Hey y’all! It’s been a (literal) hot minute since I’ve set to pecking on my keys.
May took me down.
It’s the December of the spring. Just so so so much stuff going on–and trying to keep my head above water was no easy feat. Don’t throw me the life-preserver yet, however, as I grew one around my waist from the carb loading (I needed energy for the marathon, you carb snobs), and drinking <wine> (hydration, duh), and non-working out (but screaming at kids and running around in circles burns mega calories, no?) that took place over the course of this month. And from the looks and feel of it, I’ll be keeping this lovely inner tube around my waist for the duration of summer because my kids are home. And my husband works from home. And we have a dog that lives indoors. Living things are everywhere. Lots of breathing. We lack for nothing, except space and quiet and money (because kids EAT LIKE BEARS PREPARING FOR HIBERNATION IN THE SUMMER).
A lot has happened since then, so I thought I’d fill y’all in on a little bit of muh life.
I checked off a bucket list destination: IOWA. Oh y’all. Iowa. My oldest daughter is a member of one of two Odyssey of the Mind teams at her school. If you aren’t sure of what that is, it’s okay. I didn’t either (and am honestly still not quite sure I can adequately speak on it). A quick google search can reveal all you need to know about this problem solving escapade. Anyway, the two teams from her school both made it to World Finals, which means they both won region and state level competitions prior to winning this No Expense Paid Trip to Iowa for World Finals. It’s for sure an amazing accomplishment, especially considering they were both first year teams. Each of the teams competed their hearts out and were super successful–one team placed 19th (!!!in the world, y’all!!!) and my daughter’s team placed 6th. S-I-X-T-H. IN.THE.WORLD. I think I’m proud… But Iowa. The 29th state of our beloved Union. The people were SO nice, SO friendly, SO super helpful, and SO respectful (in other words, we had some culture shock. Sorry Albany, we’ve got work to do), but it’s a pretty blase’ place to be. I’m petitioning the OM (Odyssey of the Mind) board to move the World Finals to somewhere a bit more exhilarating, like, I don’t know, Vermont?, or Alaska?, or…Vegas?? But seriously, I’m officially an #OMMOM now, and I couldn’t be a minute prouder of these kids, and I’m thankful that fanny packs are coming back in style so that if we make it to World next year, I’ll fit right in and it should sit nicely on my May inner tube I’m prone to grow… Fly on freak flag, fly on.
I also had a birthday. That was nice. The gifts lavished upon me were: a set of new wrinkles, a hitch in my back, and a deflated balloon that may also be referred to as my bladder. I’ve never felt so loved. It’s such a cruel world– your kids get out of diapers and then you get in them. But alas, I’m alive!
And just recently we wrapped up Vacation Bible School at our church. You know how you aren’t supposed to tell untruths, and that’s Biblical…it is. But there is a blatant one told in that title. Vacation Bible School ain’t a vacation. It’s a trip. Which implies work. But I’ll tell you — it’s worthwhile work — these little lives that come are hopefully filled up with God’s love by the time they leave– because the volunteers and director are empty come Friday. There’s no greater joy than noon on the last day of VBS watching these kids grow in the love of Jesus. Seriously, knowing that each of these children are created for a purpose flat out gives me goosebumps. We have the privilege to guide and encourage them along a path that enables them to live Fully Alive for God! And that’s good. That’s very good.
So…that’s a brief little update and I hope to get some more words on screen sooner rather than later, but these kids though. They are currently yelping…
“I’m hungry” (after just eating breakfast) “I’m bored” (clean your room) “What’s for lunch” (you JUST ate breakfast, you gluttons) “Can I have some of that Halloween candy in the top of the closet you hid” (Didn’t I teach you not to snoop? Besides, that’s been gone since May) “I want a play date” (I birthed your playmates. Enjoy) “I want ChicfilA” (I want a new handbag, but I’m still paying for Iowa) “Can we go swimming?” (well yes, that counts as a bath, right?)
…which makes it hard to concentrate. I need a job. Away from all the cacophony.
Alas… I’m going to go make some pb&js and tell them to get their swimsuits on and I might jump in the pool with them…
My journey in parenthood most recently segued into the world of baseball. Tee-ball to be exact. I’ve had several years of ballet shoes and leotards and pink tights and am well versed in most things female thanks to my girls, but this is my first experience in the world of organized (albeit loosely with this age) sports. My four-year old (baby) boy officially was a member of his inaugural tee-ball team and Icouldn’t have been more excited. Or maybe his Daddy couldn’t have been more excited… But don’t worry, he was pretty pumped too.
There is much to learn, friends. And this isn’t just referring to what the mini athletes on the field need to learn about the game of baseball (although that sort of goes without saying). Seeing these ball capped babes running around after the ball and wildly throwing it in or hoarding it in the outfield or smacking it off the tee and running wildly up the third base line…seeing all of that can seem like the most organized form of chaos one’s privy to witness. It’s sheerly delightful watching these loves try their best to listen to their coaches and their mama or daddy or grandpa or uncle or preacher yelling direction at what to do next when the ball happens to come in to their possession or if a base looks like it can be commandeered. It takes a village to coach a kid–much to the chagrin of the actual coaching squad themselves.
But the ones who have even more to learn might just perhaps be those outside of the fence — the spectators that have their hearts running around on the field, numbered so it’s easy to identify theirs from the cheapest of seats, and labeled to identify to whom that heart belongs. I’m talking about people like me.
As we headed to “try-out” for tee-ball registration this year, my baby’s Daddy had ensured that our prospect had all the gear he needed:
bat – check
glove – check
hat – check
big league chew – check
mama’s lipstick on his cheek – check (well, that wasn’t on the list but it was necessary)
Yet there was one thing that on the list he couldn’t tangibly provide: confidence. Watching our boy walk out across the huge ball field that made him look so small again to me, all by his lonesome as they called his name, and I had a flash forward moment that made me catch my breath in a base-ball sized knot in my throat that probably outwardly resembled an Adam’s apple. My boy. My baby boy. When did he get old enough to be big enough to do this?? As Alan stood beside me, I watched as W’s eyes met his Daddy’s. That look. Those steely blue eyes locked on Alan’s–his Daddy was his source of strength, his confidence hinging on what his father had instilled in him thus far in his 4 years on earth. And those eyes searched his Daddy’s face and asked a million questions in a single stare, but mostly–are you watching me Daddy? — and this mama’s heart…oh my heart…
But they say there’s no crying in baseball.
Fast forward a few practices and a game or two into the season. I find myself the newly minted (unqualified) “book-keeper” and this makes me LOLsers (Laugh Out Loud-sers…I’m using text speak to be up on my “hip” game). Me?? I mean, I’ve got neat handwriting and an impeccable sense of organization and a mostly can-do attitude about things and I’ve always thought baseball uniforms were awfully cute (your turn for LOLsers). But…me?? So, when the score book gets passed my way because the mom that normally keeps the books isn’t able, I quickly YouTube “how to scorekeep in tee-ball” on my phone and it’s more info than I want to know. People are kind of nuts-o on this subject. I mean, hats off to you who take the actual time to record a video tutorial of this caliber–a little weird–but I needed it. So while watching how to record game data, the game is actually going on live in front of me. A few “whoop-whoops” and “good hit” jolt me to attention and I realize that I have to do something with that spiral bound book and dull point pencil. The Blue (that’s the referee, y’all) walks over to me and wants to fact check stats before proceeding.
“How many outs you got?” he implores.
“Ugh, um…” oh snap, I’m not even past the YouTube ad for Under Armour, how do I know this???
“You got top of the second?” questions Blue.
“Hang on, I’m looking… (at my instructional video). Um, yessir. And no outs. (because what even is an out in a tee-ball game? they are few and far between). Score is 8 to 5.”
The ump walks off and the opposing coach kind of cock eyes me like I’m cheating. On the score book. In tee-ball. Simmer down, Coach. But while I’ve got your attention, have we considered getting Under Armour jerseys next year? Just saying. They’re kind of cute…
But there’s no crying (from laughing inside so hard) in baseball.
Fast forward a few more games into the season. As the players are looking more “legit” with red clay stained pants and salt stained sweat marks on ball caps, our kids’ skills are ramping up too. They are hitting balls not just off the tee, but actually off pitches to them, and some of these children are showing true promise. Some so much so that parents are hoping for little blossoming Buster Poseys (we’re from Albany, y’all. Just like our little footballers are the next Ricardo Lockettes and our aspiring singers are the next Phillip Phillips or Luke Bryans…we’ve got big shoes to fill) and act accordingly…yelling tidbits of coaching from the stands. “Hit it straight down the third base line and run through the base! Keep your foot on the bag! Play’s at second, y’all! Don’t cut at that pitch–you ain’t golfin’!” One of our fellas gets up to bat and knocks the stitches off the ball, right into an opposing player’s noggin. Hard. Bless the baby, he had his glove ready but the ball didn’t cooperate. A collective gasp from all of the mamas in the stand and a bum rush of coaches to the victim, and you can see the tears quietly streaming down the babe’s face. It hurt. It was scary. And this boy was trying to be so big and so strong and so tough when his Daddy ran to check on him, but he purely crumpled in his father’s safe, strong arms’ embrace. There wasn’t a dry eye on the field (ok, I’m being dramatic) but my eyes weren’t dry watching this–seeing a tough guy being tender with his child…that baby feeling secure because his Daddy was there…it’s ok to be gentle, men.
Oh, there is crying in baseball.
Now I know I still have much to learn– about baseball and bookkeeping and stain removal from white ball pants and just life all the way around. I don’t pretend to even think I’ve got any of it figured out. But I do know as the baseball season came to a close with high fives of “goodgamegoodgamegoodgame” and after game snacks (the important things, according to W) a few days ago, the realizations that time waits for no one and these days right here –these ARE the days– came to roost on me. This time where the kids are happy mostly, where coaches are pouring into these tiny ball players with their love and time and teaching of lessons on the field (that unbeknownst to them will one day translate off the field), where winning and losing aren’t the most important things (I’m not bitter because we only won two games. I’m not), where a Capri Sun and a bag of Cheetos make all the problems in the world forgotten–even losses, where it’s still okay to cry a little bit and have your Daddy or your Mommy scoop you up and forget why you were even sad–this is the time of our lives.
I already can’t wait for baseball season next year– I’ve got Oxi-Clean and Big League Chew at the ready, my pencils sharpened, YouTube videos on scorekeeping in my que, and am stockpiling Kleenex.
I’m a weird gal, which isn’t news to those of you in my personal space. I’ve got this problem of spinning things like a hamster wheel in my mind and then literally palms sweating, shaky fingers typing where I have to get it out. And I say typing because I can’t ever bring myself to say it aloud (also which those of you in my personal space know is completely out of character). I’ve been avoiding sitting down to type this post–even so far as to clean out the tray and drawer that hold my flat wear (which, have y’all done that lately? I found enough crumbs to keep the squirrel population in my back yard alive for a few months)–but alas, I sit and squirm. And I bang on these keys in my paltry endeavor to say something.
Tomorrow marks seven years since my aunt lost her only son. Seven years. And still, in my lion from the Wizard of Oz cowardess, I find things that I can’t say out loud to her. Man I loved her son, my cousin. He got me on levels other’s couldn’t. Though older than me, he was my friend. And he’d claim that out loud, too. He was fun and funny; super sharp-witted and smart and talented and smart-assy in the most perfect way (though probably not in his teenage year to his parents’ minds…). He was Jay. And I loved him. I still do. Always will.
As a mother of my own now, I often think about this tragedy of life that so many (too many and one is too many) I know have experienced. Because it is always a tragedy, no matter the age or the way, to lose a child. Always a tragedy. Because life ISN’T SUPPOSED TO BE THAT WAY. It should never, ever happen. Ever. Parents should never outlive their kids in a perfect world. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not natural order. And I hate it so bad, so bad, and there are so many things I want to say to these parents that I personally know but just can’t (or is it won’t?!?) do face to face. It’s almost as if the pain of a grieving parent is palpable to others; an aura surrounding them, an almost physical wall constructed around the heart of these parents the instant their child left the earth, that feels sort of impenetrable to those of us walking in this world around them. Or at least for this girl.
Just this past week, I crossed paths with a man that’s known me all my life and his family loves my family and vice versa. I hadn’t laid eyes on him since the passing of his son a mere month and a few days ago, and seeing him sort of took my breath away. He looked like a deflated balloon. A once happy, happy thing that is a hallmark of celebration now laying without air, crumpled up, like a party is over. The happy is gone. Shriveled. Sad. As I was holding my sick son in my arms, my heart was somewhat shielded from the agony of his heart where his son is now held. This is where I find a loss of words–anything I think I could possibly say seems trite in my mind. And I’m sorry that I didn’t say out loud to him something along the lines of you know I loved your son. He was always so kind to me, albeit older, and always stuck up for me in a crowd. He always had a smile and a playful laugh that the world had the pleasure of enjoying. He will be missed on earth. And I’ll continue to miss him and I know you and your family will miss him even more– And that’s feeble, those words seem so cheap, and I didn’t say anything of the sort, just robotic pleasantries and forced lip curls –but I so hope he felt that I cared when I patted his knee, when my eyes locked his–my heart not holding the key to unlock his–but I do care. I don’t pretend to understand, but I care. I care.
This all sounds so very very selfish and I understand it to be so. It’s the grieved ones’ loss, their anguish, their story and for me to be so concerned with what I say or how I say it to these individuals is, in short, ridiculous. But I long for them to know that I realize the error of my way–that of not saying anything and often times saying the wrong thing– and I’m sure others that encounter parents that have lost children often feel the same. Please tell me, if I say your beautiful child’s name out loud to you, am I going to make you cry? Again? And I don’t want to make you cry and not just selfishly because crying can be uncomfortable but because I really wish I could help you forget the pain away. And there’s nothing I can do in that realm nor do I honestly believe I could nor do I desire to make light of a pain that is completely and utterly unimaginable to those of us that haven’t been there. But I want them to know that I care. That my heart hurts in cadence with theirs, for theirs. That their child is not forgotten. That I do say their child’s name, not always audibly, but in my mind and in my heart when I think of him or her.
Sitting with my own son at lunch today, my mind went to those who have an empty chair at their tables, an emptier spot in their heart. I thanked God for my children and then felt so selfish, so … so… sad and guilty even. My mind went to all of the precious souls I’ve had the privilege of knowing that have left this earth too soon, too soon. And God, in His always good, always gentle, always loving way whispered that He’s got each one of them and will keep them in His loving-kindness until the day we get to heaven too. And that one day will be for eternity where there will never be grief, never be pain, never be a gone too soon, never be an “I’m so sorry” again. Ever. Not even a tear of sadness. Not one.
So now you know the things I can’t say out loud. This weak form of articulation here isn’t at attempt to make me feel better about not saying them audibly, rather a love letter to those of you I know that miss a child here on earth. I think about you. I think about them. I know their names. I know from a motherly point of view how you loved them. I don’t always bring it up when I see you because I don’t know how, but I pray my heart somehow signals to yours that I haven’t forgotten. I don’t pretend to know your pain or how deep your grief, but I love you.
Oh hey there all you people out in the land of the living, because I’m not quite sure what that looks like right now. I am alive, mind you, but Spring Break has come and gone and left me pining for a lazy Sunday night where Monday doesn’t stare at me so threateningly. Sitting here in bed on said Sunday evening, coming off a nice long “sprinter’s” (that’s spring and winter combined because south Georgia’s weather can’t.make.a.decision) nap, finding myself very awake (oh but that nap, though) and not quiiite ready for shut-eye because I’m rested (a foreign concept I can’t explain), I begin to checklist the week ahead.
*alarm set for 6:45 (prepared for the snooze button at least 3 times) Let’s talk about this y’all. Getting awake early is NOT MY THING. It never has been. I can be totally nice in the morning but not with words or smiles– just grunts with eyes shut, mummy-sounding hums while drinking coffee, or by driving you to school. These are ways I show niceties and love in the morning. And while I know that school’s tardy bell rings at 8 AM, 6:45 is the legit earliest I can start interrupting my sleep. It’s not nice to wake up so early. Who knew my iPhone could be so RUDE? School, please start at 10 AM next year. Shoot… life: start at 10 AM…
*lunch boxes packed (A.K.A. bane of my existence at this point in the school year) Listen, I’m all for packing my kids a lunch come August. It’s a gleeful send-off at the beginning of the school year; an edible reward for making it through the summer. Like, kid: I love you, I miss you. I’ll pack you, dear love, a nutritious lunch box so that you’ll have food for brain stimulation, nourishment for you to learn your fractions and spelling words! Here are some nitrate free, gluten-less, low sodium turkey slices, organic apple wedges with no skin and no preservatives, sliced cucumbers adorned with sea salt flakes from some Norwegian water source, and goat cheese procured from the local dairy. All of this sweetly packed with a petite bottle of San Pellegrino, a napkin (!) and a note that proclaims my love for you and declares that you are the sweetest love in all the world. Fast forward 100+ days (I know this because we celebrated that “holiday” with counting 100 crumbs from my sofa cushions and hot gluing them in a fancy array on a white t-shirt with yellow pit stains from your father) and here’s a hot dog that no doubt has nitrates because it’s made from lips and fannies of pigs and sawdust from the factory floor (and you can eat it cold, promise) in addition to red dye #5, an unwashed Cutie tangerine you can peel yo’self (you’ve got fingers, use them!), with a Capri Sun because those suckers were BOGO at Publix this week, and some soy sauce packs from the Chinese delivery we got last night because nothing says “I love you, kid” like a liquid dose of sodium. Consider it a salty kiss.
*laundry done/clothes laid out I folded the last load before wrestling putting the kids to bed, and I have to tell you that when one does a load of laundry with a little boy’s bottoms with pockets in it, there is no telling what the end result may be. This particular load included, besides clothing– golf tees, rocks that look like “lava” he says, and two pieces of chewing gum *still with wrapper somewhat attached* that found a place to perch on one of the daughter’s brand new shirts smack on the front in the most noticeable way. (Here begins tomorrow’s to do list-gum removal.) However, the girls have their uniforms cleaned and ready. {Side note: uniforms were sent from heaven. No quarreling in the morning about what to wear — Shirt? Red or blue (no white here. I didn’t purchase those suckers ’cause I’m not fighting chocolate pudding and red clay stains on those). Pants? The khaki ones or the khaki ones. (Swoon) Skirt? Plaid or plaid. (More swoon) I dig a uniform.} The one child that still gets to wear what he wants wears what his mama wants and picks out the night before (and that doesn’t have any gum on the front).
*calendar outlined/Uber lineup Days have been scheduled with dance classes and baseball practices and baseball games and orthodontist appointments and club meetings and art viewing at our local mall. I’m already tired thinking about all that driving to and fro. In fact, I probably need to purchase some carbon credits because of all the gas green house emissions that I produce from my SUV. Alas, this is my current career path, chauffeuring children in my very own UberBLACK. Thing is, my clientele doesn’t tip well. The fringe benefits of my cabbie-ing is used kleenex, breakfast cookie wrappers, and rocks that look like lava. Thanks, y’all. I’d appreciate a good rating.
But only 5 more Mondays, my friends. I think I can I think I can.
I’m already looking forward to my nap tomorrow. Good night!
As we are at the start of Holy Week and holy expectancy and in the season of wait, I wanted to share a story with y’all.
Wait. It’s a four letter word, to be sure.
Waiting is HARD.
My family experienced a season of waiting in 2017. It was so very very long and very very exhausting. Many know (at least now) that my father-in-law was diagnosed with IPF, or Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, a few years ago. With the diagnosis came no real sense of urgency as the disease isn’t the most understood, thus the “idiopathic” part. However, after some research on Dr. Google and some visits with pulmonologists, the “cure” came to light. A lung transplant was necessary. UGH. Urgency then became the undercurrent of feeling in our Parrish family.
I’m not sure if any of you are familiar with the transplant process, but those that are know it’s quite grueling. Lots of tests that include pokes and prods in all of the nooks and crannies of your body are the core of the process, but there is much else to be considered. It’s not an easy task to get listed.
My father-in-law had begun the process at the beginning of 2017 at UAB in Birmingham, Alabama and was doing his best to ace all of the tests necessary to get him a set of new-to-him lungs. The hoops were rigorous but my mother-in-law drove him to each set of hoops and encouraged him to jump. It was exhausting to the both of them, and we as family have never felt more helpless, but we clung to hope.
However, Bob’s lungs had different plans. The ones knitted together in the womb of his mother were becoming unraveled. And at a frighteningly fast pace.
In October, we had to hurriedly have Bob admitted to Phoebe. He was on a downhill slide that is a hallmark of IPF. He had done this before but was able to ascend the hill, yet the nature of this beast of a diagnosis is peaks and valleys, with the peaks becoming shorter and the valleys deeper as time progresses.
He still hadn’t made it on a lung transplant list. Time was growing shorter and the wait was growing longer.
Fortunately, the powers that be and the Power above were able to orchestrate a move for Bob to Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida. The doctors there allowed him to come though he wasn’t an official patient of their pulmonary department; he would still need to complete a few criteria for official listing on a list. THE list. We clung to hope.
After final evaluations, the transplant team decided to place Bob on the ECMO machine. I’ve written about that miracle machine in a previous blog–it is both mind-blowing and life-giving. Then we waited. And we prayed while we waited. We clung to hope some more.
The morning following Bob’s procedure of having the ECMO placed, Bobbie was informed in the elevator by one of the transplant doctors that he was officially listed. And number 1 on the list. He told her now we wait (some more)–lungs could become available in mere hours or several weeks. Hopefully. More wait, less time to wait. Anxiety was high.
Alan and I along with our kids weren’t able to get to Gainesville until Wednesday, November 1st. It was late evening so Alan wasn’t able to lay eyes on his father until the following day. That Thursday morning, Alan headed to the hospital to give his mom some respite. Bobbie came to our hotel room to clean up and get her mind around things or off of things but mostly just away from things. We piddled around that day for a bit and got her back to the hospital. Bobbie and Alan traded places, and I knew when I saw Alan’s face that he was worried. His father was very ill, scary ill. And again, we all felt helpless. Bobbie called that night and said the nurse said we could bring the kids up the next day to see Bob. That notion formed a catch in my throat, but I tried my feeble best to cling to hope for all of them. All of them. That catch hurt.
Friday morning we got up and took the kids to Shands hospital to see their grandfather. Outside of Big Daddy’s pod, we suited up the children in gowns and masks, along with ourselves. We walked in, navigating tubes and emotions, and saw him laying there. He was so tired, but mustered a smile for us all, but mostly for the grandkids–his heart. About the time we entered, a young gentleman with a guitar came to offer to play a few songs–music is therapy. Bobbie requested “Wagon Wheel” which we all forcefully sang with joy, and then she had him play, “Islands in the Stream.” Now if you’ve seen either of my in-laws, they are in the running to be Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers number one doppelgängers. And they do love this song. I watched her sing to him, and him look at her, and that look was one I’m not sure has words adequate to narrate. The catch was back. It hurt worse.
I collected our belongings and the children and I took Bobbie with us, again leaving Alan to be with his Dad. Though he was mostly sleeping now, I think he knew love was in the room with him. When we arrived back at the hotel, Bobbie proceeded to shower. I took that time to call my mom, read my Bible, and pray. Pray. Pray. Pray. And hang on to the hope.
On Friday, November 3 at 4:00 PM, I texted my prayer warriors this:
Hi all! I wanted to ask you guys to pray again. Bob is very tired as is Bobbie. They are just weary. And exhausted. Would you pray for the lungs God has in mind for him to come quickly with me? And pray for the donor and the family of him or her–I feel very compelled by the Spirit to pray for them, especially knowing that wanting them so quickly means less time for that soul on earth. It’s all so very heavy. There are so many sick people here, it just feels like a huge weight. But I know our Father is good, and He is able, and I pray for His will to be done and His name to be glorified. I am purposely choosing to place it at His feet and then leave it and quit trying to pick it back up!! Waiting just goes hand in hand with anxiousness–which is not of God, I know– but that seems to be where the mind goes. I’m praying that in the wait we press more into God and TRUST and have FAITH, which is our Father’s will for us. Please just continue to pray for them both. I cannot thank y’all enough for being on this prayer journey with us. It means more than you’ll ever know!! Bob is the very top of the list, he just needs the lungs God intends to share with him. (and y’all don’t block my number yet with all of these group texts pretty please!)
Bobbie finished dressing and said she’d like to go to the mall to find some comfortable shoes. Now a detail that you need to know about Bobbie: she loves shoes. Love loves shoes. So much so that you can guarantee she’ll have a sackful packed for spending the night off for one evening. She’ll forget her underwear and even her toothbrush but by golly she will have.her.some.shoes. Loves ’em.
We got to the mall and headed into the Dillard’s of Gainesville.
I said to Bobbie in my redneckiest voice, “There’s your sign!” in an attempt to get a grin. She chuckled as we headed up to that floor. We were flitting from shoe to shoe, attempting to find the most comfortable pair for her to pace the floors at the hospital, and she racked up several pairs for the kind and patient shoe sales girl to get in her sizes. I admit I plucked a few too, because shoes. I don’t hate them…
It was getting close to dinner time as the children in tow were mumbling about tummies rumbling, so when Alan called I figured he was in the same sort of state.
“Oh hey babe. How are y’all?”
“We’re good, how are y’all?”
“Good, trying on shoes, you getting hungry?”
“Uh, not really, are the kids?”
“Getting there…”
“Well guess what?”
“What?”
“We got lungs.” cracked voice on the other end.
“WHAT???????”
“We got lungs.”
“WE GOT LUNGS OH MY GOSH WE GOT LUNGS BOBBIE WE GOT LUNGS!”
Bobbie, in the most guttural sounding shriek I’ve heard in my life: “We’ve got lungs??? We’ve got lungs? We’ve got lungs? Oh thank you God, we’ve got lungs!!!”
Tears are flowing on everyone. The lady bringing us the shoes, the lady trying on the Uggs, me, Bobbie, the kids, the lady from the lingerie department across the way.
Tissues were flying like ticker tape at a parade. Rejoice!
IT WAS HOLY GROUND. We were standing there, barefoot. On Holy Ground. It was only the most appropriate place to get that call.
“Then the LORD said to him,
‘Take off your sandals, for you are standing on holy ground.”
Acts 7:33
With fingers shaking, I texted my prayer warrior group at 5:39 PM, roughly an hour and a half after my previous text:
Y’all!!!!!!! We have lungs!!!!!!!!!! Surgery at 4 am!!!!!!!! Pray saints pray!!!!!!!!
And from what I understand, there was Holy Ground all over the south. Our God is good.
My mother-in-law walked out of the Dillard’s shoe department with no less than five pairs of shoes that afternoon, and the weight of that wait now lifted.
**This image doesn’t show my mother-in-law’s bare feet because she would flat kill me dead for doing such. It doesn’t show mine either because I care about your eyes.**
And while the rest of the (abbreviated) story is that Bob received a lung transplant and life (and I’ll share more at another time) and I don’t want to diminish any of that fact, the moral here is that the wait is always worth it.
Always always worth it.
Any of y’all standing in line for your turn for whatever it is your waiting for, it’s worth it. Hang in there, though your feet may grow tired of standing, your mind exhausted from the process, your heart barely beating in your chest from weariness…
I myself will sit in God’s waiting room for as long as it takes.
Okay friends, it’s getting nearer to that time of year. Weather is getting warmer, days are getting longer, spring break is right around the corner, back porches are calling. School days are beginning to dwindle down for the school term, as is the structure that marks the first of the school year. Everyone is feeling a little bit tired, a little bit giddy about the upcoming break from the alarm clock, and a little bit more relaxed with the schedules. I’m getting there myself.
Especially when I just realized we are about to spring forward this weekend. Insert snooze emoji here.
Which brings me to my first ever PSA* on the blog.
*PSA- Parrish Service Announcement
This is free advice that is priceless for you but comes at a high expense from yours truly. You’re welcome.
As I woke up late this morning, like OMGhurryeatapieceofbreaddoyouhaveonunderwear-nodontbrushyourteethI’llgiveyouapeppermintinthecarwheresyourbookbag,
I did pause long enough to clothe all of MYself– ALL of myself– prior to jumping in the car to begin my unpaid uber job of the day and praying that there were no policemen to ticket me for pausing at the STOP signs I’d encounter on the way to take the kids to school. Please, I back the blue most of the time.
Why would I even give you that detail about dressing myself? Isn’t that what most sane people do when they leave their houses in the morning?
Most do. I didn’t one time. (that I’m willing to share)
Rewind to around this time last year. I had overslept, was in a Claritin coma, running late for school (which is pretty much every day, you side-eyers, I know), and was getting lackadaisical in the carpool uniform department. My typical yoga pants/t-shirt/sports bra/Ugg boots (because I’m basic and I’m ok with that) fatigues had slowly transitioned to muumuus and flip-flops with a hoodie on top to tie the outfit all together (WHY ARE YOU JUDGING ME?).
I had successfully gotten all kids out of their beds (though not necessarily awake), and dressed, and fed (breakfast cookies, yes they are a thing and they have FIBER), and rushed out of the door and buckled in to their seatbelts because safety. They were dropped off at school with 36 seconds to spare for the tardy bell because there are no tardies on my watch. (I’m just as shocked, you people!) I’m responsible like that.
But y’all.
Cruising home childless listening to my iTunes (because who doesn’t love T.I. and Cardi B. with some Hillsong mixed in at 8 AM–I am MUSICALLY deft, y’all), coffee cup in hand, ready to kick the day in the teeth, feeling like I am one accomplished woman, I notice a car in my periphery that is going to run the stop sign of the two-way stop that is literally four houses down from mine. All I could think was OMGI’mabouttobehitpleaseLorddon’tletmebehitOMGfortheloveofallthebeautifulthings-
(But, I had crunched a peppermint. Score one in the win column.)
Boom.
Just little boom. My car’s side end was bumped, and bad enough that I knew I had to get out to look at it. Dadgummit. In my starfish patterned muumuu (thanks, mom, I love it!). With a hoodie on top. And no bra.
Satan is real, y’all.
Bless it to pieces, the precious doe-eyed doll that hit me was in a hurry to get to her senior games at her school and was running late and was trying to make it in time and this is where I understand the concept of grace and me toooo, sister, me too. Surveying the damage after ensuring she was fine, I thought about calling the police for a police report. But because I am smart, I thought better, and called my husband first and said:
And: Oh…yeah…I’ll call the police next. After you show up with Victoria’s Secret.
Luckily, he was my knight in shining honor before the police arrived on the scene or I might have been ticketed with indecent exposure. I was still indecent, sans exposure, if we aren’t counting my make-up less face (that is another PSA in the works coming out around Halloween time). Insurance info, addresses, a ticket, and some eye contact avoidance later, we all went on about our day. Some more scarred than others, some with whiplash in places that doesn’t usually occur with proper restraint.
Yes. PROPER RESTRAINT.
So, this has been quite a long elaboration with a moral that can be summed up in a sentence.
The white of the blooming pear trees is particularly and glaringly gorgeous, almost as much as the shade of my legs that have been in hiding since October or so. The quickest way to go blind is to view these gams without proper eye protection before I’ve applied self tanner. As the saying by some famous unnamed Southern woman goes, “Tan fat looks better than white fat!” But those pear trees, though. Beautiful.
The yellow of the sun that seems to hang out in the sky a little bit longer and warm us up a little bit more. It’s like its back from a vacation, ready to keep us up longer (and to convince our kids that can’t tell time yet that it’s seriously time.for.bed. and even those that can:it’s still sunning out, MOM), and renewed to begin the preheating process of summer. (We all know it’s set at 350 degrees that hits about June to roast us for those next months that follow.) And yellow as the blanket that drapes every outdoor object like a new spring dress. This layer of yellow shade over all of creation–it’s breathtaking. LITERALLY. It’s also the color of the mucus that fills up tissue after tissue.
Green. Glorious green. Green grass, green leaves, new shoots–it’s just so very brand new! It’s the color of promise–a sign of renewal and new life, fresh growth and invigorated beginnings. ***(And also green is the color the yellow mucus turns once a beloved sinus infection ensues. I’m just pointing out truth.)
Pink! The color of the redbud tree and loropetalum blooms that are shooting out all over the place. It’s joy hanging on a tree. Pink is also (one of ) the fantastic colors of the Cadbury mini eggs that come out this time of year, heralding the most holy of days on the Christian calendar: Easter. Which is also a reminder: there is JOY that once did hang on a tree…
And lest I forget: red. That beautiful hue of the Bullseye and the shirts on Target team members. Just glorious. The store that beckons this time of year for the essential items of this season of spring: Claritin and flip-flops, self tanner and Cadbury eggs, and Slim Fast (less clothes, people), and sunglasses and kleenex. You know, things you need in life. And red as also the only thing you really need in life: the blood shed by Jesus for you. It covers more profusely than pollen, is THE sign of renewal and life, and will turn everyone it touches whiter than snow–no self tanner necessary.
So if you know me, you know I’m no super star workout queen with Barbie proportions. I sweat just saying the word cardio, buy in to the “hot baths burn as many calories as a 10 mile run,” and find chocolate to be unfairly left out of the food pyramid– (or is it a plate now?) haters gonna hate. I’ve donated a lot of money to various gyms over the southeast and attempted to be a “runner” in college for a PE class my boyfriend (now husband, even after that crap) convinced me to join with him. (“It’ll be fun,” he said. LIKE HELL. I legit convinced him to sit in the car for the entirety of one of our “runs.” This was before Fitbits or fitness trackers so the teacher had no clue. And I’m not sorry I cheated. I’m not. Not one ounce of sleep lost.) Running is for politicians and refrigerators.
However, I’ve just about fallen in love with the exercise known as Barre. (Who even am I??? I just used love and exercise in the same sentence!) I found this rather addictive class at 229 Yoga here in Albany a few babies ago but didn’t officially fall off the wagon of sedentary life until after the babe started pre-school. Now I know that it’s not unique to the workout world, but it is in Albany.
And 229 Yoga is the only place here to get my fix. Which is just fine by me.
The Barre maids (AKA instructors) there are fabulous. The head Barre tender (AKA owner), Penny, ensures she has only the best. These gals serve up a cocktail of well curated exercise moves every class 229 offers. They are all high-energy but with their own flavor, which keeps things fresh and fun. The music stays loud and lively to drown out the screaming of your muscles as they sculpt in to the long and lean sinews they were always meant to be (at least mine long to be). Yet it’s not too loud for you to hear the words of encouragement from your instructor: “Stay with me!” “Last 10 best 10!” “Perfect your form!” “Think about how good your legs/butt/thighs are gonna look in your shorts!” (this is my favorite) “Beautiful shakes over here!” “BREATHE!”
One of the goals of the class is to “find your shake.” Fear not. This isn’t the kind of shake you get from when you slap your postpartum belly or the kind when you twerk. (And if you don’t know what twerking is, we can’t be friends. Just kidding. Kind of . But if you don’t know, don’t google it. Just don’t. STOP.) This shake is only found when you’ve exhausted a specific muscle and brought it to the very brink of death. Just prior to dying, said muscle shakes like a literal bowl of jello. Like a white flag flapping in retreat…and apparently THIS is what makes your muscle change for the better. This is what whips those thighs, that booty, them abs into shape. And it hurts so good! So good!
With a name like Barre, you’ve probably got this image of leotards and ballet shoes and slicked buns (at least I did), but au contraire. (There’s a little French for y’all since we’re talking ballet here…) It’s more yoga leggings, bare feet (or workout socks), and messy buns. While there is a ballet barre along the wall, there is nothing overly prima donna ballerina about the workout. Sure, we attempt (ok, I attempt) some graceful movements but the look of them is quite deceiving. Those simple movements turn in to some tush torching pain. Like hot sauce for your fanny muscles! In the best possible way. And if I’d quit chocolate, pasta, and wine, I feel sure I’d garner the body of JLo in no time (what? I’m just Betsy from the block) with these workouts. Surely. But I’m no quitter.
Doesn’t that all sound intriguing? If so, I dare you to come try a class. Unless you’re judgemental or already have the body of JLo. If the latter is the case, you can still come, but you can’t stand next to me.
Barre tender, I’ll have another! Just put it on my tab.
Picking up my littlest love and a friend for a playdate yesterday, I was posed with a query from the middle row of my vehicle:
“Can you take us to Chuck E. Cheese?”
The precious four-year old voices of two male cherubs chirped and cheered as they waited with bated (actually mouse trap baited) breath to hear my response. No doubt there was some collusion in the parent pick up line on the matter.
“Um, no. Only Grandparents or aunts and uncles are allowed to take you there.”
“But YOU’ve been to a birthday party there!” Well played, stinkers. Well played.
“OK, however, that’s the ONLY time parents are allowed to take you. And there isn’t one today.”
I switched the subject and avoided any further solicitation for said Mouse Trap that would no doubt ensue when I promoted a visit to Freeze (a fro-yo add-your-own-toppings treat shop that, according to the pint-sized darlings, is ICE CREAM. Keep believing, kids.) Freeze for sure hit the spot for these two loves, but I got to thinking about the Den of Cheese while they played outside later.
For those of you that have ever had the privilege of going to this place, this knowledge I’m about to share probably won’t come as new. But for those of you who’ve not, there are a few things you need to know.
It’s called Chuck E. Cheese. It’s the Beau Rivage of arcades, the insane asylum for parents, and perceived paradise for children. Let me break all of that down for y’all:
The name Chuck in this case has dual meaning. I’ll use the first interpretation in a sentence:
I like to chuck my money out the window.
This is a skill that will be employed there, akin to shot putting your hard-earned cash in a tornado. No return to be seen. Except in the case where the child in your care wins tickets for all the games he plays. 587 tickets and $75 later and the kid picks out a Tootsie roll and a paper clip. Gleefully. Quite the return.
And ok, there may be another kind of return, and ironically it’s the alternate meaning of chuck in this case. In sentence form:
I picked up so many germs off the club handle on the Wack-a-Mole that I am now upchucking my guts.
I’m seriously waiting on a Jeff Rossen report where he brings his germomemter to this Mouse Hole and tells us all the strains of bacteria and fecal matter and boogers he finds on all the game machines, token cards, and the life-sized fuzzy Chuck E. Cheese character that stands on a stage in the corner for kids to dance and hang on like a stripper pole. It would have to be off the chart. I shudder at the thought.
Cheese in the title of this destination refers not to the pizza that they serve. (Oh yeah, they have a salad bar, too. Open air…with shared utensils to serve…Jeffy–we need you to check that out, too.) It’s referencing the smell of the place. It’s a mix between sweaty feet and Limburger. Your nostrils become assaulted the minute you walk in. And apparently this odor creates extreme excitability in people under the age of 15. I think they pipe it in the ventilation system like they do pure oxygen at casinos. It’s absolutely intoxicating to kids.
And worry not, dear ones. I haven’t forgotten the E.
What exactly does that E. stand for? I’ll tell you what it doesn’t…
economical
epic
educational
excellent
It stands for Excedrin. Because this, my friends, is what you will need while there. I recommend taking one preemptively, one while there, and one when you leave. You will need it. The flashing lights, the screaming children, the beeps and boops and bips from the arcade games, and the annoying sound of the ticket muncher as you feed the tickets in one.at.the.time. all lend themselves to one cloyingly annoying headache. You’ve been warned and you’re welcome.
Tonight at the dinner table, as children are want to do, each of mine began chatting about each one’s respective birthday. We’ve about talked our oldest two into just taking the money for a party and running, but that littlest love of ours, in his sweetest 4 year old voice squeaked, “I want my party at Chuck E. Cheese this year!”
Ever had a slice? Steaming, hot slices are served around these quarters on the regular, and I’m not talking about a Miss Minny style sliver. It seems the dessert best served when I get to feeling myself a little too much. And though I don’t love it at all, it’s much like getting a shot of medicine; it’s good for me. Prepare yourself for a lot of eye rolling as you scroll on…
A few months ago at Shands hospital in Gainesville, Florida, lay my father-in-law in his hospital bed, a tube the diameter of a fluorescent ceiling bulb and the length twice that coming out of the side of his neck at the site where it was inserted. The tube was filled with his blood, bright red, as it was oxygenated via the “virtual” lung outside of his body–the ECMO machine, and it was delivering it back to him at his jugular vein. The tube that carried the blood away from his suffering and suffocating body came from under the bed sheet. It was an eggplant hue as it was deplete of the life giving oxygen it needed to support all of the body’s organs and systems, but as it reached the ECMO it was revived with the needed O2. The river of blood–his own blood-all of it– cycled through the machine and flowed down the tube back into his neck, supported by a white, sporty-looking head band apparatus so that it remained in an upright position, much like a snorkel to a mask. And like a snorkel, this tube offered his body oxygen that he couldn’t get on his own as his lungs were drowning in a sea of scar tissue. This process was keeping him alive, in essence: alive to hopefully get a transplant of two new to him lungs.
As a family, we were spent–my mother-in-law being the most. She had been with him from the beginning of this process, and hadn’t physically left his side since the transport of Bob from our hometown hospital. Bobbie had been literally camping out in the MICU and was in need of a shower–a sink, a private toilet–a place to breathe for a minute. And she needed some clean clothes.
Though we brought her a few clean changes, the ones with her needed to be laundered. In an effort to make the most of her time away from the hospital and her beloved, I offered to take them to a laundromat while she showered and had some down time in our hotel room we had procured for ourselves. The kids stayed in the hotel with Bobbie as a distraction (though loud and little room for peace) from reality for her for a few, while my husband, Alan, stayed with his father. I set off for the nearest laundromat without colluding with Yelp, just the direction of the front desk clerk at our hotel.
I pulled in to the laundromat with no soap, no quarters, and no clue. (I’ve surely washed laundry before, loads of it with three children and hubby. When five people take their clothes off, you’ve got a tub full.) As I surveyed the building, the word laundromat itself seemed almost oxymoronic: this place was filthy and in need of some stain remover. It smelled of Snuggle and hassle. I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t be making the clothes dirtier by washing them here. (Insert eye roll. I am.) I didn’t know where to begin, but a kind lady saw how shell-shocked I was and pointed me to where to get soap from the dispenser. When she saw that I couldn’t even successfully do THAT, she pointed me to the moneychanger machine at the front of the room. I needed change to do the dirty work here. All I had was a $20, and let me tell you that $20 in quarters make quite a noise exiting the machine. I got sideways stares as they poured out and almost sang a chorus of “you don’t belong here” and “welcome to Vegas, baby”.
With soap purchase made, I removed the clothes from the Vera Bradley bag (yes, eye roll again) they were in and threw them in the largest unit—the one for “bulky loads” that cost 14 quarters to perform. Fumbling with the two Tide packets of powder (two would surely get them cleaner, no?), I finally got the majority of it in the dispensing hole. 14 quarters and two packs of detergent – excessive—just as I am, it turns out. Machine on and whirring, tossing the clothes in a tornado of water and suds, I stepped outside and began pacing to get my steps in and my thoughts out. Watching the patrons pull up in cars that looked as tired as they did, reality set in for me. I was disgusted with myself. A few of the women went in and got their loads going only to come right back out and start smoking cigarettes to pass the time. One sat and watched her load toss back and forth, back and forth, and seemed to use that smooth rhythm to zone out: $1.50 for a therapist that scrubbed her mind clean as it did her clothes. The woman that so kindly showed me the ropes had a family member with her that sat in a wheelchair and rolled around in circles to pass the time. Next a man that had obviously gotten a ride from a kind citizen—and not an UBER—pulled up and was let out. He had an oversized weathered looking army green sack chock full of what must have been all of his worldly possessions, and he lugged it into the building to use the washer next to mine. When he got his laundry going and left it to sit on a bench outside and witness the lonesome world zoom past, I couldn’t help but notice through the window of his washer the water was tinged brown. And peering back at me was my disgusted face reflected. That face was dirtier than the water in that machine.
One of the women that had finished her smoke break came in to throw her clothes in the dryer. I watched as she put the quarters in to start it. I followed suit. I had to ask her how many coins to put in because there was no indication—she replied, “the more you put in, the longer the time you get,” in a quite annoyed voice. Thanking her, I slid back to the bench inside– right next to the lady that had been watching her laundry in a mesmerized way. Striking up a conversation with her, I discovered her story. Single mother, college-aged kid who had little to do with her, missing her family that lived farther north—desperation, worry, anxiety. I shared our story with her—our desperation, worry, anxiety. The parallels we shared became an unspoken bond—the look shared with our eyes said everything without saying anything. She spoke some kind words and while looking me square in the eyes, said, “Your father-in-law is going to be ok.” And I’m not sure she knows that I heard the very voice of God come out of her mouth and I just knew deep in the pit of my soul that she was speaking truth. Perhaps she wasn’t even aware that I was aware of an angel I had the privilege to entertain right in my presence.
The lady that smelled of Marlboro Red surely overheard our story…and she got very close to my ear and grumbled as she was leaving with her clean clothes, “You need to use dryer number 2. It gets the hottest and goes the fastest.” And I knew she let me in on a little secret that she surely wouldn’t have shared with the me that initially strutted in the DJ Coin Laundry with my Vera Bradley laundry tote and holier-than-thoust-Laundromat attitude. She saw my vulnerability, she heard my humble cry, she showed me love.
This girl here learned a lot about myself in that DJ Coin Laundry. I don’t tend to think that I’m better than others as a general philosophy, but how about the unspoken air I put off? And how about all of the creature comforts I take flippantly and, shamefully so, expectantly? It’s most haughty and I find it mortifying. UGH. Leaving the Laundromat with clean laundry, turns out that I needed the scrubbing more than any item of clothing or square of tile in the place. I found myself feeling just as refreshed as the laundry toted out–the dirt in my eyes removed and cleansed so I could see with a new pair of eyes.
As I’ve heard someone say recently, “Humble yourself.” I’m trying.
Since I’m human, I’m fairly sure I’ll need to start collecting more quarters.
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