Arden's Birth Story (Part 2 of 2)

(See Part 1 of 2 to get the pre-story...)

...When he placed the bulb, I thought he broke my water because I felt some gushing of fluid. It wasn’t amniotic fluid…it was blood. Your heart rate stayed beautiful and I didn’t start hurting so we thought it was probably just a uterine vessel that was broken rather than any placental abruption. They did want to monitor your and I for the next couple of hours to make sure bleeding stopped before even remotely talking about going home to sleep. After just a little bit of thinking, praying, and consulting your dad, Lamar, and my nurse friends, I decided that I’d rest much better at the hospital on the monitor than at home, wondering if you were okay. Dad ran home (but it took him 2 hours) to finish packing our stuff and Sarah came up to triage to keep my company while we waited. (I had sent a list home with Dad that included vacuuming the car, installing the car seat, finishing packing my bag, getting the herbs and essential oils for labor, and finding and inflating the birth ball. He finally located the birth ball, deflated in the garage in a wagon. Apparently, there was a hole in it, and we didn’t have the proper patching goods, so he tried caulking the ball to keep air in it. I’m sure you can guess that it didn’t work. But kudos to him for trying.)

A little after 9p, the bleeding had slowed but not completely stopped. I began retaping the foley bulb more taut to my leg and it slid right on out. I was surprised and called the nurse, Kathy. She rechecked me and sure enough, I was dilated to 4 cm! (She called me 3-4cm so that really means I was at least 4cm.) We all decided to go ahead and move back to Labor & Delivery and start pitocin. I kind of couldn’t believe it was starting to happen this fast.

I had been texting our doula Wendy to keep her updated. The plan was for her to come to L&D sometime in the morning when I started hurting. Since I seemed to be moving so quickly, she decided to drive up to the hospital after they started pitocin. 

We moved to our new room around 10:15-10:30p I think. Sometimes, you lose track of time. I wasn’t hurting. Sarah and I were talking and watching the 2015 Golden Globes. Your Dad was still at home trying to finish his honey-do list. The pitocin was started around 10:45-11:00p. Dr. Lamar didn’t break my water at that time because your head was still so high and my cervix was still very posterior. We didn’t want a prolapsed cord to happen. 

It was then that I found out that my next door neighbor had delivered a baby, too. Except theirs didn’t live. My secondary job as an L&D nurse it to coordinate the Resolve Through Sharing program. I help train staff on how to care for a patient who is experiencing a loss and follow up with at least half of the patients (other nurses follow up with some patients) who lose a baby for about a year after delivery. This baby was the 7th loss since the day before Christmas Eve that we had experienced at United Regional. Heartbreaking. And grounding. NEVER do I take for granted that you are healthy and there are a lot of odds stacked against you and I with my diabetes and now a newfound heart condition. Part of me hadn’t even let myself believe that I would be going home with a healthy newborn at the end of it all. 

Dad arrived back to L&D eventually, Sarah hugged us and went home in expectation that I would announce your arrival overnight, and Wendy arrived sometime around midnight. We all decided we needed to try and sleep as much as possible because it could be a long night. Dad curled up on the couch and fell asleep about midnight. Wendy went down to Antepartum Rm 4405 and slept on the couch, and I kind of slept with a giant peanut ball in between my legs to help open up the pelvis and allow for your head to descend. Stacy was my nurse (who helped deliver Blair) and Heidi was in and out of the room a lot helping while Stacy was still recovering another patient. 

I slept off and on from about 1-4a, only noticing mild contractions. Stacy checked me around 2a and I was dilated about 4-5cm, still very posterior, and 70% effaced. Not a lot of change.

About 4a, my contractions started picking up and becoming stronger as the pitocin continued to be increased. (I think we topped out at about 16mu/min.) I was contracting every 2-5 minutes and beginning to breathe and moan through them some. I finally decided that it was time to bring in the big guns and called Wendy to come down to see if she could help me relax. I just was having a hard time getting comfortable. 

About 5a, Wendy came to the room. I was still about to talk and laugh in-between contractions. No significant pain noted. I asked Stacy to check me about 5:20a because we were all curious to see if there was any cervical change. I was dilated to about 6 cm, 70% effaced, and the head had come down substantially. And wouldn’t you know…my water happened to break while she was checking me…

For the next 15-20 minutes, I sat up in bed, moaning through the contractions. They were definitely manageable. But they started to pick up in intensity and frequency pretty quickly. They dialed back the pitocin to about 12 mu/min but I think my contractions were still about every 2 minutes apart. Things started going very fast. I sat on the birth ball on the side of the bed, moaning through each contraction. Wendy offered verbal encouragement through each contraction and would lightly touch my forearms. And where was Jesus in the room this time? He was very much in her voice, in her touch, and in Dad’s constant presence. Never did He leave me, never did He forsake me. 

At one point, Dad tried to be “nice” and touch my back, but good gosh, he put his entire body weight on me. I knew he was attempting to be empathetic so I tried to gently say something,  but I think it came out in one long breath…”Please stop touching me, you’re putting too much pressure on my back, get off…” or something like that. After that, the sweet man just offered the occasional touch and word of encouragement. But he was always right by my side. I think I stood up and put my arms around his neck through one or two contractions but it wasn’t comfortable at all, so back to leaning over the bed it was. 

Somewhere around 6:30a, Stacy had to leave a little early (of all days!) and sweet Hayli came in to take care of me. At this point, I kept having to go to the bathroom. There’s a lot of pressure down there…I actually remember saying it felt like my crotch had been hit with a fireball…so everything just kind of comes out. No more pregnancy constipation.

At some point on the toilet, I inadvertently let out a push or two. Hayli checked me (bless her heart) and she couldn’t tell if I was an 8 or a 10. I tried making it back to the bed for her to check me. (Side note: no fault of Hayli’s, but walking to a bed to get on your back when you’re about to have a baby is one of the most torturous things to do to a woman.) I was 9cm. Oh my goodness, I was close but it felt like I was near death. I made my way back to the bathroom again. Someone mentioned me getting into the shower because that is how I labored with Blair. Then someone countered that, saying they didn’t want to deliver a baby in the shower. (The who said what and when is all a blur to me.) 

And poor Wendy. Through the contractions, I had developed a pattern of grabbing her shirt sleeves, moaning, and rocking back and forth. At some point, I a. got bodily fluid in her hair and b. began rocking back and forth while hitting my head on her chest. (Her chest was much softer than the shower wall, like I did with Blair.) Best doula, EVER.

I remember getting a little panicky at one point, saying, “I can’t do this anymore!” In an L&D nurses mind, those are the magic words that a legit natural, laboring patient (not the wimpy 2cm patient who has zero tolerance for pain) is close to delivery. Someone called Dr. Lamar and told him to come now for delivery. 

I had made it back to the birth ball a few minutes later when the door flung open and Dr. Lamar arrived, hair disheveled, out of breath after he had apparently sprinted from his car to our room. “Oh, I thought the baby was going to be out,” he said. “Guess I have time to change.” And God bless Dr. Lamar and his family. Two of his three kids, Hannah and Jackie, babysit/nanny/help raise your brother and sister. As much as I go see him in the office and as much as the girls watch your brother and sister, and now you, they’re like part of the family. 

So, Dr. Lamar left to change clothes. I inadvertently started bearing down during a contraction and Hayli asked me what position I wanted to get in to push. I had NO IDEA. All reasoning had been flushed down the toilet at this point. Literally. Wendy suggested I get on my hands and knees on the bed and that sounded like a reasonable thing to do. The head of the bed was still up while I pushed once…and it was miserable. Hayli dropped the bed to a completely flat position, I got “comfortable”…as comfortable as one can be while trying to deliver a fireball out of your vagina… and the thought went through my head…”I NEVER HAVE TO DO THIS AGAIN.” It was incentive to finish the job. 

I quietly pushed twice. I’m not sure if anyone but Wendy and I knew I was pushing. For a brief moment, I was embarrassed as I felt a little like a puppy on a training pad. Sometimes, bodily fluids escape while you’re pushing. After two pushes, I could tell you were crowning. A little “ring of fire” burning, but by the time you're on your third vaginal delivery, it was nothing too bad. 

Apparently, Dr. Lamar had come back in the room and I heard Hayli ask him if he was going to check me. He replied, “She’ll let me know.” I pushed once and groaned, “THE HEAD IS OUT.” 

I had two hospital gowns on. One on the front and one covering my backside since I had been up walking around. Lamar got up, lifted the back side of the gown, and said, “Oh yes, it is!” He told me to wait to push to see if you had a cord around your neck. I waited a second, heard that we were all clear, and with one more push, you shot out. 7:17a. It all happened so fast that Lamar only had one glove on. I guess that’s the ultimate level of trust between a doctor and his patient. 

I heard him say, “It’s a girl!” I was kind of surprised but started thinking you would be a girl the week before you were born. Ann Marie, the nursery nurse, took you to the warmer and Dad followed you. I rolled over and immediately felt grossed out by all of the blood I was sitting in while I was hemorrhaging. (Literally. I had to stay in a wheelchair the rest of the day and refused a blood transfusion the next morning.) I watched Ann Marie give you oxygen and a little PEEP to help open your lungs. At some point, I heard you give one good cry that gave me some reassurance. 

Arden Elise, you were beautiful. You had dark hair and were long and lean…7 lbs 10 oz and 21 inches. Your feet and hands were ginormous and you had a dimple in your right cheek. Your lips looked like little strawberries…I just wanted to kiss you! 

Your brother and sister came to meet you. Your grandparents doted on you. Our friends and co-workers came to see you. You were a celebrity.

About an hour and a half after you were born, your oxygen levels started dropping again so you were taking into the nursery where an IV was started, you received oxygen through a nasal cannula, blood cultures were drawn, a chest Xray was done, and IV antibiotics were given. I have a new respect for nursery nurses. They cared for you like you were their own. You were a little puny at first, struggling to keep your oxygen levels up and had 2 wimpy feedings, but like the little fighter you are, you pulled off your oxygen and IV out later that night and came out of it like a champ. 

Arden Elise, you are glorious. Beautiful, gentle, sweet, relaxed, loved. I am so grateful that Jesus gave us a precious gift in you. He knows you, formed you in His image, loves you, and planned for you to be our daughter and us to be your parents. For that, I am forever thankful. I know He has great plans for you. I will relish the moments He gives us with you as your story is written. 

Our prayer for you is this: “She is clothed in strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.” - Proverbs 31:25. 

Trusting the One who holds your future. Thank you for being our daughter. 

I love you,

Mom

Arden's Birth Story (Part 1 of 2)

January 17, 2015

Sweet Baby Arden,

As I type this, you’re sitting next to me in a little bassinet, staring off into the distance with those beautiful bluish-gray eyes of yours. I can’t help but tear up with so much thankfulness and gratefulness that you are a gift that the Lord chose to give us. I will never, ever take that for granted. 

You arrived at 7:17 am on Monday, January 12 at United Regional L&D room 4412. Let me tell you your story. 

You’re the third born child of the Ben Hoover family. Your brother Grant is 4 and your sister Blair is 2. I remember growing up, wondering if I would ever be able to have my own biological children. I’ve had type 1 diabetes since I was 8 years old and way back then, diabetics could have babies, but often there were birth defects, complications, stillbirths, anything terrible you could possibly imagine, associated with diabetic pregnancies. I remember reading through a pamphlet I found in a doctor’s office when I was 13 or 14 about how it was almost impossible to have a healthy baby as a diabetic. I remember grieving thinking I wouldn’t get to carry a child. Thank you, Jesus…look at us now. You are healthy and precious and beautiful and I absolutely believe that you are a miracle.

This pregnancy was a little rougher than the rest. I actually felt better physically because I worked out doing intense exercising called CrossFit until I was about 34.5 weeks pregnant. Despite the working out, my blood sugars were a lot harder to control this time. Partly due to running around after your siblings, partly from working nights, partly from a third pregnancy taking a toll on my body. I took anti-nausea medicine from 6 weeks to 22 weeks pregnant. I never took any medicine with your siblings. You just wanted to make your presence known. 

On Christmas morning, I was almost 35 weeks pregnant with you. I had told your Dad that I was getting so tired…that I was nearing the end of my rope in exhaustion after your Uncle John’s wedding, being sick with a sinus infection for almost a month, waking up 2-5 times a night with blood sugar and sensor readings, insomnia, your big brother and sister “sharing a room” that caused them to not go to bed until 10p every night, and working quite a few nights in L&D. Well, it was the truth because as I was loading the car with Christmas presents to leave for FW, I got really lightheaded and dizzy. I stopped, felt my pulse race, and realized my heart had gone into SVT. My pulse was about 250 beats per minute. I yelled for your Dad, who was out in the backyard hanging a zipline (pulling the cable tighter with his truck) in true Hoover fashion. He yelled at me back, telling me to chill out because he thought I was getting annoyed that he was so sidetracked with a project when we were supposed to be leaving. (Any other day I would have been.) “No,” I yelled, “I need you now!” I tried bearing down, blowing through a straw, every nurse trick I knew to bring down a heart rate but nothing worked. I started feeling faint so I said we need to go to the ER. Your dad drove like a maniac and I remember telling him that he was going to kill us all long before we ever got to the hospital. Thankfully, we survived and pulled into the ER parking lot. I didn’t want to go in…because who really wants to go to the ER on Christmas morning?! My anxiety started creeping in, and I started becoming short of breath, imagining what the fetal monitor would show, imagining that I could meet you via emergency c-section in the next 15 minutes, and I got out of the car and went in. I was quickly triage and taken to a room in the ER. (They don’t like seeing pregnancy women with cardiac issues in the ER.) I called L&D to tell them I was going to the ER, called Dr. Lamar on his cell phone and gave him a heads-up. (It’s nice to know your healthcare providers so well.) Long story made slightly shorter, I had an IV started and the doctor had just ordered adenosine (an IV med that basically stops and restarts your heart) to fix my rhythm. I told them they couldn’t give me the medication before I was on a fetal monitor. Sherry, one of my favorite nurses from L&D, was on her way to monitor me, and all of the sudden, after about an hour in SVT, my chest tightened up, I felt like I couldn’t breathe for a second, and my heart converted on its own. My pulse had dropped from about 235 to 103. Weird, weird feeling. Sherry got there with the monitor, your heart rate looked FABULOUS, they monitored me for another hour or so, then discharged me home to follow-up with a cardiologist. What a crazy little experience that was. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to phase you one bit though. And it bought me a two to three day break from dishes and picking up the house.

At my next appointment, Dr. Lamar and I agreed that the time to have a baby was sooner rather than later. Our original plan had been to be induced at 38 weeks. Both Grant and Blair broke their clavicle at delivery because my pelvis is oddly shaped (apparently) and not necessarily because they were big (8lb1oz and 8lb3oz), which can be a complication from uncontrolled blood sugars. So we thought an earlier delivery would help offset your size. Let’s just bump up that induction date to 37 weeks…

Thus, enter a psychotic nesting stage. Truthfully, I had done VERY LITTLE to prep for your arrival. Not because we didn’t love you, but because it’s kind of hard prepping for #3, whom you don’t know the sex of. Sarah Schneider did…but we didn’t. She made your name sign and ordered matching sibling shirts in advance, but that’s about all we had ready for you. (And tons of diapers. We did had diapers at least.) We had to finish moving Blair and Grant into the same room, and also felt this crazy need to paint our bedroom and bedroom ceiling. (Your parents are a little nuts sometimes. I’m sure you’ll figure this out one day.)

But Jesus helped me prepare for you on a lot of different levels. The week before your arrival, we had a sweet lady come clean the house on Wednesday, January 7, I worked my last night until your arrival on Thursday, January 8, I met with Sherril on Friday, January 9, and we talked about looking for Jesus in the room during your labor and delivery and thanking Him for what a unbelievable gift He was giving us. On Saturday, January 10, Sarah had bought and scheduled a prenatal massage. And then an unexpected twist…we actually put an offer in on a house that day…but that’s a whole different story. I was about as ready as I was going to be for your arrival.

So, on Sunday, January 11, we got up like normal, went to church with Grant and Blair, and were loved on and prayed for by “our people” here in Wichita Falls. Your Mimi came into town that afternoon because she was going to spend the night on Sunday and take Grant and Blair to school Monday morning while we were at the hospital. 

I ALMOST finished packing my bag and Dad BASICALLY finished painting the ceiling in our bedroom before we left for the hospital at 6:30p. We weren’t last minute at all…

We arrived at triage at about 6:45p for a foley bulb placement. I went to room 4414 where there were custom pads and panties decorated by my co-workers in celebration of  your arrival. “Push it, push it real good…Ring of Fire…Third Time’s a Charm…Don’t Break my tailbone…”were written all over them. Best nurses and friends in the world.

Dr. Lamar arrived about 7:10p to put in the foley bulb. The plan was to place it, tape it to my leg so it would mechanically dilate my cervix from 1.5cm to about 4 cm overnight, I’d be sent home, and then come back at 4:30a to start pitocin. Welp, it didn’t work like that.

The Things Ben Says

My husband says some funny stuff. Really, he does. And I'm going to post this story and I don't want to hear one..."Oh, Meagan," or "You look great," or "I can't believe he said that!" Because A. It's funny, B. It was the truth, and C. My self-confidence really is fine ;)

On Saturday night, I was getting ready for our church's small group adult Thanksgiving dinner. (That's a shortened version of saying, we have free babysitting and dinner from 6-8 p.m. with some of our besties that consisted of awesome soups, stews, candied apples and salted caramel brownies...and there's no way this preggo was missing it.)

My full-panel (go over your belly) maternity "skinny" jeans were dirty, so I had to improvise. I pulled out my second trimester appropriate under-the-belly skinny jeans, with a green long-sleeved thermal shirt, tall brown riding boots, and to add a little sass...a furry black vest. I will also note that my hair was down and curly..but not cute curly. Like, wet-cat curly because, THANK YOU JESUS, it had been raining all day. And I should also note...I think my green shirt has shrunk because it exposed the under portion of my growing abdomen when I breathed. (This, I did not realize at the time.)

I asked Ben, "Does this make me look...weird?"

Long pause.

Ben says, "Umm, it makes you look like a linebacker?"

I do not take offense...because he was totally right.

Being the 30-week-still-has-arm-muscles-crossfitter-preggo, I'm going to assume he meant that I looked like this:

Clay Matthews

Instead of this:

Sorry, Ryan Pickett, that your name came up when I googled "fat linebackers"

We will assume he meant it as a compliment and go on our merry little way. I mean, how else could you take it?!

That Ben. Gotta love the man. He speaks with such...honesty, love, and empathy. Never a dull moment.

#reallife

Hello, blog. Nice to see you again...

Today, I posted a couple of pictures on Instagram and Facebook with the hashtag #forrealfriday. Some friends and I have been talking about Friday being dedicated to real life pictures. No fairy tales. No filters. Show me your sink full of dishes. Or your kids screaming. Or your cellulite. (Kind of kidding on the last one. But your cellulite may encourage me to post a pic of my new and very first varicose vein. Thanks, Baby Hoov #3.) Sometimes, most of the time, that's more encouragement than the cute pictures, clean home, and home cooked meal. After I posted those pictures, my sweet Facebook friends were so quick to come to my pregnant self's aid, immediately offering encouragement, a kind word, a "hang in there, momma." Funny thing is, it hasn't been a bad day. The pic of Blair screaming, Grant demolishing his newly-cleaned closet, Blair covered in chocolate bar in the car...that is what a regular day around here looks like. I just don't post pictures of it much. Because the clean, smiley, sparkling photos seem more appealing. But are they really? 

I made a promise to myself several years ago that transparency would be "my thing." I've lived on the other side of it. Unbearable pressure of seeming "perfect," always pleasing, quick to smile, use some fluff phrase of encouragement that really has no meaning behind it. Now, that sounds like a prison to me. So fake, so debilitating, so vomit-inducing. 

"And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." - Marianne Williamson

What would the world look like if we walked up to each other and introduced ourselves like this:

"Hi, I'm Meagan. I'm a recovering perfectionist. I know what heartache feels like. I never got to break up with a boyfriend because they always dumped me first. I struggle with anxiety and depression though it may or may not be clinically diagnosed. I carry deep, deep wounds in my heart. <Filter: some things, you just shouldn't post about on the www> I have the best counselor in the world. Even as a 31-year-old, I struggle with my body image, especially when I'm pregnant and people ask if I'm having twins every day. There are days as a mom that I yell at my kids not because they did anything wrong, but because I'm in a terrible mood. Our marriage needs work. We both know it and yet, sometimes we don't want to put in the work to fix it. I've had diabetes for 22 years and sometimes I'm afraid that it may substantially shorten my time on earth. Money doesn't grow on trees and sometimes I fail miserably at managing ours. There are times I feel inadequate as a nurse and like a failure at work. Sometimes, I'm lonely and feel socially awkward. So, what's your name...?"

In all honesty, the world would probably be pretty dark and depressing if those were are standard introductions. We don't have to show each other all of our cards. You don't want to see all the dirty pictures of my life, nor do you want to see all of the squeaky clean ones either. THERE IS A BALANCE, FOLKS.

Maybe that means you open up about your struggling marriage to a friend. Or you find a counselor to talk to. (Oh, how I could go off an a tangent, and I will one day, about how there is not a SOUL IN THE WORLD who can't benefit from counseling.) Or you quit comparing what your life looks like in pictures to that of an Insta-friend's life. Or you don't lie when someone who loves you asks one of the most overlooked and under-answered questions around..."How are you?" <Disclaimer: You don't have to be a kill-joy. Don't have word vomit and spill your guts to everyone. Be discerning with when, whom, how, and what you share. Sometimes, it's just not appropriate.>

Because here's the deal: Jesus promised me that His Grace is sufficient, it's enough for me. HIS STRENGTH is made PERFECT in MY WEAKNESS. So when I show those less-than-perfect pictures and talk about my shortcomings as a wife, I am #1 being human, #2 inviting others to join in being free to be themselves, and #3 inviting Jesus to be showcased as stronger than my weaknesses. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Every stinkin' time I hear Ellie Holcomb's song, "The Broken Beautiful," I cry this really ugly cry. Which makes it even more awkward because it's quite an upbeat little tune. But the words...oh, the words...He takes me, a broken thing, and makes me beautiful.

I know that I don't bring a lot to the table

Just little pieces of a broken heart

There's days I wonder if You'll still be faithful

Hold me together when I fall apart?

Would you remind me now of who You are?

That your love will never change,

that there's healing in your name

That you can take broken things,

and make them beautiful.

You took my shame

And You walked out of the grave

So your love can taken broken things

and make them BEAUTIFUL.

I'm better off when I remember

How You have met me in my deepest pain

So give me glimpses now of how You have covered

All of my heart ache, oh with all Your grace

Remind me now that You can make a way

You say that You'll turn my weeping into dancing

Remove my sadness and cover me with joy

You say your scars are the evidence of healing

That you can make the broken beautiful

You make us beautiful.

Thank God that He takes broken things and makes them beautiful.

Buds of Hope (and a YOLO update)

***YOLO and the Games Update***

To much soreness and strife, I completed the 3rd and 4th workouts of 5. The 3rd (14.3) had my name written on it. A combo of deadlifts with increasing weight and number and box jumps. I called this "the strong girl" race. I will not win a 5K...ever...but I can pick something off of the ground. Finished with 107 reps. However, I had a hard time walking vertically for several days post-workout. The 4th (14.4) was tough. Rowing, toes to bar, wall balls, cleans, then muscles-ups (which I only dreamt about attempting). Toes to bar were terrible on my left wrist and forearm for some reason. Didn't do as well as I would have liked, but finished with a score of 125. But to keep it into perspective, when I started CF at 6.5 weeks post partum, core strength was non-existent. I could barely lift my knees to my elbows. Now I can kip 5 toes to bar in a row (on a good day). Progress, right? If I never would have tried, I wouldn't have been able to see the improvement. 

(I totally should be doing insurance paperwork filing claims from 2013 and finishing laundry while my kids are at pre-school and I wasn't scheduled to work. But this is way more fun and fulfilling.)

As I was pulling into my driveway this morning, I noticed that some of our trees are starting to bloom. I wasn't sure if that would be the case this year since Wichita Falls is in a terrible drought. Trees are dying. Plants are dying. We can't do any outdoor watering. I think our lakes are at 29% capacity (but don't quote me on that number even though my husband is on city council). I don't know if our grass is going to sprout this year. So I was kind of surprised to see little pink buds on our two Oklahoma Red Bud trees. 

Springtime is my favorite.

A "typical" spring usually includes April showers that bring May flowers. Thunderstorms with drenching rainfall. Puddles and mud. Rain that washes the air clean and clear.

And then there are "atypical" springs. Like the ones we've had for the last 3 years. (Maybe this is our new "typical?") Gusty, dust-filled windstorms. Promising skies that don't deliver. Just enough sprinkles to get your car muddy. Dry, crunchy yards. 

Yet, apparently we've been given just enough rainfall this year to bring forth some new life. I see those pink buds as little whispers of hope. Of new creation. Of what's to come.

And so it is with life I think. Some seasons are plentiful. There's an abundance of water...both literally and figuratively. It's easy to pay the bills. You and your mate are on the same team. Friendships are fulfilling. New growth and opportunities are around every corner. It's pretty easy to find hope, joy, and peace because there isn't much to capture your attention but goodness. And some seasons are dry. Money's hard. Marriage is even harder. Day to day becomes mundane and there are roadblocks at every turn. All you feel is dryness and heat bearing down on you.

But in the midst of the drought, when we look close enough, I know Jesus gives us little buds of promise. Whispers of hope that give us just enough to move forward with confident expectation of what is to come. Maybe it is a new friendship. Or an unexpected laugh with your spouse. Or somehow, your bank account has some leftover for the month. And in the dry seasons, we don't expect to find new growth...so we have to look for it...because I can assure you that those buds, though not abundant, are still there. The "God of hope" (Romans 15:13) gives us these things to get us to the next day. And ultimately, to point us to the beautiful hope we can have in His death and resurrection, and the promise of an undefiled eternity with Jesus. 

Seasons are cyclical. This drought won't last forever. But I sure am thankful for a few pink buds to remind me of the promise of better days ahead.

I HATE my Phone (and a YOLO update)

***YOLO and the Games Update***
So, I did it. The first workout (14.1) was two Saturdays ago. Double-unders are not my BFF but I killed the snatches at 55 lbs. 124 reps in 10 minutes. Those darn double-unders. In front of a LARGE gym full of people. And I was so glad I did it. The second workout (14.2) was two days ago. You had 3 minutes to complete 2 rounds of 10 overhead squats at 65 lbs, then 10 chest to bars. I completed 10 overhead squats in 20-30 seconds, then had 2-2.5 minutes to complete 10 chest to bars (more than just a pull-up. Your chest has to hit the bar under your collar bone.) I got 7. A total of 17 reps. Again, so glad I did it. I year ago, I dreamed about doing chest to bars while watching other competitors do it. And look at that...it was my turn. The best competitors in the world blow my numbers to pieces (by like 300 reps), but that's fine. I'm still proud of myself for laying it on the line and thankful for the opportunity to do something challenging and fun. We'll see what 14.3 has in store for this Saturday.

And on a completely different topic...

I have a weird relationship with my phone. When I look at it's teal green case with a white plastic back, I have mixed emotions. It's cute. It's convenient. It's entertaining. Yet, I HATE IT. The fact that it's a silver iPhone 5S with AT&T service has nothing to do with the fact that I hate it. It works just fine. It's the concept of it that is beginning to drive me slowly insane. (Wait, maybe a husband of 8 years and 2 children under 4 are helping drive the insanity concurrently.)

I cannot escape it's dings. 11 new texts. Ring. Phone call. Buzz (bc now it's on silent.) Reply from group text. Buzz. A reminder to ...take mail...in 15 minutes. Because somehow I have Ben's office calendar on my phone, too. Even though I've tried to remove it 50 kajillion times.

And then I pick it up. Because I'm oddly addicted to it. I'm drawn to a blue icon with an F on it. So I scroll through a newsfeed full of people I haven't seen in 15 years, many of which I wasn't very close to 15 years ago. Then I respond to a group message. Then I click on a link to a story that I don't really care about, that takes me to another story that I don't really care about, and then yet again, another story that I don't care about. But I digress. Yet, since I've ventured on to social media, I then scan Instagram, like a few pictures while wishing my kids were hugging sweetly while peering out the back window when in reality, one is screaming at the other because she is following him too closely and may take one of his toys. And you can't see through the back window because there are hand prints, spider webs, and dog slobber covering the window. Then I close Instagram and head over to Pinterest. I see 12 new ways to cook kale, the 14,598 ways to use essential oils, and am bombarded with Elf on the Shelf pictures even though it's freaking March. And then I check e-mail and delete 14 ads. So I close Pinterest feeling like I'm not crafty or creative, close Instagram feeling like our lives are mundane, close Facebook feeling annoyed that I even looked at it in the first place, and close my e-mail vowing to unsubscribe to the ad sites.

And I don't get on Twitter because when it first became big, I thought that'd be a waste of my time. (Haha. Like the above is not.)

Again, my phone drives me nuts.

Don't get me wrong. Technology is awesome. I love change. I'm probably a moderate on some issues in the red state of Texas. I'm thankful for medical advancement. Without them, I'd have been dead at age 8. But I want to throw back the clock to 1950 when it comes to cellular gadgets and social media.

Why? Because I'm letting a stupid phone interfere with being present with my children. Sometimes my kids drive me nuts, but that's what a 3 year old and 1 year old are supposed to do to their mother. Because more often than not, a phone rings in the middle of dinner and even if we don't answer it, our conversations are interrupted. Because instead of spending 20 minutes talking to my husband before we go to bed, we are staring mindlessly at an iPhone and iPad with 0% interaction between us. Because without thinking and out of habit, I pick up my phone when I am having lunch with someone and they leave the table to go to the bathroom. Since when could I not sit by myself for 2 minutes in a restaurant?!

You know what one of the craziest things is? I don't even have an addictive personality.

Have I said it yet? MY PHONE DRIVES ME NUTS.

I love to talk and blog about Jesus. About His peace and spending time with Him. It's amazing...and absolutely heartbreaking...how I am allowing a phone to even dictate how often I hang with Him. It really shouldn't surprise me that His voice is a lot harder to hear when I'm killing time pinning crafts I will never attempt.

So you know what I'm going to do about it? I'm going to start turning my phone OFF. No, not just on silent. O-F-F OFF. For 3-4 hours A DAY. We have a land line for our alarm system. If Ben really needs to get ahold of us, he can call that number. If someone needs us that badly, they will FIND A WAY to track us down. Back in the day, if someone was desperate to get ahold of you, they drove to your house and left a note on the door. So, if I don't get or respond to a text for 4 hours, life will go on. So please do not be offended if I don't respond quickly. (For starters, I don't know how that unsaid rule of "everyone should respond to texts quickly" ever became a rule in the first place.) My response will come in an appropriate time frame, when my priorities of Jesus, husband, children, and refueling have been met to the best of my abilities for the day.

I KNOW I am not the only person who feels like this. I KNOW I'm not the only mother who reaches for a cell phone when she walks from room to room. I KNOW we are not the only couple who sits 1 foot apart in bed but are 100 miles apart, lost in an iPhone.

Today, I feel like I'm launching an official, unofficial campaign to turn off your phone a few hours a day, disconnect with social media and texting, and live life with a little more freedom while you're disconnected. So I can be fully engaged with my children, with my husband, and with my Jesus. Who wants to join me?

P.S. My beloved phone "dinged" 16 times while I typed this blog post over the course of 1.5 hours.

(Please note: if you and I communicate through cell phone via text, voice, Facebook, you are not personally responsible for my rant. I love communicating with you. I just can't stand our society's expectation of being constantly online and "connected.")

YOLO and the Games

I'm kind of nervous today. Tomorrow, I'm doing something that's a little scary for me. I am competing in my first CrossFit Open competition. Once a week for five weeks, you complete a certain workout in front of a certified CrossFit trainer/judge...and numerous onlookers...receive a score that is published for everyone to see, in hopes of filling one of something like 48 spots in your region. And after some research, it looks like there are 17 regions...IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

So obviously, I have 0.0000000001% chance of qualifying. Maybe if 79/80ths of the world competitors get the stomach bug overnight. And it's me and the inspiring 80 year old grandma who entered. (But some of those 80 year olds are pretty impressive.) But qualifying is not the goal here. Quite frankly, I'm not even sure I'll be able to do all of the specified exercises in each workout. But I'm okay with that.

I know that "CrossFit" has become kind of a trend. It's a buzz word. And it's for good reason. Since starting the week before Christmas 2012, I have become stronger, faster, thinner, and healthier than I have been in a long, long time. Or maybe even ever. I'm having fun. I've met FANTASTIC new friends. I've been encouraged. I've encouraged. It's a beating, but it's a really fun, rewarding beating. And I can remind you of my original thoughts about starting this journey here. It wasn't pretty.

I'm participating in the Games for much more than a workout. I'm doing it...

- Because I want to push myself. I want to try harder at a physical task than I ever have.
- Because I want to overcome a fear of being a disappointment. The only person who thinks I am some form of a disappointment is ME.
- Because I want feedback from a coach. There's not a better way to get better at something than to have someone watch your performance with undivided attention than by entering a competition.
- Because I want to be an example. To my kids who will be watching. To my friends who are watching. To the "average" person who thinks they could never do something like that. Because if I can do it, they can do it.
- Because I want to be surprised at what I can accomplish. That's one of the best feelings in the world.
- Because I want to be a part of a big movement. People joke that CrossFit is a cult. It isn't...but I can see where they get that notion. You have your own lingo. You get each others struggles and triumphs. Why wouldn't you want to be a part of a big group like that?
- Because I want to remind my type 1 diabetes that it does not define who I am or what I can do.
- Because I can. YOLO...again, a buzz word. You Only Live Once. I've chosen to live life and not let opportunities pass by. I've watched too many people sit on the sidelines and never dig deep into life and what it has to offer. So, I may suck. Or I may do great. Either way, I am gaining a new life experience and the lessons that come with it. I don't want to look back at this point next year, lets say if I'm pregnant with our third, and wish I would have signed up and pushed myself.
- And drumroll for the biggest reason...because Jesus has taught me so many lessons in the last year through workouts. No, I'm seriously not kidding. He is not conventional. I've learned lessons about trusting Him, loving others, perseverance, and grace vs. perfection while laying on my back on a gym floor gasping for any form of oxygen I can get. I CANNOT WAIT to see what He teaches me over the next 5 weeks.

I'm not writing this because I want a pat on the back or for cool points. (Really, hold the cool points until I can complete a workout.) I think I'm writing this because I want to encourage you to do something that's kind of scary. Venture into uncharted territories that you know you're being called into. Push yourself. Don't put Jesus in a box and believe He only speaks to you in Bible study and church. He wants to speak to you in ways unbelievably specific to you. He knows that one of the best times to knock on my heart is when I'm feeling either defeated after a terrible workout or triumphant after a victory.

Live out loud. Know defeat and taste victory. It's part of the richness of our lives.

Seriously, I may have to wear a pad to do my double-unders tomorrow (all of you who have experienced childbearing totally know what I'm talking about) but dang it, I'm going to put myself out there and give it a shot. YOLO.