Instant Mashed

You know what I love? Carbs. There is nothing that makes my mouth water more than a big bowl of my sister's homemade "smashed potatoes". My sister learned to cook from the best, Food Network. Kidding. No, my grandmother taught her how to whip, stir, and bake like a pro. Coincidentally, my grandpa taught me how to eat like a pro. Every now and then I start to crave those infamous smashed potatoes, and Chef Haley always delivers. She peels the potatoes, but leaves just enough of the peeling to give it that great texture. She adds a Paula Dean helping of butter and mayonnaise (secret ingredient that makes them OH SO creamy). She salts and peppers them with perfection, and just like that I go up a pant size! 

Just the other day I craved those same ole smashed potatoes, but it had been a long week and I really didn't want to make Chef Haley work, when I, myself, wanted to be lazy and watch Lifetime. So, I opted for some instant mashed potatoes. Name brand, "garlic and herb" mashed potatoes. 

And guess what, they sucked. I mean, they were mashed potatoes, but they weren't good mashed potatoes. What was the point of carb overload for something that tasted so bland and lacked texture. Did they do their job? Sure. It was a side item, something to go along with the vegetable and meat. The kids ate them. The dog ate what was left over. It did it's job. But, that was it. It "just did it's job". It didn't do it great, it didn't even do it good. It was just ok. 

Last week we were, as always, rushing to an appointment on the other side of town, running fashionably late as expected, when we got stuck in downtown bumper to bumper traffic. Just as we started gaining speed, I came to a stop to allow another car to merge into the ongoing traffic, which just so happened to keep us from catching the next green light. My twelve year old said if I hadn't let him in, we would have missed the red light and be closer to getting to where we were headed. Was he right? Maybe. 

Last week I had to make a quick stop at Walmart. If you haven't realized it yet, "quick stops at Walmart" do not exist. You're either going to spend an hour searching for that one item you need while filling up your buggy with ninety-nine other things you don't need or you're spending thirty minutes waiting in line at one of the only two cash registers open in the sea of millions of cash registers and employees wearing blue. I loathe Walmart. I was, one of the many victims, of being drawn into purchasing 100 other items while just trying to pick up some toilet paper. Go figure. Here I was with a buggy full of items, fantasizing about the moment I could kick of my shoes and relax when a mother and her infant come strolling up behind me with nothing but a pack of diapers. I should have let her go infront of me, but I was tired and ill and ready to be home, so I didn't. Did I get home any quicker than if I had let the mother and her baby go before me? Maybe. 

But thats the difference between Chef Haley's smashed potatoes and the instant mashed potatoes. One is bursting with flavor and yummy goodness, when the other (same exact food) is flavorless, boring, and bland. There the same vegetable, same concept, and carry the same carbs. But would you chose the bowl of smashed potatoes with it's glistening butter, semi chunky texture and seasoned perfection or the bowl of colorless, semi-liquid mashed potatoes?

It was easy to boil some water and make those bland mashed potatoes that were just "ok". It's easier to be "just ok" while making day to day decisions. You could go through the day without opening that door for the mother with her hands full or without giving that homeless person the change in your cup holder. You could go through the day without saying "bless you" to the stranger that sneezed on the other side of the gas pump you're on, or without returning that five dollars you found in the parking lot. (The same five dollars that a single Mom might be using to feed her children) Is it going to change how your day, ultimately turns out? Probably not. 

It took so much time, preparation and work to make those infamous smashed potatoes. But, my oh my are they delicious, mouth watering and divine. Following that theory, instead of gossiping about how crappy your coworkers are you could send an inspiring email giving them that much needed pat on the back. You could take a meal to the family in your neighborhood who just lost a loved one. You could cut the neighbors grass without asking. You could buy the car behind your car's breakfast. You could offer to read a story to a child in a doctor's waiting room while their mother juggles feeding their newborn sister. Will these things change how your day ultimately turns out? Probably not. 

But, you will be that bowl of yummy goodness. You will be the savory, lucious bowl of smashed potatoes in a sea of cold, lumpy instant mashed potatoes. There is a difference. There is a huge difference, and regardless if everyone in society sees the difference or if JUST the person indulging in that warm bowl of smashed potatoes, you have made the choice to be better than the rest, to rise above, to be that sliver of hope in the ever failing society. 

Be Chef Haley's infamous smashed potatoes. Go that extra mile, do that extra deed. At the end of the day, it may not change how your day ends, but it does change how you made someone feel. 

Be the difference. 

Strawberries, Blackberries, and blueberries- oh my!!

One of our sweet kiddos came to us last year with nothing but the clothes on his back... And an epi pen. 

As foster parents, we must attend First Aid & CPR training regularly, and within that four hour class we briefly go over epi pens. I was prepared to use it if need be, but I am glad I've never had to. While getting to know the child, I asked him what he was allergic too and what caused him to have to use the epi pen and his answer was berries- all berries. 

For a year we've kept him away from all things "berry" including Paisley's Strawberry Shortcake Doll (hey, she's scented...) As you can tell, I really didn't want an excuse to ever have to jab him in the leg. 

All of our kids would have strawberry poptarts and he'd have to have the plain ole brown sugar ones. We have a blueberry bush in our backyard and the kids would spend hours picking blueberries that Aunt Haley would put into pies, but I'd never let him taste them. My parents even had to drive across town to buy his candy for his Christmas candy because all they could find was artificial flavoring "berry" stuff, and no one wanted to test it- especially on Christmas. 

A couple of weeks ago, this child got the worst case of hives I've ever seen. I ended up rushing him to the emergency room because I assumed he would get to the point where he'd need the epi, but after three hours of waiting, we were told hives were common and harmless. You could have fooled me. He looked like he had some flesh eating disease. I couldn't stand to send him to school covered in whelps, so we spent a lot of time in doctors offices and eventually landed an emergency appointment at the allergist. 

Fast forward to today and here we were, together again, headed to the allergist. I kept looking over at him in the passenger seat and he had four boxes in his lap- a box of blueberries, a box of strawberries, a box of raspberries and a box of blackberries. Today was the day he was going to endure the somewhat painful (I don't care what the brochure says about it being 'painless') allergy testing, and they were going to also test him for "all berries".. He was excited. 

After hours and hours of poking and waiting, he was clear to eat any and every thing, including berries. No known allergies. He passed all of the test. Apparently, sometimes you can get hives "just because".. 

As we were in the elevator headed down to the parking deck, he looks over and says to me, without skipping a beat..

"They lied to me. I am not allergic to berries and I am not worthless." 

In that moment all I could say was, "I love you... Berry, berry, much." 

And then we laughed and giggled all the way to the van, but on the way home, while everyone was passed out from the long doctors office visit, I ugly cried. 

 

The S Word..

As many of y'all know, we have been anxiously planning a Disney World trip to celebrate our new adoption of Paisley, Kyle, and Zeek. We have put hours and hours into our planning and have made some of the most adorable (if I do say so myself) matching shirts for the days we will be there. We coordinated the shirts to the parks, and I think it has helped tremendously with packing. When we first debated Disney I had joined a Disney group on Facebook and I seriously thought the members were Disney lunatics.

I am proud to announce I am a Disney lunatic.

The "magic" that comes along with Disney is addicting. I only hope the "magic" is strong enough to keep all of us going once we hit the parks. Ha. I worked on itinerary's last week, and I compared maps of the parks, to age related things for both our big kids and small kids, along with all of the dinner reservations and fast passes that were pre-booked AND I based several decisions off of my fellow Disney lunatics advice and feedback. It's safe to say every second of everyday is going to magical, and I have planned out everything down to the bathroom breaks.. Kidding.

I am so excited. This is going to be a once in a lifetime celebration for my kids- literally. Disney is super expensive, and we've even tried to "cut corners" by pre-purchasing things ahead of time. I ordered some light-up light-sabers from Amazon. I also picked up tons of light up toys, glow sticks, etc from the dollar spot at Target. These items are so expensive at events, especially when you have to purchase a mass amount for your family.

Paisley Grace loves anything princess, especially dressing up as a princess. Before I even put the deposit down on our resort, I had planned for Paisley to do Bippity Boppity Boutique in Cinderella's Castle. I wanted her to have the most expensive package offered, as she totally deserved that moment in the spotlight. This was something she would always remember, and something that she whole hardheartedly deserved.

Though the package we are planning on purchasing comes with it's own Disney licensed princess gown, I wanted to be able to surprise her every morning by laying out a princess costume on her bed with a note from whichever princess gown she was getting that day. How magical would that be? Super magical. How expensive would that be, if I bought the gowns from Disney? Super expensive.

So, I decided to pre-purchase the princess gowns from Walmart's Halloween costume selections. I was able to find Rapunzel, Aurora, Ariel, Belle, Cinderella, and Snow White for way under half the price I would have paid at the parks.

While checking out, the cashier was confused at the amount of costumes I was buying. I told her about our trip to Disney and what I was going to use the dresses for.

And, that's when she said it. The s word.

Spoiled. She called my child spoiled.

And just like that, the next thirty years flashed before me eyes. There I was behind jail cell bars, dressed in orange, eating slop off of a plastic tray and peeing in front of strangers.

I thought I was going to sucker punch this cashier in the throat.

Instead, I thanked her and walked away.

Of course, she didn't know my children are far from spoiled. The majority of the clothes hanging in their closets come from the thrift store or are graciously donated hand me downs from my friends and sometimes even strangers. The toys they get from Santa are also thrift store or yard sale finds that I stow away in the storage shed until Christmas. They are always sharing their toys, clothes, bedrooms, and most of all their parents. They never complain or question why we live this way.

All they know is four years ago they were scrounging for food in trash cans. They were living out of their mothers car. The only clothes they had were the ones of their back, and those were soiled and stained. When we got our oldest child, he was eat up with ring worm. Our middle child still struggles with the long lasting effects of starvation. And their young sister still wakes up in the middle of the night with death curling screams from dreams that still haunt her.

They are far from spoiled, but I hope they feel that way in Disney. I hope they feel the magic that the commercials advertise, because they deserve it.

Good thing orange isn't my color and that Disney is less than two weeks away.. Otherwise, I would have punched her.

What is that?

A few weeks ago Dustin was anxiously awaiting a package being delivered. Before the mail lady put her foot on the gas, Dustin was out the door and halfway to the mailbox. I expected him to come in with a big brown box, but instead he came in with a small, brown animal..

He had found a baby squirrel laying on the ground under a large oak tree we have in the front yard. It was making the loudest racket, and ants had already started crawling on him.

Naturally, just like that everyone shifted their attention to this new visitor and we all got in "action mode".

"Action mode" is very familiar to our home, as it is to several of my other "foster moms" homes. "Action mode" to us means we shuffle through each bedroom in our home to find the best fit for the guest that just showed up on our door step..

Does the child have a past with sexual abuse? Can the child share a room with other children their own age/sex? Should they room alone? Do they need to be in the "smaller kid room" or the "older kid room"? Where are the clean sheets? Boy or girl sheets? I need a pillow. Oh, wait, does the child wet the bed? Better pull out the mattress protector.. (We should buy stock in mattress protectors..)

But, instead of finding which twin mattress our new visitor would sleep on, we were all frantiqually searching for a "cage". All the kids were pulling boxes from every direction- too small, too big, not enough air flow. Can squirrels chew through cardboard?

When a foster child first shows up on your doorstep, no matter the time, there is an automatic "momma bear" check list..

Have you eaten? Oh, it's two o'clock in the morning and here you are cooking pizza. Does the child have lice? How about you take a warm bath while the pizza cool's off. (May or may not grab the lice treating shampoo) Are there any visible brusies? Broken bones? Anything that might have gone unnoticed during the hectic pick up? (I hate this part..) Now you either spend hours holding a scared, broken, upset child or the child is so exhausted they climb into the warm, clean bed and pass out.

What did that look like for the squirrel?

How do you feed a baby squirrel? What do squirrel's eat? Oh gosh, we better run to the store and buy squirrel milk. Ha. We better get a cage while we are there too..

(An hour later..)

Let's make sure we got all of the ants of him. Is that dried blood in his nose? Oh, gosh... Is he gonna die? ...lots and lots of "squealing" from the squirrel.

Being the Momma Bear I am, I had already notified a rescue group that was coordinating in the background how we were going to get this squirrel to the habitat refuge on a weekend.

The rescue lady gave me strict instructions on how we should give the mother squirrel a chance to come back for her baby. There wasn't a dry eye in the house while we nailed a box to the tree outside and filled it with blankets and a warm water bottle (to keep it's temp up, though it was super hot outside).

My kids kept peeking out of the window to see if the momma squirrel was anywhere to be seen. They waited and waited and waited nervously. We must have answered a million, "..what if this happens," questions from all of the kids. The house was full of anxiety as we all waited for the baby squirrel to be rescued by the mom.

The rescue lady called me back and informed me that we had given her enough time and if she hadn't come by nightfall, that he needed to come back inside and they would coordinate pick up the next morning. The momma squirrel never came back, so the baby squirrel got to enjoy it's first Alabama football game inside. Ha.

The children took turns feeding the baby squirrel every two hours. They would replace the water bottle with warm water every few hours, and religiously checked on the baby squirrel. Our younger ones even drew the squirrel "pictures" to take back to it's hole in the tree.

That next morning everyone took their turn saying goodbye as we handed the squirrel over to the rescue lady (who had driven up from Auburn). Everyone cried as we watched them drive away, and in that moment I thought to myself..

Our home "does fostercare". We just get it. We understand that the bad parts are worth the good parts, and the sad times are made up with happy times. Our family unit was made for this.  We aren't anything special, we are just using our gifts that God gave us. We have our ups and downs, our ins and outs, but at the end of the day, we thank the good Lord above for giving us the opportunity to love on His children.. and His squirrels.

Messy

This is what foster care looks like.
It’s messy. It means having to call the water board and say “..I know I have an extra garbage can but can I request ANOTHER one.” It means late nights, early mornings, and lots and lots of emails, calls, texts, meetings, “crying sessions” with that one social worker that just really gets you, etc. It means moving beds around at ten o’clock at night to accommodate a certain gender and age. It means pulling every box out of your storage shed to find the right box of clothes for that child that came with nothing. It means having to pray for children and circumstances that ten minutes ago were obsolete to you.
Today I dropped a beautiful, brave little five year old girl off at her new school and as the teacher took her hand to lead her to her seat, she broke free to give me a big hug and kiss on the cheek. Today foster care is a beautiful mess, and it’s days like these that I am reminded why I chose this life.

New x2

How in the world did we function without cellphones? I must get anywhere between 20-25 phone calls a day from doctors, therapist, social workers, bill collectors (who really answers those calls), teachers (my less favorite), and every blue moon a friend that is willing to listen to me rant about the previous twenty phone calls. In this day and age, texting is almost second nature and if I am not scrolling on Facebook or looking for the night’s dinner on pInterest, then I am probably shooting my husband a text about the worst-smelling dirty diaper I had just changed or the eighth load of laundry I had just washed.
Friday night I was watching our girls play with Legos when my phone lit up. I assumed it was a text message from one of my fellow foster moms but it wasn’t.
It was from Newx2.
That’s a silly name, I know. I actually have a New, New1, and a New2 in my phone. No Alabama resident would recognize the area code, because it isn’t from around here. It wasn’t a friend, a bill collector, a teacher, or my mobile coupon from Dollar General.
No, it was my newly adopted children’s mom.
Two years ago, I gave a heartbroken, scared mother my phone number regardless of the fact that she was a complete stranger AND that she had just gotten out of prison. I gave her my personal phone number that I had, had for years, that could have probably been easily googled and linked back to my current address. I gave her my number because for that second I put myself in her shoes, and knowing she was struggling from not only addiction, being alone and the complete feeling of hitting rock bottom- she was trusting a complete stranger with her children. Actually, she had no choice, and, to be honest, she didn’t trust me right off the bat.
I remember the first time we met and how she glared at me for what seemed like entirety. She accused me of being like every foster home you see on Law & Order SVU, (awful). She cried and she yelled and she banged her fist on the table, and then she looked at me with these heartbroken eyes and she asked me if I would kiss her children for her that night and tell them she loved them.
What she didn’t know was I had already been doing that. I reminded that scared two year old daughter of hers just how much her mommy loved her and how much she missed her before I even met her mommy. I reassured her nervous ten year old son that his mother was okay and being well taken care of (even though at the time I had no idea where she was). I cooked every thing Walmart had to offer for a heartbroken three year old that wouldn’t eat a single thing because, “It wasn’t as good as his mommy’s.”
Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and we fast forward to a meeting where a social worker looked at Dustin and I and asked if we would consider being the adoptive resource for those exact same children. The past few months had been a roller coaster of emotion and we went from one extreme to another. At one point I remember packing the children’s bags in case they did go home to mother at court, but here we were. I, being 24 at the time and pregnant with my first biological child, was about to commit to adopting a eleven year old boy and his two younger siblings. And, I couldn’t have been any more excited.
As more time passed, I would get text messages from the children’s mother via different numbers. I originally had her in my phone as “New” and then “New1″ and then “New2″. I was always afraid if I put her real name in my phone, in the event that she randomly texted me and my oldest son had the phone, he would see it and know it was her. I was afraid of what he might think or what he might do so “New1″ was my way of securing the contact.
One day in September, while Taytum was in the NICU, I was standing above her crib watching her sleep when I got a phone call from my social worker’s supervisor. She had called me to let me know that Mom had made the choice to surrender her rights if we agreed to adopt. I just remember being completely speechless (as we all were) as no one expected her to do that- instead we were all anticipating a super long, drawn out process.
And that’s when “Newx2″ became a hero. She became one of the best Mom’s in the world. She became a better Mom than I could ever hope to be.
She made a heart-wrenching decision for her children. She did what every parent is “suppose” to do, and she set her own feelings and emotions aside, and she made a decision whole-hardheartedly for her children. She knew she was unable to care for her children’s physical and emotional needs. She knew she, herself, was struggling with so much pain and suffering regarding her own past and she knew she couldn’t give her children what they deserved. All she knew was she loved them with all her heart and she wanted to see them to continue to be loved, to be safe, and to be happy- and she knew that we provided them with that.
Wow. I couldn’t imagine an ounce of the pain she must have felt walking out of that courthouse. I couldn’t imagine the pain she experienced hours, days, weeks, months after making that decision. I couldn’t imagine the pain and suffering that this mother endured (and still enduring) to guarantee that her children had a future that she wasn’t offered. Wow.
Any time “Newx2″ would text me, I would gladly send her pictures of her children- my children- our children. I refuse to let them forget her and vice versa.
What she doesn’t realize is even though her, now four year old, daughter calls me Mommy, we always talk about her “other mommy” too. Just because they have a new birth certificate and a new last name doesn’t mean we can erase their past. Their mother made the biggest sacrifice for them, and I refuse to let that unselfish act of kindness go unnoticed.
I hope we always remember their “other mommy”. I hope when our oldest graduates high school, she can be as equally proud of him as I am. I hope when our middle child goes to prom that she can tell me where he got his beautiful brown eyes. I hope when my sweet princess turns sixteen that she can see the smile on her face from getting her first car.
“Newx2″ is hurting. She missed her children everyday. But, she said something to me Friday night that made this entire crazy lifestyle worth it, “..knowing you and your husband are giving my children the life they deserve makes me owe you my life.”
But, what she doesn’t realize is, she gave us her life. We will forever be grateful for her decision to allow us the honor of being these children’s mommy and daddy.
Adoption wasn’t her way of rejecting her children, but an unconditional love that inspired her to put herself last to ensure that her children were always loved and cared for.
Newx2 is my hero.

...in the Atlantic.

Life has been so hectic lately. We’ve had children come in and out of our homes for the past few weeks, and it’s finally starting to take it’s toll on me. We have had a total of 10 kids come in and out in the past few weeks and with each of them came lots of tears, laughs, hugs and kisses. But, most of all there was the second hand trauma left when each child’s belongings were gone and all was left was the crumbs from the breakfast prepared or the dirty laundry from the child’s last change of clothes.
What is secondhand trauma, you might ask? Secondhand trauma is the stress associated from helping or wanting to help a traumatized or suffering person. It’s when we set aside our home thoughts and feelings and go into “crisis mode” to help conquer the next issue that arises. In foster care, obviously the children do not show up on our doorstep because they had an awesome time at Disney World or because they were shown lots of love and compassion, instead these children have been exposed to things and have physically been put through things that none of us have ever imagined.
To care for a child that is physically black and blue from the tips of their toes to the point of their ears can become the “norm” for foster parents. Child after child, story after story, foster parents begin to understand the severity of the abuse that goes on in this world. Though our hearts break for these children, we often have to “put on our big girl panties” and push our own emotions aside so that we can properly care for these children that so often need our complete attention- whether they are newborns or teenagers.
We listen to these children replay events in their life that, to them are normal, but to us we are horrified. To think that we once might have complained about something in our past as unimportant like the type of car our parents bought us while in high school compared to some of the horror stories that a broken, scared five year old shares in their deepest, darkest hour will bring intense feelings of complete gratefulness. It will bring a grown man to his knees to thank God for the blessings in his own past, present and future. But what we don’t realize is the lasting effects of these traumatic experiences that are shared with us and how negative they impact our own lives.
No, it’s not until you are on the floor of your kitchen, sobbing tears for children and circumstances that are completely out of your control while feeling like your on a ship, in the middle of a monsoon in the Atlantic.
I am throwing out our anchor. The crashing of the waves and the on going feeling of pure exhaustion and self doubt as the waves continue to drowned us have got to come to a stop. We have to throw out our anchor, hold onto each other and pull ourselves back into shore because right now I am drowning. I am tired of swimming in circles. I cannot pull anyone else onto our ship until my ship is built back up and strong.
We are damaged. We are strong and we can rise above this monsoon that currently has us feeling stranded, but it will take time.
We will hold onto our faith that God has a plan. He has a plan for every single person in this home, no matter how long or short they might stay. We will rely on each other for support and comfort. We will remain a family regardless of how strong the winds get or how intimating the waves might be. We are stronger than any storm out there, we just have to build our ship back up.
We can do this.

500 Puzzle Pieces

My grandma used to pick out these elaborate puzzles with 500 (if not more) pieces. It would drive me crazy when she would buy these puzzles from yard sales because then there was an EXTRA hurdle we were going to face. Were all the pieces there? Did someone already attempt the puzzle and give up because the damn cat’s whiskers were going to be the death of them? What if we put four hours into the draining, boring, head-splitting sport of “puzzle making” just to find out we are missing fifteen pieces out of a thousand? I remember staring at puzzles with disgust, more specifically this one puzzle I remember her picking up at a garage sale that must have had a thousand pieces and the box itself was weathered, torn, and smelt like an old book from the bottom shelf of the library. I stared at the entire way home knowing we were going to have to work on it after church that following Sunday. I knew it was going to take hours of flipping over pieces and trying to decide which flower went with what cluster. No TV, no radio, no computer, nothing- just me, my sister and my grandma at the dinner table with God knows how many puzzle pieces. I used to think if she wanted a damn picture of a flower garden, all she’d have to do was say so and I’d print her out a picture that we could blow up at CVS and frame that bad boy all within the time it’d take for us to make the outline of this stupid flower puzzle. Damn I would despise those puzzles and the headache that, naturally, came along with them.
My grandparents had a love like a fairy tale, something only Disney could write. My grandpa loved my grandma more than anything, and vice versa. They went together like the letters of the alphabet, and their love for each other was prominent. My grandparents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary shortly before my grandfather fell ill. I was nine years old and more interested in the cake that was being served at the celebration than any of the ooey-gooey love stuff like the glimmer my grandma had in her eyes after fifty years of being married to the same man. I didn’t pay any attention to the way my grandpa complemented my grandma and how my grandma complemented my grandpa- and I don’t mean with words, I mean with their entire beings. They were made for each other. It was perfect mold- a perfect fit- a perfect couple sincerely made in Heaven by our One and Only. They were perfect for each other. To me, they were my Grandma and Papa but to them, they were each other’s savings grace.
Marriage is hard. Marriage gets harder as the years go on and you replace “date night” with “I’ll do the dishes if you go wash the kid’s hair”. You go from spending an hour each morning doing your hair and makeup to impress your significant other, to literally sitting on the toilet taking care of business while the other one is brushing their teeth while a toddler is demanding a cup of milk from the crack in the bathroom door. You go from making decisions like where you’re going to eat dinner that night or what movie you want to go see with decisions like what bill do we pay with this check and how are we going to make sixty dollars spread for a week? You go from wanting to cuddle at night while watching Netflix to literally passing out on the bed surrounded by clean clothes from the dryer, dirty bottles from the previous night’s late night baby party, and toys from your toddler. You go from flirting and kissing every second you get, to questioning whether or not you’ve kissed your husband in a month. Those sweet good morning text messages you once got are replaced with “Can you pick up milk later” and “Did you pay power?”.
That’s the part of “love” and “happily ever after” that the big screens keep leaving off. The credits start rolling before you even get to the “real shit”. Cinderella and her Prince Charming never fought. Hell, Prince Charming was willing to marry whatever broad’s foot fit in that slipper. Romantic, huh?
Marriage is hard. A successful marriage is even harder. No matter how your wedding day went- no matter how expensive your dress was or what you served at your reception- married couples said “I do” to the same vows that people accepted years before us.
“…. for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”
You know what else was hard? That damn thousand piece puzzle from the back roads yard sale that my grandma bought for a quarter. The beginning was fun and we laughed and talked and ate popcorn and laughed some more. My grandma shared stories of her childhood and my sister and I talked about school. Flipping over all the pieces and establishing the outer frame was easy (and fun).
It wasn’t until we started on the “inner” parts that it became hard. Real hard. I cried, I complained, I refused to go on and farther but my Grandma kept making me try and try and try. There were times when it felt hopeless because I just KNEW there were missing pieces. What was the point of putting in all these hours just for their to be missing pieces! I would try to sneak away to the bathroom or just zone out and not even focus on what I was doing, but my Grandma always brought me back. She kept saying we had to finish, there was no other option. It was boring and it was hard, and I drug my feet halfway through it.
But then the end was in sight and everything was starting to “come together”. The bigger picture was starting to make more sense and the beauty of the puzzle started to inspire me enough to keep going. The laughing and the heart felt conversations ensued and before I knew it the joy was back and we were all having a good time.
And then it was complete, and, man, was it beautiful. The colors were so vibrant and you could almost smell the flowers and hear the water rushing over the rocks in the creek. It was a breath taking piece, and it had ALL of it’s pieces.
I asked my Grandma how she knew all the pieces were there, and she told me she didn’t know. She said, “Sometimes we aren’t promised all the pieces, but that doesn’t make the process any more beautiful and meaningful. Don’t wish it was easier. Struggle is required to become stronger.”
Marriage is a struggle, but with struggles comes strength. People looking in only see success, they don’t see the foundation that took years to build to make that success, successful. Hard work, risk, late nights, struggles, failures, persistence, action,discipline, courage, doubts, changes, criticism, disappointments, adversity, rejections and sacrifices are just a few of the “hard things” marriages are destined to face. Overcoming those things and relying on the bigger picture (regardless when you just KNOW pieces of the puzzle are missing) is what will bring you success in a marriage.
Giving up is not an option. For better or worse, remember? It’s time you sit down and start flipping all those pieces over because this puzzle is going to take a long time.

Thanks, grandma.

The Power of Words

I’ve always been an avid writer. The English language was always my favorite subject in school, and writing “short stories” was never homework for me. I could spend hours writing anything from imaginary tales to real life scenarios. I struggled with spelling for years, and it wasn’t until my ninth grade English teacher pointed out how “lacking” my writing was compared to another peer in my class that I decided writing wasn’t for me.
Oh, but it is. Writing is a part of my soul, it’s who I am. I can take a jumble of words and arrange them in a away to make you laugh or cry. I can put into words on paper my feelings, but I can’t always get them out of my mouth. There is something rewarding about compiling a bunch of words that come straight from the heart and bleed onto lined paper.
It wasn’t until recently that I stepped back in a situation and reflected on  just how powerful words can be. Words have such an impact on everything we do on a day to day basis. Within seconds of waking up and breathing that first breath on a fresh day, the first few words you chose to speak could dictate how your day goes.
In all situations ranging from speaking to your children on their way out the door for school to speaking to the cashier that rings you up at the grocery store, your words weigh a lot on not only how the person interpreting those words accepts them, but also on yourself as a whole. The most dangerous part about what you chose to say and how you to chose to say it is once it’s said, it cannot be undone. Once those words bleed from your mouth, whether it’s positive or negative, those effects are permanently embedded.
If everything you spoke from the moment you woke up to the moment you mumbled that last prayer of the day was written on a sticky note and stuck to your body, would you be proud? Or embarrassed?
Would the words you muttered to the man that cut you off in traffic this morning be acceptable for your six year old son to read? Would the words you said to your twelve year old when you got that call from the school about him fighting (again) suitable to be read to a group of your peers? Would you be ashamed?
Let’s play a game. In all situations today, think twice before you say anything. Would you feel comfortable repeating it in front of your child? Grandchildren? Spouse? God? Is it uplifting, positive, and reinforcing? Or is it demeaning, negative, and hurtful? Rethink the way you say things because once that damage is done, it’s done.
#CantTakeItBack #WordsMostPowerfulWeapon #BeThePositiveChange #TakeTheHigherRoad #BeThePersonYourKidsLookUpTo #BeTheChange #RiseAbove #PositivePeople

What Fostercare Means to My Family

Today it means canceling all appointments because of the physical exhaustion that not only effects you, but all of the “little” that willingly (and sometimes not so willingly) trudge along with you through the endless hallways of doctors offices, schools, and DHR.
It means having huge boxes of bulk snacks piled up next to your trash can. It literally looks like we run a convenience store, but in all actuality it’s just half a month’s worth of after school snacks. (It also means being nervous that the once “endless” supply of snacks will eventually disappear faster than the cash in your wallet..)
It means having a four year old who doesn’t “pretend play” with baby dolls, but instead “for real” helps mommy with the new baby. Mommy only has two hands, two feet, two eyes, and two ears and sometimes that isn’t enough to keep the wobbly, “I just learned to walk but now I should run” baby from bopping her head on the coffee table while mommy is elbow’s deep in a massive blow out that the two year toddler thinks would be fun to smear on the floor all while the newborn baby’s pacy fell out of her mouth, again, for the hundredth time. It means walking into the nursery and finding your four year old talking ever so sweet to her new baby sister that has only been her “sister” for three days. It means having a four year old that knows the “5 S’s of soothing a baby” because shes watched Mommy console a drug withdrawing baby and she’s been to the doctors office visits where the doctor diagnosis’s colic. It means your four year old is always willing to share her clothes, her toys, her shoes, but most importantly her momma.
It means having to climb into the back of the minivan every other day to rearrange car seats to make room for a new child.
It means having to sleep sitting up, with one eye open in the hallway of your own home to make sure a scared, broken child doesn’t try to escape in the night to find their “momma”.
It means rearranging bedrooms and taking down/putting up bunk beds in the matter of a five minute phone conversation where a tired, overworked and past exhausted social worker says, “…can he stay for the night?”
It means forfeiting your beloved iPhone to a hopeful five year old, who wants to hold onto it because he “just knows” his mommy is going to call him any minute, but the reality is she won’t.
It means staying awake even when every child in your home is asleep, but your mind and soul is on overdrive because you can’t help but micromanage the next 24 hours and reflect on the past 24.
It means being angry and exhausted. People are so blind when it comes to realizing the on-going issues of child welfare in their county. People are quick to sympathize with the starving, dirty child on the television at two o’clock in the morning in another country who needs to be saved for just twenty-two cents a day, but easily turn the cheek to a child in their own county that needs a home- a child that your child might play with at school on the playground or a child that you could have very well passed in the grocery store last weekend. I am angry that more people don’t step up and help so that I, and the other struggling and exhausting foster parents, can take a step down.
#IAmExhausted #SomethingHasToGive #WeNeedMorePeopleOnTheBattleFront

The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly

It was 1:28 AM and I was sitting next to my husband who was holding a nonverbal, traumatized child who could very likely have had lice. Minutes later she had been hanging off our front door, opening and slamming (it had the chain lock on, that kept it from opening completely) the door repeatedly while screaming “momma”.
Here I was sitting on the floor three feet from her pulling out all of my “foster parent training tricks” and not a single one worked. Do you want to play with toys? “Mommaaaa” Do you want to watch cartoons? “Mommaaa” Do you want to eat some cookies? “Mommaaa” Do you want to jump in the van and head to Disney? “Mommaaa”
I feared she would wake up all the children that were fast asleep, dreaming of composition notebooks, pencils, and tardy slips. I feared she would eventually break the door knob. I feared my husband would be physically exhausted before he even faced a physically exhausting day of work. I feared that she wouldn’t let me get near her enough to check for lice AND that would be a “back to school” nightmare. And, that’s when I realized how selfish I was being. Here I had superficial “fears” when this scared, broken child’s world had been turned upside down and SHE had fears and all she knew was, she didn’t have her “mommaaa”. Regardless how traumatic her situation was, she did not want cookies, cartoons, and toys. She wanted her “mommaaa”.
I mustered up the most desperate prayer I could think of begging God to send her some kind of comfort and peace and that He would send me some kind of wisdom to fix this situation so she could get some much needed rest.
The closer I would get, the farther she would run.
Finally she wedged herself between the wall and our entertainment center, and that is where she fell asleep.
And, in that moment, I looked at that broken child who was asleep standing up, none the less, and realized that IS foster care.
My husband reached down and picked up her exhausted body. We both cringed as we debated whether or not she was going to freak out or if she was going to stay awake. She wrapped her arms tightly around my husband’s back as she let her head drop on his shoulder, and finally, peace and comfort was achieved.
People always say, “I don’t know how you do it..” and I never know what to say because most of the time it isn’t “hard” like they imagine. To me foster care means yummy pancake breakfasts on Saturdays, fun trips to the McWane Center, celebrating holidays BIG because we are a BIG family, lots and lots of laundry, listening to children laugh and play, BIG vans, and multiple trips to the schools (insert eye roll).
But sometimes foster care means washing matted vomit out of a child’s hair, staying awake till morning while waiting on DHR to deliver a child, washing comforters and sheets every day because of traumatized bed wetting, and allowing a child to lay their head an inch from yours without knowing whether or not that child has lice.
We so desperately need more foster homes in our community. I know this probably isn’t the poster blog-post for recruiting foster parents, but you should know what your getting into before even entertaining the thought. There is good, bad, and ugly (in our case, broken) in every decision worth making, but, I can guarantee, the good will outweigh the bad.
You could bring peace and comfort to a scared, broken child. You could step in and care for a child while their parents bust their ass to get their life back together- which is one of the most rewarding things to watch unfold in foster care. You could be the permanent home for a child who needs stability. You could send a child off to college that would have never had the chance to even graduate high school.
But, that’s not all. Not only can you be a blessing to children in foster care. They can be a blessing to you..
They will teach you what it really means to be grateful. You will never take running water for granite. You will never say “..there is nothing to eat” while staring in a refrigerator that DOES have food in it. You will be thankful for the bed you do have, regardless of the lump that might be in the middle, because at least you have a bed. You will be thankful for the clothes you have, regardless of what “fashion season” they were from, because at least they don’t have holes.
They will teach you how to love without limits. You will put every ounce of your being into the lives of these children, knowing that you might have to face “giving them back”. You will set aside your own feelings, because you will chose to feel the intense pain of a great loss because they deserved to feel the intense feeling of a great love.
You will learn a completely new level of respect. You will come face to face with loving parents that made a mistake and you’ll have to show them just as much compassion as the broken child in your care. Despite our urge to judge, we must remember that they are human and humans make mistakes. They deserve to be respected. You will talk about them with respect, because you never know what little ears are listening. You will try to understand, even when you don’t. You will learn to be respectful, even when you don’t want too.
You will grow closer to your husband and even that much closer to God. You will rely on each other more than ever because fostering is hard- physically and emotionally. You will talk to God more than you ever have as you try to understand the pain and hurt a child has gone through. You will cling onto him for comfort for both you and the children that come through your door. You will see and go through things that will make you question your own faith, and that is when you’ll need God the most. When we mother the broken, we MEET the father of the broken.
Right now you have the power to say, “I will not allow this child’s story to end like this..”
Rise up. Your county needs you.

The Night Before The Nightmare

This time last year I THOUGHT I was stressed. Dustin and I had been scrambling all around Alabaster trying to put the final touches on our kid’s upcoming school year. We started the morning off at the Parks & Rec of Alabaster to register two children for cheer-leading. We then went down the list of schools making sure we stopped at all of them to turn in the extreme amounts of paperwork and school supplies. We registered a 6th grader, 4th grader, 3rd grader and kindergartner. I must have signed my name a million times before lunch rolled around. We took Kyle Ryan to get his hair cut, and we battled the crowds at Target and Walmart as we put the finishing touches on his supply list.
All while doing this, Taytum was in tow. I remember what she wore that day. A super cute overall dress with a big, sunflower bow. Adorable. Every stop we made people would tell me how cute she was. She was so good that day.

I was four weeks postpartum. I was still sore from that thing- you know- that thing where they cut women open and yank a baby from their insides. Yeah, that had me pretty down and out. But, a mother of many can’t be “down and out” for long, so I drug myself around Alabaster that day. I remember being in the isle of Walmart crying because I couldn’t find any pink erasers. No pink erasers for my sweet kindergartner. Life was over as I knew it on isle two because their were NO pink erasers.

When we finally got into the van, Dustin told me he would take the night shift. He told me I needed to sleep tonight. (I think he saw a part of me, he’d never seen on isle two of Walmart and he, himself, was terrified of the monster I let slip out..) Hell, I’d take it. A full nights sleep? Hell. Yes.
I had no trouble falling to sleep that night. I remember groggily waking up here and there when I’d hear Taytum crying or Dustin shuffling around.

And then it happened.

Dustin flipped on the bedroom lights and yelled at me that Taytum wasn’t breathing. And, that’s when my life forever changed. There was my sweet, sweet Taytum, except she didn’t look like my Taytum. She didn’t have her sparkling blue eyes and her reddish tinted skin (ginger problems..) She was grey. A color no baby should be. A color no mother wants to see.

I remember Dustin yelling at her and scooping her up. She took a big, deep breath and then she was really, really red. I can’t even remember much after that. I remember yelling at Haley to call 911 from the living room. I remember our small three bedroom apartment being flooded with firefighters. I remember just staring her in the dining room as firefighters looked her over. She was fine. Was it a false alarm? Had we overreacted? Were we so tired that we had dramatized the entire situation? It wasn’t seconds after the fire fighters stepped out our front door that Taytum stopped breathing again. That color grey, again. It was two times too many, and by this time Dustin and I were running past the firefighters to the van so we could race to the hospital. We were about five minutes from Shelby hospital, but I made it in under two. I ran every stop light and stop sign. I remember running inside the emergency room (looking undoubtedly crazy) yelling at the lady behind the desk that my daughter wasn’t breathing.

We were rushed to a room where a team of doctors and nurses stared at my precious daughter. She wiggled and cooed and I think she even smiled at one of them. I remember thinking in my head AGAIN that we had gone crazy and their was nothing wrong with Taytum. The small room quickly filled with our family and doctors and nurses left to tend to other patients. Minutes past and, again, it happened. This time my Dad took his turn in the hallway yelling for help as Taytum’s lifeless bodied laid on the patient’s bed.

The next three hours were a blur. Taytum was facing having to be incubated- something the nurses and doctors at Shelby weren’t comfortable doing for a child so young. I had to trust that the flight team would care for Taytum on her way up to UAB while I followed behind them. It was close to 3 AM by this point, and I must have done 90 MPH the entire way to UAB trying to desperately keep up with the emergency crews that had my sweet daughter.

I remember seeing Taytum from down the hallway as we were walking into the RNICU floor. They were calling some code and within seconds Taytum was surrounded by a million doctors. Doctors were running out of rooms to get to Taytum and suddenly the hallway got longer and longer and I felt like I was never going to get to her. I remember this lady making me answer all these questions and she made me tell her again what had happened at the apartment. I kept looking over her shoulder at Taytum and all the doctors and nurses that were pricking and prodding her. Little did I know, they were giving her CPR in all of this. Her little body had just given up. I remember yelling at her in my head, yelling at her to cry, CRY, CRY. I just wanted her to make a noise, but she wasn’t.
And, that was it. We were shuffled to a family room where we waited, alone. We cried. Dustin vomited. I watched the sun begin to rise. They came and got us and told us we needed to go to their complementary “sleep rooms” so we could rest. We reluctantly followed. We were exhausted.
We laid quietly in this dark, hotel-style bedroom and cried until we fell asleep. It wasn’t until later I found out that these rooms were designated for parents that were facing the loss of a loved one. Here we were, sleeping on this bed that was stained with every brokenhearted parent’s tears that had just experienced something in their worst nightmares. In that room hearts had shattered, hopes were buried, and prayers were left unanswered.

This was the scariest night of my life. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, and I experienced things I will never forget.

The NICU is the most heartbreaking and the most joyfulness place ever. It’s the saddest and happiest place, all in one. I walked the halls of both the RNICU and Children’s NICU for weeks, as I anticipated test, surgeries, and outcomes for Taytum. I prayed for every baby on that floor.
I don’t even know how to put into words what I learned in the NICU. God showed me things in the NICU that changed my perspective in life. God is in control. God is a miracle maker. God loves you. God does not make mistakes. God is good, all of the time.

I stressed and stressed and stressed over Taytum’s condition. With every surgery we were faced and every bad test result I got, I would stress. Every time doctors would round, I would stress. Every time Taytum would DESAT or would need O2, I would stress. It was until I found myself on the nasty floor of the hospital, yelling at GOD to take control and letting go of all of my fears and completely trusting in Him, that things started to turn around.

I watched 2 pound babies thrive. I watched as they took a three pound baby off of oxygen and the baby breathed on his own for the first time. Three pounds. Our neighbor’s baby wasn’t expected to live after being born with a rare disease, but I watched as they loaded up three weeks later and went home. I saw miracles happen daily. I was surrounded by God’s work in true progress. He had his hand on all of these babies, including mine.

I also watched as a baby took it’s last breath. I watched as nurses with tear filled eyes, unplugged machines and wheeled them out of the hospital room. As much as it painfully hurts me to write, I watched as a doctor comforted the small, lifeless body because there was no family. No family. None. The Lord called that child home. No more pain, no more suffering.

It was in the NICU where I learned just how much God loved us. He gave His only son so we could have internal life. He sacrificed his own son. Here I was begging God to not take Taytum from me. I was so selfish and so angry with Him. I couldn’t have been as strong as God. He really loves us. It wasn’t until I was facing loosing my own, that I realized the magnitude of that. I tell people all the time, the NICU changed my life.

Today Taytum and the crew went to Zapopans and ate lunch with grandparents. Taytum doesn’t have her g-tube anymore. Taytum isn’t on oxygen anymore. Taytum doesn’t take any regular medicine anymore. Taytum hasn’t been to Children’s hospital in over 5 months.
Taytum is alive, thriving and well. She is walking, babbling, and growing with every day. She is my beautiful, blue eyed baby and I love her more than anything. She is my fighter, my daughter, and my NICU graduate.

If you’re reading this, this is my testimony in the power of prayer. I talked to Jesus more the three months I was in the NICU then I ever have. I talked to Him just like I was talking to a friend. I cried, I laughed, and I poured my heart and soul out. He knows my strengths and my weaknesses and He saw me through it all. I look back on the entire experience and I can almost picture him standing with me in the apartment when I found her, standing with me at Shelby when she stopped breathing again, and I know for a fact He was with me when I was walking down the long hall of the NICU while I watched doctors performing CPR on Taytum. Most of all, He was with Taytum.
When we propose a question to God, sometimes He answers ye and sometimes He answers no. Sometimes He doesn’t answer as fast as we hoped or He doesn’t give us the answer we had wanted. Sometimes when He withholds that answer its not because of lack of concern but because He loves us- uncontrollably. He wants us to apply truths that He has given us. He wants us to fallback on our faith and understanding of His words. For us to grow, we have to understand and trust enough in ourselves and our Heavenly Father that He will give us the strength and confidence to make the right decisions in life. In time, He will always answer. He will never fail us.