We have a speech therapist at our school.

We have a speech therapist at our school.

He comes in from time to time to pull kids out of my room for their therapies. He’s warm and kind and always takes the time to say hello when it’s convenient. Zoe was evaluated for speech therapy recently, and sometimes, the therapist comes into my classroom or finds me in the workroom to drop off her paperwork and consent forms.

The last time I saw him, I ran into him while laminating some student work. He smiled and chatted with my while he copied papers, and asked if Zoe had gone to school before. I replied yes, and we laughed at the differences between kids schooled in Montessori method, and those schooled in more traditional methods. Then, he said something extremely perceptive that’s stuck with me ever since.

“Zoe is so interesting. She’s very engaged and focused on what she’s doing. She’s very goofy, and she’s not hard on herself.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When she messes up, she doesn’t get upset. She says, ‘ That’s OK. I’ll get it next time,’ and tries again. She’s very persistent, but easy on herself.”

I know he didn’t realize the gravity of what he said to me, but I did. My chest gets tight when I think about my kid–MY kid–freely giving herself second and third chances, loving herself despite her mistakes, and enjoying the process of growth (things I’m still teaching myself at 27).

Here I am, beating myself up because my students and I were having an off-day during a walk-through, or because dinner didn’t taste great, or because I forgot to run the laundry…Again. I don’t know what Zoe has, but I obviously need a heavy dose of it. I know I make a lot of mistakes as a parent, but hearing other people tell me that my kid gives herself grace fills me with a rare type of joy I can’t quite describe. I was torn up during pregnancy, stressed that I would pass my anxiety and depression onto my kid, but somethings…working.

Maybe you’re overcoming addiction, or generational abuse. Maybe you’re like me and just trying to help our kids love themselves a little better than we love ourselves. I hope you know that your hard work is paying off, and I’m proud of you. I really am.

Displacement

I grew up in the church.

Like, first-outing, bible-class-teaching, VBS-going, felt-board-puppet-showing grew up in the church.

When I was my son’s age, we would raid the communion prep room after services and eat the leftover Matzo bread and grape juice as a pre-lunch snack.

My sister and I had a gum-guy (I feel like every Bible-Belt kiddo had a “gum guy” growing up). You know, the old man that all the kids would bolt to after worship service to grab their weekly peppermint fix? The one that wore suspenders and short sleeves button downs, and played Santa Clause in the winter? We had one of those. My kids even have one at our church in College Station, and they adore their Mr. Skip like I adored my own in elementary school.

I always felt at home in church.

I led small groups and taught bible classes. I welcomed new-comers and attended summer camps. When I walked into the building, I felt like I belonged. The smell of communion bread was comforting, and the tang of Great-Value grape juice tasted as sweet as any home-cooked meal. If the doors were unlocked, I was there-serving, singing, learning, and hungry for more.

Now, a year and a half post-COVID, I sit in the auditorium, broken and confused. For the first time in my life, I feel displaced in my congregation. For the first time in my life, the concept of church is is optional. I walk down the halls during bible class, peeking into classrooms, but never entering them. I don’t quite know where I fit in the church narrative anymore. The trauma of COVID has completely obliterated the respite I had in the church. I’ve spent 18 months relearning how to pursue God outside of the community I have had my entire life, and now that I’m back again, something feels—off.

The purpose of this piece isn’t to make anyone feel bad. I know I’ll be OK. I wanted to make sure that anyone who felt the same way as I knew they were not alone in this weird, almost post-COVID time. The social worker in me knows that trauma is an instigator for change, and I’m OK with it. I’ve unlearned and relearned so many things in the past year or so, and I’m thankful for it. Normally, I end my blog posts with a call to action, or an encouraging word or two. But this time, I don’t have a solution just yet. If you’re like me and are having to rewind the church that was unravelled a year ago, I stand with you. Let’s restart, together.

Ugly Plants

I buy flowers from the clearance section at Lowe’s.

I wish I could say that I felt convicted to save ugly plants because of some benevolent desire to nurture the dying flowers of Brazos County, but this is not an act of compassion. This is an act of frugality.

Ugly plants are cheap. The same flowers that sell for $3 sell for $.50 in the clearance section. Sure, they’ve lost their flowers. They may die. They won’t look fantastic the moment you plant them in the ground.  You may not know what colors the blooms will be; however, with patience, you eventually get your garden. Eventually, you get tiny bursts of color that you may–or may not–have expected. It’s wonderful. I definitely recommend it.

Recently, I found this forgotten picture on a saved draft in my WordPress account:

I remember seeing the flower, and purposefully stopping to take a picture.

“I can make a blog post out of this.” I thought.

But the flower slipped my mind–as did the purpose of the blog post–and eventually, spring turned to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter…And here we are. We’ve had a few freezes that have long since killed the poor plant (I’m not exactly the world’s most talented gardener). I feel as though this photo means more to me now than it did before, and frankly, I’m glad that it was forgotten until now.

This semester has been one of the most difficult few months I have ever had. I’m trying to be patient with myself–to remind myself that I am young and my life is constantly changing in the biggest of ways–but frankly, I’m disappointed. I’m struggling with the same old anxiety, the same old depression, the same old perfectionism that chips away at who God has built me to be. I’m going to be vulnerable with you guys and tell you: God and I aren’t talking as much as we used to. I have so much resentment in my anxious heart. I’m working on it. I feel wounded. I asked God to provide for me in a specific way, and it didn’t work out the way I had planned (shocker). You would think, one surprise daughter and one foster child later, that I would take God’s plan for me in stride. Though I have come a long way, I’m still learning. I’m still growing. God is pruning me (or Satan is attacking me. Or both. Who knows). If it wasn’t for the community of believers around me, I would have succumbed to the belief that I was a forgotten plant at Lowe’s, rotting in the Texas heat.

But I’m not.

And neither are you.

I may be the ugly plant at Lowe’s, but I’m most definitely not forgotten. And neither are you.

God loves you. He sees you. He’s the guy that buys flowers from the clearance section. He’s the gardener that sees the wilted and the dying and he transplants them and brings them back to life. He doesn’t do it because he’s cheap.  God the Creator doesn’t have to do anything for us that he doesn’t want to. He does it because he sees the potential in us–he sees what we can be–and he uses his infinite wisdom to prune us, mold us, and shape us into who we were meant to be all along. He buys us because we are worth the effort (yes, even you). And damn, it hurts. But the results are incredible.

Love,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Anxious Believer

Reformed Ugly Plant

 

 

Water Hose Parenting

Friends,

It’s been so long since I have had the time and mental energy to write.

I miss it more than anything.

So much has changed over the summer: We added a foster child to our family. I went back to work…For two different schools! A friend and I began a special needs ministry at our church. Zoe began walking, had a first birthday, and started preschool (all within the span of a week and half). Our rhythm is different and our days are longer and busier, but it’s good, I think. The past two years, we were in a season of laying things down. We needed to refocus on what was important, and prepare ourselves for parenting. Now, we are in a season of saying, “yes” to what God has to offer us. Sometimes I miss the sweet Sabbath and rest that the last year has brought to us, but I’m thankful for the path God has put me on, and I’m excited to see the growth that will come with it. But saying, “yes” is risky. Saying, “yes” means I will mess up. For someone with an anxiety disorder, the thought of letting other people down is debilitating. Going back to work means someone besides my sweet husband will know when I fail.

A few weeks ago, I was recovering from a week where nothing was going my way. The games I had worked so hard to schedule were canceled. I had miscommunication with my spouse, and it ended up stressing everyone out. I forgot to put my jeans in the dryer, so I showed up to work soaking wet. You know, the usual.

When I got  home from my job at the preschool, I changed into comfy clothes and stripped Zoe down to her birthday suit. We went outside so she could play with her new, fancy water-tables. I sat her down, turned on the hose, and collapsed on the bench to breath.

“What. A. Day.”

I picked a podcast to listen to while we played, and when I looked up, she wasn’t even near the water tables. She was playing with the hose, smiling and laughing harder than I had seen her in a long time. She was perfectly content with simplicity.

Zoe didn’t need a fancy toy or any special attention. She just needed me, the water hose, and my time. In that moment, I realized how much grace my relationship with my daughter has to offer. There are so many times that I don’t feel like I’m not enough for my kids. There’s so many times I feel like I fail them, and I’ve let them down. Instead of getting angry or upset with me, she leans in for a hug. She trusts me, and she forgives me again, and again (sounds like another relationship I am all too familiar with).

Going back to work has made me feel so torn between the different roles I am trying to fill. What if, in all of the chaos, I let my children down? If going back to work has taught me anything, it’s this: Children aren’t as complicated as we make them out to be. As a culture, we spend so much time and money trying to make things, “fun” and “exciting” and “new” for our kids. How refreshing is it to hear that our kids don’t need the excess? They need raw, real relationships–just like we do. They need to spend time with you, and they need to know that they can count on you when they fail. Quit stressing out about the toy when you know they’re going to have more fun with the box. Quit worrying about filling the water-table and just give them the water hose.

Love,

Sarah

A Little Bit Stressed

A Lot Loved

I Love You And I Won’t Let You Eat Sticks

Yesterday was grocery day.

I love grocery day.

Kylar has tried more than once to convince me to use grocery pickup, but now that I’m not working, I just can’t bring myself to do it.

I look forward to Mondays. I’ve made friends with the people at the butcher counter, and the old lady that gives out samples always smiles and talks to Zoe when we stop by. I look forward to strolling the aisles with Zoe smiling in my grocery basket as I describe everything around us.

“This is a zucchini, Zoe. See the green skin? I’ll roast it for dinner tonight, but only you and I will eat it. You’re dad doesn’t touch vegetables unless I cut them up and throw them in his fried rice… The strawberries don’t look good today, so we’re going to pass… One more stop before we go home! Can’t forget the Dr. Pepper…”

You get the gist.

Yesterday was a hard day for Zoe. She is teething. She was inconsolable during the car ride to HEB. I pulled over to make her a bottle, but all she did was chew on the nipple. I could tell she was in a lot of pain, and it hurt my heart. We had to cut our grocery trip short because she was visibly uncomfortable. When we got home, I pulled a screaming child out of her car seat, and grabbed as many grocery bags as I could fit into my hand. As I closed the trunk, I heard a “Crash!” I looked down, and see a puddle of red tomato sauce in my driveway, with tiny shards of glass shattered everywhere.

I took a deep breath.

I set my groceries down in the driveway, and dropped Zoe in the grass nearby. I figured I could get the majority of the glass picked up now, then I would figure out a way to get the rest of it after Zoe went down for her nap. I tossed most of it in the dumpster when I looked up and saw my sweet daughter chewing on a stick from the yard. She had the biggest smile on her dirt-covered face–she had finally figured out a way to soothe her pain by herself.

I smiled to myself and grabbed a teething biscuit out of the car. I’m all for letting my kid explore, but I can only let her eat sticks for so long. It’s good fiber, I guess. I unwrapped the teething biscuit and offered it to her. She kept smiling as she turned away. She was content with her stick. I took another deep breath, and removed the stick from her mouth.

She screamed some sort of banshee scream that I had never heard before. She. Was. Angry.

She was so angry, she failed to notice the teething cookie that I was frantically trying to give to her. Finally, as she was taking a deep breath to let out another wail, I shoved it in her mouth. Her eyes widened as she bit down. She smiled again. Her eyes were now red and her cheeks were stained, but she was content. This time, with something that was meant for a nine month old to chew on.  “I love you,” I smiled, “and I’m not going to let you eat sticks.”

I felt so connected to Zoe in that moment. How often have I happily chewed on my own stick? How often has God come along and removed it in anticipation of something better? How often have I screamed and yelled, shouting angrily at God, saying, “Why did you take the one thing I had away from me?” How often has God had to wave a teething biscuit in my face, saying, “If you would just calm down, you would see I have something better in store for you.” How many times do I need to be reminded to be still and wait for the glory of God to reveal itself? How many times has God looked me lovingly in the eyes and said, “I love you, and I’m not going to let you eat sticks.”

Since moving to College Station, I have lost so many things.

-My health

-My independence and freedom

-Financial security

-My physical beauty

-My sanity

But really. It hasn’t been an easy couple of years. Looking back, I see so many times God was begging me to give him my sticks. I see God taking my loneliness and giving me new friendships that encourage and sustain me. I see God taking my pride and making me rely on my husband for help; thus strengthening our new marriage in it’s own unique and beautiful way. I see God taking my life plan, that–while good in it’s own right–was not what was meant to be.

Friends, give God your sticks.

See what gifts he gives you in return.

Grieving Freedom

Recently, I visited a dear friend in Austin. We ate good food, drank good beer, and played good music. It was a wonderful respite from the demands of daily life that, recently, have been weighing me down. It was an entire weekend where I could just be me–the role I am most comfortable in. I love my role as mother and wife, but they are new and not entirely worn in. Being with Kate was like wearing an old pair of Dr. Martens after nearly a year of walking around in Tevas (literally and figuratively).

Out of all of our conversations, one stuck out to me the most. We spent the morning paddle-boarding on the lake, and Kate asked me,

“Sarah, did your twenties turn out like you think they would have?”

I snorted. Of course not. Until my twenties, everything had gone according to plan. I graduated high school with decent grades. I went to ACU and majored in helping people. I was involved in a drama ministry and met my best friends. I worked at Deer Run and met the love of my life.

You know, the usual.

If everything had gone according to plan, I would be sending you post cards from Thailand right about now. But since you haven’t gotten a quirky souvenir from me yet, that obviously did not happen. The freedom that I thought I would have in my twenties vanished when I became pregnant. Though I absolutely love Zoe–and I wouldn’t trade her for all the money in the entire world–sometimes, I feel like I’m missing out.

A couple weeks ago, I was talking to my therapist about this very issue. I was feeling guilty for my grief. She justified it, saying, “It’s like a 21 year-old finding out they have a chronic illness. It’s OK if they’re mad that they are sick.”

Except this is not an illness, it’s a child. I am grieving the loss of the life I could have if Zoe had waited to come until my 30’s. I can tell myself that I am mourning the loss of independence and spontaneity, but in reality, what am I really complaining about–that I have a wonderful, fearfully-made daughter for whom it is a privilege to care for?

My twenties have been a lesson in reality. Until my twenties, I was extremely future-oriented (When I get to high school I will…When I get into college I’m going to…When I’m a social worker I’ll always…). I was constantly looking forward. Then, I graduated college and went into the field. I discovered that social work was not what I thought it was going to be. I got sick. I gained a ton of weight. I got pregnant way before I had planned. And after finally being able to admit it to myself, and to others, I found something out: everyone is hurting. Everyone has disappointments. Almost everyone is wondering if the choices they made were the correct ones. My single friends are hurting. My married friends are hurting. My childless friends are hurting. Everyone in their twenties has had to deal with reality, and it sucks. Because of everything–my illness and my pregnancy–I was forced to stay present. Because of the path my life is on, I had to shift my perspective from always looking forward, to always looking at what is right in front of me.

So, no.  My twenties are not what I expected them to be. I don’t have the freedom I had anticipated. Instead, I am in the ministry of being available. You need your laundry done? I’ll help out. Need someone to hold your hand at a doctor’s appointment? I’ll be there. There’s no one to let your dog out? Cook your lunch? I got it. Do you need a walk and a listening ear? I’m here for you. Because my situation is different then I have planned, I have time for you. I can be late to a play date; the dishes in the sink can wait. I may not have the freedom to travel when I want to, or stay out late; however, I do have the freedom to stop what I’m doing and physically be there for people who need me. I have the freedom to help others in a way I never had before, and I’ll do it with a cute baby strapped on my back. It’s a different freedom then I had planned for my twenties, but I will take it–100% of the time.

Unique and Special Moms: Paige Christison

I have wanted to interview a few moms about their unique children for awhile now, and I am thankful to be able to post the first of what will hopefully be many interviews of moms with children in special circumstances.

Paige is an incredibly special mother to me. She not only raised the boy that would become my husband, but she welcomed me into her family without fear or hesitation. I knew that marrying a man meant marrying his family, and I am lucky to have the love and support of Paige. I can truly call her, “friend”. Paige is an amazing gift giver (you should see her tree at Christmas)! She is constantly serving others and goes out of her way to make people feel special. She’s the type of person that figures out you love dachshunds, and will send you a massive care package to your dorm filled entirely with wiener-dog themed gifts. Not only is she a wonderful friend, but she is a fantastic Nana for my Zoe, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Please enjoy my interview with Paige about her youngest son, Colton. Colton was adopted into the Christison family as an infant. The first time I met Colton, he called me by Kylar’s ex-girlfriend’s name with the intention of embarrassing Kylar. It worked. The first time I babysat him, he showed me that he could tell me a country’s name just by looking at his shape. He could even tell me their capitols (keep in mind, he was four at the time). To this day, I have never met a more intelligent, more curious child. Colton has had many ups and downs, but his parents work every day to make sure he has the tools to succeed. I know he will grow up to be a confident, loving, passionate adult.

Tell me a little about yourself. I am a follower of Christ, I am a wife, I am a mother, and–oh my goodness–I am a Nana! I am a teacher by trade, but have spent most of my adult life using that skill at home and church. Greg sometimes calls me a professional volunteer. I can be too controlling and have too high of expectations of others and myself, though I do think I have improved on this in the last 10 years.

You have always impressed me with your drive and your ability to get things done. I envy that! Next question: What is your favorite thing about being a mom? I love the “firsts”, the first wave, the first word, the first soccer game, the first backflip, the first best friend, the first date, the first glimpse of who they are becoming. The firsts never end, not even after they are grown, and I think that’s why I love them. There is always another one around the corner.

That’s something I have grown to love as well. It’s been so much fun watching Zoe experience things for the first time. What is something you do well as a parent? That is a tough one because often I will think, “I am rocking this,” only to look back and see I am not as awesome as I thought. It is a constant learning and evolving process. If I had to choose something (this scares me – what if my kids totally disagree) I would
probably say being there for my kids, to talk, to listen, or just support them.

I don’t think Kylar would disagree. He always looks forward to talking to you when he has something on his mind. I know it’s something that is very special to him. I know Courtney and Colton enjoy sharing their lives with you as well. Now, what made you and Greg decide to start fostering? It wasn’t just one thing but several that built on each other: ultimately it was God. I know that sounds cheesy, but it was God that put the experiences in my life that led up to that point when we decided to foster. First, Greg’s parents had done it and we talked about following their lead before we were even married. Experiences with his extended family just strengthened that goal. The series of events that put it in motion was our move to Fairview. The house was perfect for fostering because it had two bedrooms downstairs. Courtney and Kylar were old enough to understand and were on board with the idea. What really kept pushing me was a commercial by an adoption group that I heard on the radio. It played every time I got in the car. At the end of the commercial, they would say, “YOU can make a difference”. I felt like God was talking to me every time. I could not ignore Him any longer while we waited for the “perfect time”. If you wait for everything to be just so-so in your life, it will never happen. God knew it was the perfect time.

Wow. I love that. Did you and Greg always want to adopt? The simple answer is no, but I am not sure that is really how I felt. I did try to convince myself that what I wanted was to be there for these littles while their parents couldn’t. Our first placement was easy because we felt so strongly that he should go home. We didn’t and still don’t believe there was any abuse caused by the parents. That sweet boy had an unusually large head that caused him to be very unstable and fall a lot. Our 2nd placement was a brother and sister and it was really HARD! We had no true information about either child and it was a real struggle the first 48 hours. That was a really hard placement and removal for all of us. Greg wanted to be done at that point because it was so difficult emotionally on Courtney and Kylar. But God knew we were not done. Shortly after the siblings left, we started getting calls for newborns. John [Colton] was actually the 4th baby they had called us about. The others were placed before we could even reply. It was difficult for
me because I was afraid God was telling me that Greg was right and we should stop, but then there was Johnny [Colton]. He had been with us for about 5 months, when one day, I walked into the office holding him. I asked Greg what he was doing, and his response shocked me. He said, “I am researching countries without extradition because he is not going anywhere”. I remember the release that rolled through my body. I had tried so hard to be everything Johnny [Colton] needed without losing my heart to him. Now I had permission to do what I had already done: love him with everything within me. Well, that was way more than your question asked, sorry.

No! It was perfect. Adoption is such a beautiful thing, and I am so glad that Colton became a part of your family. What was the most difficult part of Colton’s adoption? WAITING, WAITING, AND WAITING some more …
There were lots of speed bumps along the way. For example, CPS said they planned on sending him back to his bio mom. It was difficult to wait for CPS to rule out all possible family/friends for placement, and then his bio dad claimed custody from jail. Ultimately, he requested a jury trial. Waiting has always been hard for me, it is certainly a weakness of mine.

Waiting is difficult for me, too. I’m sure it’s especially hard during the adoption process. What advice do I have for young parents who want to foster/adopt?Pray a lot, and be in complete agreement with your spouse. One parent can’t be effective doing it alone, and it will develop resentment towards each other. Don’t forget to still take time to be with God and with each other. It can be overwhelming at times, and you need to get back to your roots (God and spouse) to recharge. It will be a blessing to your life that you never expected.
How has Colton affected Kylar and Courtney? Well that has been all over the map and different for both of them. I think fostering opened their eyes to a part of the real world they had not experienced before. I hope he has taught them to love unconditionally, even when it is hard. I hope they have learned that everyone has a story and you don’t usually know what it is, so don’t judge people by their actions. As humans that is hard to do because that is what the world does around us. Colton could have been hitting, screaming, and destroying things for what looked like no real reason, but there was always something behind the anger. With him, it was usually fear. I hope they have learned that every person needs and deserves love, no matter how hard it is.

I think Colton affected Courtney differently than Kylar because she was still living at home through the most difficult time. It was also during my [traumatic brain injury] recovery in 2012, and she was literally taking care of our every need. During that time, she did what had to be done and just tried to get through it all. She had been the baby for 11 years and was very comfortable in that role. When Colton came along, he took that from her. Deep down, there was probably some resentment. Not completely because of Colton, but because she “lost” most of her senior year of high school. Everything revolved around Colton. If I could change one thing in our family dynamics it would be that Colton and Courtney would show each other that they are loved by the other. I know they love each other, I just wish they would let it show.

How has parenting changed from Kylar and Colton?
It is hard to discern if the differences are because of how things have changed in our society, or because Colton is a different person. He has different challenges, different interests, different needs, and different family social interactions (like small groups at church).
For one, Greg and I are older, and my physical health is not what it was 14 years earlier. Keeping Colton safe from the dangers of the outside world is much harder with the increased availability of the internet through all kinds of electronics. The ease of cyber bulling and all the information that is just one click away is frightening. Colton not having a sibling close in age has changed things too; he’s basically an only child. Our church has changed, which has changed the our areas of involvement. Our friends no longer have children his age–in fact they are all empty nesters. Courtney and Kylar made friends with the children of our friends, because that is who we spent time with. Courtney and Kylar were used to frequently having others in our home, both kids and adults. Colton hasn’t experienced that since he was a toddler. We no longer have the connections at church that we once did. Colton’s disabilities changed the way we lived our lives. We didn’t go to places that were loud or crowed, like we did with Courtney and Kylar. We didn’t leave him with a babysitter like we did Courtney and Kylar. Vacations were different too… It was not adopting Colton that changed things so much as it was the careless actions of his biological mother. She unfairly put Colton in a position where he would have to overcome challenges in his life that were a result of her selfish actions.

He’s doing a great job overcoming these disabilities. I know everyone works so hard to give him every tool he could ever need. He’s such a smart and sensitive kid, and I am thankful to call him family. Before we wrap up, do you mind telling me a story about Kylar as a child? My favorite story about Kylar was when we moved to McKinney. He was 3 ½ yrs old. The lawn at the house we bought had been very neglected for a long time. The weeds in the backyard had grown to Kylar’s height. He would stand in the doorway looking over the backyard and with songbook in hand he would lead signing to his congregation of weeds. When Greg finally bought a lawn mower, Kylar was devastated that Greg had mowed down his audience.

If I Knew Then What I Know Now

2018 is in full swing. I have been wanting to write about what the past year has meant to me–and I will soon– but for now, 2017 is a lot of feelings that do not own any words.

Instead, I will enter the new year writing about something that my husband and I have spent many nights talking about while we snuggled up under a handmade quilt on our over-sized sectional: If I could go back and do it again, what would I do differently?

“It” mostly being my college education.

I’m about to admit something to you, oh internet, that I never, ever thought I would say out loud:

I wish I had never become a social worker.

    Ugh. That hurts.

I spent a lot of money trying to become a social worker, and it worked. I hold a bachelor’s degree in social work and a state-issued license. I was–and still am– intensely passionate about the I.D.D community. And though I love helping people and I loved my short time in the field, it’s something I wish I would have passed over. I do not believe in regretting things I cannot change, especially decisions that were as informed and sincere as my college degree, but I can’t help but wish I had done something different. If I could go back and grab an Earl Gray with 18 year-old me, I probably would have told her these things:

1. You’re an artist. Quit ignoring it and create something for a living! 

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Sarah, you can’t draw. You can’t paint. Get off your high horse and go back to studying.” I can’t argue with you. Though I enjoy painting, I don’t want to make a career out of it. I most certainly cannot draw and I have no business being around hot metals. Regardless, I wish I had had the courage to write. Though I never stopped writing, I did not trust myself enough to believe that I could make a career out of it. I didn’t realize how much I missed out on until this morning, alone in the car with my kid and Mindy Kaling’s audiobook. In her chapters about her experience with The Office, she talks about spending her days writing in her home, or behind the scenes of SNL with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. I long for that. I have no desire to write T.V. shows with some of my comedy idols, but I do wish that I had given myself the tools to do this sooner. I wish I had had the cheerleaders that I do now, encouraging me and pushing me to do more.

2. Sarah, you have a severe anxiety disorder. No one with an anxiety disorder should be a social worker. 

This sounds harsh, but I stand by it. Social work is extremely stressful and time consuming. It involves a lot of tedious paper work and often, a client’s entire life could change based on your decisions. Though I believe I was able to keep my anxiety at bay during working hours, my home life suffered. I wish I had known this. Then again, I didn’t even know I had an anxiety disorder until my sophomore year, so it probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

       3. You can still help people if you write. 

Writing helps people. I know this because writers help me every day. I am constantly changing my views on my life because someone smarter and wiser than me decided to write something down that was smart and wise. Writing has a way to access so many people in such a short amount of time. Great movements have happened because of words. If only one is better off because of something I wrote, then I will consider myself a successful writer.

To all my 17 and 18 year-old friends out there: don’t stress out so much. Your career isn’t stagnate, and you don’t have to be either. You have a lot of time to find yourself, even after that degree is collecting dust on your bedroom wall. I’m doing it. Your mom is doing it. Your grandparents are doing it. Your identity is fluid, and it has nothing to do with what you do from 8-5, Monday through Friday. While this may seem obvious to you, it was not to me until fairly recently. As cheesy as it sounds, find something you love doing, and just do it.

The Smell

We had an episode at the library today. My sweet, almost four month daughter emitted the most vile, toxic, unbearable smell out of her diaper. I’m choosing to decide that this is a funny thing.

To preface, my daughter’s poop and I have an interesting relationship. Her first week home, I decided that I–a first time, inexperienced mom with stitches in her abdomen– would give my daughter a bath.

By myself.

In the bathroom sink.

I was probably a little high on post c-section pain meds.

Who knows.

    I removed her diaper and attempted to bathe her. Our bathroom sink is tiny, and there is no counter space to spare. No one in their right mind would have ever thought that this could work, but there I was, attempting to gently wrestle wash a slippery, tiny human under the faucet. Nevertheless, she cried. It was pitiful.

The whole episode lasted approximately 30 seconds, after which I decided to wrap her in a towel and ask my much smarter, much wiser mother to help. The moment I removed her from the sink, she decided to let out a stream of runny yellow liquid out of her butt. Panicked (and trying not to drop my slippery tiny human) I held her at arms-length and attempted to wrap her in a towel. Seconds later, I realized that I could have easily held her over the sink (or better yet, the toilet), and did just that. She finished the deed, and I folded her into a hooded towel. I took a deep breath and stepped back. The bathroom was covered in yellow baby poop. I was covered. The sink was covered. My kid was covered.

Having kids is fun.

Since that day in the bathroom, I have cleaned up many of Zoe’s blow outs. They’re always interesting, and typically happen at the most convenient times. Today, Zoe and I visited the library to watch a teacher friend of ours direct her children’s choir in a mini holiday concert. We slipped in the back of the audience and settled into our seats. As soon as we sat down, I smelled it.

    The smell.

I look in her carrier, and I do not see any leakage. I check her diaper for signs of a bowel movement–nothing. Good grief, that was a heck of a  fart.

I continue watching the concert. Five minutes later, I smell it again.

    The smell.

I check her diaper again: still, nothing.

This time I decide to take her out of the carrier. Poor thing is having gas pains, and she hasn’t let out a single cry. She’s even smiling! Any seasoned parent knows that that should have been my first clue that something was up. I guess I’m just that naive.

I pick up my kid and place her on my lap. As I’m turning her around, I see a huge yellow-green streak up the back of her onesie. Great. I briefly debate finishing the concert, but by now the stain has transferred onto my shirt. This is more serious than I had initially thought. I grab her backpack and head to the restroom, where I lay her on the changing table and open her diaper.

Friends, I never thought that my sweet, soft, cuddly child could ever create such a monster. I’ll spare you the details and just say this: It was nasty. It was sticky. It was everywhere. I exited that bathroom feeling like a soldier coming home from war.

I love my daughter, especially in moments like these. I also love my friends, and I’m grateful to have people that will still hug me: even when I have poop on my shirt.

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

A Little Scarred

A Little Stinky

 

9 Hospital Bag Essentials (And 4 That Are a Waste of Time)

So 16 weeks ago I had a baby. Which means 18 weeks ago I packed a hospital bag. I read every blog and watched every video on YouTube to help me decide what to bring. In the end, I did not have a lot of wasted space in my bag. I used pretty much everything. If I could go back and do it again, this is what I would (and would not) pack in my hospital bag.

*This is my experience. Every hospital, insurance plan, and birth are different. When in doubt, call your hospital and find out what is and what is not provided to you. Go on a hospital tour. That’s a good time to find out what resources you have available.*

Essentials

1. Breastfeeding Gown

I seriously debated as to whether or not I should purchase a breastfeeding gown for the hospital. Since they provide you with a gown, why bother? Well, after 12 hours in a scratchy, paper, backless dress, I’m so glad I bought one. As soon as we returned from the O.R., Zoe and I got settled in and I was more than happy to change. The nurses were also impressed with the gown, as it was intended for breastfeeding and did not get in the way of my IVs. I bought this gown along with this robe set to wear in the hospital. I practically lived in it once we got home; it was worth every penny (and it’s perfect for late night feedings).

2.  Phone/Phone Charger

I shouldn’t have to explain this one, right? It’s your camera, your contact to the outside world, and you can use it to tell people to bring you Whataburger (I definitely didn’t do this one).

3. Snacks

Since I had a c-section, we were up at the hospital for 2 nights. It was nice to have some healthy (and not so healthy) snacks at hand. Yes, the hospital feeds you; however, I was up at all hours with my kid and it helped to have a family sized pack of Nutterbutters by my bedside. We also brought almonds. Because, you know, health (I didn’t touch them. I had just had a baby! I deserved my Goldfish and Oreos, man).

4. Toiletries

If you want to shower, you’re going to need things to shower with. I saw a post that said to bring pack a towel in your bag as well. While the towels at the hospital I was at were fine, you may want your own with you. I say, “leave it at home”, but to each his own.

5. Honey Straws

I brought a package of honey straws, and they were a life-saver. As soon as I received my epidural, I was put on a clear liquids diet. This meant nasty vegetable broth, sprite, and tea. Also included in this diet? HONEY. Sweet, energy-giving honey. On a more serious note, honey does provide a lot of nutrition and is allowed on a clear liquids diets, so go for it. I put it in my tea, but my husband eats them straight out of the container.

6. Fuzzy Socks

Because hospitals are cold and epidurals make it worse. Bath and Body Works has a shea-infused version that I love. They’re only available at Christmas. Buy them in every color because they are amazing.

7. Pillow

They give you a pillow there, but it’s nice to have a little something from home. And I don’t know about you, but my pillow is always more comfortable. I wanted 50 pillows packed around me in the hospital bed. Apparently 3 is sufficient. Whatever.

8. Clothes for Baby

They will give you a t-shirt and hat for your baby. They also provide diapers, wipes, and a blanket. If you want something besides what they provide, you will need to bring your own (obviously). I brought 2 sets of clothes: one newborn, and one 0-3 month. I ended up having my mother bring me another newborn outfit, since we were there for a couple nights.

9. Going Home Outfit

I brought a maxi skirt and t shirt to wear home, but I ended up wearing my maternity leggings. I read somewhere that women that deliver vaginally will want something like a loose dress, but after my c-section, all I wanted to wear was pants. Pants kept the dressings close to my incision and helped make my insides feel (somewhat) normal. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. You can change as soon as you get home.

Waste of Time 

1. Fan

I read somewhere to bring a desk fan to the hospital. Since I am a furnace and like a fan on me when I sleep, I bought one. I ended up never pulling it out because I was freezing for the entire duration of my stay (this is saying a lot). For me, this was a waste of space in my overnight bag.

2. Extra Underwear/Pads

They will give you mesh underwear and pads to wear. Just use them. They’re free. They’re wonderful. They won’t ruin your non-disposable underwear.

3. Nipple Cream

As recommended by several other blog posts, I brought my own nipple cream. Don’t. They give you your own.

4. Diapers

Again–they give you Pampers. They even give you enough to take home. Use them, because diapers are expensive.

So there you have it. My super duper list of things to bring to the hospital with you. My last bit of advice? Do you remember all of the “free” stuff I told you about (because let’s be honest, they’re not really free)? Remember to take them home with you. The pads. The nipple cream. The super fancy mesh underwear–take it home and use it.

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison