He used to be a toddler!!

Scrubbing toilets three times a day, or rather the floor around them, despite having used the “Cheerio-method” of potty training – I miss that; now he locks the door when he uses the bathroom instead of leaving it open so I can clap for him as he proudly misses the Cheerio floating in the toilet. I miss stepping on that one Gi-Joe man that is laying with his gun aimed at the ceiling despite having successfully maneuvered around the previous twenty that were laying on their sides; when he was eight he brought me those little guys in a Zip-loc baggie saying he didn’t “need” them anymore. I actually miss the humour I found in cramming the twenty princess dresses and ballerina leotards into the pink and brown leopard print chest at the foot of the bed; smiling because a flashback of her little lisp convincing me the day before that she just HAD to have a sparkly one too. I no longer fold three loads of laundry in one day (that I was fairly certain half of which weren’t dirty to begin with) because they had just learned to dress themselves so changing ten times a day was, without a doubt, the natural next feat; now it’s listening to, “I don’t have anything to wear!”, despite the crammed closet and drawers full of clothes. Chipping away at the oatmeal that had dried to the tile underneath the kitchen table doesn’t seem like such a chore now, because that meant relaxing mornings of sitting at the kitchen table eating oatmeal together in our pajamas existed; now mornings are filled with correcting homework and signing permission slips because the night before was spent running from here to there for the GATE program or basketball games. A cold dinner, once the only kind of meal I ever ate, is surprisingly missed as all four of my children can dish their own plates now.

The days I once thought I longed for that lacked the repetitious chores of toddler-mommyhood are now upon me, and it’s bitter-sweet; despite the missed past-times I am determined to cherish these moments now. I have learned the lesson that things that once were done begrudgingly are often little bits of a phase of life that will soon be missed. One day when I’m seeing my children off to prom or taking them to get their driver’s permit I will think back to the rushed mornings of today, the long evenings of last night, the newly developed sarcasm of an 11-year-old, the incessant award ceremonies at school, the writer’s cramp from permission slip and homework signing, and even the threats of pulling the car over if “the bickering doesn’t stop” will honestly, truly, be missed.

A Life Forever Changed

For the most part my days seldom have even a moment in them in which I have any down time, time to do nothing, or to even just sit and think or talk to God like I'd like; most of the time I would not trade that for the anything in the world. I normally don't mind when my daughters line up at the bathroom door waiting for me to get in the shower so that they can come in and sit on the toilet and talk to me the entire time. I don't even really mind when they all call dibs on who goes after who to talk to me when we're driving in the car, even if it is a three hour long drive. However, the other day while driving to class the rare opportunity arose in which I found myself with time to think. This was a rare occurrence as normally someone is calling me on my cell phone, or I am busy calling and making dentist or doctor's appointments, or just simply trying to catch up on letting my friends and family know the kids and I are still alive. Do you ever wonder why your brain thinks about certain things? Out of all the things going on in my life right now, current things like softball practices or games almost every night of the week for my three girls, fourteen units worth of finals, endless bills, an upcoming frantic search for a job, a soon-to-be-teenage boy who ALWAYS "neeeds" something, or even the dates I normally cancel at the last minute. My brain could have chosen any one of those relevant things to think of, but instead it chose a moment in my life from many years ago that soon had me blinking away the tears so I could see the road. I remember at the time I was driving trying to force myself to think of something "more productive": my microbiology lab test coming up, the topic of my final Political Science paper, possible places to turn my resume into, how much running the pool at home was going to cost me on my next electricity bill, my dwindling bank account, and so on and so forth. But I now realize, a week later, how much that memory motivated me. Being reminded of the positive difference I am capable of making in someone else's life (when I'm not sitting around feeling sorry for myself) is immense, and it's a blessing. That ability is within us all and whatever opportunity arises for me to help change a life, just as that precious little girl changed mine, I promise to seize.

Several years ago I was waiting for my turn for a foster placement. At the time I had been doing foster care for medically fragile foster babies for several years, just as my mom had done for the previous nineteen. The few foster homes that took in these special needs placements were on a list that rotated per call for the most part, and it was my turn. One afternoon, while my own two toddlers napped, the phone rang shattering the quiet of the house; it was the phone call. The next couple weeks were spent driving the forty miles up I-5 from Red Bluff to Mercy Medical Center waiting, sometimes patiently, sometimes not, for my precious new foster baby to reach at least five pounds. She was born at 21 weeks, weighing just one pounds thirteen ounces, and had many of the problems associated with prematurity, as well as many additional ones. I remember vividly the lump in my throat that I tried to choke down the first time the nurse buzzed open the door and I entered the NICU. The hours spent in that ward rocking her, watching her get well and then get sick again, staring at her monitors, taking pictures to take home to my family seem like just yesterday. One day specifically stands out, the third visit I had with our new baby girl, and a nurse whose blatant honesty was almost more than I could bare. A new nurse had come on duty and, in introducing herself to me, expressed her amazement at my ability to do this. I had been told this same thing before, but when the word this came out of her mouth, it had an obvious different meaning to it. "How is that?" I cautiously inquired. "You know you are just taking her home to die, right?" she simply replied, as if everyone knew except me. Her words stung, deep into each goosebump I had instantly gotten over every cell of my skin. "Oh, that," I said very much so fighting back the tears, "yeah, thanks." I made the decision driving home that night not to tell my family our role was essentially that of a hospice provider. That was not what I was going to allow us to be. She would be just like any other baby that we had been blessed with. For the time she was in our life she would be a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, and a cousin. Whatever God had in store for our lives we would accept. I was determined to every day wake up with the hope that she would have another, and would fight back the inevitable fear that it could also be her last. One afternoon, I carried her out of the hospital, apnea monitor slung over my shoulder and oxygen tank in tow. The fear of the worst mixed with the hope for the best overwhelmed me that day, just as it does now sitting here typing this. I buckled her into her car seat and kissed her forehead gently, knowing my life was forever changed in that very moment.