Wanting What I Can't Have

Just when you think you have something figured out. When you are sure you have it under control.

It knocks on your door with a basketful of homemade cookies and asks to come back inside.

I would like to think that if I say something enough, that I will begin to believe it.

And most times, it works.

I hated running. Talked myself into it. Now, it is my favorite.

I never wanted to work after kids. Talked myself into it. Now, I am thankful for the provision.

Heck, I have even starting turning myself into a mini chef. Talked myself into it. Lord knows I didn't come this way by pure talent...I still don't know how to properly dice veggies. And I don't want to admit how many times I have to google the meanings of directions...sautee this...braise that...puree the other thing... and don't get me started on the different "cuts" of meat. Isn't it all from the same animal? Why does it matter if it is round or flank or rump or prime? And seriously, why do I have so many knife options in my knife block?

Anyways.

I have spent the last year and a half and specifically, the last 9 or so months telling myself that I didn't want anymore kids naturally. Talked myself into the idea of never growing another human life in my belly.

And I could list you so many reasons as to why it wouldn't be the wisest decision to try again.

But, this one is tricky.

Because my head gets it.

But, my heart. No matter how much I talk to it....well, it really wants to let that basketful of homemade cookies in the door. Even if they are potentially toxic cookies.

I wonder if I am just wanting what I can't have. Or if I need to continue the grieving process of letting that dream go. Or if maybe I want to be able to eat extra food with good reason for another 9 month period. Or maybe I need a lesson in believing. Or maybe I am fighting closure because I shouldn't have it yet.

Either way, I have time to figure this all out. Good Lord, its not like Emara is zipping off to college tomorrow...I mean, our adopted child doesnt even have a face yet...

So, I will continue to process with my husband...and my family and friends...and this blog...

And I apologize in advance for my wishy washy thought process.

But, once you get a glimpse of Emara...you kind of want a million more of her.

Love. Me. Sugar.

Unbeknownst to me, I am quite connected to sugar. I mean, connected at the hip..... And thighs, booty and lower back...lovingly referred to as the top of the muffin. Muffin Top.

I have received some news recently about my solitary kidney...the Mighty Righty... and well, it seems that childbirth was its least favorite activity, because 30% of it went ka-poot on me.

Three years ago, I found out that I had a blood clotting disorder. It was more than likely most of the reason I had three miscarriages.

Looking into my family history, if you go back a few generations (from what I know), all of my deceased family members died of some form of cancer. One didn't...and sadly, he was killed.

The odds are not in my favor.

And now, I find out that I have the one kidney thing going for me. And 30% of it said peace out homies.

You know the saying, "You can't put lipstick on a pig?"

My outer body. The lipstick. My inner body. The pig.

I kind of feel like an internal mess. I mean, the outside...well, we all know I would have won had I entered the Winnebago county fair.. With my long legs, ability to do my hair and make-up with finesse and of course, a tiny nose....oh, and sparkling personality. But, the inside? The only contest it would win would be the "Who doesn't want me?" contest featuring my innards and snoop dogg's lungs.

Anyways, I have been thinking very seriously about the fact that there is a lot that I cannot control. And there is a lot that these stupid body issues have already taken from me. Children..The future ability to have lots more children...Running...Family members...

But, I am not going to let the negative side to this junk take over my thoughts and throw me into a hissy fit (no, I will have those privately while staring pathetically at myself in the mirror...I am not that emotionally healthy yet, people)

I cannot control my genetics. I cannot control what I was born with(out). I cannot control what runs in my family and hopefully skips the rest of all of us.

But, I can control how I take care of my body.

And it's about time I stop eating the same french fries that don't change shape or texture when hiding under a car seat for 5 years. Seriously, McDonalds. 5 years. Hi, I would like a cheeseburger with a small "preservatives only".

It's time to pay attention to what I eat. To make wise choices about what I inhale. And to stop feeding the monkey some sugar everytime it dances. (Am I the only one who rewards myself with JUNK food the SECOND I lose ONE pound?)

Scott and I are on a voyage to cut out processed food. So far so good.

Except I am realizing that sugar... Wow... When you aren't eating it? And you are used to...

Well...  It really likes to let you know.

Sleepy. Headache. It's like little angry sugar demons are on the attack. Covering my brain with tiny warm blankets of sleepiness. And taking itty bitty hammers to my forehead.

It sounds surprisingly cute. But nay.

It so isn't.

But, it's ok. It is high time that I take control over one of the few things I can take control of.

So, along with working on actually putting the laundry away after I wash and fold, I will also do my best at taking care of the inside of me. Namely, my gizzards.

(I would like to think the term gizzard refers to the overall inside arena of my organs)

Confessions of a Crazy Lady.

So, a few nights ago, the wicked witch came into my room and waved her wand over my head, sprinkled some crazy juice into my mouth and BAM! I turned into a 5 year old smack dab in the middle of a tantrum.

At least, that is my excuse. Really, I was just a 28 year old full grown woman ACTING like a 5 year old in the middle of a tantrum. And there was no wicked witch to blame. That outburst was all me.

I even said this to my husband, "I don't like you." I mean, let's all point to the girl in the room who needs a nap. Could I have said anything more embarrassing? I don't like you.... I have heard more 4 year olds proclaim that to their mommy's under their breath because their mom wasn't going to cut their pb&j sandwich in half. I almost wish I would have said something worse or more mean...at least it would have meant I was beyond the stage of bedtime pull-ups.

Marriage is difficult...and when you have to deal with baby Steph, it can also be exhausting, I am sure. Marriage is the most rewarding thing, but can be the most frustrating thing at the same time. And, when I get to the bottom of my issues with it, I come to this super annoying conclusion.

I want my husband to do for me what I am not doing for him.

On my drive to work yesterday morning, for some reason, I was picturing myself on a bike ride. And my tire popped. Because I filled it up too much, of course (SIDE NOTE - I am petrified of filling anything up with air for fear of it exploding in my face).  I pictured myself calling Scott and making him drive 20 minutes to come get me and my deflated tire.

And, he totally did it.

Then, as I was marvelling at story-time Scott's quickness to come to my rescue, I thought of what my reaction would have been if his tire had popped on his lovely bike ride.

And, in the middle of watching an Oprah re-run...in my comfy pants and messy hair bun...snacking on dried fruit...ok, oreos...I would answer his call for help...and if I am honest...

be completely annoyed that I had to interupt my uber important activities to go get him.

And OUCH. My daydream instantly became my own personal Dr Phil show.

I am selfish.  Crap.  I mean, really selfish.  I remember hearing Gordy Smith say during a Marriage Matters class that marriage is NOT 50/50. It is each person giving 100. And, man, I struggle with that.

As much as I see marriage as a partnership, I fail to see it as something that I give 100% to no matter what. I want more than I am willing to give. It's not like I keep a tally in my head of how many times I have made him dinner compared to how many times he has or anything like that. That kind of stuff doesn't bother me. But, if I were completely and embarrassingly honest, I spend more time focusing on what he isn't being for me emotionally than what I am not being for him.

I am quick to let him know where he is failing on the emotional attentiveness scale. But, the second he tells me something that bothers him, I have a hard time shutting up and taking it in without thinking of valid reasons as to why I did what I did.

I heard a line in a movie the other night that hit me kind of hard. The wife asked the husband why he did something (that he soo didnt enjoy but she enjoyed)....and he said, "because it matters to you".

And of course, my first thought was, "THERE SCOTT! See?? You should compliment me and my post-baby body that I am not proud of to make me feel better about myself...not because it is true...but, because that matters to me!!! And also, please, for the love of God, TAKE ME TO A MUSICAL!"

When, I should have thought "Steph, even though you don't understand why it is so important to turn every light off in the room when you leave it or close every cabinet door when you are done...do it. Because it matters to your husband. And also, please, for the love of God, stop asking him to TAKE YOU TO A MUSICAL!"

There are a lot of things in life that seem like a constant battle...trusting God with my life and path...believing the best in people...choosing other's needs before your own...

What I am learning though, is it seems like a constant battle...because it IS. And I can't run from it. I can't spend my days imagining and skipping through the fields with a basketfull of flowers and jellybeans.

But, also, I can't go through my days thinking that my marriage could be better if my husband were better. My marriage will be better when I, again, shut up and take inventory of my own crap and start working that stuff out.

Man, for someone who loves to talk, I feel like a lot of my lessons lately have started with the phrase, "shut up..."

This could be a problem for a girl who uses all 297,879 words a day. Plus some.

I Was Blind...Literally...

I started writing a blog about being J-Lo's overweight cousin and my only hope for regaining my ability to wear anything in my closet again was running...and how I feel like running is one of my closest, dearest friends and now, because of my kidney, I can no longer be friends with running.

I really wanted to spend some time complaining about how this wasn't supposed to be my path. How one of my life's goals was to run at least one half marathon a summer...to run the entire 13 Rock N Roll series Half Marathon's. I really wanted to spend some time pouting.

And then, I remembered something that my real-life dear friend, Lennox Barnett, said over the weekend. He was talking about being grateful and about how good God was and said "Guys...I was blind. I was literally blind. And there is no explanation for why I see today. None. And that is why I can't praise God enough..."

I am beyond blessed. I have a house. We have TWO cars. We get to mow our lawn with a motor powered machine that actually self-propels! I have shoes for every season and enough scarves to make a third winter coat (because I already have TWO winter coats). I have water at my disposal WHENEVER I want. I get paid well for the work that I do. I have a job to begin with. We have insurance. Beyond that, we have hospitals and doctors at our disposal.

I have a gorgeous daughter. and three more that probably look a whole lot like her waiting to meet us in heaven.

I can breathe without reminding myself to do so. My heart pumps blood to my body without question. My limbs move and my hair grows and my eyes can see. Heck, my eyes can blink without command and then when I need to command them to, they can blink even more!

I can sing. And sing loudly. And I can hear beautiful melodies and voices and laughter.

I am surrounded by love. By a husband who prays for me and takes care of me. By a family who believes the best in me and accepts all of my very strange and sometimes annoying quirks. By friends who tolerate weird voice messages and strange picture texts and long phone calls and love me without question.

I am not orphaned. I grew up knowing my mom, my dad and my three brothers.

So, if having one kidney is the reason why I can no longer do something that I love. If having a blood disease along with it means that we have absolutely no guarantees when it comes to having more children naturally. If I have to restrict my diet or go on medication or stop doing certain things.

WHO CARES. WHO CARES. WHO CARES.

I have Emara Jane, my miracle baby. And she is more than enough reason to be grateful. I have Scott, who again, more than enough. I have life. I have God. I could go on and on (and probably should on a daily basis).

And, even if all of this is taken away. my child. my husband. my health. my precious running (inserting sarcasm).

God is still good and I still believe in hope. And heaven is still coming.

So, Stephanie, take a big bite of perspective today. And be thankful that you have so much more than you could ever need or want.

Just need to grab my son...

Words I spoke to an elderly gentleman in a parking lot waiting for me to move so he could drive away...but I couldn't move because I was trying to get Emara out of the car.

And I said, "Just need to grab my son!" in the most cheerful voice ever. And I didn't even notice that I called her a him until the old man said, "What's his name?" through his open window....to which I snorted out a "Hremmphenddaa," grabbed Emara's carseat and made a run for Walgreens.

Nice one. Emara is now a son who has a name that sounds like a grandpa burp.

Moving on. I started work yesterday. Full-Time. Yikes. At least, I was yikesing.

Anyways, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I didn't cry. I didn't call home every 5 minutes to make sure she was ok. And I didn't even spring a leak when I heard her crying over the phone when I did talk to Scott. Ok, I forgot...I did cry when he called me...but my boobs didn't, so a small victory.

I think I am ok with going back to work because I have 2 incredible people taking care of her (besides her daddy) while I am gone... That, and I prepared and prepared for leaving her. I psyched myself up so much that it really helped me get through it.

What I didn't prepare for? Oh honey. Oh child. Again with the "things people forgot to mention". But, don't worry, I will blame nobody but myself for these mishaps. Nobody made me call my daughter a son.

That one was all me.

I was prepared to pump. NOT prepared for the LONG walk from my desk to the kitchen to the file room (where I pump) while carrying the worlds largest pumping contraption and a "cooler" full of breastmilk (note to self...get the slightly less obvious milk carrying apparatus next time). EVERYONE knows what you are about to do and I can't help but think they are all picturing me in true "utter" form. All of our offices have glass walls. So, I spend the walk around the building pretending to read something incredibly interesting on my phone.

It doesn't help that the file room is directly across from 2 dudes. One who is married and has kids so he probably gets it. The other? 25 year old city living single and loving it wants to write a tv show about his fraternity flag football team? Not so much. Definitely avoids eye contact with me at ALL costs.

He would probably throw up if he knew that my breastmilk was being stored in the same fridge where he gets his lunch.

Speaking of breastmilk. I drank a LARGE gulp on accident the other night. At 3am. What can I say? I was delirious. And apparently very thirsty.

I was THIS CLOSE to throwing up. Poor Emara! That stuff tastes horrible! I need to eat more candy and sweeten that stuff up. Or at least eat something that will make it taste less like a booger.

So, with that. I will leave anyone who ever in their entire lives needs to feed anything a bottle with this tidbit of advice.

If it seems clogged. Do not stick the bottle in your mouth and suck to try to unclog it. Well, at least don't lift the bottle in the air so all of said contents comes rushing into your mouth once you unclog the bottle.

This, my friends, is a serious and disgusting mistake. As my sister-in-law, Kelly, would say to her daughter....you made a sad choice.

Indeed, I made a very sad choice. Let's all learn from this, shall we?

To You.

I think about you everyday.

Don't worry, little one. We have not forgotten about you.

You have a sister who you will just adore. And she will adore you.

You have two dogs who are wagging their tails a little too much and they would love another buddy.

You have a soft bed and a room and everything you could ever need waiting for you.

But, more importantly, you have a mommy and daddy who love you deeply. And who have spent the last 8 months praying for you. We are coming for you, sweet baby. We are coming to Ethiopia someday.

The timing is God's. And as impatient as I can be and as anxious I feel about rushing the process, I know that the story that God is writing for YOUR life is one of beauty and grace and is better than anything I could ever try and write. So, I wait for His chapters to begin.

But, until then, born or unborn, girl or boy....we love you. we can't wait to bring you home.

Where you belong.

Spitting Up Through Your Nose and Pooping Up Your Back.

I have a daughter.

Let's just start right there. I am constantly in a state of thankfulness for her. Scott and I have waited. And prayed. And cried. And pleaded.

And here she is.

She is a gift. Truly a gift straight from God. She is my constant reminder that He loves. and that He cares. That He embodies grace. That He carries hope. That He doesn't forget.

She is beautiful. And so sweet. Her demeanor is so calm and so pleasant. She hums a sweet melody when she starts to fall asleep and has an amazing growl when she is getting comfortable. Sings and Growls already. She is like my very own tiny Adele.

So far, we have gone through more diapers and wipes than I thought humanly possible. She has pooped through outfits and onto towels and in the bathtub and all over my hand. She has peed through outfits right onto our 2 day old new bedding and on our couch. She has spit up and bypassed the burp rag right onto our carpeting and couch again. She wakes me up a few times every night because she is hungry, putting me into a new state of exhaustion. Exhaustion where I have unintentionally done the following:

*Tried plugging my phone charger into her arm.
*Ripped apart my pillowcase thinking that I had accidently swaddled her inside of it and was smothering her. (thus the new bedding...because, I literally ripped apart my pillowcase)
*Attempted burping her backwards...patting her tummy instead of her back.
*Used my hand to wipe her thinking that I, for some reason, had a glove on. And when I realized that there was no glove, turned the light on (with my poopy hand) to realize there was poop on both my hand and the lightswitch.

And, I have LOVED. EVERY. SECOND.

I LOVE a couch filled with stains. Ripped Bedding. Complete Exhaustion. Loads of Laundry. Abandoned housekeeping attempts. Dirty floors. Poop and Pee and Spit Up everywhere.

I LOVE IT. We LOVE it. We have waited so impatiently for this season in our lives to begin. And now that it is here, I am not only thankful for her tiny fingers and tiny toes but I am thankful for every late night feeding and for every sleepless night. Thankful for days that go by where nothing gets done in the house or outside of it. Thankful for crusty goo on many surfaces. Thankful for her cry. Thankful for my newfound ability to be late to everything I commit to. Thankful for a very smelly garage thanks to old hot diapers.

Emara Jane Zibell has changed my life. Going through what we went through had already put a huge conviction in my heart to not complain about the typical complaints that can come our way with the new venture of children. But, I have yet to have to force myself to hold onto that perspective. I am well aware that future parents are going to bed aching for what I get to experience. And, that alone, keeps my mouth shut and my heart content.

So, back to blogging I go. This time, with a tiny tot sleeping on my chest while I type one handed. But, don't worry, it won't be all sap and cheese. I do have a few bones to pick with moms everywhere. There are some very SIGNIFICANT things that occur during and after childbirth that nobody told me about. And, well, a little heads up would have helped ladies. At least it would have softened the blows of "WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?!?" and "WHAT THE HECK IS HAPPENING TO MY BODY?!?" and "WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME THAT I WOULD HAVE TO WRITE AN APOLOGY TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM FOR FLOODING THEIR ROOM WITH MY AMNIOTIC FLUID".

Oh yes. I will go there. Boys, you might want to stop reading for a bit. It could get a little graphic. I may use the word "leaking" a lot.

Ok, she is grunting now. And it's way too cute to do anything else now but stare at her. Dinner? I am working on hiring a few elves from Santa to take care of that tiny detail.

Peace out friends.