Diversity-ish

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There are so many times that I just don’t feel like doing ANYTHING. When I’m confronted with questions regarding why this or that isn’t done, my ‘go to’ answer is, “I got busy.” Thankfully, I’m rarely ever asked what it was that kept me so busy. I wouldn’t have a real answer. Most of the things I do to avoid responsibility involve my iPhone or iPad. Sometimes I get sucked into “The Void”, otherwise known as Facebook. Sometimes it’s one of the other social media sites, depending on my mood. But mostly it’s mindless entertainment, solitaire, jigsaw puzzles, this new game called 100! that I’m currently addicted to. Many hours are spent building a utopia on Minecraft (THE greatest game ever created). I justify this lack of busyness by saying, “Its not like I’m sitting around watching tv” or “I hate to get started with something that I won’t have time to finish”. As my 7th grade English teacher, Ms. Bowman used to say, “I’m hearing a lot of excuses, but no real reasons.” The reason is very simple. I was born this way. Even as a kid, I HATED housework. I only cleaned up anything when I was forced to and even then I would try my best to bribe/guilt my sisters into doing my work. We had chore lists as far back as I can remember. Some people grow up to be organized and tidy because their parents were organized and tidy. My mom was neither organized nor tidy.  Don’t get me wrong, our house was clean. At least as clean as it could be with 2 working parents, one of which was an alcoholic who spent as much time outside as possible.  Daddy’s idea of cleaning up was to shove everything into one pile and forget about it.  My momma’s cleaning style was totally unpredictable, you never knew if she was going to just “straighten up” or if she was planning an all day deep cleaning of every nook and cranny. On those days she would miraculously transform herself into a whirling dervish of cleanliness. So, you see, it’s in my genetic makeup to not like housework.  It’s only natural for me to hate to sweep, mop, and dust! But, there’s a silver lining. Now that our society so readily blames our DNA on everything from serial killers and pedophiles to transsexuals and drug addicts, I get a free pass on my house being messy.

It’s just who I am. I was born this way and I can’t help it. My suggestion for people who are intolerant of my lifestyle is this:

 You really need to learn to be more accepting of people who are different than you.

YAY for diversity!!

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The Skow

 

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Today my mind is on my first baby, Justin…. The Skow. His unique nickname evolved over the course of those first few months as we adjusted to life as parents. One of the few things that life does NOT prepare you for is baby poop. It is disgusting, totally random, and the fact that you MUST deal with it is inescapable. Like most parents we made little jokes and tried to laugh our way through each precious ‘deposit’. One of our coping mechanisms was to make up names for Justin. It started out as ‘Pooter’ which became ‘Potty’ (as in “Did you go potty”?), and then, one fateful day, while doing his best Russian accent, Greg called him, ‘Potskow’. It stuck, and over the years was shortened to ‘Skow’, sometimes he is ‘The Skow’. Since the first day with Justin we’ve tried our best to enjoy every moment with him. His first laugh was one of the most beautiful sounds I had ever heard, and it still is!

When we first started to think that Justin wasn’t developing as he should, we pushed that thought to the side. “Boys are slower to reach milestones than girls”, we were told. The fact that my sister had her baby 3 days before I had Justin made the lack of development painfully obvious. After many doctor visits, a CT scan preformed by a neurologist, and finally being sent to a Developmental Pediatrician, at 15 months old our sweet, beautiful baby boy was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. Looking back on that day, I remember having an overwhelming sense of relief. It was as if the world had been lifted from my shoulders and I could breathe again. I recall the ride home, Greg and I hardly spoke. We weren’t angry with each other, there was no finger pointing or blaming. We didn’t try to over analyze the news we had just received. We just traveled the 45 minutes home for the most part in a calm, relaxed silence. The only spoken words were of us expressing our mutual relief at finally having a name for what set our baby apart from other “normal” babies. So many things have happened since that car ride home. Therapists, specialists, procedures, tests, scans, surgeries, feeding tubes, terrifying trips to the ER, illnesses, ventilators, seizures, wheelchairs, adaptive toys, bath chairs, and diapers changes for 23 years (that’s approximately 33,602 diapers for those playing at home). But, there have also been holidays, family get-togethers, vacations, church, school, making friends that we would have otherwise never met, taking pleasure in the simplest things that some might take for granted, huge hugs and sweet kisses, ticklish giggles, a secret language that we call “glarg”, holding my son who is almost 6 feet tall on my lap, and of course cool nicknames. ūüėé

If someone had told me when we first received Justin’s diagnosis that one day I would thank God for it, I would have laughed in their face. No one in their right mind would WANT their child to face the daily struggle of a handicap, that would just be cruel and heartless. But the fact of the matter is, he WAS born with Cerebral Palsy, he DOES have a disability, so now what? I do the only thing I can. I “play the hand I’m dealt”, “put on my big girl panties”, “suck it up, buttercup” and get on with our lives! And somewhere in all of that, I heard the Lord, speaking to my heart (now, don’t go thinking that I’m schizophrenic) and He’s telling me what a blessing this child will be if I would simply turn my life over to Him. That experience was truly a turning point in my life. But that’s a story for another day.

My First Blog

 

The first post.

Such a huge responsibility.

I was always told, “You only get one time to make a first impression, so make it a good ‘un.”

I’ve often wondered what people think when they first meet me. Do they just see another fat old woman? I sure hope not. ¬†I have always tried to be the kind of person that smiles at and speaks to people whether I know them or not. Being in situations where I didn’t know anyone that I was around and feeling like the “odd man out” has made me try ¬†to always be welcoming. Basically, I ¬†don’t like for anyone to feel uncomfortable around me.

I hope that people can tell that I’m a Christian. It has almost become a bad thing to admit that you know who Jesus is, much less to tell people that He is in your heart and that you try to live for Him as best as you can.

I hope that people can tell that I’m not a fake person, or the kind that puts on airs. I’m just me. No matter where I am, or who I am around, I am the same. I tell people that God sees me for exactly who and what I am, so why try to be something I’m not….. ok….. actually what I usually say is, “God sees me naked¬†in the shower…” but, you get the point. ūüėŹ

I hope that people can tell that I’m a wife. The best thing that I ever did was to fall in love with my best friend. There’s something so awesomely simple about moving from best friend to lover. There are no ¬†awkward ‘getting to know each other’ moments. The friend that was your confidant becomes your lover that you have no need to keep secrets from. The person who you had long heart to heart talks with ¬†becomes the one to which you whisper your desires. The one friend that you knew would always ‘have your back’ becomes your fiercest protector. Taking the next step into married life was the only thing left to do and we did that as we’ve done everything in our lives…. Together.

I hope that people can tell that I’m a mom. My life’s greatest accomplishment has, without a doubt, got to be my kids. I love them more than I ever thought I could possibly love another human being. There is just something so wonderful, yet so terrifying about being a mom. When you first lay eyes on the wrinkled, red, tiny person that has been a part of you for so long, something happens. I can’t explain it. It’s almost as if you and this baby are the only people on the planet and you’re completely fine with that. The instinctual desire to comfort and protect your child is overwhelming. You will do anything, go anywhere, make any sacrifice, and fight an battle to ensure their safety and their happiness. I’ve had this awesome experience 3 times in my life. Each one just as special and as unique as the other. Each one loved equally.

 

There are some things that I hope people can’t tell about me. Like the fact that most days I don’t want to even get out of bed. Just knowing all that sits before me, and my disinterest in doing any of it, makes me want to run away. I would love to get as far away as I can from laundry, dirty dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, diapers, dog hair…. well, ¬†basically any adult responsibilities. But, that’s not possible, and even if it was I would miss it all terribly and come running back home.

So, that’s what was on my mind today. I know, I know, it’s kind of a long introduction, but, I must warn you, I am not exactly known for making long stories short…. Ever.