Mark had to run to the grocery store to get lunch for us. Before he left he grabbed Roscoe and strapped him into the carseat. What a guy, huh?! Happy birthday to me!!!
That's a simple thing, really, but this is the first time since Roscoe was born that I've been alone in our house. And it's weeeeeird. And so niiiiice. I turned into a whirlwind of a tidying monster and then realized that this is the prime opportunity for me to blog, because I have a few things to say.
As most of you have noticed (thank you for the wishes, by the way), today is my birthday. It's also father's day, and I remember (the few times this happened) as a child hating it when I had to share my birthday with my dad. Well what do you expect from the baby girl of the family? I was a brat. But now my outlook is a little different (have I matured a little?) and I'm honored to be able to set this day aside not only as a birthday celebration, but also as a celebration of my father. The man who didn't even have to tell me what kind of guy to look for, because he was the picture perfect example of a husband, a father.....the perfect example of a man. My dad is hardworking, loving, loyal, faithful, genuine, gentle (but oooooo boy, don't you mess with his family or you'll regret it)... I don't have the words to express the emotions I feel about my dad. I will always, always be a daddy's girl, and I can't wait to get my hug from him tonight. I love you daddy!
On a slightly different note, for my mom:
June 19, 1986, 25 years ago, my mother was headed to the hospital to be induced. She was 17 days late from the due date the doctors had given her for her 3rd baby to be born. Not to mention the fact that one of her friends who had the same due date delivered early. Poor mom, I can only imagine how eager she was to have her arms around this little baby.... boy or girl? Only God knew at that time. I remember mom saying that she and dad went to Bojangles that morning on the way to the hospital and mom couldn't eat anything, so she had to sit there and watch dad eat his yummy cajun chicken biscuit. I'm sure THAT was an awkward meal... You got a pregnant woman way overdue, and she has to sit and watch her husband eat? I might have glared across the table had that been me.....
A few months ago Mark and I were at a birthday party for a friend and one of the girls there mentioned that birthdays should be more about the mother than the celebratee (is that a word?) and I couldn't agree more. Especially now that I've had Roscoe, it's easy to see how I will spend each of his birthdays reminiscing about his birth, and the years that have flown by. It's the mother that carries and births the baby. So the birthdays of her children are so special. It's a celebration of hard work and of the day she finally got to meet and wrap her arms around the one she carried for so many months.
So happy birthday, mom. Or, happy birthday to me to you. However that works... I love you and cherish all the memories we have together, even the not-so-great ones that have brought us to where we are today. I believe it's the hard times that God has used to strengthen our bond, and I consider you just as precious a friend as I did when I was growing up. I love you!
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
quick hello
Just stopping in to post a picture of our little guy. It's a current favorite for me. Mark and I were talking in the living room this morning and we looked over to see Roscoe like this, just chillin with his arm propped up. I mean, what better way is there to chill in your swing on a Saturday morning?
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(I just realized this picture is drab on the color side of things..... Oh, well, not much I can do about that. Guess I'm a big fan of neutral colors) :)
(I just realized this picture is drab on the color side of things..... Oh, well, not much I can do about that. Guess I'm a big fan of neutral colors) :)
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
a guilty feeling awkward encounter
A few days ago I had to run out to a pharmacy to get some more diapers for Roscoe. Mark was back at the hotel so I was able to go alone. (Sidenote: it's amazing how enjoyable a quick pharmacy trip can be to a mom when she's able to go alone.)
As I pulled up to park I didn't notice a man sitting in front of the space until I was half-way parked. It would have been way too noticable and rude to have moved from that spot at that moment, so I finished parking and got out of the car with a smile.
Me, friendly and cheerful: "Hi!"
Him: "hey, how are ya?"
Me: "I'm doing well, you?"
Him, dejected and somewhat slurred: "Ohhhh I'm just trying to survive."
Maybe I wasn't expecting that response from him, leading to my terrible reaction. I just said "Aweee," with a little giggle. Not a mocking giggle, more like a giggle that would slip out as you passed by a child playing with a new puppy. Just light and airy.
Uggghhhhh.
I walked in feeling terrible and awkward. That was the perfect example of all those times that I said I'd react one way, when in reality I reacted the opposite.
What I should have been doing while in the store was trying to figure out how to respond in a more gospel-centered way once I returned to my car. Instead I was hoping maybe he'd moved on.
When I checked out (diapers and 2 bags of trail mix to munch on during the day), a man walked in and told the cashier "You got some guy bumming money off people out here." The cashier paged the manager to take care of the situation, but before that happened, I was ready to return to my car.
I walked out looking at the ground, determined not to say anything to him. As I unlocked it and began to open the door, that slurred voice said "Heeey sweethhheart..." Halfway into my seat, I looked up, smiled, and said "Hi!" again, awkwardly. I shut the door and started up the car. He was still sitting in that same spot, right in front of my car. He threw his hands up in that confused, shrugged position and cocked his head sideways. This next part nauseates me a little. I looked at him from behind the steering wheel, smiled and waved excitedly.
What was I trying to do? Make him feel better by smiling and being chipper? Seriously? Forgive me if this offends you, but there's only 1 word I can think of that he must have been thinking as I drove off: bitch. I shut my car door on him before he even had the chance to ask me for anything.
As I was driving off it hit me that I had bought 2 bags of trail mix. No, I didn't have any money to give him. But I had 2 bags of trail mix. If nothing else, I could have at least tossed him 1 as I got into my car. But I didn't.
I had the chance to show Jesus to him. To show him Christ's love with 1 simple little act, at virtually no cost. It would have cost us $4 and about 5 seconds of my time. Instead I did the comfortable thing. I ignored him. Worse than that. I closed the door in his face.
This happened 2 nights ago and I can't get it out of my head. I sing in worship to Christ about his love and ask Him to give me the opportunities to show it to others, and when the opportunity hits me over the head like a cinderblock, I don't recognize it. And at this point I'm wondering if I would react with Christ's love even if I did recognize it.
As I pulled up to park I didn't notice a man sitting in front of the space until I was half-way parked. It would have been way too noticable and rude to have moved from that spot at that moment, so I finished parking and got out of the car with a smile.
Me, friendly and cheerful: "Hi!"
Him: "hey, how are ya?"
Me: "I'm doing well, you?"
Him, dejected and somewhat slurred: "Ohhhh I'm just trying to survive."
Maybe I wasn't expecting that response from him, leading to my terrible reaction. I just said "Aweee," with a little giggle. Not a mocking giggle, more like a giggle that would slip out as you passed by a child playing with a new puppy. Just light and airy.
Uggghhhhh.
I walked in feeling terrible and awkward. That was the perfect example of all those times that I said I'd react one way, when in reality I reacted the opposite.
What I should have been doing while in the store was trying to figure out how to respond in a more gospel-centered way once I returned to my car. Instead I was hoping maybe he'd moved on.
When I checked out (diapers and 2 bags of trail mix to munch on during the day), a man walked in and told the cashier "You got some guy bumming money off people out here." The cashier paged the manager to take care of the situation, but before that happened, I was ready to return to my car.
I walked out looking at the ground, determined not to say anything to him. As I unlocked it and began to open the door, that slurred voice said "Heeey sweethhheart..." Halfway into my seat, I looked up, smiled, and said "Hi!" again, awkwardly. I shut the door and started up the car. He was still sitting in that same spot, right in front of my car. He threw his hands up in that confused, shrugged position and cocked his head sideways. This next part nauseates me a little. I looked at him from behind the steering wheel, smiled and waved excitedly.
What was I trying to do? Make him feel better by smiling and being chipper? Seriously? Forgive me if this offends you, but there's only 1 word I can think of that he must have been thinking as I drove off: bitch. I shut my car door on him before he even had the chance to ask me for anything.
As I was driving off it hit me that I had bought 2 bags of trail mix. No, I didn't have any money to give him. But I had 2 bags of trail mix. If nothing else, I could have at least tossed him 1 as I got into my car. But I didn't.
I had the chance to show Jesus to him. To show him Christ's love with 1 simple little act, at virtually no cost. It would have cost us $4 and about 5 seconds of my time. Instead I did the comfortable thing. I ignored him. Worse than that. I closed the door in his face.
This happened 2 nights ago and I can't get it out of my head. I sing in worship to Christ about his love and ask Him to give me the opportunities to show it to others, and when the opportunity hits me over the head like a cinderblock, I don't recognize it. And at this point I'm wondering if I would react with Christ's love even if I did recognize it.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Papa
You know how there are some things you say to prepare yourself for certain events? I do this all the time. Like... "If something were to happen to (insert person's name), I would react logically and rationally. I wouldn't react based on emotions." Ok, so maybe not everyone is that extreme in their thinking, but for me, that's the typical scenario.
Easier said than done. Every time.
I'm not exactly sure where to start. I guess I'll start from my perspective, when the man I call Papa was called "Mr. Dean." This would be 11 years ago, when I was in 9th grade. Who knew that this couple moving to town would cause events that would significantly affect the course of my life. I say that because when Mr. Dean met me, (for some reason) he began praying (fervently) that one of his grandsons would "snatch me up." HELLO!!!! I was in the 9th grade! And let me be the first to say that he wasn't quiet about this prayer. He reminded me often that he just KNEW, without a doubt, that I would end up with one of his grandsons. Ok, so that could be possible, seeing that he has dozens of them (slight exaggeration). But I always disagreed and thought he was just a crazy old man. Because we both knew the only grandsons of his that I knew were the Grants. And geez....the Grants? Seriously?! No thanks.....
(Yes those were really my thoughts) (then)
Well, long story short and a bunch of not-to-relevant details later, you can clearly see I ate my words and Mr. Dean's prayers were answered with a big, fat yes. I now call him Papa.
Fast forward a few years... Enter Roscoe. To understand what comes next, you have to understand the name choice. Roscoe is Mark's great-grandfather. It goes Roscoe-Gerald-Tim-Gerald (that's Mark's first name)-Roscoe. Cool, I know..... Our little Roscoe's middle name is Porter. Papa's middle name is Porter. So put Roscoe Porter Grant together and you have an ultra-cool family name.
That's what hit me today when I went back to visit Papa in ICU. I walked over to his bed and he started crying. That's all he physically could do. I don't know what he was thinking. I probably never will, but I hugged him, still dry-eyed. Then I reached down to grab his hand and I saw it. That wristband with his name: Jack Porter Dean. The Porter in that name just jumped out at me and I realized that no matter what happens to him through this whole ordeal, his namesake was out in the lobby, being held and loved on by family. On one hand you've got an old life, ready and eager to step into eternity, and on the other you have a new life, barely beginning his journey. So much for dry eyes. The tears started falling as I realized that our precious boy will most likely not remember the sweet, loving, practical-joking, whistling, smiling, laughing so hard his shoulders bounce up and down Papa that I've grown to love over the years. And that's just my perspective of 11 years. He's got a family of over 30 blood relatives (children and grandchildren alone) that I know could drop another plethora of adjectives to describe him.
He had a stroke on Sunday. My brain is hurting trying to remember all the details. It's been a long couple of days, emotionally if nothing else. He can't swallow or talk. He has a living will and is refusing a feeding tube or any other sort of tube to nourish him. He's even refusing an IV. Before you get all judgmental, realize that this is something he and Granny decided long ago. The decision wasn't made this week, it was made years back when Papa was healthy and cognitive of the implications of such decisions. Even today, the doctors made sure he understood what this refusal meant and every time he nodded. From his perspective, he doesn't want to be a vegetable, trapped inside a body, and he doesn't want to be a burden to family. Even though there is physical therapy for this and he has a chance of getting better, that's not what he wants. So as his family, we're respecting his decision. Does it make it any easier? Of course not.
I really need to read the book One Thousand Gifts. My sister-in-law Beth has been building her list of gifts for months now, and is still counting somewhere around 1100. I realized today that God had given Roscoe to the family as a huge gift of love and grace in the midst of seemingly dark circumstances. We got to the hospital sometime just past noon. I didn't have any plans of staying or leaving, really. You know how it is with a baby... We were just going to play it by ear. As soon as I got there, God turned Roscoe into our little angel gift. There was something about a little baby that was like a calming salve on the wounds of hurting family. Any time a family member was overwhelmed and needed some "baby therapy," as we were calling it, they would come out into the main area and hold Roscoe. And each and every time, he snuggled right into that person's chest, almost as if by cuddling close enough to the heart, he could temporarily heal it. I'm talking transitioning from smiling and being in a playful, wide-awake mood to *bam* instant snuggle machine. All day long...from noon until just past 9 when the poor little guy was too tuckered out and fell asleep. Thank you God for that good gift...
Other family is on the way in, including Mark, and Daniel, his brother. So this is bittersweet. I get Mark back for a few days, but don't like the circumstances bringing him here.
Updates will come as I have them. Until then, a picture of us from the day he went from being just Mr. Dean to being Papa.
Easier said than done. Every time.
I'm not exactly sure where to start. I guess I'll start from my perspective, when the man I call Papa was called "Mr. Dean." This would be 11 years ago, when I was in 9th grade. Who knew that this couple moving to town would cause events that would significantly affect the course of my life. I say that because when Mr. Dean met me, (for some reason) he began praying (fervently) that one of his grandsons would "snatch me up." HELLO!!!! I was in the 9th grade! And let me be the first to say that he wasn't quiet about this prayer. He reminded me often that he just KNEW, without a doubt, that I would end up with one of his grandsons. Ok, so that could be possible, seeing that he has dozens of them (slight exaggeration). But I always disagreed and thought he was just a crazy old man. Because we both knew the only grandsons of his that I knew were the Grants. And geez....the Grants? Seriously?! No thanks.....
(Yes those were really my thoughts) (then)
Well, long story short and a bunch of not-to-relevant details later, you can clearly see I ate my words and Mr. Dean's prayers were answered with a big, fat yes. I now call him Papa.
Fast forward a few years... Enter Roscoe. To understand what comes next, you have to understand the name choice. Roscoe is Mark's great-grandfather. It goes Roscoe-Gerald-Tim-Gerald (that's Mark's first name)-Roscoe. Cool, I know..... Our little Roscoe's middle name is Porter. Papa's middle name is Porter. So put Roscoe Porter Grant together and you have an ultra-cool family name.
That's what hit me today when I went back to visit Papa in ICU. I walked over to his bed and he started crying. That's all he physically could do. I don't know what he was thinking. I probably never will, but I hugged him, still dry-eyed. Then I reached down to grab his hand and I saw it. That wristband with his name: Jack Porter Dean. The Porter in that name just jumped out at me and I realized that no matter what happens to him through this whole ordeal, his namesake was out in the lobby, being held and loved on by family. On one hand you've got an old life, ready and eager to step into eternity, and on the other you have a new life, barely beginning his journey. So much for dry eyes. The tears started falling as I realized that our precious boy will most likely not remember the sweet, loving, practical-joking, whistling, smiling, laughing so hard his shoulders bounce up and down Papa that I've grown to love over the years. And that's just my perspective of 11 years. He's got a family of over 30 blood relatives (children and grandchildren alone) that I know could drop another plethora of adjectives to describe him.
He had a stroke on Sunday. My brain is hurting trying to remember all the details. It's been a long couple of days, emotionally if nothing else. He can't swallow or talk. He has a living will and is refusing a feeding tube or any other sort of tube to nourish him. He's even refusing an IV. Before you get all judgmental, realize that this is something he and Granny decided long ago. The decision wasn't made this week, it was made years back when Papa was healthy and cognitive of the implications of such decisions. Even today, the doctors made sure he understood what this refusal meant and every time he nodded. From his perspective, he doesn't want to be a vegetable, trapped inside a body, and he doesn't want to be a burden to family. Even though there is physical therapy for this and he has a chance of getting better, that's not what he wants. So as his family, we're respecting his decision. Does it make it any easier? Of course not.
I really need to read the book One Thousand Gifts. My sister-in-law Beth has been building her list of gifts for months now, and is still counting somewhere around 1100. I realized today that God had given Roscoe to the family as a huge gift of love and grace in the midst of seemingly dark circumstances. We got to the hospital sometime just past noon. I didn't have any plans of staying or leaving, really. You know how it is with a baby... We were just going to play it by ear. As soon as I got there, God turned Roscoe into our little angel gift. There was something about a little baby that was like a calming salve on the wounds of hurting family. Any time a family member was overwhelmed and needed some "baby therapy," as we were calling it, they would come out into the main area and hold Roscoe. And each and every time, he snuggled right into that person's chest, almost as if by cuddling close enough to the heart, he could temporarily heal it. I'm talking transitioning from smiling and being in a playful, wide-awake mood to *bam* instant snuggle machine. All day long...from noon until just past 9 when the poor little guy was too tuckered out and fell asleep. Thank you God for that good gift...
Other family is on the way in, including Mark, and Daniel, his brother. So this is bittersweet. I get Mark back for a few days, but don't like the circumstances bringing him here.
Updates will come as I have them. Until then, a picture of us from the day he went from being just Mr. Dean to being Papa.
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