinced her to come in with us. We got those socks she wanted and I got a few things that we needed to. She started craving lemon donuts and sent me to fetch one for her and for us. Today more than ever, she walked slow and needed to push the cart to stay standing. I intentionally walked at a turtle's pace to keep her company, knowing we would both miss that too soon.

Purse shopping is never easy. Her default is black and Grandma wanted something new. We looked at what seemed like hundreds before she decided to settle for black, yet again. But, I saw a deep purple sporting a Nine West logo. I showed her and she decided it was time to break away from what was comfortable and get a damn purple purse. And so she did. And I made her promise she would leave it to me in her will.

She made it out again a few days later and called me when she got home to tell me that at church everyone loved her purple purse, as the color was rich like eggplant. Grandma wished she'd only discovered purple purses earlier.

I've often thought back on that day, where a woman who lived a full 70 years, who said she'd done everything she'd ever wanted to do, found 2 new things to love only 2 weeks before she died. And I wonder how many things I've been to scared to do, to try, to change only to find when it is too late that I could have lived richer, loved more experiences.

Which of course, makes me think of this most over-played video that I love. I can't get enough. It's like crack, or pure joy rushing through my veins and theirs. God, please help me remember these goofy-ass white people in the days ahead.

Vodka Babas

There are some things that change when you have a kid. No matter how much you still "want to be you," you are no longer your own. Your body and life and controlled by people much smaller in size than yourself, but much bigger in power and will.

If not careful, the short people will control when and where you eat, if you will ever sleep alone with your spouse in your own bed, whether you get any work done, laundry done, take a shower, etc.

Not that the short people that live with me have any control over my life, but I'm just saying...

Nick and I have recently taken up bartending at home. I don't want you to believe that the CEO Midgets of Liskey Manor have caused us to drink excessively or anything, but they sure have taught me to DRINK FAST.

Anyway, we were inspired after we bought a cheap margarita mix at Meijer, only to be hung over the next day. This hangover was not alcohol induced, but rather a bad mix of artificial lime flavoring and high fructose corn syrup.

I was on a mission. I'm sure Nick would have been more excited if I was on a mission to do the 12 loads of dirty laundry we hve or to clean the fridge. There was no time for that: the perfect margarita was waiting to be made, from as close as scratch as possible.

I stayed on Google and close the the phone. Nick was at the store for what seemed like hours: a bag of baby limes, one large bottle of non-yellow tequila and triple sec. Triple Sec was $30 - what? I paniced. This was a crucial part of the recipe (we thought) but spending that much seemed irresponsible and would better be used in Owen's college fund. Nick trusted his instincts and went to the liquor store and got a small bottle for $3 instead.

There was so much prep work: cutting and squeezing limes, boiling sugar and water, crushing ice, making fresh salsa and gucacamole. It was all coming together so nicely, as it should since we were putting in more time and effort that we put in any meal we make these days. Now, just to add the tequila.

The directions said to pour 2 shots. We froze.

I had 2 shot glasses at one point in my life. It was 2001 and I was studying in Jerusalem and brought home a set of mugs and saucers made from unbreakable Jerusalem crystal. Shot glasses were only a few sheckels after all the money I'd spent there, so I bought 2. They fell off a shelf when we lived in L.A. and shattered on the floor. Unbreakables broken.

We searched in our crowded cabinets and found nothing. How many ounces are in a shot anyway? We asked Google and decided crisis averted; we'll just measure them out ourselves. But, we couldn't find anything with ounces written on it. My math is poor, I failed quantities and conversions in school. My heart was beating too fast to Google "conversion chart" and figure out which one I needed, anyway.

Just then I realized my whole world has been controlled by ounces and calories for over 2 years - how do I normally measure my ounces? After a moment of relieved joy that I had actually forgotten about all of Ella's feeding problems and syringes for 5 minutes, I knew what to do.

I pulled the water-spotted Medela breast milk bottle from the drawer, filled the line up to 2 ounces and showed Nick: Tequila Baba.

We laughed at how different our life was with kids and how we would have totally made fun of ANYONE WHO USED BABAS TO MEASURE ALCOHOL AND ANYONE WHO SAID BABA INSTEAD OF BOTTLE WITHOUT THEIR KIDS IN THE ROOM in our former kidless lives. Its crazy, but our kid-full lives are so much more exciting that the former: full of dancing, full of laughter, full of lots more shit.

One day they will be gone and there won't be a baba to use for a shot glass. We won't trip on toys in the middle of the night and our house will be quiter and full of other good things, like lots of wine and expensive lamps that won't be knocked down with baseballs and a TV sans frosting hand prints. Our time will be our own and our bed will be our own too. Even so, seems like no matter how full of nice, expensive and pretty things my life becomes, it will always be fuller because of the no-longer-so-short people who use to scribble on my walls and snot on my sweaters.

But until that day comes, please learn to wipe your own butt and sleep in your own bed, sweetie pie.

He gives and takes away

I can't help but feel overwhelmed with trying to write today. Nothing earth-shattering has happened since we last saw each other here, but with any absence is a passing of time. I can't tell you where the month of July went because I feel like I may have skipped it all together. It blended all together with only the echoing of fireworks in my ear and a flip-flop tan to recall it was ever here.

It's hard to understand a situation when you are in it, which is why its always easy to watch the people in your life from the sidelines and judge and dispense advice. But, as I learned from a friend in college, sometimes you must step back and get in position to watch your life as an outsider, as that person on the sidelines who knows what to do. And so, I step back.

For some reason, the last month or so has weaved together the last years all together and the magnitude of all that has happened in my family and life has hit hard. It is a heavy load.

Ella has finally hit 24 pounds, which for those of you who know my heart and those of you who pray for your own little ones to grow, know that is a miracle. She was stuck at 18 pounds for an entire year (give or take a pound or 2 up or down every week). She is on the charts. It's on the lower end of the charts, but by golly, she's on the charts.

And even with joyous leaps like that, I still can't shake the feeling that this journey and task are too much for me. That she may never talk or sing. That she may never be able to eat without the help of a tube. That she may never stand up straight. That my heart might give out before I get to the end. That my broken heart will break hers. That my faithful Healer will not hear my snotty prayers.

And yet still, there is this tragic void from my Grandma's passing. This picture was taken the week before she died, before we knew how close to the end it was. I was afraid I didn't have a good picture of Ella and Owen and their beloved Grandma Sharon. She hated pictures, almost as much as me, but I'm forever thankful for her smile here. I'm sure she knew that this is a picture they would hold close forever and that their love was one of the most powerful things in her life and so, she smiled.

I've been remembering things like how she patiently taught me to sew and how she shared all her favorite musicals with me over bowls of popcorn and cans of Diet-Rite. I remember the glorious trip she took me on to Salt Lake City when I was 7 to visit my cousins. I flew on a plane with my Grandma, just us, and spent a week with her and my Papa. She spoiled me. We ate out every day and she bought me lots of souvenirs, including bells to hang on my Keds so the bears didn't eat me. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.

She was the kind of Grandma that made each of us feel like we were her favorite - like we could do no wrong, when several of us did our fair share, myself included. We fought over who could spend the night at her house and ran and hid when our parents said it was time to go. She always made Christmas cookies with us and took us school clothes shopping. She paid us for our good grades and insisted we have at least 2 celebrations for our birthday - 1 cooked by her and the other at a favorite restaurant. She bought my books all through college with savings bonds she'd purchased through the years. She worked a job in her 50's and 60's just to have enough extra cash to visit her East & West Coast grandkids whenever she felt like it.

But, it wasn't just us who felt her love. She faithfully delivered food to the worst neighborhoods in South Bend for St. Vincent DePaul for many years. Her knees were always bad and she wasn't all that strong, but she did it anyway. Sometimes I'd go with her and help her pack up the bags and make sure there was stuff kids liked in there, like mac & cheese and cake mix. We'd walk up to the door with gallons of milk and non-perishables, and with humility and grace my Grandma would deliver what often felt like a miracle. I thought people would be defensive and embarrassed for needing the help, but their responses played off hers: thankful, loving, humble.

Grandma always made sure that everyone we knew had family to be with on Christmas and Thanksgiving and if they didn't, they were our family. She opened her house to whoever needed it. She marched for peace. She gave money freely. She once even hid a man in her basement who was trying to avoid the Vietnam War.

She fought for peace and justice her whole life. That's how she showed God's love to the world. It worked.

It still works.

I'm sure she knew the good she was doing. But, it wasn't until her second to last day with an earthly body that we saw it come together.

The obituary became a group project, as we all saw unforgettable qualities that must be mentioned. We thought it only be true to her to mention her years of food deliveries in a rusted-out blue station wagon. We laughed about the trunk popping open as she drove over speed bumps.

All the while, one of the kindest nurses we had, was giving my sleeping Grandma more pain meds, more anti-anxiety, through her IV. She inquired about our mumblings and the woman she was caring for. It was the strangest thing that happened next.

The nurse told us of her being a new mom with no money at all, as her husband was on active military duty. A friend suggested she get help with food and other basic necessities till her husband was home or she found work again. And because God is cool like that, the cancer-fighting old woman whom she was caring for that cold January day, had once cared for her. She hadn't put it together at first, but once she did, her kindness was multiplied and her gentleness overflowing.

See, I don't know if you believe in miracles or not, but that was a miracle.

Sharing that with you made my burden lighter. Seriously. On the long tape measure of my life, this is probably only an inch or even and inch and a half. It only feels like the weight of the world when I don't pull the tape out all the way. Here's for hoping I don't snap my fingers as it flies back in!

We all know, with death comes new life. And in this dreary month of July, there was a bright spot. My first nephew was born. He is cute. He is wise. He is so loved. He came when our hearts needed him most.

Adrian Dash Mabry - we love you.

Magic Bullet or The Magic Bullet

I was telling a friend the other day about the Magic Bullet I had bought for Ella. I told her that we were all enjoying it very much and especially me, because it was helping Ella so much. I couldn't help but notice a very strange vibe from my friend. She didn't know that I was that kind of girl.

Wait ---what??

And then I remembered: While perusing the internet for deals and discounts on the Magic Bullet, I came across a whole other world of Magic Bullets for sale. Yes, it's true. The Magic Bullet 2.0 is also the name of an extra special vibrator. And yes, it is waterproof, has 7 functions and can fit in the palm of your hand.

My friend, whose name will be omitted to protect her reputation, told me she had first seen the Magic Bullet at a sex toy party that she was "dragged to." Riiiight.

After a series of misguided looks and a few laughs, we got it all straightened out. However, I did want to make sure that you knew that I was surfing the internet only to compare food processors, not vibrators. And can I tell you that I love it? I love this dang Magic Bullet so much that I want to take it to bed with me and kiss it and use it all day long. Get your mind out of the gutter people - I am talking about the AS SEEN ON TV-make-a-smoothie-in-10-seconds Magic Bullet.

For days, Nick and I have enjoyed fresh salsa and smoothies multiple times a day. It may be the best gadget I've ever bought. I love it.

In case you were wondering, yes, there are other Magic Bullets.
Magic Bullet Records
Army Magic Bullet Counseling - WTH?
Magic Bullet Suppositories (although back ordered till August 2009. Dammit!)
The Magic Bullet Fund to fight Canine Cancer
And, a wide array of Magic Bullet Vibrators - not just the Mini 2.0
Confessions of a recovering magic bullet chaser (not as bad as it sounds)

And now I will go. The suggested pictures on the right side of my screen are chosen based on key words I use in this post. Right now, a horrible cartoon is staring me in the face. I must go. I don't think that is legal!

Drop, Drop, Drop it like its hot

Kidless in California - August 2004

I never really liked kids. It's true. I was one of those people who thought I could get through life and just love on other peoples kids. Buy them expensive presents for their birthdays, take them to get ice cream and tell them it's our secret. You know, the normal stuff.

I'm not very patient. Shocking, I know. But, I learned early on, as I babysit my siblings, that I did not have the patience to raise a child. Hell, I couldn't even babysit my own little sister without playing the "Let's see who can stay the stillest and quietest the longest" game. It is otherwise known as "Sneaking a nap."

I always won.

So, when I signed up to serve in our church preschool in L.A., I didn't know what to do, how to survive. I quickly found myself completely addicted to Goldfish Crackers and decided I had stumbled upon the most perfect people ever--3, 4 and 5 year olds. They were funny, thoughtful, energetic, curious and potty trained. I had to have one.

I also wanted to buy the big Goldfish Cracker jug from Sam's Club without as much judgment.

I loved how the kids asked about the baby growing in my belly and wanted to feel it move. They suggested names and gave me extra hugs. They told me about their own brothers and sisters who once grew in their mommy's bellies. The girls wanted to be princesses who grew up to be mommies and be married. The boys, well, they were going to save those princesses most days. The others, they would just tease them and let a dragon eat them. It was more comical than I ever dreamed of. They were perfect. So I had one.Let me brag on Owen for a minute. The kid basically starved the first week of his life because of my own breast milk issues, and he still loved me just the same. He slept through the night from a month on, took naps, ate perfectly and normally. He always loved me the most of all . He is the reason I had more babies.

Ok. Truth time. The reason I had more babies is because of my own negligence in preventing more babies. Hence, the 16 month age difference. Hence, craziness.

He may have been a terrible 2, but I honestly don't remember. I was so stressed out and tired with Ella that he could have ran away and I may not have known for 7-10 minutes. Well, anyway, I'll just choose to remember him as wonderful then too.

And then she came, 7 lbs 7 oz of sheer will and sass. One of my proudest moments was her kicking a NICU nurse square in the jaw, after another failed attempt at an IV in the foot. That's my girl.But, my girl has turned in to a monster. Tantrums, throwing food, slapping, shouting NO, sneaking sticks of butter out of the fridge, demanding popsicles for breakfast. She is 24 pounds of ass-kicking, hip shaking determination. Determined to do what, you may ask? Drive me crazy.

Yesterday was a jam packed afternoon of therapists - 3 to be exact. They were working on ways to get the most amount of calories in her in the most enjoyable and quickest way possible. We are going for the consistency of yogurt, ice cream, applesauce, creamed soup. And as they worked hard together, I couldn't help get the reoccurring gloom of having a kids with issues. We are now blending meat. I have a problem with that. I think it's weird. I don't want to do it.

But, I put on my big girl pants anyway and went out and bought a Magic Bullet Express (as per the recommendation of Kristin Gingrich--a smoothie pro!), determined to make the best chicken milkshake in town. We then went to Target to pick up enough food to feed a small village and a couple hundred dollars later, were looking through the fridge for something to eat. (Can I get a shout out on that? Do you feel me?)

Ella ended up eating a small bowl of Nutella. In my previous life I would have reported myself to CPS, but not today. Today, I celebrated 100 calories and 50 smiles from the world's most famous chocolate hazelnut spread.
Many moons ago, I wrote a post about how I wouldn't change anything about the Ella situation if I had the chance. If God said, "All this could be gone, but you still got to keep her..." I said that I wouldn't change a thing. I lied.

Now, I'm not trying to get all "April Rose" on you or anything, this is not that kind of lie. I remember when I wrote that post almost 2 years ago, I fought with myself, back and forth, over would I change it or not. I felt to guilty and ungrateful to say I'd take a do-over.

I guess I wasn't worn out enough then, because if G-O-D came to me today, I'd say HELL YES, YOU CAN TAKE IT ALL AWAY. And yes, I'd yell it. Understand me here: I love her a lot, and I want to keep her, but I'd give away the pain in a heartbeat.

But, maybe that is what we do anyway when we pray for healing. It's asking for a do-over, but without the time machine, which is better anyway. If we went back in time, I'd have to watch my Grandma die again and have 2 babies in diapers. No thanks.
Did I tell you we met yet another person, sent from God, with a message about healing Ella? This one from a little farther away, in South Africa. His name is Blessings. Honest. I couldn't even make that up.

And just FYI, I don't seek these people out. I just pray for guidance, for signs and messages and they come.

He wanted to pray for us, and mainly it was for our business. But as we told him about our family, he wanted to pray over our children. He gave us some renewed vision for our business, a passage in scripture which to build it upon. It was one of those moments where it all came together and Nick and I were making those "Can you believe this is happening???" looks. The things we had been talking about/ praying about in private, our new friend confirmed. And then he prayed for the kids. For Owen, to bring strength to the world and to become the strong man he was made to be. For Ella, for healing. And to then go share her story of healing.

He said that for our business to succeed, for our family and marriage to be strong, for Ella to heal, it was going to cost us FULL PRICE. Full price is something that Nick and I talked about in great detail, but we didn't know it was scriptural. King David was going to be given something for free and he refused, saying that he wanted to pay full price, for he didn't want to "take something that cost him nothing." He wanted it to be a sacrifice. Everything good has a cost. Everything.

And for Ella, full price means stepping up my game and giving it my all. God will heal her, but He wants me to do my part. It sucks because I want everything now and easy and for free. Full price. Thus, the Magic Bullet. And lots of organic butter and standing in front of the mirror sticking out our tongues for hours and being patient as she throws her food at my face and those dreaded flash cards. If I want her healing, I have to pay full price.

Blessings said that we would see something small happen right away and then the bigger stuff would come later.

In my former kidless-much-thinner-more-flexible life, I used to love to dance. Ella also does, except she doesn't have the flexibility for it. Her PT, Miriam, says that her spine moves in one piece, instead of lots of little pieces that can move together. Well, as she was dancing the other day and I was painfully watching her little white girl body try to dance, I thought it was the perfect moment to partake some of my knowledge. It was time.

As we danced to Boom Boom Pow, I taught one of the most important things I could ever teach my child: How to drop it like it's hot. After a few minutes, she was practically "Doin' the butt." It was a proud moment. And then yesterday, she did a move where her whole spine slithered like a snake - not in 1 piece, but in many individual pieces all working together to perform one killer dance move.

And I thought to myself that maybe God has more of a sense of humor than I thought. Maybe this was the little thing he wanted to give us to let us know not to give up just yet.

On the road again

I can go from good, calm and happy to extremely worried and anxious in a moment. The kids are eating watermelon, dripping the juice all over my life and wiping their hands on the black couch. Some days I would yell and have a 28-year old temper tantrum over such a thing, but not today. Doesn't really matter.

There are words in my life that immediately cause me stress. It's what Dr. Tim Nelson would call my "walking wounded dictionary," I would suspect. Some of the words in my dictionary include: anomaly, developmental delay, aspiration, airway obstruction, blue spell, swallow study, sleep apnea, etc. Some of these words cause such a rise in me that I feel I am visibly twitching, that you could almost see what is happening in my mind with the slightest thought.

Today, I officially and cautiously add another word to that dictionary.

Intelligibility.

In speech it has to do with the ability to have what you say understood, to be clear enough for people to understand. There are a lot of knowns with Ella: her intelligence (which is normal to high), her learning patterns, her motivation for learning. But, intelligibility is where the knowns have an end. Will anyone be able to understand her words? Will her tongue catch up and grow or will she "hopefully" learn to compensate and get most words out anyway?

This is another part of the Pierre Robin Sequence/Syndrome diagnosis. However, Ella's tongue seems to be even smaller than normal. Then again, she's smaller than normal, too.

I tell you, some days there is no end to this stuff.

Ella's speech therapist, Carol, brought it up. Kindly, cautiously, quickly, yes, but it never matters how it's said. It always feels the same. The last time that word was spoken in this house caused me to go in to an internal panic for about 2 months. I never told Nick, as I thought it would break his heart. Somehow he knew, anyway. He grieved it secretly, on his own.

I am trying to stop my mind from going down the road of her sounding like a deaf person, or signing her entire adult life. I know there is nothing wrong with that. I know it. I'm not trying to sound selfish and like my kid should be excluded from that part of life, but it is possible she can avoid it. I think I'm at "maximum capacity" as is.

A couple months ago Nick was on an appointment, a rather strange one actually, that ended in a most unusual way. Somewhere between explaining what we do and why we do it, this potential client got a message. She fought telling him the words that were rolling around in her heart, her mind, but knew that a message from God is not something to keep just for you. (Just ask Jonah, although he didn't figure that one out till he was some whale's dinner. )

She spoke to Nick about things that she couldn't have known, like his fears and inadequacies. She told him about the great plans for our life and how all we have gone through, all that we do, will be for reasons that we never imagined--something we see happening already. And for the skeptic, you could write it all off as coincidence and lucky guesses. Until she mentioned Ella.

One of our biggest unspoken fears is that her tongue won't grow, but like I said, it's unspoken. She asked Nick why we didn't pray for her tongue to grow. He had no answer; he was in shock. She said that we need to pray that her "tongue be loosed." She could never have known.

I couldn't help my mind from wandering to images I had painted in my mind from the T.D. Jakes book, Woman, thou art loosed. Often times the power to be set free is in our hands, and yet, we still stay tied up, chained to our pain. And then I thought about my own prayers, and how they have dwindled off in the last years. After our big miracle with Ella's eye, I prayed less and less for healing. I guess nothing felt as urgent as blindness. And so I got lazy.

None of our therapists tricks to get her tongue to move/grow/etc. have worked. I even took her to a pediatric dentist who helps kids that are "tongue tied." I brought that poor doctor all my hopes and dreams about her speech and feeding, putting all my eggs in his basket. But, when he gave us the "good news" that her tongue was not in fact, tied down, instead of relief, I cried. I cried at the reception desk, and the whole way to the car. I took my kids to Taco Bell and let them get a drink full of High Fructose Corn Syrup. Then, we had big expensive sugar cookies from a fancy bakery. But, junk food doesn't heal all wounds.

After our good bad news from the dentist, I realized Nick's new friend was right: I have to pray for her tongue. I'm a slow learner, obviously.

It is scary to not be able to control this, to know that I have to give it up. And in the same breath, why would I want to carry this burden anyway? Stacey, Ella's OT, told me that I need to teach Ella to pray. She can say "amen" already - something she learned at dinner with my grandparents - but now we just need to intentionally teach her to say, "God, please make my tongue grow." With His power and hers, it will be enough. It has to.

Every time we are confronted with something like this, it takes me a while to mentally sort through it and prepare. I feel like we are going on a huge camping trip and I need to pack a whole lot of stuff to get ready. It's not our first time camping, but this is a new park we have not yet explored and we sold all of our supplies last summer in a yard sale. So, we are starting over. Not to mention , I absolutely hate camping.

In real life and in my analogy.

And so once again I find myself, sitting at the heals of The Great Physician, asking for what the world says is improbable. I have faith she will be healed. I know someday that her tongue will be loosed and she will talk to her friends on the phone for hours. She'll probably have a $500 cell phone bill her first month having a phone. We will probably ground her and make her work to pay it off, doing filing in our office and volunteering her to spend her weekends for the next 3 months at the homeless shelter, so she sees how fortunate she is. Then, we'll tell her about how it is a privilege to have a cell phone, not a right and that we will have to seriously consider if we will give it back to her or not. She will yell at us in her loudest, most intelligible teenage voice, about how it's not fair.

All the while, laughing to ourselves, knowing how fortunate we are for her words and screams, more than any other parent before.

**If you would be so kind, I ask that you pray for this. We are praying specifically that her tongue will be loosed; that it will grow. That this will be all that she needs to help her be able to eat normally and safely and talk clearly. Thanks. :)**

Owen the baby

Owen loves books. He's been carrying around piles of them for me to read ever since his arms were strong enough. He's gotten quite attached to some of the books that I once loved, like Where the Wild Things Are and Noisy Nora. And then there are the less desirable books, books about nothing good, nothing funny, nothing at all. Sometimes I think that any old joker can get a book deal. I sneak that kind of book in to the Goodwill bag any chance I get.

A few weeks ago, our nightly ritual of book reading changed. He asked instead if I could tell him a story with my mouth about baby Owen. It makes me laugh when he says that: A story with your mouth. As opposed to a story with a book. How funny is he.

In the following days, I began to get very upset when I couldn't remember many different stories. I was feeling the effects of "Mommy Brain" at full force. Some days I would offer to tell him a story about me that was funny - but he didn't want to hear about me unless is was a very naughty story - a story about me getting in big trouble for doing something very dumb. I guess he wanted to know that I also was a trouble-making first child. I was.

But I did remember one "classic" story. It's so disgusting that you shouldn't read it while eating - seriously. Owen loves it. It's hilarious and naughty. I've been doing my best to tell it over and over again, not remembering the details.

In a twist of fate this morning, I remembered of the good old site, Xanga. I completely forgot that I used to write on there and for a time, I paid to do so (double dumb). Not sure if it still existed, I wearily typed in www.xanga.com/nickangie today and it was still there.

I found a perfect and true account of this famous story. I want to share it with you today. And I'm serious - stop eating.

June 2, 2006

Nick and I are sleeping head-to-toe this evening. No, it's not because we are mad at each other or anything dramatic - but there is a small person that had his head against Nick's chest and one foot jabbing me in the heart and the other foot kicking me in the stomach. I decided that if I didn't move, I'd be dead my morning. So, here I am, at 2:31 am - wide awake from abuse caused by an infant.

But would you like to know the most hilarious/disgusting thing ever?

I went to check on Owen today, who had been happily playing in his crib. As I approached the room, I started to smell a most rancid smell. Hearing my footsteps, Owen looked up and smiled. Just then, I saw it: poop. He has recently learned how to unvelcro his diaper covers and being the mischievous little 7 month old that he is, he senses freedom, bolts and just leaves a pile of diaper.

Well today was such a day....except that after he pulled off his diaper and crawled away, he pooped. Then, as he normally does, he rolled all around his crib and deposited poop on every possible item. Horrified, I screamed to Nick that we had a true emergency. He ran in and we both started laughing.

Owen was so amused that we were amused, so in the tradition of encores, he rolled over for us and...........you will never guess.....a binky was lodged in his poop filled butt crack. Yes, Owen had a butt plug. This was not just any binky, this was a binky on a cord that attaches to his clothes so he doesn't lose it. Owen spotted the cord and slowly started moving the binky towards his mouth. Nick and I both screamed. I'm not sure what happened after that, but I remember Nick running to the washing machine and I was crying in the bath tub with poop going down the drain.

My Mom brought up this one incident when I was a baby when my diaper fell off and I allegedly smeared poop all over everything in my crib - including myself. That was back in the days when people used diaper pins with cloth diapers. Anyway, my Mom said "like mother, like son." Let me tell you, that comment did not make me happy. I must stick up for my son and say OWEN DID NOT AND HAS NOT EVER EATEN ANY POOP OR SMEARED ANY ON ANYTHING. TODAY WAS AN INCIDENT OF ROLLING AROUND IN POOP THAT HE PROBABLY DID NOT EVEN KNOW WAS THERE. HE DID NOT HAVE ANY POOP ABOVE HIS WAIST AND NO, HE DID NOT GET THE BINKY IN HIS MOUTH.

Ok. That's it. Goodnight.

Ok. That's it. Good morning. Love to you today.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

I got pretty well-acquainted with a police officer the other day. Well, as well-acquainted one can get with someone who doesn't really talk or smile. As we walked through Papa's house attempting to find places where something may have been at one time, or really, before Friday. I guess I'm lucky I wasn't there, since I'd been kind of house sitting and picking up mail for him since he was gone. I didn't make it to my favorite house on Thursday and then Friday came and went so quickly.

They say it happened between 12-3pm on Friday afternoon. In broad daylight. The neighbor works from home on Fridays and was home all day, except for then. He felt like he was being watched, like they were just waiting for him to leave to carefully break in to the window that faces their house. When they found the skylight, in nice neat pieces, all over the lawn, they panicked. His wife got hysterical. All the lights were on, mail still in the box, Papa's car was home AND he never leaves town without telling her. (It's that kind of neighborhood.) She was sure he was dead inside. I'm so glad he wasn't home.

I know that house like the back of my hand. I know where every picture frame and trinket goes. They left the house immaculate, or as clean as my small children had left it earlier this week. Wh0ops. I couldn't find anything missing at all, except the flat screen TV. My Mom noticed the Roman coins were missing. My Grandma's jewelry was tucked away in a drawer, thankfully. Most of their nice things wouldn't get any money; they'd have no value to someone else.

I did notice a couple file folders out of place in my Grandma's study, the room I have been slowly cleaning out, boxing up. "Bank Statements" and "Pay Stubs," read the labels. No one thought it was anything at all. But, I did go through and find account numbers and social security numbers in that stuff. It wasn't until the next day when everyone else started to pay attention to the details. My dad came by to check on his make-shift window and heard the phone ring. It was a guy he went to high school with who now lives at the homeless shelter. He'd been walking in a rather sketchy neighborhood and found my Grandma's wallet in front of an abandoned building. He wasn't holding it hostage or anything, he said, but he'd appreciate $10 to put some minutes on his phone card. My dad graciously obliged. Everything was still in there, like she'd always had it - except her MasterCard. It hadn't been used yet.

I've seen her wallet 50 times since she died, sitting on the counter. Once I looked through it to see if there was any money or gift cards that Papa could use, but there wasn't. Just her license, AARP card, credit cards, etc. I think that Papa had a hard time throwing it away, shredding up her things. That's why it sat. In plain view.

I can't help but think this is partially my fault. I mean, the mail was literally hanging out of the mailbox. People were trying to reach us Friday night, but my entire family was celebrating the wedding of my cousin, Brianna. I ignored the unknown numbers on my phone. Not like I could have stopped anything that was already in process or planned. They would have done it with or without my blessing.

I feel like all the yoga I've done all these weeks was gone the minute I walked in to the empty house. Stress overtook my body instantly and it's still taking residence in me.

I'm trying to figure out what I'm so incredibly bothered, why this messes with my mind and my soul so much. Being robbed is such a violation of life. To plan to take something from someone and go to all the trouble to do it perfectly just really bugs me.

And things were just starting to resemble some sort of normal for us. You know, as normal as can be with the glue in our family gone. I'm glad she wasn't home by herself. My Mom is glad this didn't happen while she was still alive because she too, would have felt very violated.

I'm 28 years old now, but some days, I still need my Grandma. I think back to those days in the hospital where I was praying she would die. Not because I didn't love her so much, but because she was already gone. Her heart was beating, but there wasn't much else left. We wanted her body to go, because the rest of her was already gone. And then when she did, I was surprised at how terrible it felt. How it felt as if she hadn't been sick for all that time. It felt like I hadn't had any time to prepare.

Cancer is so violating. It's like a thief has been planning to break in to your house, to steal all that is important, to leave you devastated in the end.

Papa had a somewhat easy time still enjoying his vacation. He went fly fishing in the mountains, had the best gathering with his cousins that he'd ever had and played some mean Bunko. He understands a little thing called perspective. My BFF, Brooke, she is learning it right now. And my sweet Ella, she gets it too. Just like the day before Grandma died, when Nick totaled their car, Papa didn't blink an eye. I guess I expected yelling because that is what I would do, but instead he pulled Nick close and told him how thankful he was that he was OK. Papa didn't care about the car, after all, it is just a piece of metal, he said.

Just like Grandma, as she chose the songs for her funeral, they were not songs of hate and anger towards God for not healing her, not giving her more time. They represented her life perfectly, till the end. And as I heard my old friend, Becky, sing them as only an Angel could, I pictured Grandma in heaven, singing them with the beautiful voice she never had (she would agree!).

I think the way you plan for your passing says a lot about a person. The songs you choose, what you take care of. Just ask Elisa, as she opened this at her baby shower. It was a complete surprise to their entire family, since her Grandma did not drive or leave the house much due to chronic illness. But, it was engraved to baby Adrian, who should be here sometime next month, from his Great Grandma who now lives in Heaven. She missed his birth by just 2 months, but she wanted to plan for his life. It was a beautiful thing to watch, as Elisa opened that gift and saw how big her Grandma's love really was.

One of the songs that my Grandma chose for her funeral is an old hymn called "How can I keep from singing?" I'd never heard it before, but it's beauty brought me to tears. I'm sure there are angrier songs she could have chosen, songs that no one could have blamed her for. But, she didn't. Peace is an unexplainable thing. It heals lots of wounds. It's worth looking in to, if you ask me.

How Can I Keep From Singing? by Robert Lowry - 1860

My life flows on in endless song;
Above earth’s lamentation
I hear the sweet though far off hymn
That hails a new creation:
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing;
It finds an echo in my soul—
How can I keep from singing?

What though my joys and comforts die?
The Lord my Savior liveth;
What though the darkness gather round!
Songs in the night He giveth:
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that refuge clinging;
Since Christ is Lord of Heav’n and earth,
How can I keep from singing?

I lift mine eyes; the cloud grows thin;
I see the blue above it;
And day by day this pathway smoothes
Since first I learned to love it:
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
A fountain ever springing:
All things are mine since I am His—
How can I keep from singing?