So ya'll, I'm straight up TARD.
As in, I actually fell asleep yesterday with two loud children pounding pink legos on my legs chanting a song, in the middle the afternoon lying ON TOP of my pile of clean laundry waiting to be folded.
Exhausted. Tired. TARD. I think Chris may have even taken a picture to be used for bribery purposes some day. Or I dreamed it. Either way.
Last week - the week Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog became a permanent member of the family - also happened to be the week of "adjusting" for the extended Thomas family, and I learned the very important lesson that in a given family, everyone grieves about the same thing, but in very different ways.
Even though it wasn't necessarily me that was going through this jumble of strange emotions, I still managed to accumulate a certain amount of angst watching and listening to everyone else stumble through it. Therefore, when I went back to work on Monday, I was absolutely plum wore out. I had a busy day and busy night at work, which means job security, yes, but also pure exhaustion. With no time to recover, I was back to work again Wednesday morning for another busy day and busy night.
To top it all off, Wendi, my pilates instructor, for whom I possess equal and alternating amounts of reverence, admiration, and hatred, proclaims that sugar is "white poison" and we must stay away from it. As Wendi is older, wiser, and has an infinitely firmer and more shapely - er, backside - than me, I have this perverse need to please her and do exactly as she says, which now means, no more white poison.
Try explaining that to a three-year-old.
Uh-huh, I'm a super-pleasant person to be around these days.
And it all seems to hit in the evenings, when I feel like I've been run over by a freight train, my limbs weigh a thousand pounds, and I can barely hold my head up.
Which is why I googled "flu-like symptoms in the evening", and informed Chris that I either have: a) leukemia; b) hypothyroidism; c) tuberculosis; or d) all of the above.
And because I'm apparently suffering from this leukemia-tuberculositic-thyroidy-plague, I've been less able to blog as frequently as I would like.
So somehow in my fog last week, I managed to drag myself to the doctor, who did - not kidding - $1800 worth of lab tests for a $20 copay (thank you, United Healthcare), to discover that aside from a mild vitamin-D deficiency, I am a surprisingly healthy person, and am not, apparently, suffering from the plague.
In all her great doctory wisdom, she told me it's stress, and I need to try and get some sleep. And take more vitamin D.
Therefore, this weekend, when I've felt sleepy, instead of martyring myself for the sake of that pile of clothes waiting to be folded, I gave myself permission to take two very indulgent long, luxurious naps in the middle of the day while my kids were sleeping. Or beating me with pink legos. Same difference.
Still. A nap! Two of them. Heaven.
In the evenings with the weather now getting cooler, we decided we'd take the girls out to some of the festivals happening in Dallas this weekend. We went to Addison's Oktoberfest on Friday evening, and Grapevine's Grapefest on Saturday evening. Both "festibals" as Aria says, taught me this important lesson: If you ever want to feel skinny and well-dressed with beautiful straight teeth, a handsome husband, and beautiful very well-behaved kids, my friends, all you need to do is attend a weekend festival at night in North Texas.
Wow, ya'll. All I can say is the people-watching is out of this world. I left both places much wearier and dirtier, but with an extremely high self-esteem. Just sayin.
Time for dinner, a fruit "smoovie" for dessert (see Wendi, I'm trying), then back to bed. Maybe after my white poison detox is over, I'll have energy for more blogs this week...
-
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Meant To Be
Good luck if you can listen to the words and watch this video without crying! Especially when you know the passion that Steven Curtis Chapman has for adoption and orphan care. He and his wife are the parents of three adopted daughters from China, one of whom, Maria, is now an angel. Their website ShowHope is in my link list to the right.
Every time I hear this song, I just want to squeeze my sweet Aria a little tighter.
Also, if you are in the Dallas area and have an interest in foster care or adoption, don't miss this on Wednesday:
http://www.chosenforchildren.org/Events.html
-
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Frog Effect
And so it begins...
The "it" being the ultimate super mom test that my mother, Saint Vivi, passed with flying colors. I like to joke that my brother, now a veternarian with a PhD, came out of the womb, magnifying glass in hand, looking for some creepy-crawly reptiles and insects to inspect. Growing up, turtles, frogs, and yes, even snakes, peacefully coexisted in our playroom alongside Barbie in her townhouse and the ubiquitous pink corvette. Saint Vives not only tolerated these turtles, frogs, and snakes, but she even - shiver - assisted and encouraged my brother's love and care of these creatures. I didn't realize it at the time, but wow, what a motherly concession she made by not dissuading my brother from pursuing his passion, even one that in all likelihood, totally oooged her out.
I've often wondered, if and when I'm in the same position - my child wanting and desiring to cultivate an interest in something that gives me the heebie-jeebies - how will I react? Will I be the good mother like my own, and keep the frozen white mice in the freezer right next the chicken nuggets and popsicles to satiate the big, black corn snake that so often escapes the bounds of his own aquarium/cage/home? Or will I instead do my best to divert her curiosity toward varieties less reptilian in nature, such as, say, art? Or American Girl dolls? Or Disney princesses?
Who knows?
Today, however, I had a little foreshadowing of this upcoming dilemma of parenthood.
Which brings me to...
Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog.
You may or may not be aware, but Tropical Storm Hermine made landfall in Texas yesterday. This has caused tornadoes, torrential rains, straight line winds, and extreme flooding. Now, me? I don't mind the storms a bit. In fact, I've always taken a sort of perverse satisfaction in natural disasters, as they seem to create a sort of communal collusion among the citizens of our environs. Strangers chat with each other in grocery store lines about the crazy weather, the news does a whole bunch of cheesy special interest stories about harrowing pet rescues, and everyone generally seems to be a little more forgiving of small indiscretions like being late to a meeting or missing ballet class because I just didn't feel like getting out in the rain/hurricane/tornado/traffic/weather/flooding, etc. Plus you can have bad rainy hair, and no one raises an eyebrow. So I'm all like, Bring it on, Hermine.
However, one of the slightly lesser-known consequences of hurricanes and floods is something I like to refer to as the Worm Effect. Ever notice how after a big rain, worm carcasses (carcassae?) are everywhere? Well, apparently, now with all this flooding, the Worm Effect has translated into the Frog Effect. Today, I found frogs everywhere - inside, outside, on the car, on my clothes. I'm beginning to understand how those Egyptians felt during their froggy plague. Shoulda listened to Yahweh, people, and let His people go.
Needless to say, Aria Grace was T-H-R-I-L-L-E-D by the Frog Effect. She was squealing, laughing, jumping up and down, chasing after the frogs, doing her best to capture one.
And then - oh joy- she did.
And then - oh more joy - she asked if she could keep him (her/it?).
And then - oh even more joy - because I'm suffering from the guilt that accompanies the distraction when a member of your immediate family passes away and you have a million things to do, so your children end up watching a few too many hours of "Clifford the Big Red Dog", I said yes, she could keep him.
And then - the most joy of all - I had to phone Chris and confess to him that I had violated our No-More-Creatures-in-the-House-That-Poop Treaty. I tried to rationalize it by telling him that frogs don't poop so it technically doesn't count, but, as he is more intelligent than I sometimes give him credit for, he didn't buy it.
Welcome to the Thomas family, Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog.
Now, my oh-so-wise blog friends (and yes, I'm talking to you Vivi and my resident scaly-creature expert, Dr. Mary Lang), I entreat you for some advice. Even though I have a diminutive amount of childhood experience with amphibians, it happens to be limited by the fact that I paid more attention to souping up Barbie's corvette and less time to learning how to care for a durn frog.
Aria seems to think we just need to give him/her/it some "Baby Frog Milk" and a chocolate chip cookie, and it'll be fine, but I have a feeling Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog may need a slightly more substantial diet. Wikipedia was extremely helpful: "Almost all species of frogs are carnivorous as adults, eating invertebrates such as arthropods, annelids and gastropods."
Well, wouldn't you know it? Just checked my fridge, and we are plum out of annelids and gastropods! Darn the luck.
As it stands now, he/she/it is currently residing in a plastic container formerly containing Cheerio's, complete with dirt, leaves, grass, water, an acorn, and a snail, a worm, a spider and an ant for company.
Hmm... after reading that last sentence, I believe I just might qualify for a mother award today after all.
So, friends, any frog-raising advice?
-
The "it" being the ultimate super mom test that my mother, Saint Vivi, passed with flying colors. I like to joke that my brother, now a veternarian with a PhD, came out of the womb, magnifying glass in hand, looking for some creepy-crawly reptiles and insects to inspect. Growing up, turtles, frogs, and yes, even snakes, peacefully coexisted in our playroom alongside Barbie in her townhouse and the ubiquitous pink corvette. Saint Vives not only tolerated these turtles, frogs, and snakes, but she even - shiver - assisted and encouraged my brother's love and care of these creatures. I didn't realize it at the time, but wow, what a motherly concession she made by not dissuading my brother from pursuing his passion, even one that in all likelihood, totally oooged her out.
I've often wondered, if and when I'm in the same position - my child wanting and desiring to cultivate an interest in something that gives me the heebie-jeebies - how will I react? Will I be the good mother like my own, and keep the frozen white mice in the freezer right next the chicken nuggets and popsicles to satiate the big, black corn snake that so often escapes the bounds of his own aquarium/cage/home? Or will I instead do my best to divert her curiosity toward varieties less reptilian in nature, such as, say, art? Or American Girl dolls? Or Disney princesses?
Who knows?
Today, however, I had a little foreshadowing of this upcoming dilemma of parenthood.
Which brings me to...
Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog.
You may or may not be aware, but Tropical Storm Hermine made landfall in Texas yesterday. This has caused tornadoes, torrential rains, straight line winds, and extreme flooding. Now, me? I don't mind the storms a bit. In fact, I've always taken a sort of perverse satisfaction in natural disasters, as they seem to create a sort of communal collusion among the citizens of our environs. Strangers chat with each other in grocery store lines about the crazy weather, the news does a whole bunch of cheesy special interest stories about harrowing pet rescues, and everyone generally seems to be a little more forgiving of small indiscretions like being late to a meeting or missing ballet class because I just didn't feel like getting out in the rain/hurricane/tornado/traffic/weather/flooding, etc. Plus you can have bad rainy hair, and no one raises an eyebrow. So I'm all like, Bring it on, Hermine.
However, one of the slightly lesser-known consequences of hurricanes and floods is something I like to refer to as the Worm Effect. Ever notice how after a big rain, worm carcasses (carcassae?) are everywhere? Well, apparently, now with all this flooding, the Worm Effect has translated into the Frog Effect. Today, I found frogs everywhere - inside, outside, on the car, on my clothes. I'm beginning to understand how those Egyptians felt during their froggy plague. Shoulda listened to Yahweh, people, and let His people go.
Needless to say, Aria Grace was T-H-R-I-L-L-E-D by the Frog Effect. She was squealing, laughing, jumping up and down, chasing after the frogs, doing her best to capture one.
And then - oh joy- she did.
And then - oh more joy - she asked if she could keep him (her/it?).
And then - oh even more joy - because I'm suffering from the guilt that accompanies the distraction when a member of your immediate family passes away and you have a million things to do, so your children end up watching a few too many hours of "Clifford the Big Red Dog", I said yes, she could keep him.
And then - the most joy of all - I had to phone Chris and confess to him that I had violated our No-More-Creatures-in-the-House-That-Poop Treaty. I tried to rationalize it by telling him that frogs don't poop so it technically doesn't count, but, as he is more intelligent than I sometimes give him credit for, he didn't buy it.
Welcome to the Thomas family, Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog.
Now, my oh-so-wise blog friends (and yes, I'm talking to you Vivi and my resident scaly-creature expert, Dr. Mary Lang), I entreat you for some advice. Even though I have a diminutive amount of childhood experience with amphibians, it happens to be limited by the fact that I paid more attention to souping up Barbie's corvette and less time to learning how to care for a durn frog.
Aria seems to think we just need to give him/her/it some "Baby Frog Milk" and a chocolate chip cookie, and it'll be fine, but I have a feeling Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog may need a slightly more substantial diet. Wikipedia was extremely helpful: "Almost all species of frogs are carnivorous as adults, eating invertebrates such as arthropods, annelids and gastropods."
Well, wouldn't you know it? Just checked my fridge, and we are plum out of annelids and gastropods! Darn the luck.
As it stands now, he/she/it is currently residing in a plastic container formerly containing Cheerio's, complete with dirt, leaves, grass, water, an acorn, and a snail, a worm, a spider and an ant for company.
Hmm... after reading that last sentence, I believe I just might qualify for a mother award today after all.
So, friends, any frog-raising advice?
-
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Good Grief
I can't write about grief.
I don't know about it. I have not experienced such a painful loss of a parent, or a spouse, or a child firsthand, so I just am unable to write about it. Sure, I have experienced sadness. Yes, I've lost my grandparents, a pet, a friend. I've even suffered through the devastation of an early miscarriage of a baby we wanted with all our hearts.
But the unimaginable hole left by someone so close to you, you know their very thoughts, I - blessedly - do not know that pain.
My husband knows it. He is experiencing it now, and will be for the rest of his life. I can only stand beside him and weep with the frustrated helplessness of someone who wants so badly to fix something that only our God can heal. A broken heart.
When his mother phoned us early yesterday morning with the news, we were only able to lie in stunned silence holding onto each other in our bed, where only moments before we were enjoying the blissful slumber of ignorance. After that phone call, and the two simple words that changed everything, "Dad's gone", our minds raced, and then went silent. We awoke from the remains of a fitful sleep in the morning, expecting the world to be another color.
It wasn't.
Everything was the same. Babies woke up and needed to be fed. Grass needed to be mowed. Bills needed to be paid.
How can everything be the same? And yet, so different?
We woke up to a world without Chris' Daddy. His business partner. His counselor. His mentor. His prayer warrior. His role model. His best friend.
My children's beloved Grandad.
Thankfully, blessedly, providentially, Daryl Thomas was a faithful Christian. A man of God. A Believer. Saved from the time he was a young child. We have no doubt of his eternity. No qualms whatsoever about the celebration and festivities taking place this very moment at the feet of Jesus. We know he had no fear and no trepidation about his own passing, knowing he'd be healthy and well and spending forever with the One Who has loved him always.
We just have to adjust now to life here without him. The hole his absence has created in our family. A hole that will no doubt be filled with the healing Spirit of the Lord over time.
Chris' mom, Patti, told me once during a particularly deep conversation about Daryl, "Sarah, grief is just something you just have to go through. You can't avoid it. You can't go around it, under it, or over it. You just have to go through it".
One final note. Daryl was an avid banjo player, and took great pleasure in the beauty and authentic spirit of bluegrass music. During his hospitalization, we would play it for him on the CD player at his bedside, and it always seemed to bring a calm and peaceful stillness over him. In later days, one of the last times we saw him feeling like his old self, Chris put a song in for him, and - even though he was virtually unable to talk or communicate at this point, and we weren't sure how much he could understand - when he heard it, he actually sang this song, word for word, in its entirety. With a big smile on his face.
We have taken great comfort in the words to this song in recent days, and it will be sung by a gospel soloist at the service celebrating the great life of this great man tomorrow:
I'll Fly Away
Rest in peace, Grandad. We miss you so. Save a spot for us. We'll join you in the celebration one day.
-
I don't know about it. I have not experienced such a painful loss of a parent, or a spouse, or a child firsthand, so I just am unable to write about it. Sure, I have experienced sadness. Yes, I've lost my grandparents, a pet, a friend. I've even suffered through the devastation of an early miscarriage of a baby we wanted with all our hearts.
But the unimaginable hole left by someone so close to you, you know their very thoughts, I - blessedly - do not know that pain.
My husband knows it. He is experiencing it now, and will be for the rest of his life. I can only stand beside him and weep with the frustrated helplessness of someone who wants so badly to fix something that only our God can heal. A broken heart.
When his mother phoned us early yesterday morning with the news, we were only able to lie in stunned silence holding onto each other in our bed, where only moments before we were enjoying the blissful slumber of ignorance. After that phone call, and the two simple words that changed everything, "Dad's gone", our minds raced, and then went silent. We awoke from the remains of a fitful sleep in the morning, expecting the world to be another color.
It wasn't.
Everything was the same. Babies woke up and needed to be fed. Grass needed to be mowed. Bills needed to be paid.
How can everything be the same? And yet, so different?
We woke up to a world without Chris' Daddy. His business partner. His counselor. His mentor. His prayer warrior. His role model. His best friend.
My children's beloved Grandad.
Thankfully, blessedly, providentially, Daryl Thomas was a faithful Christian. A man of God. A Believer. Saved from the time he was a young child. We have no doubt of his eternity. No qualms whatsoever about the celebration and festivities taking place this very moment at the feet of Jesus. We know he had no fear and no trepidation about his own passing, knowing he'd be healthy and well and spending forever with the One Who has loved him always.
We just have to adjust now to life here without him. The hole his absence has created in our family. A hole that will no doubt be filled with the healing Spirit of the Lord over time.
Chris' mom, Patti, told me once during a particularly deep conversation about Daryl, "Sarah, grief is just something you just have to go through. You can't avoid it. You can't go around it, under it, or over it. You just have to go through it".
One final note. Daryl was an avid banjo player, and took great pleasure in the beauty and authentic spirit of bluegrass music. During his hospitalization, we would play it for him on the CD player at his bedside, and it always seemed to bring a calm and peaceful stillness over him. In later days, one of the last times we saw him feeling like his old self, Chris put a song in for him, and - even though he was virtually unable to talk or communicate at this point, and we weren't sure how much he could understand - when he heard it, he actually sang this song, word for word, in its entirety. With a big smile on his face.
We have taken great comfort in the words to this song in recent days, and it will be sung by a gospel soloist at the service celebrating the great life of this great man tomorrow:
I'll Fly Away
I'll Fly Away
Some glad morning when this life is o'er,
I'll fly away.
To a home on God's celestial shore,
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, O Glory, I'll fly away.
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away.
When the shadows of this life have flown,
I'll fly away.
Like a bird thrown, driven by the storm,
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, O Glory, I'll fly away.
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away.
Just a few more weary days and then,
I'll fly away.
To a land where joy shall never end,
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, O Glory,
I'll fly away.
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away.
Rest in peace, Grandad. We miss you so. Save a spot for us. We'll join you in the celebration one day.
-
Monday, August 30, 2010
August 30th
We woke up this morning expecting the world to be a different color.
Kenneth Daryl Thomas 10/7/1939 - 8/30/2010
.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
You Say It's Your Birthday?
Today, August 17th, my exceptional husband is another year older. And so, I feel a tribute is in order. Especially since my only outing today was to the UPS store to mail a package, and they are thin on sentimental cards. I learned it doesn't take much creativity to publish a greeting card. Maybe I went into the wrong business...
Anyway, Chris. Love of my life. The rock of our family. The person who has kept me tethered to the ground during the ups and downs of the last ten years. The man who has changed my life the most. Besides Jesus.
But I have to say, if you are second only to Jesus in someone's eyes, you must be doing something right.
Chris, you have encouraged me to do so many things I don't know I would have been brave enough to do. (Mom, close your eyes). You taught me to wakeboard, you cheered me the whole way up my first Colorado Fourteener, you taught me to fly an airplane, drive a boat, you talked me into paragliding. Together, we've scouted bears in Denali, watched whales in Hawaii, caught record-big salmon in Alaska, snowmobiled Yellowstone, SCUBA dived the Blue Hole, sipped red wine in a palace in Italy. And don't forget the mundane: you taught me to lay tile, handscrape hardwoods, stone a fireplace, build a fence, paint a house. We solve all the world's problems painting houses, don't we?
You taught me that it is always better to think before I speak. That I should never send an email when I'm angry (thank you for that one!), and it is always best to wait and think before a big decision. You've also taught me that saving money is more fun than spending it.
Who would have thought I could have ever learned that lesson?
You've stoically held my hand while I hysterically passed a kidney stone, you held my hair during the flu, and you held my heart during the brutal infertility treatments. You helped me through two cancer surgeries and the resulting anemia, and you "didn't say no" when we started the adoption process, which eventually led to our beloved babies.
Everything above, however, is eclipsed by the feeling I get in my soul when I watch you lovingly and patiently parent our Two spectacular daughters. This often renders me completely speechless. Imagine. Me. Without speech. Wow, a feat in itself. And through the resulting chaos of the last two years, you always maintain your characteristic tolerance and serenity that sometimes puts my proclivity to fly off the handle to shame. All the while, patiently loving your dad through his infirm, and still having a smile on your face for the girls even though I know inside, your heart is breaking.
This makes me love you even more.
Happy Birthday, my Love.
Anyway, Chris. Love of my life. The rock of our family. The person who has kept me tethered to the ground during the ups and downs of the last ten years. The man who has changed my life the most. Besides Jesus.
But I have to say, if you are second only to Jesus in someone's eyes, you must be doing something right.
Chris, you have encouraged me to do so many things I don't know I would have been brave enough to do. (Mom, close your eyes). You taught me to wakeboard, you cheered me the whole way up my first Colorado Fourteener, you taught me to fly an airplane, drive a boat, you talked me into paragliding. Together, we've scouted bears in Denali, watched whales in Hawaii, caught record-big salmon in Alaska, snowmobiled Yellowstone, SCUBA dived the Blue Hole, sipped red wine in a palace in Italy. And don't forget the mundane: you taught me to lay tile, handscrape hardwoods, stone a fireplace, build a fence, paint a house. We solve all the world's problems painting houses, don't we?
You taught me that it is always better to think before I speak. That I should never send an email when I'm angry (thank you for that one!), and it is always best to wait and think before a big decision. You've also taught me that saving money is more fun than spending it.
Who would have thought I could have ever learned that lesson?
You've stoically held my hand while I hysterically passed a kidney stone, you held my hair during the flu, and you held my heart during the brutal infertility treatments. You helped me through two cancer surgeries and the resulting anemia, and you "didn't say no" when we started the adoption process, which eventually led to our beloved babies.
Everything above, however, is eclipsed by the feeling I get in my soul when I watch you lovingly and patiently parent our Two spectacular daughters. This often renders me completely speechless. Imagine. Me. Without speech. Wow, a feat in itself. And through the resulting chaos of the last two years, you always maintain your characteristic tolerance and serenity that sometimes puts my proclivity to fly off the handle to shame. All the while, patiently loving your dad through his infirm, and still having a smile on your face for the girls even though I know inside, your heart is breaking.
This makes me love you even more.
Happy Birthday, my Love.
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