Fake it 'til you make it!

My heart is healing, and this is good. I suppose setbacks are normal, especially considering changes in hormones (or lack thereof?)  I'm still finding a balance on these pills. My choices seem to be: hot flashes and severe mood swings, or headaches, weight gain, mood swings, and stupid acne. I mean, worse-than-teenager acne. As if this whole thing wasn't a drag, I get giant, hard, painful zits, 2 to 5 at a time: groups of monstrosities my face never saw, even as a high-school girl.  I call foul! I OBJECT! I strenuously OBJECT!

I dreamed the other night that I went to the doctor for my tooth, and he prescribed me an anti-depressant/ anti-anxiety.  I wonder.....

Anyway!

My poor niece. I only half-honestly wanted to steal her chubby, blue-eyed 5-month-old when we visited my family recently.  Smiley, beautiful bundle of love. Setbacks. Yea, they happen. 

And then I go to Walmart and see someone's unattended toddler playing in the bulk pinto beans and think to myself "Thank you, Lord, for making the best decision for me."

Often, lately, I am walking through the motions of gratitude.  I pretty much fake it,  but it's working, little by little. I am grateful. I am grateful. I am grateful. Grateful for the screaming infants in restaurants and grocery stores.  Grateful for the entitled teenagers. Grateful for this terrible, horrible sin infested world that I do NOT have to raise a baby in.  Grateful that I won't have to confront birth control or TV parental controls or any other controls. The compounding and overwhelming negatives (zeitgeist, cough, cough) are affording me a positive.  Thank you, Lord!

I am soooooo believable!

A Sam's Club Receipt Checker by Any Other Name

I have little melt-downs about once a day, but it's getting better. I need to stay away from "Teen Mom" and "16 and Pregnant" reruns during my recovery from the hysterectomy. Those shows in no way, shape, or form contribute anything positive to my recovery. In fact, they do nothing more than contribute to my pity party. They are the downfall of society in general, but I digress. Sometimes I don't need provocation to cry. I just cry.

Last summer, when we were going to adopt the baby (that was not to meant to be ours) we spent a good amount of time on names, of course. Well, I did. I would throw them out by the dozen to my husband, who primarily hated all of them. We had a few that we thought were "meh" but we finally settled on one. It was indeed a process. The baby had Mexican parents, but we didn't choose a name based on ethnicity. We chose a name that was sweet, cheerful, and not common. It was a nice name, not one of those weird, rare, attention-getting names, nor was it trendy. It was not an ethnic name, just a decent name that we were quite confident she would not share with many peers, especially not with peers of Mexican decent.

Imagine my shock when, upon having our receipt checked exiting Sam's last summer, I saw the name tag of this beautiful Hispanic girl in her teens with the same name we were going to give our baby girl.  Didn't we just choose this name? We got a good laugh at the time.  Since then, though, since the whole thing fell apart, seeing her has incited some pretty intense emotion.  I flash back to the first time we saw this girl, how strange it all was! How coincidental! Would our baby be pretty like this girl? Did her friends think her name was fitting or odd? Did she like her name?

I've seen her several times since the bad news in September. Now it's the "it wasn't meant to be" that I deal with, that I keep having to deal with.  The anger. The emptiness. The bitterness. She's so innocent in all this. I see her about every other time we go to Sam' Club, politely doing her job, making sure we weren't unloading any unpaid for electronics or what have you. She has no idea.  Her name. No idea.  I tear up, breathe, and move on. It's brief, over before we unload the cart.

I saw her yesterday.  I don't look for her when we go. We only go about twice a month. I'm not 3 weeks post op yet, so outings are still brief and a bit uncomfortable, but very much anticipated. We were headed towards that area between the bakery and the gourmet cheeses and the rotisserie chickens. And there she was, heading towards the back of the store. Probably for a break. It doesn't matter. I see her and it all floods back. This girl really has no idea.

Insert tearful breakdown here. Look at the bread. Act like you care about the bread.  Let's not freak out the customers. What ingredients does this loaf have? No one sees you cry. GET IT TOGETHER! Why does gluten have to be in everything?  You are pretending to shop for bread that you don't eat until you can regain control of yourself. Your husband wonders why you are looking at bread. You ask him "Did you see her?"  and he instantly knows why the bread has become important. Breathe. Look at the bread. Pretend to care about the bread. FOCUS. Pray for some peace in the moment.  Go get the rest of your groceries. Move on.

And get out before her break is over and she checks your receipt.

You Fought the Good Fight

I was supposed to evaluate a new client, a baby, last week. The family had something come up and we rescheduled for today. They needed to change it again, so we moved the appointment to Monday.  This morning at about 6:45 I got a call from the social worker that the baby passed away last night. This is the second time in my career that a baby passed away before I got to meet the family. The first time it happened, I lost 4 clients in about the same amount of weeks; one I had never met, one I had evaluated and was waiting for it to get healthy and out of the hospital to begin ongoing services, and two I'd seen a handful of times each.  I'm not sure why I'm sharing this exactly. Parents should never outlive their babies.  What a cruel and terrible thing to endure.

Loss is vicious, weather it's the loss of something you held in your arms, or the loss of something you will never have the opportunity to hold at all. I don't know which is worse.

Yesterday, my doctor said "You fought the good fight." This was after a very messy ultrasound to determine why I've been bleeding for 2 weeks, and a review of the volumes of history in my charts. I honestly thought he'd tell me it was another bad period.  A fibroid? Yea, I've had them before. Not a shock. They come, they go, they get burned off in surgery.  This one, about the size of a golf ball, is causing me to bleed, among other things.  For some reason, I never thought a fibroid would be the final straw.  Well, that, and "I can't find your right ovary. It probably shrunk because it's non-functional. That happens to women after menopause."

I thought I'd get to hold onto my parts for at least another 6 months before I had to contemplate this decision, and that my decision would be based on how much pain the endometriosis that is sure to rear its ugly head again was causing, and if I wanted to bother with yet another laparoscopy.  There is no time for that, since the bleeding will likely not stop, per the doc. The fibroid is likely calcifying and would be medication-resistant. It will continue to cause painful cycles, painful intercourse, stupid crazy bleeding, bowel and bladder issues, and block any minute chance that my questionable left ovary, assuming again, a miracle happens, could do its job (there are cysts in the lefty, anyway, so who knows if eggs exist, and if it would matter.)  And if it were to do its job, it would be fruitless anyway, since this particular golf ball that's taken up residence in my pelvic cavity would mess up any opportunity for a cozy 9-month nesting place.

Let's face it, I just turned 35.  I was hoping that a miracle would happen sometime before summer, since it's happened for so many of my friends at this very age. But, alas. No such miracle is in store for me. I've officially been smacked upside the head.  I will never conceive, nor give birth.  Perhaps another miracle is in the works, perhaps something amazing. Or perhaps the lesson is "This life is rough, and the next will be better. Hold onto that!"

Hold on, I shall!

A slotted spoon holds no soup.

What does that mean? And why did it pop into my head? I sure hope it doesn't indicate weeks of having songs from the Musical "Into the Woods" in my head for weeks.

The adoption did not work out, which was very difficult for me for a short time, and on and off since. And life goes on. 

A month and a half later, I threw myself head-first into being an emergency host family to a foreign exchange student losing her current placement. That fell through. I nearly cried. I was very excited, and absolutely fell in love with the girl and the idea.  My heart really wants to make a difference for a child, MY child, or, well, the child that God may or may not decide to loan me while i'm on this earth. God and I need to have a serious chat about what his plan is for me, regarding this need I have to bring children into my life, and the opportunities that flutter in and out like the wind, and that don't culminate in to what I want, but rather ways that He knows is best. 

We are considering hosting an exchange student, actually going through the process.  We have applied, and are awaiting results from the background check, which will be solid and clean. My husband worries about my and my delicate heart in this matter of children. Will I be able to send them back to Germany or Italy or Sweden without ultimate heartbreak? It's the reason we haven't persued adoption further at this time. I have difficulty seperating my head and my heart from let downs. I know all of the rationality of the outcome, and why things don't work out, and trust the "why" even if I hate it. The problem? I *feel* so hard and strong that it interrupts reality for me, if I let it.

Here again, I need to lean on my Daddy. My creator's plan is turning out to be vastly different for me than what I want and when I want it. He does know best.

I have a job that is impacting children and families daily through therapy.  This is good. God put them in my life so I can do his work... There are some interesting opportunities coming up. A charity organization for children in underdeveloped countries to receive the Gospel, that I will contribute to this year. This is good, as well.  Perhaps a student from abroad will land in my home in the near future. I want a girl, I won't lie. And I will be teaching young school-aged children at church this month. This is also good, but scares the crap out of me. My nieces and nephew blow me away. I'm so excited to be some kind of influence on them as they grow. I have 2 step kids that I was hoping to be able to "mother" in a certain way, but I just don't think they want or ever wanted the picture I envisioned for our relationships. This doesn't mean I stop wanting a closeness and a bond with them. But I am not their mother.

God has placed many, many children in my path that he clearly wants me to support, help, nurture, love.

And.

I can't help but continue to pray to Him that he grant me a miracle.

Philippians 4:6 Be anxious for nothing,

but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.

Cliches galore going through my mind.
"God doesn't give you anything you can't handle."
"No one said life was fair."
"If it wasn't meant to be..."
"If you love someone, set them free..."

I suppose they come from somewhere. Comforting thoughts for people when life gets tough. I think Paul said it best though. No matter what happens,  God knows what's best for us. He already knows our needs and desires but to present them to him humbly through prayer, and to thank him for the outcome regardless of whether or not it is what we wanted or thought we needed is freeing.

I was whining to a friend the other night, which I often do about this or that difficult situation, and she reminded me that God is in control.  Well, yeah, I know that! I thought "And this helps me HOW? I want to DO something to make things BETTER! I want to KNOW the outcome! I want to have CONTROL! How am I supposed to WAIT when this situation is just NOT FAIR?!"  She said something to me, something I've heard a thousand times, even felt before, but haven't allowed myself to grasp lately, despite the pure simplicity of it. She said that it helps her relax knowing that she's not in control, that someone bigger than her is in charge, that she can go about her business, knowing her Father has it all under contol and that He knows what's best.

Oh. Yes, that's right! Well, that was easy.  Gee, I wonder why I didn't think of that before? Oh, well, I did in fact. I just didn't put it into motion. I have been telling myself, family and friends the same things: God is orchestrating this whole thing. God is in control. Apparently I didn't really believe it, or allow myself to feel it, because I've been a stressed out mess for weeks.

She also said something that I have been able to use the past few days. She said that when she was younger and would get mopey and depressed, her mother would tell her "It looks like you are thinking about yourself a little too much. Maybe you should go do something nice for someone and stop thinking about yourself so much."

Well, DUH. I've been tempted lately to cancel work, nap, generally avoid life. It's easy for me to sink into despair. I didn't really grow up with God, so there is a lot of "I-centered thinking" to undo. That little tip resonated with me, though. A reminder, once again, that "It is NOT about ME." I know it, I say it, but I FELT it that night. It was like "Ah.. peace. Something to implement!" God gave me some skills, some talents, and a great job. This is where my head is now. If I start to get mopey, I can go do something for someone else. I can serve. Heck, I could even do the dishes or laundry.  I can look at is as doing something for another, not for myself.

Maybe this isn't very profound or insightful for anyone else, but since Tuesday night, I am ok. No meltdowns for 2.5 days, and this is good.

So quit your whining. It's not about YOU either. Go do something nice for someone else.

Eat. Pray. Eat.

Sometimes, I default to food for comfort. It's a sick habit I've had my whole life, I'm pretty sure.  I have a lot of memories of eating for eating's sake as a little girl.  I remember being about nine or ten and getting home from school and making myself one microwave frozen burrito after another, just eating. I also have memories of eating several of those little snack-sized chip bags, one at a time, trying not to get caught. I felt shame about eating, even as a child. But, ate I did. And often hated myself for it.

I never got into vomiting or starvation. I wasn't vain like that. I just over-ate.  I believe it was my rebellion against some people in my life that were so weight- and appearance- concious that it consumed them. I was bitter, and hated those people for being thin and beautiful, but in opposition I went to the other end of the spectrum and ate, as if to say "Screw you. I'll be fat, and people will like me for ME, so take THAT." As if it mattered to their lives that I ate!! Turns out, people don't always like you because of that chip on your shoulder, not necessarily because you are overweight.

And PMS? FORGET ABOUT IT. I could eat the house down for a week every month.

There were times when I dieted and was in shape, sort of, but it never lasted.  Not that it mattered, I still hated myself and thought I was a fat blob. Now when I look back at pictures of myself in highschool or in my early 20's I think "I was hot! What a waste!"  It didn't matter how much grandma told me I was beautiful and wasn't fat because my head was warped, convinced of the opposite.  Size mattered, and I was always bigger than anyone else in class, at clubs, wherever.  I remember being "thin" (for me) and still being the biggest girl at the bars when I used to go out.

I was already almost 5'9 in 6th grade, with a large frame and a shoe size so big I used to order oars with them.  I went to a new school in 6th grade, and early on two female classmates told me that "Karli" in Spanish meant "cow."  I learned years later, of course, that it was a cut. At the time, just a bit embarrassing that my name meant "cow."   In 8th grade, one of the mean girls that we'd now call a "bully" commented about a new outfit I was wearing, that I was quite proud of.  "People with fat **** like yours shouldn't wear pants like that!"  What, you mean my black acid washed and pegged stretch jeans didn't flatter me? The probably didn't, but I was pretty proud of that outfit, complete with over-sized sweater and tennis shoes, likely a Payless version of L.A. Gear's.  I bet she doesn't even remember me.  As a freshman in high school, we had to write epitaphs about our classmates. One labled me "Karli Rocks the Temple." Upon asking her for an explanation, she said "You know, it's because you're so big, when you walk you rock the temple!" as if it was obvious. 

Sure, we all have moments in our past that create how we feel about ourselves.  The meaningful people in our lives have likely long forgotted those few words they said to us that ingrained themselves like a  brand in out psyche, and hurt just as bad.  See, it doesn't matter that I had food, clothing, shelter, love, and a good head on my shoulders.  Even as an adult, I made a life and had relationships and friends and worked sometimes 4 jobs and was independent, and I still hated myself.  Comfort in the "worldly" things came and went, fleeting.  Nothing lasted, nothing made me "happy."  I was never good enough.

Until I met Jesus.  I still don’t understand why it is he found ME, chose ME, but he did and I can’t ignore that.  Understanding God’s love for me despite my size or how I feel about myself has been so life-changing.  I still have self-esteem issues, pick at my body and shape even at a healthy weight and BMI after dropping over 80 lbs this year.  The weight loss has improved how I feel when I wear clothes and how I feel physically, sure. And of course, it’s healthier to be a normal weight and it makes this life easier, but having the peace of knowing that I am unconditionally loved by the Lord surpasses anything else I could ever do for myself, earn for myself.  I don’t understand it, because I’m a complete screw up, but I BELIEVE it.  I believe it. I am unconditionally loved and accepted by the one who made me and sent His son to die for me so I could be in His presence.  For Him, I should treat my body right by eating right (not that I always do) and being healthy (not that I always am.) He loved me enough to die for me, and He doesn’t care if I’m fat, thin, ugly, pretty, have pimples in my 30s or use high-end skin care products. He loves me, just as I am, and that is more than enough for me. Keeping that foremost in my mind is a daily struggle, given the pressures of this world and the deep-rooted thoughts about what “matters.” 

Sweet little song

Death and Taxes?

Does anyone else LOATH MTV's "Teen Mom" show???

I've often joked about passing out business cards at Sam's Club...

... to single teenaged pregnant women.  When I hear about anyone being pregnant, I offer to take the baby off their hands. "You can give it to me, if you want to?"  I'm not shy.  I've done this to friends, family, people I barely know. It sounds desperate, I realize. Part of me is joking, but the other part, serious as a heart attack. Can you believe some people actually get offended?


Update on the baby scenario: The bio-dad is refusing to comply to sign his rights away. This is somewhat expected. Apparently, he is 38, with no job, no income, no home, no nothing. It seems he's trying to wear the baby mama down into keeping the baby, but she's hanging tough.  Here's the deal: we will NOT fight the bio-dad for her, because we wouldn't dream of taking a wanted baby from her parents. We are just not that desperate.


I guess I didn't mention that we are not yet adoption certified, we were not persuing adoption, and were pretty content with letting God do a miracle for us if He wanted to when this came up. I had to get to a place where I could accept that a baby was not God's plan for me, incase it indeed wasn't.  I was going a bit mad there for a while, depressed when other people got pregnant, not able to hold friends' babies. You understand.  A friend actually told me a few weeks ago that her friend's daughter wanted to meet us and let us adopt her unborn infant. Who does that? This is real life, not Juno!  Who just gives you their baby? It was my "perfect scenraio:"  all the benefit, none of the heartache and pain and years and thousands of dollars that going through an agency creates.

Or so I thought.  Enter bio-dad's resistance.  And we have a thousand things to do, and thousands to spend anyway now to comply with state and federal adoption policy, which we will gladly do (still much less hassle and expense than the above scenario.) The bummer is, we don't know if this will come to fruition.  My friend Nichole thinks it could be God kicking us in our pants to get certified anyway, just in case  something like this happens again, and should this opportunity fall out.  Because, you know, people give away their babies all the time.

What to do, what to do? Pray, and give it to God. It's His to sort out. That's the only real guarantee I have in all of this.

What I am certain of is that I will make myself a delicious low-carb minute muffin for breakfast this morning. My version of "delicious" is very likely different than yours.