2

This girl is two.

She loves to run and jump and wrestle with her brother.  Her favorite person is Daddy.  

She is both fiercely independent and fiercely affectionate.  Her favorite phrases are “I did it!” and “Hold me!”  She refuses to hold hands when walking across a parking lot and upon being picked up, she thrashes and kicks and screams as though she’s been abducted.  But if any person other than me, Sloan, Henry, or her cousin Rachel should try to pick her up, she will climb up my legs.  If Sloan or I sit on the ground, she immediately comes to sit in our laps.  She also likes to arrange Henry’s Thomas blanket neatly around him when he is reading a book or playing on his Thomas computer.

She rarely goes anywhere without LaLa the pink poodle.  

She loves cookies.  A lot.  She was afraid of her birthday cake so we just let her have Oreos.  She prefers Double Stuffed as she mainly just wants to eat the cream.  We consider this to mean she has excellent small motor skills.  Her favorite toys are her baby dolls, purses, and to play trains with Henry.  She also loves the trampoline and the sit and spin.  And she can not only jump high off the ground with two feet, she began jumping repeatedly on one foot this afternoon.  Her favorite shows are Curious George and Sesame Street.  Her favorite book is Go Dog! Go!  Her favorite songs are Twinkle Twinkle, Jesus Loves Me, and “What I Am” by Will.I.Am.  She lets me know she wants to dance to “What I Am” by pointing to the Ipad, mimicking playing on drums, and chirping “I be strong.”  When I showed her how our new TV could play YouTube videos and she saw Will.I.Am and the Sesame Street gang in their full size glory, she began the jumping on one foot shenanigans.  She dances like she is Lord of the Dance.

She will only eat vegetables if they are in those uber expensive baby food foil squeezy things.  I don’t get it.  We offer her loads of veggies and healthy foods at dinner, but she ends up going to bed without dinner a lot.  Mainly because she won’t even let the plate sit in front of her if she doesn’t like what is on it.  Her favorite foods are cookies, sliced turkey, cheese, strawberries, and bananas.  She eats a lot of rice.  Which is to say I sweep up a lot of rice from the floor.  She also likes milkshakes. I’m going to start trying to make her some veggie smoothies.  So if you’ve got some recipes, link them up in the comments section.

She is at that stage where every day brings new words and phrases.  As of late, she really enjoys saying “Thank you.”  She thanks me for changing her diaper, which I appreciate.  She also likes to put her toes in my face while I am changing her diaper.  Then she says, “Kiss, kiss, Mommy.”  So I’m fairly certain that I’m ruining her for my future son-in-law.  

She has been known to throw a temper tantrum.  Or two.  Or thirty seven.

She is also great at shutting doors and putting things away.  She is the most helpful person in the family when it comes time to clean up the sunroom.  She excels in throwing items in the trash.  We often times cannot find our shoes because she has put them away.  

She laughs with her whole body.  She’ll do pretty much anything for a second (or seventh) cookie.   She lights up when her brother walks in the room, and they usually share a fist bump when they first see each other in the morning.  She is slowly growing used to being the prettiest girl in the room and can often be seen wearing giant sunglasses.  Even indoors.  

She is loved.  

Thank you Grace for rocking our world for the past two years!

A Real Adoption Conversation

I should’ve known it was coming. What with watching a cow being born at the state fair, and his fairy Godmother having a baby.   

Henry and I have been talking a lot lately about how he used to be in my tummy and the day he was born.  We look at the pictures of when I was on bedrest and pregnant with him and we talk about how he wanted to come too early because he was so excited to be our little boy.  So I had to stay in the hospital, almost upside down (yes, Henry, somewhat like a bat), until it was time for him to come out into the world.  So it was only a matter of time that he wondered about Gracie as well.*

Setting: At the dinner table with Grace, Henry, and my 12 yr old niece, Rebekah (over to help me with the kids since Sloan is in PA)

Henry:  Rebekah, did you know Auntie Ann had a baby come out of her tummy and she feeds baby Katherine with her milk?  

Rebekah blushes at the discussion of breastfeeding.

Henry:  And I was in mommy’s tummy.  I was born on my birthday and was a little baby.

Rebekah: (laughing) Yes, you were.

Me:  And Rebekah was in Aunt Sonya’s tummy and was a little baby too.

Henry:  And Gracie was in your tummy?

Me:  Actually, God did something different for Gracie.  She grew in another Mommy’s tummy.  We call her Gracie’s birthmother.

Henry:  Bird mother?

Me:  Birthmother.  Gracie grew in Miss C’s tummy but she was very sick and she didn’t have a Daddy for Gracie.  And and we did have a Daddy for her, so when Gracie was born, we adopted her.  That’s how she came to our family.  So while you grew in my tummy, Gracie grew in my heart.

Henry:  Oh.  (Pause) Did you know I like to cut shapes out of pictures?

Nice.  

*I’m fairly certain that in all of the adoption books and manuals we read, the first adoption conversation was supposed to be more profound and moving than this one. 

Where's my Monkey Mask?

I'm definitely on the mend. 

The main issues I'm having are anesthesia related: I've got a sore throat and am really groggy.  Really groggy. 

But in terms of my uterine pain, (on the oh-so scientific scale from 1-10) before surgery I was about a 7 on a regular basis.  The day of surgery?  About a 16.  It took 2 Percocet plus Motrin to just dull the post-op pain.  And the pain was still there.  Yesterday?  About a 7.  Today?  About a 4.  Which I'm guessing is what most women experience as cramps during a "regular" menstrual cycle.  I've got to say, a 4 feels pretty good.  And the best part?  I'm not bleeding!  Wahoo!!!

But the surgery went well.  Once again, none of the nurses believed me when I said my veins were deep and rolled.  Even though I told them the best way to find them was with a blood pressure cuff, they seemed to think that little blue rubber band would work.  At one point, the pre-op  nurse who drew a blood sample for the blood bank, said, "I'm just going to dig around in your hand until I find it.  You said they were deep right?"  Meanwhile, I was practicing my Lamaze breathing, trying not to say, "I'm not a nurse or anything, but I'm fairly certain you're supposed to find the vein before you go digging around in my effing hand.  You're a nurse, not an archaeologist."  She complimented me on my patience with her.  I complimented myself on not blessing her out. 

So I now look like a druggy with bruises from all the missteps to draw blood and start my IV.  The nurse anesthetist blew threw a vein in my wrist when trying to set up my IV.  But at least she numbed me first.  Big shock the only person who actually listened to me was the MD anesthesiologist.  And guess who got the IV in on her first try?  Yeah, the doctor who knew it wasn't this patient's first time at the "poke my veins" rodeo.  It was also the first time when I wasn't puking when I woke up from anesthesia.  So bonus to the Dr who listened to me who gave me not only Zofran, but a little anti-nausea patch that I wore for the surgery and then the 36 hours afterwards.  And another shout out to my beloved Dr. M.  Who took a biopsy and completed the surgery all without incident.  And also gave me the meds.  Me likey meds.

As I type this, Henry is at school and then his beloved Aimee's house while Gracie is at my sister's.  I have today until around 3:30 all to myself.  And so I'm channeling my inner Bruno Mars.  So today I swear I'm not doing anything. I'm gonna kick my feet up and stare at the fan, turn the TV on and probably not stick my hand down my pants. 

This is what was on my mind as the nurse was digging around my hand looking for a vein. When peace like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul. Thanks for your prayers. I'm still in a lot of pain. The Percocet dulls it and makes me high, but I'm still in pain. But, and here's the best part, I am already bleeding less. So thank you. And thanks to SM, AV, and TS for loving on my babes today. What a gift it is to have friends who love my kids so well. Henry was bursting with joy to tell me about his double playdate day. He played checkers, colored a velvet painting of Spiderman, and went on an Adventure in a backyard with no fences. He had so much fun he even failed to mention the Juggler that I know performed at his school today. We watched Annie this afternoon. I had forgotten how much I loved that movie. And Gracie fell in love with it as well. So I'm planning on watching it again later this week. And perhaps introducing her to my favorite leading man, Captain Von Trapp. Thanks for your continued prayers. I'll post more tomorrow when I pull out my laptop.

Wanted: Your Prayers

I'm having surgery tomorrow at 12:30. Specifically, we request prayers for the following... -Sloan would like to ask that you pray for me to not die. I think that's a pretty good plan as well. Particularly since the woman I'd picked to marry Sloan in the event of my death just got married. So I am assuming R & BJ request that you pray I not die as well. -Pray for wisdom and accuracy for my beloved Dr. M. God used her to save our dearest Henry, so it is only fitting that she be the one to end the usefulness of my lady parts. -Pray for my heart. While I remain confident that this is the best course of action for my health, I can't help shake the sadness that accompanies this decision. My worship this morning in church was tinged with grief. How fitting that the sermon reminded me that indeed, this is not my home, and that ultimately my grief is just the continual longing for the day when God will wipe away all our tears. I share this grief with my Saviour, and I'm clinging to the fact that my salvation lies in his sacrifice and suffering for me. -Pray for our kids. I mentioned to Henry that I had to go to the hospital for the doctor to fix a boo boo so he was going to two playmates tomorrow. He asked me if he could have some more candy. So clearly, he is concerned. But pray that each child does well with being shuffled from friend to friend. -Pray for a quick recovery. Thanks. Check facebook or Twitter (@ejphillips) for updates. Also, I'm hoping to get some type of painkillers, so prepare for some fun blog posts. I'll be kidless Tuesday and Wednesday. I've got about a billion pics of how great a parent I am in the Fall. (Spoiler alert: they do NOT include a photo of my son pooping in the backyard. Mainly because I was frozen in shock.) Also, forgive how this post is all in one paragraph. I'm on my IPad.

Hi, My name is Elizabeth, and I'm a Hypocrite...

The one two punch of a disjointed summer and the ever bleeding uterus has made me realize I’m a hypocrite.  Let me confess that again.

I’m a hypocrite.

No.  Really.  Not in a tongue in cheek “aren’t we all?” kind of way.   (Because, yes.  If you are human you are either a hypocrite or a liar.  Deal with it.)  But in a “I’ve been saying one thing and completely doing something else” sort of way.  (So, you know, in the “definition of hypocrite” kind of way.)

Here is what I’ve been saying:  I trust God.  I trust that He loves me and is for me.  I trust Him to fight for me.  I trust Him to provide for my family and me.  I trust God with my health.  I trust God that even if the worst happens, He will use it for my good and his glory.

Here is what has really been going on in my mind:  If this is God loving me, I wish He didn’t love me so well.  If he made me, then why the hell am I falling apart?  Maybe this darkness I keep running into in the hall will go away if I just write about it and then writing will be my Savior.  Maybe if I can just cram my days with freelance writing gigs I can slowly 8 cent a word my way into financial security.  And if my savings account never dips below a certain amount then it will all be okay.  Maybe if I just get my darn uterus ripped out, I won’t be in pain and then snap! Everything will be great.

But, as it turns out, none of the things I’ve been putting my faith in have brought me squat.  In fact, instead of bringing me life, these idols of money and self-reliance are most likely the culprits behind my life slowly and painfully draining out of me. *

When God said, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” it wasn’t the shrill request of an insecure spouse.  It was the stern warning of a loving Father.  A Father who knew that not only would faith in other gods not give life, but drain it.  And, ultimately, kill.

OUCH.

Someone once explained to me that placing faith in God is like sitting in a chair.  Faith is the trust to put one’s full weight into something.  The faithful posture is one of swinging legs.

But instead of sitting back into the lap of God, trusting Him to hold me, protect me, to be God to me, I’ve perched.  Like a Varsity cheerleader on her boyfriend’s lap.  Abs and thighs clenched.  Hovering more than actually sitting.  And while it may appear to be a faithful pose—it’s just that: a pose.  A full 80% of my body, heart, and soul is clenched up and resting in my own strength.

My thighs are burning.

I suppose I should be grateful all it has taken is a crappy summer and a faulty uterus to show me my own hypocrisy.  

May God be so gracious the next time my wandering heart hovers.

The Bloodhound Gang and Julia Sugarbaker

When I was a girl, one of my favorite TV shows was Designing Women.  (And also The Golden Girls.  Yes.  I liked shows about old women.  Deal with it. So did everybody else.)  In particular, I loved Dixie Carter's role, Julia.  She was beautiful, sophisticated, brilliant, outspoken, and had three inch high shoulder pads.  What's not to love about that character? I remember one particular episode where Julia has to have a hysterectomy.  And she is beside herself emotionally.  She questions her womanhood, her attractiveness.  When I saw this episode, I remember her friends stuck in the elevator, Bernice singing "Black man! Black man!", and thinking, "Well, that's just plain dumb.  Having a uterus is not what makes you a woman.  If you need to get the thing out, yank it out.  She is being ridiculous."

Fast forward twenty years.  And I'm crying at an ultrasound of my empty uterus.  While waiting to discuss the results of my ultrasound with my doctor, I can't get over how silly I'm being.  And that my stomach is growling incredibly loud.  And then I begin, through the walls, to hear the familiar whish-whish-whish that is a fetal heart monitor.  And I hear my doctor's chipper voice saying, "Can you hear that?  That's your baby sister's heart, right there."  And I broke down again.

By the time my doctor came in to see me, she found me a mess.  I was like Henry when I tell him to calm down.  Rubbing my tears away frantically with the palms of my hands, thinking if I just do it fast enough and hard enough they'll stop.

Basically, what it boils down to is that the IUD isn't helping like we'd hoped.  In fact, it may be causing more trouble.  And, truth be told, she's just concerned about my overall health if I continue to bleed heavily no matter what they try.

I confess that it is never far from my mind that my Mom had a hysterectomy at 35.

She said, "Well, I don't think we are there.  Yet.  I'd like to do another kind of surgery.  An ablation."  She then went on to explain it in further detail.  The risks, side effects, benefits, recover time, etc.

Basically, they are going to scrape out my lady parts and then burn the heck out of it, rendering it scar tissue.  It is irreversible.  And it will render me sterile.

And as much as I've joked about just wanting them to take it all out, I wasn't prepared for this.  I said, "So, basically, you're going to do a controlled burn in my uterus?  You're going to set it on fire?"  Suddenly I was envisioning this Kanakuk tribal ritual where a guy dressed in full on headdress Native American garb jumps out of a hidden hole in the ground and then breathes fire.  I think one year the guy had to go to the ER because he swallowed gasoline.  I imagined him participating in my surgery.

Dr. M laughed and said, "No.  We don't actually set you on fire.  We will cauterize it.  So basically there is some wire mesh that heats up like an iron.  Or if your septum has returned or there are fibroids or cysts, we will use a balloon that heats up really hot."  Oh good, so you're not actually going to set me on fire.  Just scorch me.  Bonus.

I told her that I was 98% certain we'd do the surgery, but that I'd have to discuss it with my husband.  I said, "You know, it wasn't in our vows or anything, but I kind of think you shouldn't accept a new job or agree to surgery without first discussing it with your spouse."  She agreed. 

After my appointment, I had to head back to my church for what was left of my Bible Study.  I arrived just in time for prayer time.  We are studying Genesis, and although I missed the teaching time, I'm fairly certain they discussed the creation of man.  So we are sitting in a circle in the library, bowed heads, and praying.  My dear friend B is there with her 2 week old son.  And my friend D is going on and on in her prayer about how good and gracious and intimate God is when He knit us together in our mother's womb.  How he held Adam's face in his hands and breathed life into him.  How God's enormous love birthed us.  On and on about life and birth and womb.  I was audibly sobbing, visibly shaking.  Embarrassingly so.  D had no way to know what was going on.  But I was dying.  So much so that my dear sisters, a group with whom I have studied and prayed with since prior to Henry's birth, began scooching closer to me to simply hold me.  We didn't stop praying, they just held me and let me cry.  What a gift.  What a clear and present picture of God at work in His daughters.

It's not that I want to ever carry another child in my womb.  It's not that I don't understand that this surgery will not only improve my health, but my sanity, and just all around quality of life.  It's just so  final. 

Unlike Julia Sugarbaker, I know that it is not my lady parts that make me a lady.  Nor are they what make me attractive.  (In truth, I'll speak for Sloan in saying that the behavior of my lady parts as of late makes me quite unattractive.)  I was just not quite prepared for the finality of it.  It was as though the breath was knocked out of me and it took me a day to regain a normal breathing pattern.  Most of yesterday was spent in a salty eyed state of crying or having a headache from crying. 

And then laughing.  Because I kept singing to myself, "My ute, my ute, my ute is on fire.  We don't need no water let the mother@#&^ burn."  And this has kept me laughing all day.  That and my sweet friend J's comment, "Gosh, it's a good thing the ultrasound showed that your uterus was empty.  I mean, if you're planning to set it on fire and all!"  Love me some JB.  Big time. 

And Sloan has been most tender toward me.  Sad that he was in Wisconsin and then Atlanta and couldn't be here with me at my appointment.  (How was I supposed to know this was going to happen?  I thought I was going to be told to wait it out on Mirena for a few more months.)

That's just how I process things.  I flip out for about 6 hours and then I settle in.  I scream at cry out to God and He says, "Hey, sweet girl, quiet down.  You don't need to yell.  I'm right here.  With you.  Don't you remember I formed YOUR inmost parts.  Don't you remember I knit you together too?  Even this day, this wreck of a day, I prepared for you.  So rest in me.  Rest in the hands of the doctor I used to save Henry's life.  We got this one.  Chillax."

And so I am.  I'm trying to get into the OR next Friday.  It all depends on if there is an opening.  Because I can't be having my lady parts interfering with G-Love's 2nd birthday.  Because the truth is, my screwed up womb has brought me two of the greatest kids on the planet. 

So heck yeah, let it burn.

The Thing Adoption Can't Fix

As I write this on my Ipad, I am sitting in the waiting room of my gynecologist. I came back for an ultrasound to check on my IUD. Because, well, because I've been bleeding since I got it. (For those of you counting, that's about 7 weeks of bleeding. Perhaps this is how Mirena works as birth control?) I was lying on the table, knees up, watching my ultrasound on the screen above. The tech was poking and prodding, measuring and snapping. And suddenly, without warning, my ears were wet. I was crying. Because there it was on the flatscreen--my empty uterus. My empty, improperly working uterus. I'll never again see the flickering jellybean of a heartbeat or the giant headed birdlike crrature that would be my 12 week old child. Don't get me wrong. I HATED being pregnant. 11 weeks of a bedpan? No, thank you. And I truly, truly, truly believe our family is complete. Were we to add to it, it would most certainly be through adoption. But adoption is a cure for childlessness. Adoption can't cure infertility.

The Hangover 3: The State Fair

So about a month ago I saw on Facebook this special for the State Fair.  $11 a Season Pass.  And regular day passes cost $13.  So it was a steal.  And because we felt rushed last year, we decided to divvy it up.

So for those of you that Henry did not tell last week, Friday was animals and tractors and Heritage Village (aka where there is lots of Ox poop).  Saturday was rides.  And because the story really is in the pictures...here we go.

Gracie owned the Young McDonald's Farm.  She mooed the heck out of a long horn steer.  She baaad the lambs silent and clucked at the chickens.  At one point she was reaching out and touching the long horn.  Henry's favorite part of the farm?  Watching a calf be born.  He kept talking about how the cow was coming out of the Cow's tummy.  It was awesome.  And gross.

Henry loved the tractors.  Can you tell?

And because we are awesome parents, we rode the rides on Saturday.  And when I say we rode the rides, I mean we freakin' got there when the Amusement Park Section opened at 11am and left when it closed at 10pm.  We got unlimited wrist bands for the entire family.  Praise God Grace's was free as she is not a fan of rides.  She is, however, a fan of food on a stick.  So she was happy.  We are so blessed to have a daughter who is flexible and happy even without a nap and being forced to stay up until 10.

 

 

Midway through the day, my shoe broke.  

 

I was just walking along, looking for a turkey leg, and BAM!  My shoe broke.  I tried to ignore it.  But I was like a hobo.  At one point, I stuck my finger in the slot and could touch my sock.  Sloan asked how old the shoes were.  I responded, "Not old at all.  I got them my sophomore year of college."  Sloan said, "Soooo, they're about 13 years old."  I looked up and did the map.  Crap.  I'm old. 

And Sloan was really embarrassed to be seen with me.  He kept shaking his head and telling me I looked like a homeless person.  

So after we went to see the circus, we looked for some new shoes for Mommy.  I was envisioning myself stuck paying $200 for a pair of Garth Brooks roper boots.  Which would only be fair seeing as during car pool line on Friday, while swatting a fly in front of my face with his baseball cap, Sloan did this...

Yes.  He broke the windshield.  Because having to replace your windshield on the day your overworked husband takes the day off to be with you and the kids is totally how you want to spend your time and money.  And it's a lot less annoying than a fly in your car...

But I digress...

The bottom line was that I was SO thankful that there was a booth selling Dansko clogs in the little flea market area.  I'm really not the type of girl who needs two pairs of cowboy boots plus a pair of Frye biker boots.  So I opted for a new set of brown clogs.  (Of course, I totally reserve the right to buy the red cowboy boots I have pinned on my "Gotta Get This" board on Pinterest.) 

All that said...I can say this.  Turkey legs are awesome, but there is no way to eat one even remotely ladylike.  So don't even try.  Also, if you should decided to get the Fried Kool-Aid (aka Oreos dipped in Cherry Kool-Aid batter and fried), you need to split it.  After the second yummy cherry chocolate ball, you'll want to puke.  But you'll want to get your money's worth and you'll try to eat a third.  And a fourth.  And then just give up and toss the last two.  That's okay.  Just buy a giant fresh squeezed lemonade to cleanse your pallet.

And let it be known, that I AM OLD.  18 hours at the State Fair in two days rendered me hungover on Sunday.  Like the day after Halloween on Franklin Street hungover.  Seriously.  I checked our closet for a baby and our bathroom for a Tiger.  It would not have surprised me if I had a tattoo on my face.  It hurt to blink.  My head was throbbing.  I could barely walk.  My toes hurt. It hurt to wash my hair.  It took Sloan and I giving each other pep talks about how it was Communion Sunday to get to church.  Only the promise of an order of queso dip from Casa Grande and an afternoon nap moved me forward.

And just in case your cuteness quota has not been met yet...I give you this.

 ****Also, let me just state that we are rodent free.  Just wanted to clear that up and say that Mr. Mike our handy Terminex guy is a stud.