WELLthoughts: Each Day After

Tags

easter, family, god, jesus, life

As the clock ticked, signaling the change of days from Holy Thursday to Good Friday, my 7-year-old crept into my room. Along with the change in days, the change in seasons was also bringing forth the joys of seasonal allergies, leaving my 7-year-old congested and restless. I tiptoed back to her room with her and lay down on her bed. She quickly wrapped her body around mine, gripping my hand, signaling that I was not to leave. I tried to sleep, but her congestion resulted in the loudest breathing/snoring/noises which, try as I did, I could not block out. I waited for her snores to deepen, hoping she was entering a deeper state of sleep as well; one that would not notice my absence. But as I attempted to untangle my limbs from hers and escape to the comfort of my own bed, she gripped me tighter. “Stay, Mama. Please, stay.” And so I stayed, rubbing her back, lulling her into the lightest of sleeps.

In my sleepless defeat, my mind wandered to 8 years prior; to the Paschal Triduum of 2017 when I had prayed a similar prayer for her to stay. At that time, she was growing within me, but complications had resulted in hemorrhaging that left me in constant fear for her continued growth and safety. That holiest of weekends, I prayed the most desperate prayers, begging God to let her stay, begging her not to leave me. Stay, please stay, was a constant whisper on my lips. And stay she did. That September my Easter Sunday finally arrived as she made her beautiful entrance into the world and breathed her first breath of life. She had stayed and the cross I had carried was lifted in the most joyous triumph as I held her in my arms for the very first time.

At this point in my life, though, I have come to learn that crosses do not end. Lift they may, but return they do. My Easter Sunday did not result in a cross-less life each day after. They continue to come. And although they do not end, they do change. They change shape, they change size, and they change weight. The tight knots etched within them may deepen or expand, the wood may thicken or become lighter with time, the posts lengthen or whittle down, but they continue for all of us in one way or another. The crosses themselves may be larger than us on some days and yet fit in the palm of our hands on others. They may crush us with their weight this week and steer us to a new path the next.

This feels especially true in parenting. These days, with all the worries and stressors, from social media, school shootings, various political landscapes, economic uncertainties, ruthless competition, and teenage angst, not to mention the heartaches and hurt feelings, stitches and surgeries, viruses and sleepless nights, crosses do not have an end for any of us. Sometimes they pile one upon another, challenging our resolve and willing us to break. Other days, they may be so small that we hardly notice them at all. But they do and will keep coming.

They come in the unique shape of the hurt that can only be inflicted by loved ones, they come in the heavy weight of shame from wrongdoings, they come in little lessons learned and challenges that must be overcome. They come in circumstances out of our control and in situations in which we could have done better. They come in our weaknesses, fears and anxieties and vast seas of unknowns, what-ifs and questions waiting to be answered. They come in misunderstandings, injustices and heart-wrenching disappointments. They come and they come time and time again, yet forward we must go, extra weight and all.

As I lay in my 7-year-old’s bed and listened to the sound of her congested breathing, I thought about how Easter is not a promise for a life unburdened. It is not a removal of crosses or a guarantee that each day after will be easier. No, Easter is a promise from God to live among us; a promise to stay. Holy Saturday is a dare to hope, but Easter Sunday is a promise to stay. A promise so rich and so genuine that it’s hard not to be overwhelmed in the safety of the comfort it brings. It’s a promise to not only walk and bear the weight of all of it with us, but to then hang from those exact crosses for us. A promise to not leave us to endure on our own, but to shelter us in his wounds and take on the cumbersome load. A simple, yet deeply meaningful promise to just stay. Through it all, when no one else see us, with out conditions, always and forever.

But they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.” So he went in to stay with them. _{Luke 24:29}

Easter Sunday is the answer to that constant whisper on our lips.

Stay. Please, stay. So he went in to stay with them.

This Too Shall Pass

On February 1st I signed my daughter up for summer camp. There was snow on the ground, but I (as per the camp’s requirements) was planning for June and selecting her electives as she peered over my shoulder to ensure I was ranking her choices correctly. I also recently received my son’s registration packet for kindergarten. He still has 4 months left of Pre-K, but the time has come to prepare for September. His packet came with a flyer for Kindergarten Round Up in March. Mandatory parent meeting. No kids allowed. I marked it on my calendar with an asterisk to remember to get a sitter and added that to my “to do” list along with what felt like 10,000 other items: 

• Book flights for Kansas City
• Schedule Will’s allergy appointment
• Pack Will’s Show and Tell (What is the letter of the week this week?! Why don’t they go in alphabetically order?)
• Add Emmie to the big kids’ dentist appointment (She’s only 16 months, why does she already need to go to the dentist!?! Start ‘em young I guess.)
• Pick up drying cleaning
• Pay water bill TODAY
• Buy Valentine’s Day cards and presents
• Sign up for snack at Will’s school
• Meal plan for next week
• Attend Lyla’s First Holy Communion parent meeting (Order invitations for Lyla’s First Holy Communion, find a dress and shoes and a veil, plan a reception!)
• Send my brother in law a birthday present

Mid list there is a ding and an incoming text from my husband ‘I have to go out of town for about two weeks for work later this month’ (Excellent, I’ll need to configure a solid game plan for that stretch of time. But for now, back to my list.)

• Sign Lyla up for softball; registration closes tomorrow
• Reschedule piano
• Don’t forget JAM on Wednesday after school
• Get Will new t-ball pants
• Go through my work to do list

My phone rings, it’s the preschool director “I’m pretty sure Will has conjunctivitis, can you come pick him up?”…. I close my eyes dreading the inevitable walk-in hours situation at the doctor’s office. There goes two hours of my life and chances are Emmie will pick up a fresh germ by the time we leave. 

My to do list is momentarily paused after quickly adding ‘wash Will’s sheets’ at the bottom…

I’m the classic ‘to do list’ girl. I make list after list each week both at home and at work. As I run from place to place and accomplish task after task, each to do item gets a forceful pen strike through it’s middle and when I reach the end of the page and each item is thoroughly slashed, I get a brief moment to swell with accomplishment, I take a deep breath as my stress level and urge to ‘GO GO GO’ lowers momentarily, just briefly enough for me to start the next fresh list, no ink slashes included.

At work mindfulness is a topic that is often brought up by my clients as a part of their overall wellness plan. I explain the physiology behind deep breathing exercises, the ways in which our breath can activate our vagus nerve and in return call forth our sympathetic nervous system to lower our cortisol levels (hello stress hormone!) and calm our fight or flight reactions. But how often do I remember to do this in the chaos of my day to day? (Answer: not nearly enough, even with the scientific evidence sitting in piles of peer reviewed articles right in front of me.) I run from one thing to the next, to do lists getting their slashes, laundry getting washed, kids getting dropped off and picked up, lunches being packed, groceries bought, activities signed up and paid for, work responsibilities completed, the house being cleaned just to get dirty again, gas being filled just to hit empty once more, I even run to run. 

Preschool hours do not coincide well with work part-time from home and part-time on-site mom hours, so my few at home mornings are often rush rush rush to maximize what little time I do have. It goes a little something like: get the kids ready for school, get the kids to school, get back from drop off, spend a few stolen moments with my youngest, clean up the kitchen from breakfast, start the laundry, get the little one down for a nap, run TO the treadmill, run ON the treadmill, run to the shower, throw on any clean clothes I can find, answer as many work emails as possible, run to wake up my sweet little one who never gets to finish her nap, run to the car, race to preschool praying I hit every green light on the way. 

I run all day whether I am at home or at work and time just ticks by. Main events on the calendar are planned for, executed and then they pass. Birthdays come and go, school years whiz by, big work presentations are prepared for and presented and then the next one comes up the queue and the days just keep on going. I run so much that by the time Friday night rolls around and I’ve had two glasses of wine, my husband is laughing at me as I struggle to keep my eyes open at 9:30. But I am torn between the woman who wants to do it all, to pack life with as much as possible so that we can experience every last thing and live to our very fullest and the woman who just wants time to freeze so that her kids will stop growing up so insanely fast, so that she can patiently answer her five year old’s absurd questions instead of snapping “just because!” while answering an email as the baby sits at her feet crying.   

This is not me complaining. This is simply my current reality and likely, it is for many. I love my life even though it does include various levels of stress and unfortunately also sometimes more cortisol than I’d like. I love my husband, my kids, my work. I love our friends and family and most of our abundant activities. I love our get togethers and parties and big birthday celebrations. I love our ski days and family outings and planning for elaborate meals on the weekends. I love hosting events in our home and baking for play dates. I love that my kids’ interests are vast, from music to sports to literature to entrepreneurship and charity and that they are excited about trying new things and gaining new skill sets. But none of this is to say that I don’t often feel like I’m failing at the never ending game of balance; that I’m not doing enough, volunteering enough, reading enough, being present enough, remembering enough (hence the to do lists). And I imagine I am not alone in this feeling. Most moms I know seem to be running a similar race. That’s why when the common “How’s it going?” question is thrown out in passing, the common answer is “Oh, you know.” Yes, I do.

But what is going to give? Most things are a must. Meals must be cooked, homework must be done with parental guidance, work hours must be completed, the house must be cleaned or stress will only accumulate, and miles must be ran because they must for sanity’s sake. I’m not sure where the answer lies. The things that could possibly give are things that I want to keep, the things that bring me joy or serve a greater purpose or round out my kids. The things I need to still be me and they need to still be them. Some days I find a way to succeed in balance, but many days I am a failed juggling act. And maybe that is where the answer lies. In experiencing several days of failure so I can create one day of success; in living through the chaos so I can recognize the calm even in its fleeting moments.

For now though, I guess I’ll just keep running. I’ll keep crossing off my list and making new ones. But at the very least, I will also try to live in the current month more than I plan for future ones, to pause more often for deep breaths (vagus nerve I hope you still work), to sing extra rounds of ‘Cheer Cheer’ at bedtime, to answer my five year old’s same question in seven different ways without losing my cool or trying to multitask after my third unacceptable answer, to read an entire chapter with Lyla instead of just half, to plan a dinner out alone with my husband even if we are home by nine. Because as my father-in-law loves to tell me “this too shall pass” but the things is, I think that when it does, I will miss it terribly. 

My Dear Emmie

My Dear Emmie,

Where do I begin sweet girl? You are my brave little fighter, my spark of light, my sweet determined daughter. Before we even knew of you, you were deeply loved and wanted. And you made us wait, but oh were you worth it. Then you were finally on your way and we were overjoyed – all of us. But that dark day came and our joy turned to fear because we so deeply and desperately did not want to lose you. It’s strange looking back now. It feels like forever ago, but at the same time just like yesterday. My time of waiting; my acceptance that I was not in control of all. We would have our talks back then, you and me. I’d promise to do my best, to sit still, to make your little home within me strong and secure if you’d just stay in there as long as possible. When I’d talk to you, you’d dance within me and I knew you understood. You were my sweet little girl, my brave little fighter.

Then two weeks before you were due to arrive, our pesky little invader did what I had feared all along, and with that premature rupture of membranes, we headed to the hospital ready to finally meet you. I was so grateful then and am still so grateful now that we made it to 38 weeks. It did end up happening like they said it would, just not as early as they thought. You, my sweet girl, were my brave little fighter.

But labor hadn’t begun and you needed to come out so induction was our only option. And so began my epidural-free, pitocin induced, rapid-fire contractions. As soon as one ended another started and was somehow more fierce than the one before. I wasn’t sure I was going to survive and I do believe at one point I begged a nurse to help me. But thankfully you were not taking your sweet time. You were so quick in fact, I was worried for a moment that Daddy would miss it. But we were both there as you came into the world, pink and perfect and oh so beautiful. And when they handed you to me, my heart rejoiced for we had reached our Easter Sunday. You had done it, my sweet little girl, my brave little fighter.

From that moment, you have been more than I could have ever imagined. You are the perfect addition to our family. Your sweet little personality shines through daily as you flash your heart-melting smile, as you lay your little head on my shoulder, and as you so graciously offer me one of your Cheerios during every single snack. But so does your hard core determination as you put your older brother in his place, as you protest when you are not offered the meal you so desired and as you chose exactly when and how you will do things. And I’m starting to see how it is those two qualities in combination, your gentle sweetness and your strong spirit, that make you so perfectly unstoppable. You offer an abundance of love, but you also make up your own mind and then stand your ground.

After you were born I was so convinced that we had made it through our difficult days, that I was completely taken aback when at barely two months old you became sick. It is funny how certain memories stay with you so clearly, that as if in merely remembering them you are actually reliving them. I can still feel the heat of your skin on mine, I can see my hands searching for the thermometer and the numbers clear as day rising on the digital screen as I pleaded with them to stop. I know exactly what I was wearing and where your brother was and which book he asked if he could bring along as I was begging him to get in the car. I remember being furious that they weren’t taking us back more quickly and that the final answer was another “we don’t know.” I remember racing down 279 while trying to make arrangements for someone to get your sister off of the bus. And then I remember those seven days of ups and downs.

That first night was driven by fear and helplessness. I remember being in that tiny room and watching you get worse and worse as you labored to breathe. I remember when the whole team came in with those yellow gowns and masks over their faces and the exact moment I realized we weren’t going home. I remember the nurse pulling me aside warning me that if the ICU team had to come again, they would have to take you. I remember hating that we were at that point, but also knowing you needed more support.

I remember it all: the IVs, the cpap machine and all the beeping, the routine 4 a.m. blood draws and vital checks. I remember the tiny little hospital band on your leg and the yellow sock over the IV in your hand that you still managed to rip out over and over again. I remember the printed labels for my breastmilk and the plastic little container that was my water cup that I had to constantly ask to get refilled because for some reason only staff was allowed to refill the water, but I was so grateful every time they did. I remember the parent showers down the hall and walking past all those rooms every day, beds filled with kids, me counting my blessings. I remember the renal ultrasound and the sound of the chair as it moved across the floor when the doctor pulled it over to tell me that they were worried about your heart. I remember the never ending echocardiogram and the image of the four beautiful little chambers of your heart contracting on the screen. I remember the doctors huddling outside of your room for rounds and me straining to hear every word. I remember going to grab something to eat from the cafeteria one of the days and returning to find a wonderful nurse standing at your bedside singing you the sweetest song. I remember the sound of the oxygen and the tubes they used to suction you. I remember the moment your first desaturation occurred and the debate that ensued about the formation of the waves. I remember thinking the windows in your room looked dirty. I don’t know why I remember that. It’s just funny how certain things stay with you.

I remember the night that male nurse coldly told me that as your parent I had the right to refuse treatment. I still hope and pray he was just having a bad day, as we all sometimes do. I remember the feeling of my blood boiling within me as I pushed back because I was there to be your advocate and it was my job to ask questions. I had to speak up when it didn’t seem like things were in your best interest. I will always be your advocate, Emery. Always.

I remember when Opa couldn’t find your femoral pulse and realizing what that meant. I remember the way my heart plummeted into my stomach. I remember telling myself “we can handle this, we will get through this.” And then pounding Opa with questions as my brain attempted to process our next steps. I remember the relief when the results came in and being so glad Opa was there to interpret them. Just one of the many ups and downs.

I remember nurse Dee. Goodness, I loved nurse Dee. Still do actually. I remember the cups of Sweet Ease stacked at the end of your bed and the red and white baby blood pressure cuff they kept on your leg that kept snagging my leggings. I remember the two electrodes on your chest. I remember watching your QRS complexes march across the screen. Sometime I think I watched them for hours. I remember when the pink bunny my family sent you arrived and the sweet little note that came with the blanket you received from Brady’s Smile. I remember the update texts I’d send your dad in the middle of night. I remember the smell of bleach and the sound of your Mamaroo swinging you to sleep. I remember the meal tickets they kept giving me and the insistence in the elderly lady’s voice at the ICU checkpoint reminding me that “breastfeeding mothers need to eat!” I remember the pattern on the rocking chair. I remember it was Advent. I remember just wanting to pick you up and take you home.

But most of all, I remember you. I remember you smiling when you’d see me, your whole face lighting up. I remember trying to find a position to hold you that wouldn’t pull on all those insane tubes and wires and then you looking at me as if it was just another day. I remember tucking those footprint blankets in around you, always worrying that you were cold, only for you to wiggle out a few minutes later. I remember how swollen you looked from all the fluids they were pumping into you and how red and raw your cheeks looked from the tape for your nasal cannula. I remember you barely cried the whole time we were there. You reserved your tears for blood draws and IVs. I remember how perfectly sweet you were and still so ridiculously strong. We starved you, poked and prodded you, hooked you up to endless wires and machines and put you through a countless number of tests and procedures and you took it like the sweet little girl and brave little fighter you’ve always been.

It may seem odd that this is what I am reflecting on as we approach your first birthday, because so much more has happened since these events. You’ve grown by leaps and bounds, you dominated solid food and hailed yourself as a carnivore loving baby. You’ve learned to roll and crawl and to stand and take steps. You’ve mastered six words and hum little songs to yourself. You’ve grown some hair which is saying something. You’ve decided your favorite activities are dancing with one arm thrusted in the air and crawling up the stairs and then turning around and clapping at the top, because come on, you’re impressive. You’ve staked your place in our family and you’ve brought endless beauty to our days. So many of our nearly 365 days (plus nine months) with you have been joyful, filled with laughter and clapping and hugs and baby parades. But I also know that life isn’t always easy. It isn’t always sunshine and butterflies as much as we might hope. Hard times come and with them they bring uncertainty and fear. But I have seen you grow, I have journeyed with you from the very beginning and I know you intimately. I know for sure that you, my sweet little girl can conquer anything. You can be anything and do anything. There isn’t a single thing the world will throw at you that you won’t be able to handle. You are perfectly unstoppable. And I am perfectly in love with you, my sweet little girl, my brave little fighter.

33 Weeks and Counting

I can finally breathe again; let out the sigh of relief I’ve been holding onto for months. I can live days without fear but rather with joy and great anticipation. I can plan for you, like really plan. We set up your room, painted your walls, reassembled your crib. We’ve discussed names and I think we’ve decided. I even bought your coming home outfit. You see, for awhile there I was too afraid to plan. Afraid of the unknown, afraid of the other 50%, afraid that it would happen just like they said it would. So now, now that we are here, I am so incredibly thankful to finally feel safe. 

I’m 33 weeks, in the home stretch and although there is still a small hematoma nestled in near you, it has drastically shrunk in size over the last 18 weeks and the hemorrhaging has stopped. Bedrest has been lifted and with permission from our doctor you now join me on runs and laps in the pool. I think you like our little workouts. I know I love them. Slow as they may be at times, they lull you to sleep. My three wonderful miles of pounding feet on the pavement (or treadmill) each morning is a rhythmic ride for you and our laps in the pool, those are the best. My calves don’t scream at me due to their atrophied stated after 15 weeks of bedrest like they do when we run. I feel light in the water despite my extra poundage and as we slowly glide through our one mile weekend swim you calm down. The water soothes you the same way it does my aching body. And as soon as our workouts are done you perk back up again. Every single time, jumping, twisting, turning, reminding me you’re still there, as if I could ever forget. We have to take a few precautions still. We continue to monitor your growth and blood supply to make sure that pesky invader isn’t taking too much from you, but I can finally breathe again and I think you can tell things are now different.

33 weeks plus 1 day, 3 (very sweaty, but very happy) miles

 

But I will never forget that night. It was the worst in all my life. I will never shake the images of all that blood. I will never forget the gripping fear that took hold of me or the way all of life seemed to rush out of my body when they said I was losing you. I will never forget seeing your dad for the first time after they broke the news to me and before any hope had been restored. I will never forget asking him over and over again “why?”

I don’t believe every why has an answer. But perhaps this one does. Perhaps he needed to bring me to my knees, to fill me with fear only to remind me that I am nothing without him. I am not in control and my blessings are not owed to me, but rather gifts from him. Maybe he needed me to take pause. To stop running full speed ahead trying desperately to keep up and get it all done, to always do more. Maybe he wanted me to appreciate all I have right here and right now, even in all of its imperfections. Maybe he thought I’d forgotten all this in the hustle and bustle and the stress and chaos of every day life and overpacked schedules. And maybe I had.  

You are the strong one. You are the one who held on and fought. You are the one who said screw those odds and persevered. You were my strength. Out of my three babies you have been the most lively. And I was so grateful for your energetic personality in those dark days. Your kicks and rolls and jabs reminded me day after day that you were still there, still fighting, still thriving. You reminded me in my overwhelming fear to not give up hope, because you sure as hell weren’t. You’ve been fighting like hell and have proved those doctors and that one nurse so very wrong.

I joined a group of other moms going through the same thing. I’ve listened to their stories and seen their pictures. I’ve cried and had to turn away from images of too many angels born too early; perfect in every way, but defeated by this monster. I’ve rejoiced in the happy endings; of babies born full term and preemies thriving in NICUs. I’ve found hope and courage in their successes and prayed endlessly that our story will be the same.

But you and I kid, we had nothing but 50/50 odds and him. No doctors that could intervene or make a difference at that point, no semblance of control on my end. It was a waiting game and I didn’t want to play. And at the end of it all, we only had him. Maybe he just needed me to remember that. To remind me that I was in need of humility and grace. To shake me to my core so that I had no where to run and nothing to turn to but him and my faith. 

Knowing my future odds and chances of a similar situation or even a worse outcome, I sometimes wonder if I could do it all again down the road. If I’m emotionally strong enough. But that’s not a question I need to answer now. Perhaps I’m not even the one who should be answering that question at all. But I do know one thing, I would go through these last few months again. I would relive that night, feel that fear, have those images and moments seared upon my brain. I would sit aimlessly for weeks, worry day after day. I’d do it all again without hesitation or question to get me to you. It will all be worth it. And you and I kid, we will be better because of it. I cannot wait to meet you, to know you, to hold you, to love you, to be your mom and to never take you for granted. Less than seven weeks to go, sweet girl. 

Mother’s Day

Every year leading up to Mother’s Day, my husband asks me how I want to spend the day. My answer usually involves some combination of family time, the outdoors, a good meal (or two) and a fun drink (or three). And, a run of some kind.  Whether it’s a family run in North Park – with the two of us racing strollers up and around the hilly, five mile loop, trying to convince our restless passengers that we’ll stop at the next (and better!) playground – or a long solo excursion through Shadyside and Squirrel Hill, just me and my thoughts and Pittsburgh’s uneven sidewalks, the run is always a priority – something we schedule the rest of the day around.

This year the question came and my answer was pathetic: “I don’t know. Whatever.” I sat in a pile of self-pity, counting the things I wanted to do, but couldn’t.

This has happened from time to time over the last six weeks. I’ve wavered mainly between gratitude and fear, but occasionally self-pity has crept in and left me feeling ashamed.

I would be lying if I said this hasn’t been a struggle. A large portion of my identity is wrapped up in being active. I love pushing my kids on the swings, and planting vegetables in our garden. I love coaching my daughter’s soccer team, and going to barre classes. I love swimming and tennis and skiing. I love planks and pushups. And I really love my runs, even the hard ones. I love the routine and consistency they create in my life. I’ve come to depend on them. I love when I power through on a day I feel off. I love how even a few miles can sometimes feel like a physical triumph.  And I especially love when everything clicks and the distance flies by; three miles suddenly become six or seven or eight, and the runner’s high is real.

Over the years – and particularly as a mom – my runs have become a way of life, my form of stress relief and prevention, of maintaining health and energy, of getting from one day to the next. They’ve become such a part of me that I’ve been feeling a bit lost without them.

*****

In my second year of grad school, as I worked towards my masters of science, I was tasked with creating a health promotion program for the City of Pittsburgh Paramedics; the 150 men and women who respond to over 56,000 emergency and medical calls a year. Over the course of two semesters I wrote out a plan and explained the benefits of physical activity and the vast health risks and diseases associated with a sedentary lifestyle. I told them that physical inactivity kills more people than smoking. That being active and healthy is the key to injury prevention and safety in their high stress and often unpredictable job. I provided detailed statistics and dose response curves to prove my points. Through the development of online courses and in-person sessions, I provided our participants with the knowledge, support and tools needed to make specific lifestyle changes both on the job and at home to help them prevent musculoskeletal injuries and save the City millions of dollars in workers compensation and other costs. I spent eight months doing this; researching, writing, creating and finally presenting. Now they have my plan, and paramedics all across the City are (hopefully) out there following it. But I’m on the couch, just sitting here.     

It drives me crazy. It goes against everything inside of me because I measure my days in miles. In my planner, before the start of each month there is a full page layout of the days ahead. Thirty-or-so squares that I use only to track my miles. From speed work to intervals to long runs and various cross-training, I can add up my total and judge my week based on that number.

Since April 8th, every single box is blank. 40 empty squares.  And it frustrates and annoys and physically pains me. It pains me to only be able to watch as my husband chases after the kids outside. To listen to his pounding footsteps on the treadmill each and every night. And, most irritatingly, to give up my bib a few weeks back and stand on the sidelines of the Marathon. I was so proud and excited to cheer on my husband in his first half-marathon and my daughter in her first little road race, but I couldn’t help to feel a little race day envy with each passing runner, and more and more self-pity.

An unattractive emotion, I know. 

So last week, as Mother’s Day neared, I knew I had to once and for all shake off this self-pity and return to, and focus on, the overwhelming good in my state and in my life.

No, I can’t measure my days in miles right now, but I can measure them in kicks. Kicks that I alone have the privilege of feeling. Kicks that I thought were being taken away from me, but continue and strengthen day after day and cause me to pause: hello little one, I feel you in there, keep growing and fighting, I love you so much, I want you so much. With every roll and flip and bounce within me, I am reminded that there is no place for self-pity in me. Just a little passenger and a ton of gratitude. Because every morning that I feel a kick means I am one day closer to viability, the baby is one day closer to my arms, and we are one day closer to our Easter Sunday. 

On Mother’s Day I embraced the inaction. I sat on my in-laws’ porch, and took time to reflect on the beauty, difficulty, and wonder of motherhood and the many inspiring mothers who have touched my life. I thought of their sacrifice, through pregnancy and childbirth and years of sleepless nights. I thought of their devotion to their children’s wants and needs and their elevation of others above themselves. I thought of all the struggles they endured, both openly and silently. 

I am not alone in my fear and doubt and pain. Far from it. So many women have been there before me, and are there right now. Pregnant women with similar diagnoses, begging their bodies not to betray them. New mothers nursing throughout the night, anxious about the morning. Mothers (like the ones we saw at Children’s Hospital a few years ago) caring for gravely ill children. Mothers coping with unimaginable loss. 

As I sat there on Sunday, I thought, in particular, about a few of those mothers. Particularly Mary – who, in the face of great power and uncertainty, simply said “yes,” and set the ultimate example of love, faith and sacrifice. She knew there would be terrible heartache, but she believed in a plan far greater than her and her fears. 

Later, I wound my way to my own mother. A woman who has sacrificed so much to raise six children, but would never let you know the price. She loves being a mother; it’s who she is; it’s her great joy. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy or simple. I’m sure there were many difficult days we never knew about. Fears and heartaches that she never shared with us. But she has always trusted in God, and focused on the blessing of motherhood. The daily stresses and nightly tears are the small price for a much greater gift.

Finally, I thought about all the mothers who would give anything to be in my state, with hope still remaining. And with that, the self-pity dissolved, and I felt ashamed that it ever existed. 

This is not my ideal situation and this is not the exact pregnancy I had imagined and yearned for, but even so I am beyond lucky and immensely blessed. There are so many women who struggle with conception and who are desperate to have children of their own. I know their heartache is all encompassing and fierce. When I think of the millions of things that must go perfectly even before conception, through implantation and the various stages of development, it only proves that each healthy pregnancy and healthy baby is nothing short of a true miracle and a gift from God. There are so many opportunities for error, for heartache, for loss. The creation of each little life is beyond complex; it’s a miraculous biological process that requires the precision of millions of intricate steps.

These months are just months. The empty boxes in my calendar are just spaces on paper. They are fleeting blips on the radar of my lifetime. The child within in me is far more wanted and more important than any discomfort or frustration I may face. Mothers have been there before me. Mothers will be here again.

Someday, I will put on my running shoes again. But I keep reminding myself, that day can wait, because I have only so much time with this little one inside me and I refuse to wish it away.

So for now, I will measure my days in kicks. I will take comfort in them. I will be grateful for them.  I will cherish them. And with prayers of thanksgiving on my lips and a heart full of trust, I will embrace my current state. When it comes down to it, there isn’t anything a mother wouldn’t sacrifice for her children. This may not have been the pregnancy I wanted, but it is the gift I’ve been given, and it is worth far more than a few months of disruption, uncertainty, and sitting. I will take it, and I will learn to love it. Because that is what I – and all mothers – are called to do. To give their bodies and hearts and souls to the little lives created within them. To say “yes” and then to have faith.

My Holy Saturday

I haven’t blogged in awhile and honestly wasn’t planning on doing so. But for the last 12 days I’ve been left mostly sitting with my thoughts and fears swirling aimlessly in my head. And right now my youngest is at preschool. A two hour period that use to be my dedicated running time. A time I loved and cherished. But I am no longer allowed to run or do any other form of exercise. So instead I just need to write, even though I’m unsure I’ll ever share it. For now, this is really just an attempt at my own personal form of therapy. A way to unload and process. A step forward. 

The story really starts many months back. You see, my life has generally been pretty good. Things have mostly come easily for me and the plans I set have somehow always found a way. Sure, I’ve had my ups and downs and disappointments the same as everyone. But I cannot deny how immensely blessed I am. But last year things stopped coming so easily. At first I felt disappointed, but still hopeful. But the more time that passed, the more worried I became. Maybe my plans wouldn’t actually work out. Maybe my life wouldn’t play out the way I had always imagined. I prayed endlessly and lit candle after candle. But still I found nothing but silence. Then one day in December three happy announcements all came in on the exact same day I received yet another heart-wrenching no. I sat upstairs in the bathroom of my childhood home, hot, desperate tears pouring down my face. I didn’t understand. I hit my rock bottom, or so I thought.

Only about a week later I found an answer. Not exactly the answer I wanted, but at least the silence was broken. God yelled down to me in his own way “Do you still not understand? Is your heart hardened? Do your eyes fail to see? Do your ears fail to hear? Do you not remember?” He was telling me simply to have faith. To let go and to trust in his plan. (You can read more about this part of the story here on the Faith.ND site). So I did. I let go. I learned again to have faith, to trust, to be still. And as if all along God had just wanted to teach me a lesson, two weeks later I got my yes.

So all seemed well. I was beyond ecstatic. I went to bed every night with prayers of thanksgiving and woke every morning with a grateful heart and an uncontrollable smile. I embraced the discomfort that was bound to accompany my yes and I refused to rush through any of it. I wanted to enjoy it, every last minute of it.

Then the Friday before Easter week began, my world came crashing down around me. In a split second I went from perfectly fine to horribly not. Sitting in the emergency room, my worst nightmare and greatest fear began to play out. At one point I was told it was over, hope was lost. The hot, desperate tears returned and I found my true rock bottom in the form of pain and heartache that accompanies your greatest nightmare. I just remember laying there saying “no” over and over again as if not believing it would make it not so. Nurses came in a flurry and rush around me poking and prodding me. I was asked for my preference on where to start my IV and which finger to prick and I just didn’t care. Didn’t even understand why they were asking. Just do what you need to do. The pain in my heart was spreading so far and deep through my body. I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. I sat there and bargained with God. I promised him if he would intervene I would be a better person, a better mother. I swear, I promise, just please. Please, please, please.

A short while later we were given a sliver of hope. We were told to be “cautiously optimistic.” I grabbed that optimism and held on with all my might refusing to let it go. Feeling slowly began to re-enter my body. My heart calmed slightly. It wasn’t over yet. We were in the emergency room for a few more hours, waiting for answers, desperate to know. We left that night with an unclear picture. We were told over and over again just to take it “one day at a time,” to “wait and see,” to “hope.” And as unsatisfying as that was, it was far better than what we had first been told.

The next day I felt raw. My fears and worries produced a sleepless night of tossing and turning and nightmares of blood; images I tried to suppress but kept surfacing and replaying in my mind in the darkest hours of night. I was left both physically and emotionally exhausted. I had to wait until Monday for a follow up appointment and hopefully more answers. I spent most of that weekend in bed, trying to distract myself with work and prepare myself mentally for the worst.

Each advent and lent my sisters and my mom and I do a book club. We read a book related to the season and break it up by chapters for each of us to reflect on in an email. This season I had not kept up with my readings. I had started off strong and fallen off after my reflection had come and gone. So in my waiting, I pulled out my book. I had promised God in the emergency room I would be a better person and mother and I might as well start here. Each page I read seemed like it was written specifically for me for this specific moment in my life:

“Jesus says “I will not leave you desolate: I will come to you”…the fear and grief that comes with not wanting to lose the one they loved most has them struggling to understand. Often times we worry about future events because we fear loss, pain, or the unknown. It is in times such as this that we must remember what Jesus said: he is with us now, and he will be there in the future, in our pain, problems and struggles…say “Jesus I trust you,” and let it go.”

That week was spent restlessly sitting around and trying to finish as much work as possible as graduation was and is quickly approaching. I was told to be “sedentary.” Yet life with a 3 year old and 5 year old doesn’t make that very realistic. My husband, being the wonderful man and father he is, jumped in and took on many roles. He works long, hard days and hurries to get home to help make dinner, drive to soccer practice and handle bath time. He’s taken on the laundry and runs errands at 9 pm at night. He gets up night after night with our three year old who still refuses to sleep. I hate not being able to do more, to jump in, to offer help. But he has done this every day, happily and with no complaints. The days are long though and our youngest doesn’t understand why I can’t lift him to go potty or wash his hands or get him in the car. He doesn’t understand why I am not taking him to the park and running around. Why we aren’t going on our regular runs in the morning and stopping at the playground to play. Why I can’t go to the store and lift him into the cart. I’ve pleaded with him and tried my best to explain, but some days are harder than others.

More doctor appointments came and went with the same results. Everything is still the same. Nothing has gotten worse. Remain “sedentary” and just take it “one day at a time,” we’ll “wait and see” and “hope.”

On Good Friday I sat in the pew at church, prayers pouring from me. On that same day many years ago, Jesus picked up his cross and carried it. He too had prayed that this cup would pass from him, but followed that prayer with a prayer for his Father’s will to be done. I knew this was my cross. That I have no choice but to pick it up; that I most likely will have to, and in all seriousness will be lucky do to so, carry it for 24 more weeks. Sitting there though, I struggled with praying that God’s will will be done. I prayed more that his will would be the same as my hopes and prayers. I lacked faith in that moment. But I just couldn’t bring myself to that point, to pray for something beyond the best possible outcome.

On Holy Saturday my sister sent me an article. It was about the meaning of that day. Of the world being in waiting; how most of our days are times of waiting. And how we as Christians should wait – not in despair, not in passivity, but rather in hope. This situation is my Holy Saturday and I will most likely live perpetually in Holy Saturday. I will be in waiting for months to come for my own personal Easter, but I’m choosing to wait in hope. I found some peace that day. For the first time in over a week my fear was turning to trust and faith. My mind still worries, but my heart has been learning once again to believe that God knows what he is doing, that he will not leave me, that he has a plan. I’m waiting in hope and finding some peace in that form of waiting.

I do not know what this outcome will be. I pray and beg for good results and believe deep down inside of me that all will be well in the end. Despite how much I hate sitting around and no longer living the life I once knew, I will give up running and moving and being the person I am to get us closer to a happy ending. Each new day is met with thanksgiving, for truly nothing is a guarantee. In my prayers, before I begin asking God to help us and to fix things, I try first to offer a prayer of thanksgiving. Thank you for getting us this far. Thank you for allowing us one more day. Thank you for not letting our story play out that night in the horrible way we thought it would. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Each day also brings a little more hope. We made it one more day. We can make it another. I imagine there are still some ups and downs to come, but I will remain in hopeful waiting, working on trusting and believing in God’s plan for us all; believing my Easter morning will arrive at the end of this long journey. That God will help me carry my cross. That Holy Saturday will come to an end eventually and we will rejoice in the break of a new day many months from now.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11 is my mantra these days. I believe God has plans for our little one. Plans to not harm, but to give him/her hope and a future. So for now I will carry this cross. I will wait in hope and live in Holy Saturday so that those plans to not harm but to prosper may be done according to God’s will. And so that future, our future, can be one for a family of five.

(Image taken from cottoncastlekids.com)

Coming Back for a Thousand Thank Yous

A few weeks ago I knew something was wrong. There was that cry. I knew that cry. I’d heard it before. The high pitch, the panic, the desperation. My body immediately reacted – searching, calculating, trying to find the source of the problem. I furiously went through a list in my head, and marked off all the possibilities. Teeth. Temperature. Ears. A little pinch somewhere. But nothing made sense. What was I missing? Everything seemed fine.

Then I saw it. Swollen and blue.

And so began the calls, the conversations. Both doctor grandfathers agreed. An appointment with the pediatrician confirmed. There was no way around it, surgery was a must.

I tried not to worry. My brain knew the truth, everything would be fine, there was nothing to worry about. It would be simple. Routine. Easy. But my heart ached and my nerves fired and panic rose from deep within me. He’s only 7 months old. He’s too little. Too helpless. He can’t tell them what’s wrong, or what hurts, or that he needs his Mommy.

There was an appointment with the surgeon. She explained the surgery in great detail: where the incision would be, where the scope would go, how the stitches would repair. It would all go down on Wednesday. This Wednesday. Just two days away.

At 5:30 am the day of, my alarm blared. I was already awake. Anxious. After waiting as long as I could, I delicately pulled him from his crib, and his peaceful slumber. “Shhh…. Mommy’s here.” He looked at me and smiled. My heart melted.

Half an hour later, we were at Children’s Hospital.

And now, one day after a successful surgery, I have 1,000 thank yous to share.

Thank you to the scheduler who gave us the first appointment of the day so our sweet little boy didn’t have to stay hungry for longer than necessary. Thank you to the nurse who brought us his hospital gown and told us over and over again just how cute he really is. Thank you to the anesthesiologist fellow who explained how the drugs would be administered, and what a caudal is, and why he would react a certain way and that it was all perfectly normal. Thank you to every nurse and aid who came by and took his vitals. Thank for explaining everything in detail and always asking if we had any questions.

 

Thank you to Dr. Eaton for listening to my concerns, for allowing me to carry him to the operating room and stay with him until he was asleep. Thank you for letting me be there to hold his hand and rub his head and assure him that it was going to be just fine. Thank you for letting me give him one last kiss as he drifted off to sleep. Thank you also for this super awesome outfit.

 

Thank you to the aid in the waiting room who showed me where to pump. Thank you to the hospital for planning for the needs of nursing mothers. Thank you to the third floor cafeteria for a much needed coffee boost.

Thank you to Dr. Gaines for your kindness and skills. Thank you for fixing my baby and returning him to me, albeit with many more stitches but with one less hole. Thank you for coming straight to the waiting room and telling us it all went well. Thank you for explaining the procedure and the aftermath with so much clarity and empathy.

Thank you to the recovery nurse for holding my sweet boy while he woke and for calling us back immediately. Thank you for wrapping him in a warm blanket and placing pillows under my arm while I held him. Thank you for your kindness, your compassion and your sweet words.

 

Thank you to the recovery phase II nurse who brought me water and sent pink and orange Band-aids and Doc McStuffins stickers home for Big Sister. Thank you for making sure he was nursing well and keeping liquids down. Thank you for checking on him and on us over and over again.

Thank you to the nurse who called today to check in.

Thank you to every person we encountered that day. Thank you for your understanding, your transparency, your gentle touches, your smiles. Thank you for answering a million questions, for easing our worries. You all held my heart that day. You had it wide open on an operating table. Ours probably seemed like a minor, even mundane, event to you – and, in comparison to the procedures and illness facing some of the other families that morning, it likely was. But to us, to our family, to our world, it was everything. Thank you for recognizing that, and making it, and us so important. Thank you for taking a minor surgery and treating it like it was major.

Thank you to Opa for sitting with us and answering our questions. Thank you to Nana for taking such wonderful care of Lyla. Thank you to all of our family and friends for your prayers and encouragement. And to one very good friend who had been there and done that and validated all my feelings.

Thank you to my husband for letting me cry when I needed to and for holding my hand as we waited. Thank you for being my rock when I was unsure.

And thank you most of all to my sweet little boy for being so brave and so wonderful, and returning to me all better.

Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh, I pray I never have to see you again, but if I do, at least I know we’ll be in the very best of hands.

 

Ranting Tuesday

I am shy. Painfully shy. Always have been; probably always will be.  When I was little, it was a “problem”; something I had to “work on.” So I tried. And I tried. But quiet was always safe. And polite was always comfortable. It was (and remains) easier – much easier – to hide behind my books; to stand back; smiling (or sometimes not), but (mostly) quiet and reserved.

Me at a very young age. Too shy to even smile.

To me, any conversation could lead to confrontation. And I hate (underline, hate) confrontation – even when it’s only imagined. I simply don’t want to offend or slight or anger anyone.  Ever.  When I do (or when I think I do), my worry and guilt overcome me, weighing so heavily that it becomes a physical pain. I find myself replaying the situation over and over again in my head, agonizing every little word and sigh and sound.

When I need something, or want some help, I try to ask in the most delicate way possible, reassuring whoever it is that, “Really, it’s not a big deal. If you can’t do it, do NOT worry. You really don’t have to. I’m sure I can do it myself. I promise no bad feelings! Here are 5 reasons why you really don’t have to! Please, feel free to say no!”  Because – you know – asking someone for a favor is pretty offensive stuff. Or so I seem to think.

My shyness – and hesitance to speak – can be so bad that even when something is bothering me, or worse, actually physically hurting me, I still keep quiet. For example, when I get my hair cut and the hair dresser washes my hair and asks if the water is too hot, I always say no. Even if it’s scalding my brain. Because, again, if you tell the lady that she accidentally turned the knob too far, or that my scalp is a little sensitive, she’ll probably hate me. Or slap me. Or turn the knob even further to the right.

Hell, when I was 17+ hours into labor, a labor in which the epidural “did not take” (what the hell, how does that happen?!) I was too nervous to tell the nurse that I was in pain and instead, tried to carry on a polite conversation with my doctor, mid-contraction. “Yes, it does hurt a little bit, but please, don’t worry. Are you feeling okay?…”

It’s so bad that when my husband and I watched The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I saw myself in the guy running for his life. Despite knowing that (spoiler alert!) Stellan Skarsgard is the murderer, Daniel Craig – not wanting to tip his hand, or turn down a drink, or, most importantly, offend the psychopath –  somehow says yes when asked if he wants to come in, alone, to the crazy person’s torture palace.  Not to get too weird, but I would be that person.  Better to accept the invitation, and keep my mouth shut, than to disappoint the murderer.

Look, I’m not saying I haven’t had my moments. There are plenty of times (many of which I regret – and many of which my husband can attest to) that I’ve been mean, or hurt someones feelings or just been a downright bitch.  But as good as that sometimes feels, when it comes down to it, speaking up is never as good, or comfortable, as silence.

Or at least, it never was … until I had a baby – a beautiful, curious, amazing daughter; a daughter I love so much I often fear my heart might explode. She brings me so much happiness, so much joy, so much love, that tears sometimes come to my eyes just at the thought of her. A perfect (if occasionally stinky) angel, barely 30 inches tall and 20 lbs small,  with the unique ability to make my heart stop … and my mouth open.

Motherhood really is amazing. The shift in my priorities, the ability for my body to function on 3 hours of sleep 6 days in a row, the natural instincts that just kick in and tell me what to do in specific situations in which I have zero knowledge and zero experience; it truly is amazing. When a helpless, little baby is put into your arms, a small innocent child that you’ve barely known for 5 seconds, the universe shifts and all the things you believed to be true, all the things you thought you knew about the world, about people, about yourself, they all fall away. Instantaneously. Because at that moment, nothing else matters. Not how you look, or how your clothes (don’t) fit, or how you feel like you’ll never, ever, again run a mile without collapsing in pain. Or that you will never sleep soundly again, or that your social life will be, well, nonexistent for the foreseeable future; that showering will become optional; that sitting down to eat a meal with your spouse, without spilled milk, screaming, or a stinky diaper, will quickly become a thing of the past; that your long-held fear of confrontation can suddenly and involuntarily be overcome. None of it matters. There’s your baby, and keeping her safe from harm, and fear, and disappointment, … and then there’s everything else.

She is not even 16 months old, and yet I am already trying to tame my mother bear instincts. When a little boy pushes her over at Gymboree, I have to stop myself. I have to force myself to wait just one second and not rush over and take charge. To see how she’ll handle the situation, to see if she really needs me. More times than not, she bounces right up, no tears, no problem. Or when another mom says something like “She hasn’t said elephant yet?” with a shocked expression and an annoying flip of the hair, I resist the urge to roll my eyes, keep my hands in my pocket, and just smile, as politely as possible. Yeah, I could – and I want to – roll down the extensive list of words she does say, the signs she uses and the mind-blowingly cool things she does every single day (like mimicking what an elephant says).  But I just smile, breathe, and walk away.  For the moment.

But when the time comes, I will be there to wipe away tears, to kiss every bump and bruise, to hug away fears, to comfort her through every insecurity and reassure her after failures. To tell her she is beautiful even when she doesn’t realize it, to encourage her to think bigger, and to love her when some stupid boy doesn’t. I will be there. Always. And I will do my very best to pause when necessary. To let her handle her own situations and learn to believe and trust in herself.

But you better believe when bad moments do come, when she does need me, when someone hurts her, threatens her, causes her pain, I will NOT be shy. I will not be afraid of offending anyone, of hurting someone’s feelings or of raising hell.  Because when you’re a Mom, and your little baby is in distress, shyness is no longer acceptable.

(End rant. I promise my next post will be food related.)

Black Bean Burgers

Tags

black beans, burgers

I have a lot of respect for the people in my life that have chosen to go meat-free. I really am not sure how they do it (I don’t think I could! and I don’t think my husband would be onboard), but I have nothing but respect for their decision and believe it to be not only a healthy choice, but also an honorable one. Although I am not quite ready to give up meat just yet (I’m a Kansas City girl after all!), I have been trying to make a conscious effort to serve more vegetarian meals in my own home. But when it really comes down to it, I am not that creative. When you are used to serving chicken, beef or pork almost every night, it can be a bit difficult to come up with interesting and appetizing meals without those staples. Lately, I’ve been sticking to vegetarian soups, pizzas, and pastas, which are good and all, but can get boring after a bit.

So this week I knew it was time to get adventurous with one of my favorite vegetarian meals. I love black bean burgers. I order them fairly often when we got out to eat, yet had never attempted to make them myself. I was actually getting a little irritated with the PGC this summer when they continued to list “Black Bean Burger”on their menu, yet never seemed to have them available. So this Tuesday I sent my husband an email at work. I warned him that I’d be making black bean burgers for dinner that night and then set out to create them.

I had saved a recipe from the New York Times awhile back and pulled it out to be my guide. I started by pulsing 2 cups of cooked black beans in the blender until they were chunky. I then added 2 cups of whole cooked black beans to the mix along with 1/2 cup of panko, 2 eggs (not sure what the substitute would be if you are trying to go vegan – any suggestions out there? A flaxseed mixture of some sort?), chopped scallions, fresh basil, cumin, oregano, and red pepper flakes. I mixed the ingredients together and started to form my patties.

I then covered them and put them in the refrigerator to firm up a bit. The molding of the patties had made them a bit sticky and I knew that wouldn’t work too well when I went to cook them, plus the husband hadn’t left work yet, so I had plenty of time to spare.

Once I got the daily “heading out soon” text message from Adam, I pulled the burgers out of the refrigerator, sprinkled them with salt and pepper and started to heat up my pan. I cooked each burger in a dry pan for about 4-5 minutes each side, making sure to only flip them once. While they were cooking I prepared our toppings of avocado, tomatoes, spinach and red pepper, plus Adam’s favorite buns (I usually go for whole wheat, but since I was already serving bean burgers, I thought Adam should at least get his favorite white buns). Along side the burgers I served sweet potato fries.

I have to admit Lyla was not a huge fan. She made quite the interesting face after taking her first bite. But, the burgers were VERY spicy, so I was expecting rejection. In the future I will pull out enough for one burger before adding the red pepper flakes so that Lyla can enjoy a non-spicy version. Instead, Lyla was treated to a different dinner, one that included her favorite yogurt.

But even though Lyla did not get to enjoy the burgers, Adam and I did greatly. They were packed with flavor and had a great kick to them. Adam liked them even more than I expected and has requested them to be included in breakfast Saturday morning to go along with his eggs. We might not be ready to commit to a meat-free lifestyle, but I am pretty sure we are up for at least one meat-less meal a week. I think it’s time I found a good vegetarian blog to follow…

Ribfest

Tags

barbecue, blueberry, cake, corn bread, lemon, ribs, slaw

I grew up on the world’s greatest barbecue. I’m from Kansas City, so I got to sample, then, sometimes, stuff myself on Oklahoma Joe’s, Jack Stack, and Gates.  And I’m a Thesing, which means I got something even better: my Dad’s ribs.

My dad is what some might call a hobbyist. In his very limited free-time, he does a lot. And he does it well. He’s a photographer. A wine connoisseur. A boater. And a biker (think spandex, not leather). But as much as I love his pictures, and enjoy his taste in wine,  it’s his BBQ talents that I appreciate the most.  Maybe it’s his passion for science, and, in particular, his interest in chemistry.  Maybe it’s his patience, the necessary result of 35+ years of marriage, and 6 children (including 5 daughters). Or maybe it’s just that he’s really freaking smart. But whatever the reason, the man has mastered both the smoker and the grill.

I remember many weekends as a kid playing outside with my siblings and sneaking up and around the back of the deck, and through the sweet, smoky haze to watch my dad at work on the driveway: soaking wood chips in his huge, yellow Tupperware bowl, lighting and tending the coals, and gently mopping the meat. Inside, I’d watch with wonder as he carefully created his speciality rub, meticulously measuring and combining spices, sugars and mustard, then smothering slab after slab of baby backs and wrapping them in foil. With his hands a gooey mess, and his arms full of ribs, he’d ask someone to open the door. I always volunteered. I wanted to help; to be close to, and part of the magic. So I raced for the door, cleared a path, and became his shadow.

I miss those days. And I miss those meals. Summer in the Thesing family meant many things – tubing and skiing at the lake, long walks with my mom, and the occasional squabble between sisters.  But it always meant Saturdays and Sundays and birthdays and holidays with my family. And dinners around a big wooden table, with piles and piles of BBQ goodness – ribs, tenderloin, chicken, turkey and fish.

Mary and me on the boat at Lake Lotawana.

My Dad and Fiddle.

Sisters!

A little tubing; showing the little ones that this form of tubing is not scary.

My Dad’s smoker, always going. Lake in the background.

Happiness. The whole family. 2010.

Too often, my mom calls and tells me the whole family is heading to the lake; that they’ve packed up the coolers and raided the wine cellar; that my nieces are bringing their floaties and going to try tubing; and that my dad is planning to fire up the smoker.  On those days (and many others), when the conversation ends,  I can taste the sweet, spicy bark of a perfectly smoked brisket and I can hear the laughter of my favorite people.  On those days, I really wish I was home.

A few weekends ago, we brought some of home (er … my old home) to Pittsburgh. We invited the family over, uncorked some wine, and created, then celebrated, our very first Rib Fest.

I entrusted the smoker, and all the responsibility that came with it, to my husband.  Having watched my dad, and having previously smoked a brisket, he was up to the challenge.  For his first set of smoked ribs, he did pretty well.  Really well, in fact.  You’d almost think he was from Kansas City. Almost.

Lyla and I worked on the side dishes and dessert. Our spread included Asian slaw

corn bread

and baked beans (not pictured). And for dessert, my Blueberry-Lemon Bundt Cake.

Lyla, of course, was a huge fan of ribfest. Between the company, the attention, and the messy possibilities that barbecue sauce created, she was in heaven.  Before dinner, as the guests waited for the meat to cook and rest, she put on a show, distracting and entertaining them with new tricks and toys.

She’s a HUGE Pirates fan.

Her fancy new swing!

It was a wonderful ribfest filled with great food and delightful company. But even so, I will always long for those days; my dad at the smoker, my family enjoying each other’s company. I hope to not have to miss too many of those family weekends, but for the times I cannot make it, we will have to do with Kansas City barbecue in Pittsburgh. And with football season finally upon us, we have plenty of good excuses for additional fests. This city needs a lesson in what it’s been missing by focusing too much on chip-chopped ham, pierogies and sandwiches with fries on them (yes, I am shaking my head right now.) And I hope that someday soon enough, Lyla will look back and with a full heart remember her house filled with our family’s laughter, hearts filled with love and her tummy filled with KC’s best.

We are thinking smoked turkey for this weekend’s Steelers game…