Change: It Does Not Always Sit Well, Especially With Lucy

I am sitting in bed listening to the hysterical laughter of my daughter, Lucy, and the witty banter of my husband. Twenty minutes ago, I was laying in bed with her as she sobbed, “I want to go home!”

Lucy is not one that does change well. When she was 20 months old we relocated from Maryland to Vermont. I did not think that, at twenty months, the move would affect her much. Surprising to both my husband and I, she asked once a week for six months when we would be returning “home,” meaning Maryland. It took a lot of explaining and a room makeover before I convinced her that Vermont was her new home.

Today, she has no recollection of ever living in Maryland. Home is now Vermont. Home is our big falling down farmhouse.  Home is our half an acre of land that houses various types of rope swings. Home is the park, a two-block walk from our front door. Home is her friends, her school, and her Mi MA and Pop Pop.

Despite our efforts to highlight the positive aspect of living in a new place, with new adventures to be had, Lucy misses her home. And because she misses her home she is having a hard time accepting and loving this new home. She grieves, and each time she melts down, sobbing for the familiar, my heart ties itself in a knot.

Thank God for the wit of my husband, who can bring a smile and produce a laugh during some of the worst times. He handles her grief much better than I do.  He knows that potty and physical humor will make Lucy laugh even in the saddest of times. He is currently twisting the title of The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins by Dr. Seuss into a variety of toilet-oriented titles. Including The 500 Farts of Prune Juice McGee.  This one in particular turned her gut wrenching sobs into breathless belly laughter.

Things are quieting down now. I have placed a pad complete with pillow blanket and stuffed animal next to my bed in the hopes that when Lucy migrates from her bed to ours in the middle of the night (as she has done every night since occupying our new house) she can rest peacefully and comfortably far from the fears and worries that moving has created.

Grasping for a Sense of Home

I once again find myself in an unknown city surrounded by people, none of whom I know. I am not a stranger to moving, and yet, this move seems to be hitting me unusually hard.  My lack of family, friends, or acquaintances of any kind combined with a totally new environment is feeding on long held fears of being alone and lost. My dreams each night have been riddled with anxiety. And I am passing my days trying to grasp the very real fact that this is now home.

I have been trying, among the chaos of two children to build a nest by unpacking our familiar and comforting belongings. However, progress is slow and often times labored. Boxes sit opened, yet unattended, in every room of the house, their contents longing to find their place, asking for help in turning the chaos into calm. However, the overwhelming presence of so many unattended boxes filled with what seem to be, at this point, nonessential items stops me in my tracks and drains my motivation. Our house is, at the moment, fairly clutter free. However, I know that unloading these boxes will invite my children to adopt their old routine of messing just to mess, overwhelming me further. Therefore, the boxes sit.

And at night, I sit. Too exhausted by the days activities, by my children’s worries and fears, and by the emotional turmoil I feel about leaving a place I loved and people I cared for to accomplish anything more than morphing into a couch potato. I pray that sleep is kind to me, that my anxiety and fears subside, and that tomorrow brings more productivity and peace.

Weight. It’s Just a Number… Currently, An Uncomfortable One

I am always very apprehensive talking about my weight and body image. Uncomfortable because I am and have always been considered tall, thin, and lanky. Therefore, any displeasure or discomfort I may express with my body usually results in the opposite party rolling his/her eyes, exclaiming my ridiculousness, or expressing disdain for what is often seen in our society as an ideal body type. I do not like to discuss my body because I do not like to bring attention to my body. Bringing attention to my body brings attention to my flaws, flaws that, to me, are glaring. That being said, I recognize that I am a victim of today’s media that values flat abs, tight asses, and cellulite free thighs. Being an intelligent, educated individual, I expect myself not to fall victim to these skewed values, and yet, I do, everyday. Therefore, discussions surrounding my imperfect body also contain an element of shame. Knowledge should equal power, and yet, I feel mentally incapable of accepting my imperfections despite my understanding of the media.

            I am today, the heaviest I have ever been. A brutal winter, a rainy spring, and a summer consumed with packing have raised my stress level (and, therefore, my appetite) and almost entirely eliminated my ability to workout. I have watched my stomach become increasingly flabby, my thighs become increasingly large, and my waist become increasingly less defined. My waistbands have become tighter affording less wiggle room, and my tank tops have a distinctive belly bulge. The number on my scale has slowly but surely crept up to an uncomfortable high.

            I generally avoid talking about numbers when referring to weight. I have always been a believer that numbers don’t matter, but health does. I avoid conversations about weight around my girls, but rather, continually stress eating healthy, exercising, and being strong. If I were still running half marathons, lifting regularly, and eating healthy the current number on my scale would be irrelevant. However, it is, today, a glaring reminder that I am not taking the necessary steps to be strong and healthy. It is a glaring reminder that external and internal forces have made me apathetic and lazy.

            Within the next week, my family will arrive at our new home in a new city. I pray that the change of scenery, the change in climate, and the shift from a rural to an urban life will re-energize me both mentally and physically. I look forward to once again being within walking distance of a grocery store, a coffee shop, and a Target! I am anxious to lace up my running shoes, plug in my iPod, and hit the streets running. I expect the numbers on my scale to slowly recede, my waistbands to gradually loosen, and to become more comfortable with this imperfect body that is mine alone.

The Un-Funny One

Each of my girls had a dentist appointment today. While my youngest, Lily, was clinging to my lap with enthusiasm, my oldest, Lucy, was called by her dental hygienist to begin her cleaning. Two minutes later Lucy’s hygienist returned and laughingly whispered something to Lily’s hygienist, who also proceeded to chuckle. It wasn’t until later that Lucy’s hygienist let me in on the secret and the joke. While making herself comfortable, Lucy boldly declared to her hygienist that Dr. Diner should beware because she was sure Lily would bite his fingers simply because Lily, “is a feisty one.” Needless to say I chuckled. Lily, however, did not bite the dentist’s fingers.

Lucy is my dramatic, intelligent, social and extremely funny child. Her ability to make people laugh is uncanny. It is not always what Lucy says, however, that evokes a chuckle, but rather, the expressive deliverance of honest information. Her personality is magnetic. Adults and children alike can’t help but like her. On a day last year when Lucy was absent from school her teacher tried telling a joke only to have the children in Lucy’s class inform her that the joke was much funnier when Lucy delivered it.

Lucy’s magnetic personality and humor don’t fall far from the tree. I was first attracted to my husband, Jody, for the same reasons. Like Lucy he is extremely charming and one of the most hilarious individuals I know. People are naturally drawn to him. Jody’s best friend and I often agree that it is impossible to remain angry with Jody, simply because at the height of your anger Jody will make you laugh.

Then there is Lily. Who like her sister and father is hilarious but for different reasons. Like a little parrot she repeats whatever she hears. While riding in the car with my parents last week she repeatedly quacked like a duck, to the point of annoyance, until she exclaimed, “I am a pain in the butt!” She has the face of an angel and a smile that melts hearts, two attributes she is fully aware of. Her cuteness alone incites laughter.

And then there is me, the un-funny one. Though I have moments of brilliant comedy, I cannot maintain the same level of funny that my husband and children do. Instead of regularly inciting laughter, I am the one laughing. I laugh to the point of crying. I laugh until my belly hurts, or I have to pee my pants, sometimes both at the same time.  But I fail to incite such a reaction in others. It is somewhat discouraging to be considered the serious, neurotic influence in the family. To receive smiles but not a lot of laughs. However, I try and tell myself that four funny individuals in one house would be too much. That the competition would be too fierce. That laughing is just as important as inciting laughter. I consider my un-funny self and thank God that in a house with three comedians I at least have a sense of humor.

A Daughter with Diabetes

           Three weeks ago, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. After the barrage of normal questions regarding my health and family history, and after the routine peeing in a cup, the nurse tested my hemoglobins with a prick to the finger. It was, as always, more shocking than painful. However, immediately upon being stuck, I began to tear up. All of a sudden, after six months, I felt my daughter’s daily pain.

            Even before Lily-Anne was officially diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, I suspected that she had the disease.  Not only had she woken up from several naps, shaking from head to toe, but she also suddenly began voraciously drinking and peeing, leaking through diapers within a coupe of hours of changing her. However, it wasn’t until she began vomiting and became extremely lethargic that I knew definitively that something was terribly wrong. Even Jody, who never shows worry, expressed concern over her condition, urging me to get her into the doctor.

            Because her doctor was off that day, I made an appointment to see the nurse practitioner. It wasn’t until I expressed my concern that the NP decided to test her blood glucose levels. Lily-Anne’s regular nurse performed the test and immediately ran out of the room without a word to me. When she returned with the doctor on call and the nurse practitioner, I was informed that Lilly-Anne’s blood glucose was 488 (normal is 80-200). Her diagnosis was definitive. We spent the next 3-4 hours in the ER, where she was hooked up to IV’s and an insulin drip was started, waiting to be transferred to the pediatric ICU at Dartmouth Children’s Hospital, two hours away.

            We spent three days at the ICU. Three days, which today, is much of a blur. I remember sitting by her bedside watching her unable to move because both arms were hooked up to IV’s. I remember her sleeping for the first 24 hours. I remember the hospital cafeteria, where I ate three meals a day. I remember the hotel room where my mother and I stayed. I remember people constantly coming and going, throwing more information at me than my addlepated brain could handle. And I remember crying, everyday.

            I spent the first 3 months after Lily-Anne diagnosis in a tunnel, my emotions lingering close to the surface. One word, one look of concern or look of sympathy from someone and I would break into tears. Surprisingly, not because I felt sorry for Lily-Anne, after all this was now her reality, a reality that would last a lifetime, but because I felt sorry for myself. I despised everything about having to take care of her, from having to wake at two in the morning to test her sugar levels, to having to count every single carb that entered her mouth. I hated the strict schedule that is a natural consequence of diabetes, a schedule that effects mealtime, travel, and even everyday errands. I hated the constant preparations, and the constant worry over her lows and her highs. I hated regular calls to the doctor and constant mealtime ratio changes. I hated giving her 4-5 shots a day, not because it hurt her, but because it seemed like such a hassle and a burden. I hated this disease.

            It took four months for the fog inside my brain to begin to burn off. Four months for me to feel relatively comfortable taking care of Lily without having to call her endocrinologist for every high and low. After four months, I began to control my emotions a bit better, though, I admit, I still have my days when tears are easily accessible. After four months, I began to accept the reality of having a daughter with diabetes.

            However, it took a small prick to my own finger, and six months for me to feel Lily-Anne’s pain. To empathize with her plight. To pity her reality. In the course of a second, I imagined having my finger stuck five to six times a day. I saw Lily-Anne’s tiny little fingers riddled with holes. I saw myself receiving regular shots, and I pictured her exclaiming, “I’m all done!” after every one.  I realized that my two year old has handled this disease with more grace than I have. Despite being poked, prodded, and unable to eat whenever she wants, she has remained a happy, joyful little girl. A little girl who is stronger, more accepting, and far more brave than I will ever be.