Why The WARM Place?

     There is a long (but surely incomplete) list of stuff I can remember using to protect my kids from physical, emotional, psychological or spiritual harm: outlet covers, baby monitors, night lights, car seats, toilet locks, cabinet locks, stair gates, personal flotation devices, swim goggles, training wheels, helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, bug spray, sunscreen, sunglasses, coats, mouth guards, internet filters, my quick reflexes, my raised voice, my fervent prayers. I am hard wired to protect those sweet babies God blessed me with. I have not always been successful. Kids and situations are unpredictable. I’m not a perfect parent. I have failed, forgotten, ignored, overlooked. Like everyone else, I guess. But I am a pretty good parent. I have protected my kids from lots that they needed protecting from. Even though I have poured considerable energy and money into protecting my kids, I could not protect them from cancer. From melanoma. From death. From losing their dad to that wretched disease when they were just 14, 12, 12 and 8 years old. There was no gate to keep that horrible enemy out. No lock to stop it from entering my house. No spray, filter, or screen to shield my children from the devastation it caused. I am a woman of faith and God never left us, but the valley of the shadow of death is dark, scary, cold and unrelenting. When darkness pushed in, I gathered my children close, but I really could not protect them from reality. Daddy
was gone. He is gone. He is never coming back. Your life is forever changed. Some part of your precious, carefree innocence lost.

 
     Death is lonely. I believe that we will see Dan again, but death is still lonely. I never expected this to be my story. He was only 40. We have 4 kids who need a dad. What am I supposed to do? I was terrified. Afraid of the finances, afraid of the dark at night, afraid of losing my mind. Mostly I was afraid that I wasn’t enough. How could I possibly fill the gap Dan left? How could I get 4 kids through the death of their father when I wasn’t even sure I could survive it? What would I say? Would his death be the event that sent their young lives into a downward spiral? I thought on more than one occasion that perhaps being left here with just me as their only parent was actually going to be the event that would be their demise. Fear loomed large and constant. So many fears. Overwhelming, crippling emotions.

     We found The WARM Place a few months after Dan died. A hospice social worker had referred me and I took the kids to check it out. I had never heard of The WARM Place until Dan got sick. I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the concept of it. How could there be enough kids and families who had experienced loss to make this place necessary? The name is an acronym that stands for W​hat A​bout R​emembering M​e, but walking through the doors of the building you can’t help but feel the emotional warmth in that place. It feels like you’ve walked into a sweet neighbor’s house. We were immediately welcomed with gentle smiles and a home like atmosphere. I admit that I actually dreaded going there the first time because I didn’t want to be in the situation we were in and going there made it seem that much more real. I was a widow and my kids had lost their dad. I didn’t want people looking at us and pitying us or feeling sorry for us. So why did I go there? Because I was desperate. As much as I felt like an emotional, exhausted mess, I knew I had to find a way to get my kids through this. I had seen and heard too many stories of children who had lost one parent to death and the other to grief. I resolved to do all I could to keep their lives moving forward in a positive way.

 
     I could not have done it without The WARM Place. We started attending every other Thursday night. It started with a potluck dinner with all of the other families who were there for the very same reason we were. It was awkward at first because I could not stop thinking how sad it was that a room full of parents and children was all gathered here with deep pain in their hearts and one family member gone, never to share a meal with their family again. I was amazed and sort of puzzled at the families who had been attending longer. They smiled. They even joked and laughed. I wondered how or why they would smile or laugh at a place like this. At a time like this. I didn’t talk much for a while. I was polite but all I wanted to do was cry. That was ok. Not one person was offended or surprised. They knew where I was coming from and they knew where The WARM Place would take us. The potluck meal was always followed by the kids splitting into age appropriate groups and the parents meeting to support one another
with amazing facilitators there to help encourage and direct the group discussion. The kids did activities and crafts that I know they enjoyed. They may not have really known how to articulate
what grief was, but they had very real and very big feelings and were learning how to process those feelings with caring, attentive facilitators. I could go on and on about how much the parent support group helped me. I loved it there. I went from dreading showing up there to looking forward to it. I was privileged to sit in that circle with so many brave, honest, real people who were trying to hold the pieces together for their kids and were just as scared as I was. And brave. We didn’t crawl into bed, withdraw from the world and neglect our kids in the tragedy. We got them to a place that could help them. A place that could help us, too. I’m proud of us. Some of the best people I have ever met were in that group. We kept going for about 2 years. Thinking about the difference in where we were emotionally when we first crossed their threshold to where we ended up upon saying goodbye to The WARM Place makes me smile. Who would’ve thought, huh? I’m not saying The WARM Place was the beginning and end of our grieving. Not by a long shot. But I can sincerely say that The WARM Place gave us the understanding, support, tools and permission to grieve that we needed to continue our journey of grief in a healthy way. What a gift and a treasure. A lifeline.

 
     I wish The WARM Place wasn’t needed. I wish no more kids had to lose a dad, or a mom, or a sibling. I wish all kids could be protected from that. But they can’t and The WARM Place continues to open it’s doors to those new families every day who never wanted to be there but who will leave there so blessed. The WARM Place never charges families a fee. It’s a free service to the families who benefit immensely from it. They depend on donations. Isn’t that amazing? It doesn’t even seem possible that something so valuable and top notch could be a gift but it is. That is why I am committed to helping raise funds for The WARM Place. No doubt, I sell t­shirts every year around Dan’s birthday to honor his memory. It feels so good to remember him in that way and share that with so many people who may or may not have known him but want to help us remember and honor him. However, I also sell t­shirts so I can give back to a place that gave so much to my family. I want to continue to raise funds because if I can be a small part of helping one child learn how to find a new ‘normal’ and process the immense grief they are experiencing, I truly believe I can affect not only that one child, but also generations to come. That one child will become an adult and maybe a parent ­ ready to love and protect the next generation. It’s way bigger than me, or my family, or our grief.

Check out The WARM Place at www.thewarmplace.org. Go to
www.bonfirefunds.com/hugs4hope­-2016 to buy a t­shirt. All proceeds will benefit The WARM
Place. Thank you from the Smiths❤

Call Me Jack

    I’ve been growing a beanstalk of perfectionism. I’m not exactly sure where the seeds of my perfectionism came from. It probably doesn’t really matter at this point where I picked up those not-so-magic beans because they have now grown into a perfectionism of giant redwood proportions. Sometimes, when I try to chop it down, I feel like Jack when he faced his formidable beanstalk. This thing is out of control and I’m not sure how to uproot it.

I don’t like to admit it, but the truth is…I want to be perfect.

  I want to be the perfect mom, the perfect friend, the perfect sister, the perfect daughter, the perfect homemaker, the perfect widow (whatever that means). I have subconsciously and sometimes deliberately avoided, quit or suffered through valuable and potentially beautiful experiences and relationships because I feared they would be less than perfect. Feared I would be reminded that I am less than perfect if I attempted them.  I can talk a big talk about grace for myself and others and even extend some grace to myself (but mostly for others). The reality is, in the deepest, darkest recesses of my heart, those roots of perfectionism grow deeper and I continue to give them what they need to extend to the depths of my soul.  I fill my watering can with unrealistic expectations, lies about what makes me worthy of love and comparisons to other imperfect people.  The roots are deeper than I even know and the fruits of my perfectionism are self-centeredness, impatience, intolerance, ungratefulness, and discontent.



Most recently, I have realized that I even try to recruit those I love the most to help me nurture my perfectionism and then get angry and manipulative when they have the audacity to be human and blemish the perfect landscape I am trying so hard to develop--my beanstalk serving as the centerpiece of it all.  I choose to nurture the beanstalk--or the idea of it--more than the people.  Oh, that just makes my soul ache with regret.  Will someone please hand me an axe?  I mean, honestly, there is a giant trying to kill me at the top of this thing and I keep watering it anyway.



There have been so many events in my life that should have served as my metaphorical axe.  Events that made it clear that neither I, nor this life, are perfect.  My parents’ divorce, 2 kids with autism, cancer, the death of my husband--very clear, concrete slaps in the face that shake me by the shoulders and say, “Snap out of it!”.  And maybe those events have given me a much needed dose of my imperfect reality.  At least temporarily.  Maybe there HAVE been moments in those traumatic, heart wrenching times when I have loosened my death-grip on the desperate pursuit of perfection.  Moments when I have basically given up and let life take me where it wanted to.  Moments where I trusted God enough to trust His plans.  But then, I look out on the landscape of my life and instead of noticing all the beauty around me, I notice that wilting beanstalk of perfection and coax myself into reviving it instead of letting it die.  This time maybe I can make it happen.  This time maybe I won’t mess up.  This time maybe I can control everything.  I can control cancer and death and autism and people and the future.  It’s a powerful, ugly, ridiculous beanstalk.  It has to come down.



       John 16:33 says, “In this godless world you will continue to experience difficulties.  But take heart!  I’ve conquered the world.” (MSG).

The only thing that will ever be perfect in this life is God and His grace.  I can look at that fact as a major disappointment because my notion of ‘perfect’ will never happen, or I can look at it as a huge burden lifted off of these tired shoulders.  I am not perfect!  Hooray! (chop chop)  My life will never be perfect!! Yay!! (chop chop)  The people in my life who I love so dearly will never be perfect!!  Yesss! (chop chop)  God’s grace in my life is perfectly sufficient. Enough.  And He uses all the imperfection to mold me into who He wants me to be!!  (Timberrrrrrr!!!!!!)



       Is this a one time, clean break from my treasured beanstalk?  Not likely.  The landscape of my life will have a noticeable bare spot where the perfectionism has flourished for so long.  That stump isn’t pretty.  But if perfectionism is gone, more light can come in and other things start to grow--tenderness, authenticity, compassion, faith, approachability, understanding, joy.  I want to end this post perfectly.  But I can’t. And that’s ok.

 See what I did there?

Hugs

There is no 'right' or 'standard' way to commemorate the death of your husband--the father of your children.  This is the 4th time this awful anniversary has come around and every time, I wish I had orchestrated a really meaningful plan to capture all this day means to me and to my kids (This neurotic thinking is a by-product of chronic perfectionism. I will soon be posting a blog about my perfectionism which, of course, is being edited to 'perfection').  The honest to God truth is that everybody does it differently. I like (and kinda hate) reading on social media about the Hallmark-ish ways people do this.  I have the same enormous feelings everyone in my shoes would have about losing my sweet husband and the father of my 4 kids, but when I get to the anniversary of his death,  I am much less about creating a beautiful memorial and much more about just crying my eyes out or imagining what he would think about how the kids have grown or pouring over old pictures until I want to throw up.  It's not pretty.  No one would want to watch this Hallmark special or read this story on Facebook.  I get sad. And mad. Still. After 4 years.  So that's what I'll be doing to remember Dan--crying, venting, regretting, wishing.  Obviously, I'm also writing, which is one of the more productive things I do.  I dug up a journal entry I wrote just weeks

after Dan was diagnosed with melanoma.  I intended to post it but felt it might come across as melodramatic since we were so early on in our journey with cancer.  I didn't want to totally believe that he might die, but now that he is gone, I feel thankful that God opened my eyes to the simple truth I wrote about before it was too late.  Here it is:

Hug your husband today.  Not the rushed, obligatory hug before you leave the house.  Not the tired, begrudging hug when you are exhausted and thinking of yourself...really...hug him. Wrap your arms around him, pull him close and linger there.  Close your eyes and experience all there is to experience in something as simple as a hug.  Hear him breathing and maybe even his heartbeat.  Be weak and protected by those arms around you.  Recognize the way he smells and drink it in.  Imagine if this were the last hug you could ever give him or receive from him - know that someday, maybe sooner than you think, it WILL be the last hug.  Be there, right there in the middle of that hug and take your time.  Don't underestimate the blessing of this simple gesture.  Know that being able to stand right in front of this person God has given you and reach out to touch him and be together, stopped, connected for even a brief piece of eternity is usually taken for granted and not a guarantee.  There are those who would give anything for what we have right now - would give anything for just one more hug...Time runs out eventually and though we are confident that there is life beyond this physical world we are a part of, the simple connection of a hug can carry us through and keep us going - even when all we have is memories of hugs.  Hug him now. Hug him often.  Hug him differently from now on.

I wrote that as a reminder to embrace Dan in the midst of the ensuing chaos of cancer. You'd think it would be obvious, but even when we could taste the bitter brevity of life, it kept moving forward at breakneck speed and we had 4 kids and 2 jobs and all the stuff grown ups have to deal with.  Add to that countless appointments to hunt down an elusive cure for cancer, surgeries to remove the beast, varied treatments all over the metroplex with an impressive line up of specialist after specialist, the looming questions you never want to ask about prognosis, and the palpable, justified, taunting fear.

We could have easily let it swallow us up and forgotten to hold on to each other.  But. We didn't let it swallow us.  I think we loved each other better in that last year than we ever had--kinda sad and beautiful at the same time.  He died a little over a year later. So, in addition to wallowing in the sad (which is okay to do), asking God some questions (like any child of the Father is allowed to do), and just getting through the day, I am going to remember the hugs again.  If each one of you hugs differently today because you've read this memorial post, I'd say I've honored my sweet Dan.  Hugs.

Giants, Milk and Honey

When I woke up to a New Year this morning, I was less than inspired. Without leaving my bed, I peeked in on Twitter and Instragram. As expected, the social media theme right now is 2016. A new year. Fresh start. Best year yet! #hastobebetterthanlastyear (that one makes me chuckle a little because I think it's a back handed compliment to 2016 depending on how rotten 2015 must've been for someone). People are tweeting inspirational messages and hashtags about taking on the new year. Instagram is bursting with beautiful photos of mountains or long, winding roads with words meant to convince me that I can climb that mountain or walk down that road and it's gonna be A-MAZ-ING. I scroll through all of it with a hint of cynicism.  To add to the negativity, I see photo collages of the #bestof2015 and convince myself I probably didn't take enough pictures of my kids last year. Or do enough pic-worthy activities with them.  Sigh.  There's nothing wrong with all of the inspirational new year's buzz--I think it's a positive use of social media. It's just that I didn't wake up today with a freshly written list of resolutions or a sense that the best is yet to come. Since I'm being honest, I'll have to say that I woke up feeling a bit overwhelmed. Defeated. Another year to struggle. I stayed under the covers a little longer and cried. It was a moment of grief. It was a reminder that although the calendar will show a new year (and I will write the wrong one for at least 6 more weeks), there is nothing new about my circumstances. Can you say 'Debbie Downer'? I seriously considered just stewing in my negative soup but I needed more. Way more.  I needed God to pull me out of that moment and give me a pep talk better than any hashtag or scenic mountain range. I opened my bible app and started reading the passages assigned to me on my reading plan (the one I consistently get behind on). I didn't seek out a particular verse to speak to how I was feeling. It was more of a comforting routine. Enter a sweet, loving Father who never misses an opportunity to encourage me if I am willing to let Him. The passage I was assigned today just 'happened' to be in Numbers. It's the account of when Moses sent a scouting party into Canaan and most of them came back in a panic. A whole group of downers who focused only on what would be challenging in that land God promised to them. Okay, God, the connection is not lost on me. The real focus in this passage, however, is the pair of scouts who came back with more than just overwhelming concerns. Joshua and Caleb came back admitting that there were obstacles but they were determined to focus on the potential. Determined to focus on God.  Sure, they saw the giants in the land but they also saw a land 'flowing with milk and honey'. Numbers 13:30 says, 'Caleb interrupted, called for silence before Moses and said, "Let's go up and take the land--now. We can do it."' When God spoke in chapter 14, verse 24, He said, "But my servant Caleb--this is a different story. He has a different spirit; he follows me passionately. I'll bring him into the land that he scouted and his children will inherit it." I love when I think I'm just reading my bible and God reminds me that He wants to speak to me. I'm no Caleb, but I want to be. I clearly woke up this morning ready to tell myself how overwhelming the obstacles are and how I will never make it. But God wanted to remind me that I can do it. God didn't give the Israelites or even Caleb a step-by-step plan for their journey into Canaan. He didn't tell them exactly how they would overcome all of the very real obstacles ahead. And He didn't take those obstacles away. But he did express his approval of Caleb's attitude. Caleb had seen how scary Canaan seemed but he refused to give in to fear or discouragement.  He had seen hard times.  He was wandering in the wilderness with all the others and still trusted that God had more for him.  I don't know if 2016 will seem more like the promised land or wandering in the wilderness, but I do know that I want to be a Caleb. I want God to look at my heart and say 'This is a different story. She has a different spirit. She follows me passionately.' So whether you are pumped about 2016 or still under your covers crying, I say 'Let's go up and take 2016--now. We can do it.'

Reunited

I had the great pleasure of returning to my hometown recently for a reunion of the church youth group I grew up in.  I was an awkward, gangly seventh grade girl when we started attending that church and over the next 6 years, my sister and I kept showing up every time the doors opened until I graduated from high school. It was home for me--complete with a family made up not only of my peers, but also a group of adult volunteers who would be a crucial part of 'the village' that raised this child. It's been almost 25 years since I left that safe place to start college.  I went back a few times over the years, but never for very long.  I got married young, at a few days shy of 21years old, and married life followed by kids meant I grew roots elsewhere and let the memories and most of the friendships I had formed there fade into the back of my mind and heart.  Not gone, but buried deep.  It was earlier this summer that one of the girls who had also been a part of the group put feelers out on Facebook to ask if anyone might be interested in a reunion.  I have to think that most people had mixed emotions about reuniting after 25 years.  I can speak from my own experience and say I felt a mixture of excitement, curiosity and nostalgia.  I loved those people and the idea of many of us being all together reminiscing, catching up and reconnecting in a more-than-Facebook kind of way was exciting.   I also felt a healthy dose of fear, anxiety and, at times (keeping it real here), just downright terror.  It's no secret that people want to look like they have somehow fought off gravity at reunions and I am no exception, but my most gripping anxiety stemmed from fear of having to share my story.  It's sad.  Really sad.  And I didn't want to be voted Most Likely To Bring The Entire Reunion Down With Her Sad Life Story (there actually weren't any elections held, but wouldn't that be an awful award to receive?)  I RSVPed anyway and made plans to travel back home with my sister and brother-in-law.  The closer the reunion got, the more anxious I got.  Days before, I was a basket case (in the privacy of my home or for my sister to witness).  I literally began hoping some kind of illness or homeowner's disaster would prevent me from going.  I even considered just not going and letting everyone fill in the blanks of why I canceled however they wanted to.  I got a good pep talk from a few of my closest confidants, reminding me basically that:  1. They would be supporting me and that  2. It was not all about me and that I was not unique in having experienced great pain and loss--after all, it HAD been 25 years-- so I put the whole thing in perspective and made the trip.  Once we walked through the door of the restaurant where the reunion was being held, I felt at ease and at home.  Inwardly, I was so relieved and so thankful to be over the hurdle of just getting there and I was thoroughly enjoying watching and being part of the multiple mini-reunions occurring all over that room.  The youth group was back together again and we all seemed to pick up right where we had left off.  A few people made reference to Dan's death when they greeted me and I appreciated them acknowledging him even if it might have felt uncomfortable or awkward.  Because the venue was reserved for 5 hours, it was possible to really relax and enjoy visiting and eating together.  There was also time to watch a slide show of pictures from way back when and laugh, remembering all the great trips we took together and how much fun we had.  Our youth minister, Mark, got up and was able to capture in words what our journey together so long ago meant to him.  It was a rare and wonderful opportunity for all of us to hear his heart and for us to have confirmed in our own hearts that all of those years were as important to him as they were to us.  It was pretty awesome.  We were now several hours into the evening and the fear had dissipated that I might crumble and cause some kind of scene by crying in public (which is, by the way, MY number one fear--for me, public speaking is cake compared to crying in public).  And just when I had completely let my guard down and thought I had made it through the night unscathed by a surprise grief attack, (insert ominous background music here)...IT happened.  I remember it in slow motion, like in the movies where something so bad is about to happen that it's played in slow-mo with someone always saying, 'NOOOOOO!!!,' while all eyes are on the trauma that is in the process of occurring. Mark wrapped up what he was saying and decided it was a good time to go around the room and have everyone tell what's going on in their lives right now. Gulp. He looked over to our table. Gulp.  He said 'Let's start with that table'.  Double gulp.  THEN he said...to ME....'Why don't YOU start?'.........PANIC! Are you kidding me?!? I am certain I either heard or said the slow-mo 'NOOOOOO!!!!' at this point.  I would love to tell you that I slowly stood up at this point and elegantly gave a moving synopsis of my most recent life events, concluded with an inspirational directive to seize the day, but that was not the case.  Not even close.  What I really did was awkwardly stand up on shaky legs, say 'I live in Fort Worth with my 4 kids' and then I lost it.  Horror of horrors, I started crying!  In public! (Disclaimer: I realize I have issues....I know what everyone would say to me at this point, 'It's ok to cry'--I realize it's OKAY, but I'd prefer not to do it in public.  I would even tell my kids it's okay, just not MY cup of tea). I quickly sat down and fumbled around the table trying to find one of those scratchy napkins to blot my eyes while at the same time, shrinking down to avoid the sympathetic eyes of others.  As much as I wanted to disappear right then, it didn't happen, so I sat there and regained composure ASAP.  Once my head stopped spinning, I saw a friend who had been sitting to my left earlier come back from the bathroom.  He had missed the entire slo-mo saga.  He was pretty puzzled and asked what had happened.  The conversation that ensued was the silver lining of that dark cloud of crying in public.  Because of my crying moment, I was able to start a conversation with this dear friend whom I knew had also suffered the loss of a spouse.  For him, the death had occurred several years earlier and he has been blessed with a loving wife, 2 kids and a new beginning.  I would never have started a conversation with him about our common losses, but I am so very grateful that an awkward moment for me turned into an opportunity to ask him some questions about life after life.  I don't regret crying.  There is only one thing I regret about the reunion and that is that I was not composed enough at that very scary moment to REALLY say what's going on in my life right now.  It might not have been moving or inspirational, but if I had the chance to say it without crying, here's what I might have said:  'I live in Fort Worth with my 4 kids.  They are my world. Although I will admit I am sometimes overwhelmed by the task of raising 4 kids alone, most of the time I embrace it and realize how truly blessed I am to have them.  Over 20 years ago, I met and married the love of my life and his name was Dan.  You guys would have loved him.  He was a great guy and an exceptional daddy and husband.  I miss him so much.  I wish he could have been here for this because he knew how important this group was in my life and how it kinda made me who I am today.   Knowing Dan, in his life and in his dying, also made me who I am today and although I wish he could come back to me, I like who I am today.  I believe that even back when we were kids in this group together, God knew the different parts of life He was preparing all of us for and I also believe he was using the precious experiences we had as a group way back then to prepare us for what we have encountered and what lies ahead, good or bad.  I consider it a privilege to be able to gather in a room with all of you and thank you for the parts you played in God preparing me for life.  This room feels a little like a 'great cloud of witnesses'.  I love you and wish you all the very best in life.  Don't be strangers.  If I don't see you again this side of heaven, we can catch up again there.'

Happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day this year is coming at an interesting time for me.  I say this because I've done so much thinking lately about what kind of mom I am.  I thought I had emerged from a fog months ago and even blogged about it, but after having come through the first year, I think it's only now I feel I really am seeing things a little more clearly and I'm able to honestly evaluate my parenting over this last year. Overall, I am giving myself some grace and saying that, given the circumstances, I did okay.  Basically, our ship sank and I was getting my kids into the life boat, intending to assess our situation once I could get myself into the boat.  I have been a mom for almost 16 years now and I would like to think I've grown in that time, but I am more aware after this year of how much growing I have to do.  When my oldest was a toddler, someone I really respected told me I should have lots of kids because I was doing such a good job--oh SURE, who couldn't do a good job with one very low maintenance girl with a sweet, cooperative temperament (so much like her Daddy).  I now realize she was just born that way and allowed me to pretend that she needed me to parent her (wink wink). I had twin boys and a singleton boy after my girl and although I love them with all my heart and they are good boys, it took all we had to outwit, outplay and outlast those guys.  IT WAS HARD!  As our family grew, my confidence as a parent shrank. With 4 different personalities developing (added to the 2 adult personalities already present in our home), parenting did not seem like so much of a slam dunk anymore.  As medical issues and autism crept into our lives, I knew for a fact that I did NOT have this all figured out.  I WILL give the Dan & Linda parenting team some props because I think we did pretty well considering what a full parenting plate we had.  We were a united front and truly worked together to give our kids the parents they needed.  We had our individual weaknesses, but where one would begin to fail, the other would step in and take over.  It was a well oiled machine for the most part with Christ at the center of it all because we knew we could do none of it without Him.  Obviously, since Dan died, I am left here with the responsibility of finishing this colossal task of raising our kids.  I am indescribably blessed with family who live minutes away to help me and they are the most amazing people--I have asked for so much help from them this year and they have gone out of their way to be there for me and for the kids.  They are a priceless treasure in our lives.  However, the parenting buck stops with me and at this point in our family's journey, I am now forced to reinvent myself as a parent.  This parenting solo thing has been one of the biggest adjustments in this first year without Dan.  Even on my best days of parenting alongside Dan, I realize now that I always had a back-up and I operated as only half of the parenting machine--in fact, Dan was such a great dad that I sometimes wonder if I was even half!  Being both parents is  E X H A U S T I N G.  No good cop for my bad cop--I have to figure out how to be both.  No one there when I'm at my wits' end to say "I'll take it from here, go take a break.". Maybe some people never have that, but I did.  I am sad to think of the impatience and frustration my kids have witnessed from me while I figure this single parenting thing out...sad to think of the times I have clung to control of my out of control environment at the expense of grace for 4 sweet kids who are feeling just as out of control as I am...sad to think of the opportunities I have given up to experience simple pleasures with my kids like a board game or a silly tv show or a lame knock knock joke because I had to keep the household running smoothly...no more.  No more dwelling on what I could have done better because I was, for the most part, doing the best I could.  No more feeling overwhelmed by single parenting.  I am ready to move forward, humbly.  I never was a perfect parent and neither was Dan--even with both of us here, we messed up sometimes.  I am thankful that through losing Dan, God is showing me weaknesses I don't think I would have ever seen otherwise.  If I can't see my weaknesses, I can't get stronger.  Most importantly, I want to show my kids that my weaknesses are perfect opportunities to let God carry me and grow me up.  That seems a little contradictory, but it's when we are empty that He can fill us up. So we've kept the life boat afloat for a year and now we're approaching dry land.  I am certain I have not made my last parenting mistake, but maybe I can make fewer and keep learning from the ones I do make.  Happy Mother's Day to all of the wonderful, imperfect, evolving moms I know! 

Big Tex, The Holidays and Spring

Ok, I will come right out and admit that the title of this post is all over the place.  All you type A's just stay with me and it will all fit together in a fairly neat package. It's just that I haven't posted in so long that alot has happened.   When I sat down to write this, I found a half-written post that I had started back in October when the State Fair of Texas was in full swing.  It has been almost six months since then, but I know why I never finished that post.  FIRSTS. I was overwhelmed with FIRSTS to the point that I really didn't have it in me to blog - only survive. Starting with the first State Fair any of us would attend without Dan, October kicked off a relentless series of FIRSTS.  The list continued with the standard firsts...Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's....it continued with our wedding anniversary on January 4th and my birthday on January 15th.  By the time February 8th rolled around (1 year since he died) I felt exhausted. I also felt relieved that we had survived all the FIRSTS.   I should offer a little explanation as to why Big Tex and The State Fair would even be considered significant and ranked among the other obvious FIRSTS.  I mean, it's a hot, crowded, expensive, smelly event with gross fried stuff everywhere and people pressuring you to buy a ShamWow or a hot tub or something else you never knew you needed until you got there, right?  Not for Dan! I will never understand the spell Big Tex had on Dan, but that man LOVED The Great State Fair of Texas. He had gone every year for as long as he could remember and he had seen every show and knew where everything was and it NEVER got old for him.  You could not go to The Fair with Dan and not enjoy yourself.  He was like a big kid there and once he had his own kids to take to The Fair, it was like a Lion King circle of life moment for him!  Really.  Not even kidding.  I must say it was kind of fitting that Big Tex burned down the year Dan died.  Almost like a tribute to the most dedicated fan The Fair had ever seen.  Dan had already been diagnosed when he took the kids to The Fair in 2011.  I couldn't go with them because I was working that day...regret...but I remember him being very emotional when they got home that evening.  He said it was the last time he'd be able to take the kids or go to The Fair himself.  I had hoped he was wrong, but, of course, he wasn't.   When The Fair rolled around in 2012, I felt the pressure to continue the tradition and take the kids myself.  I got all psyched up to brave it without Dan.  I was getting so stressed about it and I told myself it was because of the long drive and then parking and crowds and the expense of it and etc.,etc.,etc.  When I finally confided in a few dear friends about my near panic attack about The Fair, it hit me. I wasn't afraid or stressed out about the logistics of The Fair, I was afraid I could never make it the experience Dan had made it.  I knew my attempt to do The Fair would pale in comparison and I knew it would only make me miss him more.  I pictured myself walking around The Fair with the kids, trying not to cry, wishing Dan could be there with us.  Just the kind of Fair day every kid dreams of, right?  Then, one of my very wise friends said, "Who says you have to go to The Fair?"  Best. Advice. Ever.  Seriously - the thought that I was not REQUIRED to go to The Fair was so freeing.  I realized at that point that I could not possibly BE Dan.  I want to keep his memory so alive for the kids and for myself, but I am not required to BE Dan.  In fact, I can't.  I just have to be me and some of the great memories will be just that...memories.  We did not go to The Fair this time.  We survived.   That realization helped me through the holidays and all of the other FIRSTS as well.  They were hard, but not because I was putting ridiculous expectations on myself to make them wonderful.  I allowed them to flow naturally instead of trying to force them into being the almost perfect holidays minus Dan.  They were not perfect, but I found some sweet moments in all of them and learned the anticipation of them was sometimes worse than the actual FIRST. Now, jump forward and Spring is here again.  It has always been my favorite season, but I like it even more now.  It will always follow the hardest part of the year and it will always remind me that Winter does not last forever.