Holy Moly Matrimony

When I said, “I do”, I didn’t know I applied and had been accepted for a job. Truth be told…marriage is work, straight and simple. I thought the lovey-dovey would last forever. I thought the twinkle in his eyes, the sexy in his voice, and all his silly jokes would always be cute to me.

Reality check! Three years in, the twinkle had lost its shine, the sexy lost its sexy, and the jokes became quite annoying. I wondered how so many people made it to ten and twenty years with a smile on their faces. Were they faking the funk? Were they just staying together for the children? Could they really be happy all those years?

I started longing for the weekly hangouts with my girlfriends and wanted him to find his fellas and roll with them sometimes. The whole togetherness thing was a tad overrated; it was just too much for me.

Now, ten years in, I see things in a different light. The reason the twinkle in his eyes seemed like it had dulled was because I had lost sight of why I’d married him. When I began re-examining myself as a wife, to find my role in the matter, I started hearing the sexy again. I realized that the key to a lot of our issues was our lack of communication. We were talking, in fact, we did that a lot. The problem was we were no longer communicating about things that really mattered to us as individuals or our dreams.

We had gotten used to mainly conversing about the children, work, my job search…you know…just surface stuff. I didn’t know my husband was interested in returning to school. He didn’t know that I was still very passionate about writing books and had begun working on my first. It frustrated me that a few of my close friends were interested enough about my life to know of this development, while if my husband cared, it would have come up in conversation.

I knew he had always been passionate about drawing and creating, but I thought the dream had died shortly after we’d gotten married. I didn’t know if given the opportunity, he’d still want to return to school.

Days, months, and years went by, and our marriage just seemed boring. There was nothing to really look forward to except soccer games and church, whenever he could make it with us. Something had to give. There was no way our marriage could survive the way we were.

Time and money weren’t on our side. If we continued the way we were going, it was only a matter of time before our marriage completely fell apart. Our finances became our biggest bone of contention, and we just couldn’t see eye-to-eye on even the simplest of things. We just weren’t the same people we’d been years before, and rather than grow together, we’d “grown apart”. I’d always wondered what that meant, but I finally understood. There were no ifs, ands, or buts; our marriage was crumbling, and we weren’t doing much to rectify things, other than complain.

We decided to seek Christian counseling. It was needed and well overdue. We could barely resolve  conflicts or come to reasonable agreements without being at each other’s throats. However, deep down, we still loved each other. After six to eight weeks of counseling, we each recognized our mistakes and decided our marriage was worth fighting for, worth working at, and it would not be easy but we finally decided to come together, be purposeful about spending time together. We had to work at it. 

We started really talking. We talked about EVERYTHING. We shared EVERYTHING. No more secrets or assumptions that the other didn’t care. It was like a full-time job, but one that I started enjoying again. It was like the dream job I’d always hoped for but still had its ups and downs I was willing to put up with, because I thoroughly and honestly loved what I did. In this case, my main job description is communicating in love and honesty and being there for my husband, as much as I can. It’s one heck of a job but it’s an amazing adventure. 

My Nana Is Black, You Know?

My daughter is in a place in her life where color is a big deal. She has to categorize people by the color of their skin. It’s not something we talked about much at home really. Since her oldest brother began kindergarten two years ago though, the subject comes up more frequently than it did in the past.

Her brothers often have discussions about what color they are. They fight over whose skin tone is closest to daddy’s or mommy’s. They seem confused as to why they are varying shades, each with a different hair texture.  My husband and I initially thought it would be a passing thing, something they would be curious about for a bit and then pick back up right around junior high.

They wonder why daddy is considered white, when the paper they use in school is actually white. “So Daddy’s not really white. What color is he then?  You’re not really black either, Mommy; you’re just dark brown.”

In a world in which the differences in color and race are still a big deal, I wonder how accepting people will be of the continued mix among races in the next ten years. These days, an individual could be a combination of races, and in some places, that’s okay. It’s a shame that in this day and age, there are still those who feel races should remain “pure”,that any mix of races taints a particular race over another. To make individuals feel less than based on the color of their skin is ignorance at its highest level. How does one judge another individual for something they are unable to change?

In my children’s innocence now, they point out their differences, as well as ours. I hope and pray that in the future, their curiosity will turn into an appreciation for their differences and those of others. Until then, I guess I’ll just have to get used to hearing comments like, “Our nana is black, you know? How about yours?”

Let Your Will Be Done

The last few days have been a bit rough. After a sobering dinner with one of our good friends on Saturday, my husband and I have been going back and forth about the future. Considering the experience of our friend, whose father died unexpectedly in December, our conversations have been more on the serious side.

We’ve been forced to consider our mortality, especially as parents. My husband has had more difficulty with this than me. His struggle lies in the fact that he does not want to consider our lives with any one of us no longer around. Although we’re both well-aware that tomorrow is not promised to any of us, the fact that any number of things could keep us from growing old together or even raising our children ourselves is quite unsettling. Actually, it’s more morbid and depressing than anything really.

However, as parents, we have to do what we need to in order to ensure our children’s futures. For almost a week now, we’ve had two sets of our living wills, documents designating our durable powers of attorney, etc sitting on the kitchen counter. We pass by the pile. We talk about the pile. We glare at the pile, but the pile remains still…untouched.

How can the life we’ve built together come down to a stack of papers? This stack of papers will help strangers determine who would have our children if something happened to either of us. I mean almost ten years into our marriage, seven years of parenthood, big dreams, and plenty to live for, we’re forced to start thinking of the worst case scenario. We now have to determine who will take care of our children if we don’t make it to see them live until they’re adults. Who takes joy in this? Not me, that’s for sure, but it’s got to be done.

I have seen and heard of children in foster care because both parents passed unexpectedly. Because their parents had no will in place and no designated individual or couple to raise them in their stead, the state was the authority left to determine that. It’s sad to think that the hard work parents have put into instilling a sense of right and wrong could be uprooted by someone who has no idea of who their parents were and no sense of the values their parents held dear and wanted to pass along to their children.

We are dust. Our lives are like a vapor. Nothing is guaranteed, not even tomorrow. We have faith. We trust God, because that’s all we can do. We were given wisdom , and it is key in making decisions. It is important we consider the future but not become consumed by or anxious about it. We can make plans and set things in place, for the love of our children. By God’s grace and mercy, we’ll be there to welcome our grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but the groundwork ought to be laid.

So let me leave you with this question: Who would you trust your children with if it came down to it?

The Days They Almost Died (Part 3)

Friday, July 25 this year was pretty laid back. My children and I were scheduled for a playdate with a friend I’d made back in my caregiving days, prior to children and even marriage. Being that we live on  opposite sides of town, we were going to meet up somewhere halfway, at an aquatic center. Nothing crazy, no big deal.

Upon our arrival, what looked like a little community center from the outside actually ended up being pretty massive to a mother rolling solo with her three children, none of whom know how to swim.

We paid and entered what seemed, to me, more of a water park than community pool or aquatic center. I had not come dressed to do anything other than gab a bit with my friend and yell occasionally, “Don’t go that far: you can’t swim, and neither can I. Let’s  be smart.” However, they saw their friends and immediately forgot that the four weeks of swimming lessons they’d taken two years ago was just to get them comfortable in water. For some reason, my daughter and oldest son were really feeling like Michael Phelps. They followed their friends to the deep end, at which point, I had to remind them how unprepared any of us was to save the other. That seemed to bring them back to reality, so they returned to the more shallow side.

About forty minutes in, all three children were feeling adventurous and decided they would like to attempt the “big kid” waterslide, which was a little under four feet deep. I decided it couldn’t hurt to walk them over, figuring one or all three would chicken out once we got up to the top.

I was right…my younger son freaked at the height as he looked down. He was no longer interested in proving himself to be a big kid who could do anything. He wanted to go back down immediately and was panicking. He pulled my hand and said he wanted to go back down at that very moment. I told the other two that we all needed to get back down, but the other two did not budge. They were set on going down that big kid slide.

I tried to get the attention of the lifeguard at the top, telling her my older son was fine to go down, but I would be back, as was skeptical of my daughter going down. She was trying to listen, but other children were vying for her attention as well, so I got a nod and raced back down with my son, who had already started making his way down without me.

As we reached the bottom, I noticed my older son, who I could have sworn had at least three or four children in front of him was coming down the slide. I ran along the side, to take a picture for my husband, as proof that he had conquered his fear of heights and water. Unfortunately, I missed the shot, so I walked quickly along the side, to get him, so we could all go back up to get their sister, which I knew would take some coaxing of my younger son.

As I looked up quickly though, I noticed I could no longer see my daughter. I figured she had gotten cold feet and was heading down, so we began heading back to the staircase. For some reason, I looked up again, and this time, I saw her, but she seemed to be going down the slide. I did a double take, because there was no way the lifeguard would let her go down. Just to make sure though, we stood at the side, to make sure. I spoke to the lifeguard on the side closest to me, informing him that the child coming down could potentially be my daughter, although I had my doubts. I told him if that were the case, she does not know how to swim, and I asked if I could somehow cross the lazy river to the other side, in order to get her, to which he replied, “No, ma’am; sorry, you can’t do that.” As I stood there trying to reason with him, I saw my daughter splash out of the mouth of the slide flailing her arms. I screamed, “That’s her! That’s my daughter! Get her; she doesn’t know how to swim!!! GET HER!!!”

As I saw her go down for the second time, it took all that was in me not to say, “Screw it!” and jump into the lazy river. The only problem is that I knew that would freak my sons out and put them in danger as well. My heart was in my throat as I heard the piercing sound of whistles and lifeguards ushering everyone out of all the pools, screaming, “Drowning in progress!” I watched as four or five teenage lifeguards leapt into the pool to get my daughter who seemed to be gasping for air.

I watched them carry her to an office, as I walked quickly behind the lifeguard who had her. As we made our way to the office, I saw children pointing and heard, “Is she the reason we all had to get out of the pool?” “Was she drowning, Mommy?” “Can we swim now?”

In shame, I entered the room, where I was given a well-deserved lecture on pool safety and the importance of watching my children around water. I had to sign paperwork stating I’d been spoken to, and it was then I found out that my daughter had been asked to wait and let someone else go before her, I guess to buy me time to get back up to her. However, being who she is, as the lifeguard leaned down to address another child, my daughter pushed past her and went down the slide. Knowing her like the back of my hand, I knew that very well could be true, as she probably wanted to follow her big brother.

As we walked out of the office, still very embarrassed, I scolded her for not being safe and told her how important it was for her to be a better listener. Her response? “Mommy, did you see me? I was swimming! I was doggy paddling. Did you see me? I want to do that again!”

(Of course, as usual, this episode freaked me out further, due to the following news story that had affected a friend's friend's family member a few weeks earlier: http://www.azfamily.com/news/local/Boy-drowns-during-Fourth-of-July-pool-party-in-Phoenix-124991014.html.)

You Sure May!

Yesterday, on a very long drive to pick one of my sons up from school, as I enjoyed my favorite station on the radio, I heard my daughter trying to get my attention. A tad upset at her timing, being that the radio had been off for about fifteen minutes straight prior, I turned off the music to inquire about what she needed.

“Mommy, you know last night, you hurt my feelings when you slapped my hand.”

“Do you know why I slapped your hand?”

“Yes, I finished all of my brother’s treat when he went to the bathroom without asking, but that was still mean. I don’t slap my baby’s hand when she doesn’t listen.”

“Hmm…so, you really don’t think what you did required a consequence, even though your brother was crying because you stole his treat?”

“Well, even when we do bad stuff, you said Jesus forgives us. You should say sorry to me, and you should just forgive me and not slap my hand ever again. I said sorry to him.”

I sighed and went on to explain the importance of being considerate of others. I continued by giving her the reason for consequences and what they achieve, as well as why the person dishing out the consequences is not obligated to request forgiveness. I did stress that it is important to be certain the offender is aware of why he or she is receiving a consequence.

I asked her if she understood, and she said she did. “So does that mean you’re going to slap my hand if I do bad stuff again? I don’t think Jesus likes that, but I’ll try not to do bad stuff.”

“Good, that’s fine. All of us do bad stuff and don’t listen. We just have to keep trying to be better every day. So, you’ll try hard, and I’ll try hard…deal?”

“Deal! I love you so much, Mommy. Thank you for turning the music off to listen to me.”

“I love you, too, mama. May I turn the music back on now?”

“Yep, you sure may!”

The Days They Almost Died (Part 2)

From the womb, my second son has always been quite different from his siblings. He was the one I suffered from Polyhydramnios with, making me the biggest I ever was during any of my three pregnancies. He was also very fussy in the womb and moved around quite a bit, so we nicknamed him Earthquake. He was our pot-bellied little man with hardly any hair with the loudest cry at birth.

Just like with his older brother, I wasn’t able to be home long before returning to work. In his case, I got two additional weeks, making it a total of four weeks before my mom came from Nigeria to help me transition back to work again. It had been less than six months since she left, so I felt really bad having her return so soon. However, there’s nothing like your mom’s help when you’re growing your family and still trying to figure things out for yourself.

Soon after, when he was ten months old, my mom was in town again, and I totally appreciated her presence. Even ten months in, juggling work, a baby and toddler was still taking some getting used to. That night, my mom and I had stayed up late talking and watching TV. We were both engrossed in our conversation but began getting tired.

As we were saying our good-nights, I thought I heard some noise. I asked my mom, but she said she didn’t hear a thing. I decided to check on my boys, starting with the oldest, but he didn’t make a peep. I leaned over his bed and kissed him. As I was heading toward the baby’s room, I thought I heard something and stood by the door for a moment. I couldn’t hear much but figured it must have just been him coughing, so I quickly tiptoed past his room and over to the loft. I decided to linger a little longer, just in case, until I dozed off on the couch for a few minutes.

Once again, I thought I heard a noise but was more certain this time. It was a funny noise, a somewhat muffled sound. I checked my oldest son again, and he was still fast asleep. I ventured inside my baby’s room this time and slowly made my way toward his crib but hastened my pace when the noise continued. I looked over the crib with a smile and couldn’t believe what I thought I saw. I grabbed my baby boy and turned on the light. He had vomit all over his face, nose, and covers and was still vomiting.

Like last time, I screamed for my mom. I quickly walked him out of his room into the loft, where my mom met me. My baby was still throwing up and seemed to be having difficulty breathing. My mom took him from me and sat him up, leaning him over her arm. She was praying. I was praying. Each time we cleaned him up, it was in vain. Vomit and mucus was coming out of his nose and mouth, and his eyes were blank.

After what seemed like an hour, all of a sudden, all the fluid ceased. He rubbed his eyes with his yucky hands and reached out to me. My mom handed him over, and as he started to babble, we both sighed in relief and started thanking God. I decided to have him sleep in our room downstairs, just so I could monitor him. That night, I could hardly sleep; I just kept checking on him.

The next morning, I called the pediatrician’s office and told the nurse what had happened. She asked me a few questions and told me to call if there were any issues. I asked her if I should be concerned, and she just asked that he be monitored closely. After doing some research online, I realized that if I had not arrived sooner, my baby could have aspirated on his vomit. The very thought sent chills down my back.

I relived that memory so many times and still do from time-to-time. Parenthood is a big responsibility. Lives are dependent on us. It can be both scary and rewarding, but sometimes the scary moments are really scary, and every moment counts.