For the Love of Life

My sweet Gram is 90 years old and only 72 pounds, but may be the toughest lady I know. She had a heart attack almost 3 weeks ago in the middle of the night. She lives in our basement apartment and when it happened, she called my cell but since I don't keep it with me at night, I didn't answer. She was in such pain and needed me, so she tried to walk up the stairs but couldn't make it. She made it back down and instead of calling our home number, she says she sat in her chair and waited because she just knew this was going to be the end. Eventually, after three to four hours, the pain subsided and she made it back to bed. I woke at six the next morning and saw that she had called so I rushed down because I knew that meant something was wrong. She would never call in the middle of the night otherwise. She was still in pain, confused, and exhausted. I called my mom right away and she made plans to fly in from Oklahoma that afternoon. My Uncle the next day. We were worried. The kids were scared. And I was so heartbroken that my Gram needed me, and I wasn't with her.

By Sunday afternoon she had rested, showered and had the energy to eat so she was feeling better, but she did not care for "all the hoopla" as she called it, with family rushing in to see her. She agreed to go to the hospital Monday morning to confirm what had happened so we could all quit fussing over her. After some initial testing, they admitted her for further testing and observation overnight. She was not thrilled, but cooperated. Like I said, a tough cookie. Whatever happened on Friday was over in her mind, she felt fine and wanted to come home, but knew we wanted more details so she appeased us. She came home Tuesday afternoon ready to get on with things and put this behind her.

Thursday, my mom and uncle flew home. Gram was settled back home, rested from her less than desirable hospital stay, armed with her new medicine routine and ready to get back to normal.

This is where my heart stumbles a bit.

I hear people speak of life in terms of 'season's'. New borns, the toddler years, the teenage years, college years, the 40's...you get the idea. This season of life my Gram has just entered, while her days certainly are not numbered, is the final season. It makes me so sad to even admit it, but as she has always done and always taught me to do, you have to accept where you are and move on. There's no sense pining over the past, or worrying about the future, just live with what you are given each day to the very best of your potential, without complaint and regret, taking full advantage of the love that surrounds you.

So, with that mindset, I have watched my Gram a little closer the last few days and made a few observations.

When she eats, she is slow and deliberate. This is partly because she has to be for her digestion, but it's also because she enjoys each bite. She savors, and chews slowly. She contemplates her next bite, making sure to have the combination of flavors that suits her in each forkful. It's mindful eating and it points out, glaringly, that I eat like a ravished teen late for school at almost every meal. I've convinced myself I must eat that way to get a meal between the requests for seconds, squeals of disgust, cleaning spilled milk, or fending off the sword/fork fights that comes with having dinner with four littles...all the things I've allowed to take away from peaceful eating. But, like my Gram does, I'm attempting to slow the madness down. To enjoy what's before me, each time, considering it a blessing, each time.

When she hugs the kids she wraps them up, looks them in the eye and does not rush them, or look to the next moment. She just hugs them. And the beauty is, they hug her back. Don't get me wrong, I get plenty of wonderful hugs from my kids, but I also get, and give, the occasional drive by hug. The ones where, not only is there no eye contact, but there's barely a gentle touch before one or both of us has moved on without giving the other the much needed moment of attention we craved. Watching her hug them, and remembering how she hugged me when I was little, makes me regret these lost moments of affection with my kids, and reminds me to sit down and hold them when they want, or need it, and sometimes just because.

When she holds my hand to tell me goodnight she is never rushed. I realize this is partly due to that season of life thing I mentioned before.....she's in a calm and significantly slower season then I am. I rarely have a moment that I'm not rushing to get to the next, but when she holds my hand gently in her frail hand, patting it lovingly with her other tiny frail hand telling to have a good sleep and reminding me that its ok for me to relax, I'm suddenly young again and she's telling me I played a good game even though we lost and I shouldn't be so hard on myself. Her hands weren't so frail back then, but they've always had that calm, assuring feeling behind them. I've looked at her hands more closely the last few days....there's wisdom and love and patience and kindness in those hands. They've held me and rocked me to sleep. They've protected me crossing streets and comforted me when I was sad. Those amazing hands have cradled each of my babies and showed them love they otherwise would never have known.

When she sees something lovely she really stops to enjoy it. A flower, a rain shower, the kids chasing a frog around the yard...things that bring her joy she stops to take them in. It's not a fleeting glance and she doesn't run for her phone to take a picture. She just takes it in, being rushed by nothing. The night before my mom and uncle left town after her heart attack we continued our visit in the garage after the kids went to bed as the sun went down for the evening. When I looked out and saw how beautiful it was I decided Gram needed to see it. It took her longer to get up from her chair, get her cane, get turned around and out of the garage, then it did for us to take in the beauty. But it was worth it. She looked from one end of the pink sky to the other, nodding in approval, remarking on the depth of the colors, holding my hand and smiling, then we turned back to the chairs and Scott handed me my phone. He had taken a picture of us....moments like this are when a picture becomes a treasure. My Gram has taken care of me my whole life. I am so lucky to get to care for her now and share this 'season' with her and continue to learn life lessons with her. Right now I'm learning that it seems the less time we have, the more time we take, and maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Time for Transition

Timothy, Mason, Elijah, Sophia

A big change has taken place at the Akin house....our two (and almost a half) year old baby girl has decided she's not such a baby anymore. She's taken the plunge toward 'big girl'. Which, in and of itself is a little funny because she's not yet 25 pounds, and is barely two feet tall! Not big as a minute, but ten days ago, as I was laying her down in her crib, she pointed at the big girl bed we set up in her room in March when we had #5 with us for a time. She has shown little to no interest in that bed at all, until this night when she pointed and sleepily grunted some incomprehensible word, that I'm sure meant "I want the big bed".

So, I pulled back the covers and laid her down. I gave her the 'rules' about staying in bed until her clock turned yellow (mytotclock.com for those of you who have littles who don't easily adhere to your sleep guidelines.). We sang, and prayed, and gave hugs and kisses, we found woo woo and said "I  love you".

Sophia

I left the room in slight amazement and with very little hope that she'd make it the next fifteen minutes, let alone, all night. I even made a Facebook post saying as much with the appropriately adorable picture of her saying goodnight to the ponies on her pillow. But wouldn't you know, that girl slept through the night without a peep and when her clock turned yellow the next morning, she knocked on her door to be let out, since she's too short to reach the knob.

In the last ten days, she's only gone back to the crib twice, once at bedtime when she was kept up way late for a friends wedding, and the other, at nap, when I lost patience with her getting up knocking on the door. So, we decided it was time to....it's still hard for me to believe....put up the crib.

We bought it and set it up during spring break of 2009 without a child in sight. http://makingmemommy.blogspot.com/2014/10/brief-background.html?m=0  I can still remember that time so clearly. The praying constantly for a baby, for a family. Celebrating with others who found out they were pregnant, or had babies, all the while, fighting the pitiful feelings of wondering, 'why can't I do this?'.

When we bought the crib and prayed nightly for God to fill it, we could never have imagined that for the next five years and nine months, four babies would find restful slumber in that precious space. There are teeth marks where Timothy would stand and chew, cutting his first teeth on the edges. We bought a second crib when Mason came, feeling like Timothy was too young for a big bed, but when that crib broke in a move, we moved Timothy to a bed just one month after he turned two and put Mason in this crib. Mason stayed there until he was 18 months and Elijah was born. We put Eli in the crib and moved Mason to a toddler bed. Elijah remained in the crib until one month before he turned two because Sophia showed up. Each time a baby moved from the crib, it was so the next could occupy it. I must admit, I'm a little sad that there isn't another baby this time. But alas, there is not and the crib is in our basement storage until I am brave enough to try a repurposing project I have found on Pinterest. Thus bringing one long awaited, and greatly enjoyed, chapter to an end, and ushering in the possibilities of life's next chapter.

Timothy

Mason

Elijah

Sophia

Back to the Story

Since I'm sure you've all been on the edge of your seats waiting for me to get back to the telling of #4, I'm going to give it a go. I have an unpublished blog that may, or may not, get published once I'm able, and if I decide to, to better explain why I stopped mid-story. So, for now....where were we? Oh yes, the breaking point..

http://makingmemommy.blogspot.com/2015/04/breaking-point.html?m=1


Sleep that Saturday night was heavy burdened. We probably both fell out from emotional exhaustion that comes with difficult decisions, but I know I went to bed sad, hurt and angry at Scott and frustrated at the whole situation, and woke in a similar state that Sunday morning.

That is, until I walked to my sink in the bathroom and saw the most selfless words I'd ever read outside the Bible. Scott and I use dry erase markers on our bathroom mirror to make notes and prayer reminders for ourselves and to each other. That morning he wrote, "It's not about me, Sophia Grace can stay." directly above my sink.

That was August 4, 2013...our mirror has not been clean since then, almost two years later. Many other notes and prayers have been added, and changed when they've been answered, but this is still there.

I wept tears of relief and understanding as I climbed in his lap to say thank you. I knew this did not guarentee it would be forever, at the time, that wasn't our choice to even make, but I knew it meant we were not going to call the next day, and that if we ever did, the reasons would not be of such selfish intent. A weight was lifted from both our hearts in that moment and we got the kids up and ready for church.

It's funny to go through such an emotionally tumultuous time and have no one around you really know about it. No one treated us any differently when we walked into church that day, although, inside, we were vastly different then we had been throughout the week. My dear friend Julie is the nursery coordinator at our church and her husband Joe is often in there with her at pickup time. On this particular Sunday, he was sitting on the floor next to our girl who was in a bouncy seat, holding one of his two beautiful children in his lap. Joe looked from her to me and with the most sincere tone and expression said, "She has got to be the third most beautiful baby I have ever seen." I had heard for a week how beautiful she was, but in that moment, as he said those words, it was like I looked at her for the first time and saw a beautiful baby girl looking back at her mommy, and in an instant, my heart changed. We bonded in that moment and love grew exponentially.

There is a good chance Joe never thought twice about saying those words to me, but they have stuck with me, and always will. They remind me of the moment when I first really looked and saw her. I saw that she loved me and needed me, and in an instant my love for my daughter, my Sophia, was complete.

I Don't Know Whose Kid This Is

Actual words I heard at the ball field this week during my boys game. They play machine pitch, on a team of nine, five and six year olds. This woman, a mom or relative I presume, came flying around, and into, the dugout hollering, "Whose kid is this? Someone needs to get control of him!"

Mind you, this season has only been a month long, playing between one and three games a week, and as anyone who has ever been around boys this age can imagine, when you put nine of them in a dugout, running, playing, and competing, they go Lord of the Flies, pretty quick. My boys included. In fact, Mason had already stepped on the fingers of a little sister in the dugout...coincidentally, the same little girl that had kicked at baby girl through the fence just two days prior.  But in this moment, as she was speaking in such a gruff manner of my son, I could see one boy crying and my son with his hands in the air saying, "he was kicking me" and, while I don't promote or condone my sons hurting anyone for any reason, all I could think of where her harshly spoken words and actions as she spouted "whose kid is this".

Lady, he's my kid. And I'd love to tell you a little about him, so the next time he chimes in with the eight other boys in the dugout, hitting, kicking, shouting and spitting, you might have less of a reason to assume he's a heathen with apathetic parents, and speak of him as you might any other six year old caught up in a "boy moment", because at any moment during this month long season, it could have been any of the nine.

He was 11 months, 3 weeks old when he came to us. He had been neglected to such an extent that our adoption lawyer (who was present the day he was removed) told us that 'the sight haunts her'. After years of trying to have a family, we decided to foster to adopt. I've attached a link where I wrote about the day we got him almost six years ago.

http://makingmemommy.blogspot.com/2014/10/now-what.html?m=0

Today, this boy, my son, is an amazing guy. He can make me as crazy as anyone ever has. He is loud, all the time, he is rough, he is high energy to a dizzying degree, he back talks, and disobeys.....but he is also full of joy and compassion, he is smart and helpful, he loves Jesus and his brothers, he is his baby sisters great defender, and he is trying. All the time, he tries to help, he tries to learn, he tries to please.

"This kid" pushed his little brother down as they ran and played in the back yard last year...it broke Eli's elbow and he had to have a cast. But as Eli laid on the couch crying he brought him all his woo-woo's to help calm him down. He is a contradiction...rough and rowdy like a T-rex, but gentle and sweet like a lamb.

When he was four he had a new classmate show up, a little girl who used a walker. He would play with her and help her reach the toys she couldn't get to. When he was six, he had a classmate that struggled mightily during transition periods, but he would hold her hand and calm her when no one else could. When he finishes his math work early, he helps his friends that are struggling. He is encouraging and wants others to succeed. He shares his ice cream and his toys (when he wants to). He is polite. When he learned his friends mommy was having surgery to remove cancer, he prayed for her mommy and he cried for his friend, because he knew she would be scared. He is thoughtful and considerate.

While he is most definitely a six year old boy, easily caught up in, and stirring up, wild energy, he is something else. He is Timothy. He is my kid.

Thank you for asking.

Timothy and Mason

When Intuition Fails

There is this idea, as mothers, that we have a super powered mommy instinct. I have believed this to be true in the five and a half years I've been a mom. I think mine was always pretty strong, but you have a child to protect and suddenly this sense goes through the roof. On my list of things that have 'made me mommy', refining this skill is one of them. Heck, my OBGYN even told me I was like the mother tiger. My instinct to nourish, to lovingly provide affection to my young, my ability and need to sternly correct them when they need it, and to protect each one with a ferociousness only a mother knows. Yes, I said, that is me. I can feel it in my soul, that my need to protect them is a built in mommy feature.

So, what do you do when that instinct fails you? When this 'thing' called a mothers intuition fails you? When the ones you stay up at night wondering if you are doing all you can for them, are failed by a clouded instinct and poor judgment by others?

I have no idea, but I'm trying to hold on to the words of a lady who knows, "It's not that your instinct failed, it's that some are very good liars."

You know how a tornado upheaves everything in its path? That's what this has done to my world. It has upheaved every emotion I've ever known. It spins them, mixes and confuses them. Throws out everything but anger and spins that one emotion so tightly, my head feels as though it might literally pop off my head. Just as a tornado can turn on a dime, throwing out a car as it overturns a semi, I find suddenly the anger is gone and instantly a helplessness is so heavy on my shoulders that I wonder if my legs can stand the weight. I pick up a child, and am almost certain they cannot.

I ran a marathon once. I trained for three months, running almost 500 miles in that time. I learned the importance of hydration, fueling, stretching. How to warm up and cool down. How to breathe so my heart didn't beat out of my chest and to strengthen my lungs. The day of the marathon all of my training paid off. I ran 26.2 miles without my lungs or my legs failing me. My feet burned a little bit, but otherwise it was a glorious triumph. And then I crossed the finish line to find they were out of water bottles. Out of water! I had taken a drink at almost every drinking station, but alas, when you finish a marathon the water and bagel, followed closely by a cold beer, are the most welcoming, and necessary things for a runner. And they were out of water! I wasn't even close to last, in fact I was in the top 100 women runners out of many thousands. Out of desperation, I began searching the ground for partially empty bottles. My heart was beating in my ears, my legs were beginning to cramp and shake, feeling quickly like they would be unable to hold me up and my breathing started to get tight...I needed fluid bad. I drank about 10 partial bottles, thrown to the ground by previous runners, not quite as desperate for water as I was. But it was enough to keep me upright, while my muscles and breathing recovered from the last 3 hours and 52 minutes.

But this. I feel that same tightening in my chest, same loud thumping of my heart in my head. My legs shake, uncontrollably at times, and I feel I'm searching for something that I can't find. That refreshing and reviving thing that will quench my body and usher in a calmness that has been taken from me. But I can't find it. I scream and cuss and cry. I stomp my feet and slam my fist in indignation but I cannot find it and peace escapes me.

I know where to find it. I know the words and the One that can heal and bring comfort and peace. But how do you build trust and allow that peace when anger and fear are swirling inside with the strength of an F5?

I have no idea, but I'm trying to hold on to the words of the One who knows, "Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."