Tag Archives: God

Jan6

Censored by My Husband-Big Kevin Vetoes Blog Post

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Censored by My Husband-Big Kevin Vetoes Blog Post

It is hard to believe that it is barely 2014 and the suppression of free speech has already reared its ugly head.  My original blog post was entitled, ‘Full-Court Press Cookies-Expressions through Confections ‘.  It was a charming little story about how I took my basketball team of scallywags and went head-to-head with a seasoned coach and his well-groomed team.  I would love to tell you that the basketball gods smiled on us and we pulled out a victory with a last second shot at the buzzer or other such Hoosier-inspired happy ending.  It would be a story about underdogs scratching their way to a victory over impossible odds.  Yeah…no such thing happened.  We got our asses handed to us!

 

Kevin and I are polar opposites in many ways.  He stands just a hair under 6’8” tall and I am stand 5’4” with my boots on!  He is rational, practical, and speaks only words that need to be spoken.  I tend to be a little irrational, a tad quirky and have been known to engage him in long in-depth conversations debating such topics as chupacabra, Big Foot, and the intellectual potential of our two incredibly smart dogs.  NOTE: By saying ‘engage in conversation’, I mean I talk non-stop until he agrees with me or says he will ‘think about it’, which means he will never agree with me, but wants desperately for me to shut up.  Although we are completely different in many ways, he is the love of my life and patiently puts up with my compulsive tardiness, occasional sassiness, and my complete affinity for ridiculousness.  So, it doesn’t exactly surprise me that he threw the brakes on the Full Court Press Cookies.

 

I don’t think his opposition to me sharing the story is rooted in our embarrassing loss or the fact that I took a group of boys that nobody else wanted to coach and gave them an opportunity to play ball.  He is a real coach.  He knows more about the game than just about anyone I know.  He knows how to win and although he doesn’t like to lose, he does so with dignity and class.  So, when our little gang of castaways were within four points just before the end of the first half, I have to think he was secretly, albeit quietly, proud of us.  I am almost certain that it isn’t what happened in the second half that makes him skittish about me posting.  Even though he won’t admit it, I know what kind of coach he is.  When his team play teams which are considerably weaker, he always has the scorekeeper quit putting points on the scoreboard if his team is ahead by 20 or more.  So, as the favored team pulled further and further ahead of us and they didn’t pull off the press, he knew my frustration was justified.  My passive-aggressive response to the decision to keep the full court pressure on until the game ending buzzer is probably the source of his resistance.

 

You see, Kevin is good friends with the coach who ran up the score on me and my band of lost boys!   Kevin insists that I let too much emotion bleed into whatever it is I am doing and I just needed to stifle myself.   It wasn’t a big deal.  His answer:  ‘just let it go’.  I tried.  However, when Coach took his place at the card table in our basement on poker night, I seized the opportunity to make a point.  I baked dozens of chocolate chip cookies and when the last batch was still warm, I sent my daughter down to the poker table with the platter of cookies and the following note attached:

 

These are not ordinary cookies.  These are FULL COURT PRESS COOKIES.  Everyone can eat as many as he wants with ONE exception…  Coach can only start eating cookies after everyone else is 30 cookies ahead of him.  Enjoy!

 

In my defense, I think my use of cookies was a harmless and fun way to express my differing views on game strategy.   I was thankful that Coach was a good sport about my little cookie rant.  I think too often adults get in the way of the true purpose of youth sports and that saddens me.  As a parent, I have been on a journey to bring things into focus.  I have forced myself to step back and look at the BIG picture and ask myself the following questions when I feel the pull of  the “victory-by-association” trying to steer my reactions and actions:  1. In the big scheme of things, how much does this (race, win, loss, scratch, DQ) really matter?  2. What do I want my athlete to take away from this experience? 3. Is she/he still having fun?  4. Are my reactions supporting or hindering his/her development?  Perhaps, somewhere along this journey of mine, Kevin will give his blessing for me to share the story of the FCP Cookies 😉

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Garret and Trey

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Kyle, Evan and Saige

 

Oct16

We Were Once Just Little White Girls

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We Were Once Just Little White Girls

Yesterday, I was presented with one of the most wonderful and uniquely poignant Birthday gifts I have ever received. The gift was special for several reasons. First of all, it wasn’t my Birthday. Secondly, it was a quirky sentimental gift that holds memories from what now seems like a lifetime ago. Thirdly, (is thirdly a word, it doesn’t sound correct)…anyway, thirdly, out of the 7 billion people roaming the planet there is only one other soul who understands the reason I spontaneously laughed and cried and laughed some more when I received the gift and that person is my sister, Kim. She is also the giver of the gift, the keeper of my secrets, and the sharer of my earliest memories.
I am sure by now the suspense is KILLING you! I received a vintage 1972 Mattel Tuff Stuff toy shopping cart in mint condition (original plastic food included)!!! I am not excited about receiving this gift because I am a collector of toys or have an affinity for miniature shopping carts. The wellspring of emotions is from a childhood shared by two little girls, who embarked on thousands of adventures together (without ever leaving the backyard) and literally put 288,000 miles on a 1972 Mattel Tuff Stuff toy shopping cart, while never once using it for pretend shopping!

Note: Please don’t be abashed by the title of this blog. Although my sister and I were actually once little Caucasian girls that is not context in which I am using the ‘White’ word. Our maiden name is White and thus my referral to being little White girls.
Perhaps the greatest thing about childhood is having someone you love completely in which to share it. In this instance, I am truly fortunate. But the truth is, I didn’t always feel this way. In fact, Kim’s birth was the first devastating thing to happen to me. Although I had nine months to prepare for the “Coming of Kim”, her arrival hit me hard and fast. You see, I had this really great gig as an only child. My mom had suffered several miscarriages and had tried unsuccessfully for years to have a child. Not to brag or anything, but I was an answer to her prayers. Mom describes the first few years of my life as me being the center of her universe and what’s not to love about being the center of someone’s universe?? Oh, wait, I know, when someone comes along and shoves you into orbit!!! This, in my mind, was exactly what Kim did to me by being born!!!
Eventually, however, after all the fussing and cooing over the new baby died down and my two attempts at trying to get rid of her (only one resulted in an actual trip to the hospital and stitches to her lip) failed, I gradually accepted the fact that I was going have to learn to live with her. Once she grew out of the adorable infant stage and was actual kid-size, things started to turn around. She wasn’t perfect, but I think I have established that was pretty much a two-way street. So, to be fair, here are some things that made me a not-so-perfect sister growing up:
I was mean and I cheated at every game we played.
I cut the pigtails off of her doll
I tricked her into doing my chores, regularly.
I used my high-octane imagination to terrorize her (i.e. the light from the smoke detector was actually an eye that watched everything she did and the hip-waders in our parents’ closet contained a ghost
I made her pee in a trashcan and then told on her
When playing hide-and-seek, I wouldn’t look for her and she would stay hidden FOREVER
I burnt her nose with a yellow Starburst that I had melted in the microwave
To clarify, Kim had some quirks as well:
She didn’t talk until she was full into toddler-hood and then when she did start talking, there wasn’t a human alive who could understand her gibberish
Her innate gullibility made her exceptionally pliable
Regardless of how much I insisted and offered descriptions, she was never ever able to see my imaginary friend, Jody.
She killed my fish when I was at camp claiming “they were cold so I put hot water in their bowl and they all turned upside down”.
Differences and squabbles aside, the endless hours of escapades as playmates are the summation of nearly every happy childhood memory I had buried like a time capsule in my heart. The shopping cart opened the door to the memory of our yesterdays and like a string of dominos tipping one into the next, came the stories of two little girls wiling away days brimming with imagination. The orange handle of the shopping cart was quickly discarded and we used a crushed velvet 70s green pillow in the cart, so we could ride in comfort. And ride we did. The shopping cart was used as a horse drawn carriage for when we were the Ingalls family and needed to go to the Olson’s Mercantile for some sugar or yard goods. It was a school bus for taking and dropping off each other when we played school. It also served as a get-a-way car, a race car, a crop harvester, an ambulance, a cage for our cat, and also the actual way E.T. was able to get home.
We may have only been little White girls, but we accomplished BIG things. We turned a full-size canopy bed into an ocean fishing vessel and successfully fended off Orca the Killer Whale. We won consecutive gold medals in the driveway and the kitchen for ice skating, while wearing our matching tennis shoe roller-skates. Each of us pulled through several anthrax outbreaks, without any help from Doc Baker (we had many Little House on the Prairie inspired adventures). We rode bikes, ran barefoot, played stickball and made a clubhouse out of anything we could find. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t tackle together. We were legends in our own minds.
The fun I had sharing a childhood with my sister is by far one of the gems in my life, but it pales in comparison to the bond we forged during the not-so-fun times. When we lost a pet or a loved one or one of us got our butt beat (usually me) there wasn’t another person capable of providing the other comfort except I for her and she for me. Probably the most difficult time was when our parents divorced and our world shifted. Everything familiar and comfortable and safe was skewed. Everything ,that is, except for one common denominator…I was still hers and she was still mine and whatever we faced during that time we faced it together.
Thank you, Kim, for this exceptional gift. Thank you for knowing my fears, short-comings, quirks and glitches and loving me anyway. Thank you for helping me to slay giant killer whales and nursing me through the fevers of anthrax. Thank you for supporting my dreams, drying my tears and letting me wear your underpants during emergencies. I am blessed to have shared a childhood with someone so remarkable (and resilient). We can never return to the time of innocence where we were content in being just little White girls, but as the seasons of our life continue to change, you are and forever will be, my sister.

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Aug17

Revelations of a Mzungu’s Heart-Do You Hear What I Hear?

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Revelations of a Mzungu’s Heart-Do You Hear What I Hear?

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The sights, sounds, and smells of my debut trip to Uganda have been permanently woven into the filaments of my soul. While I am so glad to be back within the confines of my familiar life and to shower in warm water and drink Diet Pepsi at its optimum drinking temperature, there still remains a large chunk of my heart firmly tethered to the people I left behind in Africa. A month has now passed since my return and nearly every day I am startled out of my mundane life by an emotional longing to reach across 8000 miles and pick up a hungry child, hold the strong hand of a Ugandan woman, or pray with those whose enduring faith makes mine a wet paper towel in comparison. I often find myself resisting the urge to slip into the comfort of my complacent attitude and rejoin the rat race of chasing down the so-called American Dream. In those moments, of retreat into the stillness of reflection and I simply ask myself, “Do you hear what I hear?”
While I jumped at the chance to go to Africa, my mom was resistant-VERY RESISTANT. Let’s just say Mom really likes her creature comforts and when she was told about some of the amenities awaiting her in a far-away land (geckos, cold showers, mosquitoes carrying malaria, etc.) she balked. Being a woman of immense spiritual fortitude, she felt she was supposed to go to Africa and so she put on her big girl panties, applied her lipstick, packed her hairdryer and we started our adventure together. To help establish a baseline of how completely removed Mom was from the idea of going to Africa, the following are actual quotes my mother made during the informational meetings leading up to our departure and shortly after our arrival in Africa:

Group Introductions-
Me: Hello. My name is Karri Thurman. I am a registered nurse and I am from Missouri and this will be my first mission trip.
Mom: My name is Judy. I am from Paragould, Arkansas. I attend the Rock church in Jonesboro. I don’t want to go to Africa, but God is making me.”

Mom: “I understand you said that we do not need to bring makeup and the heat will just melt it off?”
Group Leader: “Yes. That is correct.”
Mom (to me under her breath): “I don’t know what kind of makeup they use, but I think mine will withstand the heat. If it melts, I will reapply.”

Group Leader: “While working in the churches, orphanages, and slums we will wear skirts.”
Mom: “What kind of shoes do we wear?”
Group Leader: “Because we will be walking a lot and in unsanitary conditions, tennis shoes or Crocs.”
Mom (in her appalled voice): “You want me to wear tennis shoes with a skirt?!?” To me under her breath: “I will not be wearing tennis shoes with a skirt and Crocs are hideous.”

Group Leader: “Upon our arrival in Africa and during our stay there will be police and military armed with machine guns. It is against the law to take a picture of any law enforcement official or military personnel.”
Mom: “Will I be able to use my hairdryer there?”

Group Leader: We will stop on the way to the orphanage and pick up the goat we are taking them as a gift.
Mom (later): “I was going to ask if I could hold the goat on the way to the orphanage to prove that I am not prissy, but I was afraid she would say yes.”

Our first night in Uganda crawling under our mosquito net after nearly two days of travel and little sleep, seeking much needed rest:
Mom: Good Lord, what have I done? Why am I here???
Note: Refrain from asking God direct questions beginning with the word ‘why’ unless you are completely prepared to have your world rocked.

Each day our 16-member team served in orphanages, medical/dental clinics, churches and villages and each moment our hearts were permanently altered by the people we encountered. The days were long, exhausting and emotionally taxing. Many of us were experiencing for the first time a degree of poverty and deprivation that surpasses the confines of our imaginations. Had it not been for the gracious, welcoming, sincere gratitude from the people we were serving, I believe the enormity of need would have completely crushed my soul. Another missionary, Katie Davis, describes it like “emptying the ocean with an eye dropper” (Davis 2011). My grandpa would probably describe it less eloquently as “pissing on a forest fire”, but both analogies are completely accurate. Each night we would return weary and exhausted to our compound and as we shared with each other our individual experiences, it was a little like riding an emotional rollercoaster for days on end. Astonishingly, that which should have left me emotionally and physically depleted, actually rejuvenated my spirit. The song in my heart was changing, but I had no way of knowing the spiritual symphony that was building inside of me orchestrated entirely by a band of outcast orphans that have never heard a spoken word, laughter, or a single note of a melody.

deafschoolgirlArriving at the Deaf Elite Education Center was a game changer and for Mom, it was if God himself had parted the clouds and said, “This is why you are here”. Traveling to the school our team was briefed on how the deaf are perceived in Uganda and our hearts were already stirring when we arrived. The deaf are referred to as ‘Kasiru’, which translates into ‘fool’ or ‘stupid’. A deaf child born into a family is seen as a curse and they are often rejected by their families and communities. After spending the first part our day teaching and playing games with hearing children in another school, I was very apprehensive about what we had to offer these children who could not hear us. I was correct. Compared to what we received from these children, our humble offerings were but a pittance.

The children live and go to school at the center, as most have been thrown away by their families. One young boy had been kept tied to a tree like a dog. Another was thrown into a fire pit and sustained burns to a large percentage of his body. A young lady, whose limbs were bent and twisted from years of early neglect and malnutrition, had arrived at the center unable to walk, talk or feed herself. One might think that we would encounter a sad, fumbling, uneducated group of children. Instead, we were received by polite, bright, funny, and talented young people. They danced for us, sang for us, anointed us all with our very own sign language name! They were simply incredible.

It is difficult to put into words the actual environment that these children were thriving in and capture the scant conditions. The floors are dirt, aside from a few with concrete. The rooms where the children sleep are about as big as a walk-in closet with bunks stacked three high with two to a bunk. There is no water, no electricity, no bathroom, and many days, not enough food. The staff work for room and board and receive no wages for the care and education they provide.
In the gospels we are taught that “whatever you do for the least of these brothers, you do for me.” In this country we had seen the sick, poor, and hungry; but it was here, in this tiny corner of the slums, we held the ‘least of these’ in our arms. Where there should have been despair, they showed us hope. Where there should have been bitterness, they radiated joy. Where there should have been death, they showed us the very essence of life. In addition, we saw in living color, what kind of miracles happen when there are those precious souls willing to ultimately ‘do for the least of these’ all day every day. It was a testament of faith anchored in love like I have never before witnessed and it was powerful.

When we left the deaf children that evening, my mom cried the entire trip back to our compound and long after we pulled our mosquito net around us for the night. I could hear her sobbing and praying and I knew that God was answering her “why am I here” question. I also know that neither of us would ever be the same. On the days I feel myself starting to sweat the small stuff again (car trouble, bills, work stresses, etc.), I ask myself that simple question; “Do you hear what I hear?” I am remembering the sounds of the laughter, the clapping, and the singing and also of my mom crying in the night. It is then I am reminded of how important it is to live life out loud, even if not everyone can hear it. Sometimes the greatest words are spoken in silence.

Jul26

Revelations of a Mzungu’s Heart-Part 1– An Open Letter of Gratitude

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Revelations of a Mzungu’s Heart-Part 1– An Open Letter of Gratitude

 

Preface:  I am not sure if a preface is appropriate for a blog post, but appropriateness isn’t a large part of my repertoire, so on with the preface.   On January 27th, I was having a bad day.  I cannot remember the circumstances. I believe it was a culmination of several things.  I had actually sat down in on my living room sofa and had started to cry and said aloud to myself, “This cannot be all there is to my life”.   Within the hour, I received a text message from my stepdad, Ron that read:  Would you like to take a mission trip to Kampla, Uganda with your angel mother?  Last week of June first week of July.  This is the first of a series of blogs about my experiences while serving in Africa. 

Dear Ron-

It is without question that the “steps” in my life drew the short stick by acquiring me as a stepchild.  I will be the first to acknowledge that I tended to be somewhat of a challenge and that adolescent trend seems to have followed me into adulthood.  There have been many life lessons that you tried unsuccessfully to teach me, as I have made it a staunch habit to ‘learn the hard way’.  You are the sole reason I was able to take the trip to Africa and I wanted to take this opportunity to express to you my sincerest gratitude.

It would be fair to say that I have had a history of producing poor returns on your investments in me, but for what it is worth, I wanted to share with you a few of the revelations that were awakened in my soul along this journey.

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1.        My mountains have never been mountains.  I am the queen of the molehills.  I am the princess fitfully agonizing over the pea beneath my mattress.   Clawing my way up the perceived summits I have built out of layoffs, wrecked/ruined vehicles, a kitchen with no oven, struggling kids, and dollars that only stretch so-far, I failed to see the blessings surrounding me.  Moving through the red clay roads of Africa, each step became a confirmation of how incredibly easy my climb has been.   It only took lifting up one hungry child and before she had even completely wrapped her rail-thin legs around me and contented herself in drinking my affection… my mountains crumbled.

2.       INXS isn’t just an Australian rock band from the 80s, it is a way of life.  There have been countless times I have stood peering into a fairly stocked refrigerator or shoeskitchen cupboard and declared, “There is nothing here to eat.”  The same goes for a closet full of clothes and I have absolutely nothing to wear.  We had ELEVEN TVs in our home in the recent past!  Being graciously welcomed into Ugandan homes, most which would not even be considered suitable to park a zero-turn mower in, much less serve as an inhabitable dwelling, I could feel the shame ignite in the remains of my humanity.   This internal realization wasn’t the result of how little these people have or how much I have in comparison, it was sparked by the utter thankfulness they had for their meager assets.  These are praises I heard from the lips of those who have to walk a mile or more for clean water, have dirt floors, no electricity, no access to health care, and an AIDS epidemic robbing them of their loved ones at an alarming rate:

“Praise God I have a roof over my head”-Ugandan man wrongly imprisoned

This young boy is 13 and HIV positive.

This young boy is 13 and HIV positive.

testifying in church

“My sister has HIV, but glory to God she hasn’t fallen sick yet”-Ugandan woman, Kathrine.

“Sometimes I don’t have enough food for all the children I care for, but they go to sleep knowing they are safe and loved”-Joel, proprietor of an orphanage/school for deaf children.

“I prayed for several years that I would get a Bible of my own and today God answered my prayer”-Ugandan woman, Harriet.

I hope that my spirit will never extinguish this knowing.  I am working daily to be thankful for all that I have and to be mindful of that which I need and that which I do not.

 

3.       My joy has often rotted on the vine.  Being introduced to the Ugandan people,photo (2) it became quickly obvious that they are some of the hardest working people on the planet.  For most, it requires continuous strenuous physical labor to provide the basic necessities (food, shelter, clothes).  There are no government subsidies for the poor and struggling in this country and the number who are poor and struggling is staggering.  From the outside looking in, it would appear that these folks have nothing to smile about—yet smile they do… and sing and dance and play the drums and laugh.  They immerse themselves in joy.   I didn’t see any kids running around in $100.00 tennis shoes or tuned into a smart phone or other electronic device, but I saw MANY dance and sing when given a toothbrush.  Nearly every child in Africa gave us the gift of song or dance and not one shrugged off a hug or passed on an opportunity to snuggle in the lap of willing mzungu.  I wash my clothes in a high efficiency washer, I drive to work every day, my family is healthy, I have plenty of food, I have hot showers and indoor plumbing and a nice warm bed.  Even with a life full of amenities, I fail to consistently cultivate joy.  There should be a song on my lips and jig in my step every moment of every day.  I journeyed 8000 miles from home to learn how to be happy right where I am.

So, as I continue to sort through the lessons this journey has taught me, I wanted to begin girlby saying ‘thank you’ for still believing there was enough of my ragged old soul to salvage.  Thanks for answering a call to send me, even when I have disappointed you in the past.  Thanks for knowing, above all, that God had something amazing to teach me.  I pray that this experience will be a springboard to serving others, honoring God, and making you proud of the person I am working hard to become.

Love,

Karri

Nov12

Impact Moments

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Impact Moments

Baby Riley

The majority of moments allotted to me thus far have passed without greatly influencing the overall direction of my life or altering the composition of my heart.   There are, however, those moments impacting with such force the reverberation pulses in every moment thereafter. Some are positive in nature, other seemingly devastating, but all are life-changing.   November 12, 2014, marks the 23nd  anniversary of one of the most powerful impact moments of my life…the day my daughter, Riley, was born.

As a nineteen year old college student with a propensity for making poor life choices, discovering I was pregnant certainly didn’t seem like a positive impact moment.  I was terrified.  I was aware of my less than stellar track record for taking care of myself, which made me feel completely sorry for the Tic-Tac-sized fetus attached to the wall of my uterus.  I wasn’t even good at playing house when I was little and got into trouble for cutting the piggy-tails off my sister’s dolls.  There was no way I was going to be able to take care of an actual human baby!  I was screwed, but not nearly as screwed as the little he or she inside of me for drawing the short straw and getting me for a mother.

Smiley Riley

The next 8 months I read everything I could get my hands on regarding prenatal care, breastfeeding, childbirth and parenting.  I followed the doctor’s orders to the letter and set my sights on giving this baby a better mother than the person I had been up to this point.  As my due date approached, I had started to worry about the pain of actually having the baby.  I asked my mom if it hurt to have a baby and she said, “I will tell you exactly what your grandma told me when I asked her that question when I was pregnant with you.  She said: would it hurt to shit a square wagon wheel?”  The wisdom passed down through the generations of women in my family is priceless and, as I was about to learn, amazingly accurate.

Milestones

Because I was not covered under my parent’s insurance for maternity service, I saw the doctors through the local Health Department.  During my 24 week checkup I was informed that I would either have to pay $400.00 before my next visit or sign a waiver declining the use of an epidural.  The amount of emotional and financial headaches I had caused my parents over my 19 years on the planet loomed in the back of my mind, but so did my grandma’s square wagon wheel analogy.  In the end, I couldn’t ask my parents for the money and I signed the waiver, which seemed like a very, very considerate gesture on my part.  In hindsight, however, it was a VERY, VERY, incredibly STUPID move on my part.

Riley and Daddy (and the Devil dog)

Where do mommies-to-be go, when they can’t stand the thought of being pregnant one more second?  They walk (waddle) around Wal-Mart, of course.  I think Wal-Mart might even hold breakout sessions at the OB/GYN conferences around the nation encouraging doctors to advise women that strolling the aisles at Wal-Mart is scientifically proven to induce labor.  In my case, that is exactly what happened.  I was with my best friend, Cheri, and we were walking through the store.  She absently put her hand on stomach and she said, “Oh my God! You are having a contraction!”  My stomach was tight, but it didn’t hurt so it wasn’t computing with me.  I said, “No I’m not.”  She insisted, “Yes you are!  That’s exactly what my Aunt Tina’s belly felt like when she had a contraction.”  Since her Aunt Tina had just had a baby a few months earlier, I figured she knew more than I did about birthin’ babies.  As it turns out   Cheri was spot on with her diagnosis-I was in labor and ol’ Grandma also hit the nail on the head- it hurts like hell to shit a square wagon wheel!!!!

Monkey Moment

After laboring more than sixteen hours I had finally achieved a whopping 4 on the dilatation scale.  The lady who was laboring on the other side of the curtain (OMG…they actually used to put two women in labor in the same room) had arrived a few hours after me and was already dilated to an 8.  I was exhausted and hurting and I yelled, “Are you kidding? I hate that bitch?”  My sweet angelic mother promptly poked her head around the curtain and said, “I am sorry.  She is so tired she doesn’t mean it.”  I loudly clarified, “YES I DO MEAN IT!”  A few hours later, I hadn’t progressed much further and the contractions were excruciating.  During the quiet moments between contractions, my mom asked my nurse to please see about getting me an epidural.  I wanted to explain my noble decision of waiving the epidural, but I was beyond fatigued and the nurse had to explain to Mom the epidural “fee upfront” policy.  My mother started frantically looking around for her purse, “I will write you a check.  Just get the kid an epidural!!”  My mom’s attempts to circumvent hospital policy were politely denied and she cried at my bedside through each contraction.

First Grade

My labor was approaching its 29th hour and my stubborn cervix finally made it to the required 10 centimeters and I was cleared for transfer to the delivery room.  I actually passed my former labor room roommate pushing her baby in the hallway as I was being wheeled to the delivery room.  She was fortunate I was too physically and emotionally tapped out to verbally accost her.  If I had any preconceived notions that things were going to soon be over, I was wrong.  I pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed.  The clock was ticking ever closer to midnight and my mom was determined that I was going to have my baby before November 12th became November 13th.  November 12th is Mom’s Birthday.  An intern assisting my doctor with the delivery tried to show pictures of his kids to one of the nurses and he ventured too close to me and I grabbed him by the tie and said, “Everyone in the hospital has seen those f@#@king pictures.  Put them away!!”  Between contractions I decided to take off my oxygen mask, remove the monitors strapped around my enormous belly and tried to climb off the table announcing, “I can’t do this anymore.  I am going home.”   My mom grabbed me by the arm and demanded, “You get up on this bed and you have this baby right now!!  It’s almost not my Birthday anymore!!”  And so it was; I pushed and pushed and the doctor and the intern pulled and pulled and at 11:51pm on her grandma’s birthday, our Riley was born.

Dance

The first time I held her was an impact moment of epic proportions.  The 8 pounds and 2 ounces of bald, cone-headed, swollen baby held the key to my heart.  I was smitten. She has been uniquely Riley from that moment forward and a source of immeasurable joy in my life.   It is hard to believe that 22 years have passed since the day Riley came into my life and I can’t begin to quantify the blessing being her mother has brought to my life.  Here are just a few of the things I love about Riley and some of the things I have learned by being her mom:

  • She was bald for so long everyone thought she was a boy.  I started to pray that she would get hair and when she finally did get hair, it was carrot orange, with a mind of its own.  I learned that I need to be very specific when I pray.  Riley has AWESOME hair now!!!  Her crazy hair days were worth it.
  • Riley has an innate nature to see people’s needs and meet them. This was apparent at a very young age, when she came home from third grade and asked if we could get some shoes for a little girl in her class.  She said the girl always takes her shoes off under her desk and Riley had asked her why and the girl told her that the shoes were too small and hurt her feet.  In addition, Riley asked her teacher not to tell the girl where the shoes came from because she didn’t want to embarrass her.  I would love to say this was something that I had taught her, but it is something she has always had inside her and a beautiful part of who she is.
  • She loves things that sparkle, makeup, clothes, 80s music, and naps.
  • She often doesn’t get the joke, but when she does, laughs the longest.  She has an awesome laugh.
  • She is smart, capable, and fiercely independent.  She struggles with making up her mind, but when she does….better get out of the way!
  • When she was nine, she tried to convince me that she shouldn’t eat in the school cafeteria: “They serve artificial corn.  It doesn’t come from a can or a cob.”
  •  She is the official grammar police of the universe.

On the day she was born, if I had taken every hope I had for her future, it would hardly measure up to the young woman she has grown up to be.  Thank you, Riley, for being the daughter that surpassed everything my heart could desire.  I love you infinity.

Riley Landing after Skydiving

Riley

Nov5

Full Disclosure–Not Quite

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Full Disclosure–Not Quite

One of my best friends, Leslie, was trying to talk me into running a 5K with her this weekend and since I haven’t been running much in recent months, I was resistant to the idea.  During the course of her appeal, she used the phrase ‘in the spirit of full disclosure’ when revealing details of the event that she knew wouldn’t entice me to participate.  I always appreciate Leslie’s tendency to give me all the facts, even when she knows they may push me in another direction.  Against my better judgment, I agreed to run.  When you are as out of shape as I am, not to mention the slowest living land mammal on the planet, even a short race like a 5K provides a lot of time to think.  I began to ponder the very reason I was trying to pound out 3 miles and some change with no preparation, when my brain got tripped up on the ‘in the spirit of full disclosure’ phrase that Les had tossed me a few days prior.    Trying to distract myself from my current situation, I began silently deliberating the concept of ‘full disclosure’.

It was at a very young age that I came to terms with the harsh reality that lying wasn’t going to be tolerated by my parents.  Punishment for lying was swift and severe and thus, I learned to compensate.  I almost always gave the unaltered facts, but I routinely eliminated the pesky details that I knew would interfere with my parent’s overall perception of a situation.   I often needed an accomplice, and this was almost always my younger sister, Kim.  I rarely asked her to lie for me; I just encouraged her not to talk.  I wasn’t above lying, but lying was complicated and often exhausting.  She was seven and I was ten, the first time she fully understood her role.

               Atari® game system had finally found its way into our living and I had asked for one thing for Christmas-FROGGER. It was about a month before Christmas and I began to use the 45 minutes Kim and I were home alone after school to explore the forbidden areas of our house for our gifts.  It didn’t take long until I discovered a neatly wrapped box in the far corner of a high shelf in my parent’s closet. Even though the identity of the box was hidden under Christmas paper, I knew instantly that I had struck amphibian video game gold. Unwrapping one end of the box, I slid it out of the paper cocoon and headed for the game console.  Kim watched as I attempted to guide my little frog across the busy highway, over the logs in the swift river to the safety of the lily pad.  We laughed when the frog was reduced to the state-of-the-art graphic red “X”, when I failed to avoid getting the little guy out of the way of a car.  When it was getting close to the time for Mom to come home, I put the game back in its box, slid it into the wrapping paper, carefully wrapped the end and returned it to its hiding place in the closet.

Kim was worried that we would get caught and be in trouble.  I told her, “If Mom comes home and asks you ‘Did Karri find the FROGGER game in my closet and play it?’ you can tell her I did.  Otherwise, just don’t say anything.”  We repeated the scenario of unwrapping-playing-rewrapping for the next several weeks without incident.  Occasionally, I would even let her have a turn, just to reinforce that we were on the same team and to ensure that she had been a willing participant if things were to go awry.  Christmas morning arrived and I excitedly received the gift in a state of excitement that was only worthy of a complete surprise.  My parents were astounded at my uncanny ability to safely beat level after level of the game, but after weeks of practice, I had gotten pretty good.  Mom watched and said, “I cannot believe how good you are at this!  It’s amazing!”  I held my breath and I looked at Kim and let the silence of our secret hang for a moment between us.  I knew the spirit of full disclosure was fully behind us, when she reached for the joystick and asked, “Can I try?”

When we reached our teenage years, Kim was starting to see through some of my BS tactics and because I was often a total bitch of a big sister to her, she started to become a hostile accomplice.  There were other times when she would keep silent until I pushed her to the breaking point and she would gladly toss me right under the bus.  One such instance actually involved a bus- the school bus, which I LOATHED.  As a freshman in high school, I suddenly became completely repulsed by the very idea of riding the bus to school.  It was totally uncool and I would intentionally miss the bus, so that my parents were forced to drive me to school.  Each morning became a battle of wits and wills to get me on the bus.  It became a source of such contention that I was regularly being punished for not catching the bus and my attitude became increasingly sour.

My mom and step-dad were, needless to say, astounded when one morning they found me up, clothes on, hair curled, and ready and willing to head out and meet the bus!  My delightful attitude in resigning myself to utilizing the public school transportation was a welcome change.  Day after day, I would be up and ready and making no complaints.  Once they were convinced that it was not a fluke, they started expressing their gratitude.  “Karri we really appreciate you not making a federal case out of riding the bus” and “You must be growing up, because you finally understand how much it helps us out when you ride the bus to school”.   One evening my grandma was eating dinner with us.  She had been witness to some of the bus battles and Mom proudly bragged about my “new attitude” about riding the bus.  There we all were at the table, with Mom gushing about how nice it was to have stress-free mornings since I had turned over a new leaf.  Grandma even chimed in about being glad that I was helping my mom out by being sweet about riding the bus.  I was soaking up the accolades, when Kim had finally had enough, “She is not riding the bus because you want her to and because it helps you!!!  It has nothing to do with being good, or sweet or anything like that!  The ONLY reason that she gets up and ready and catches the bus is because she discovered that the hot junior football player that lives down the road rides the bus!!!”   My little sister–busting me out in the spirit of full disclosure.

A couple of years later, my step-dad asked a business associate/friend of his to give me part-time job as a checker in his grocery store.  I reluctantly complied with the new job requirement and went after school and Saturdays to fulfill my checker obligations.  A few months passed and I managed to learn the difference between a russet potato and a baker’s brown.  I was polite, mostly punctual, and liked earning a little of my own money.  All was fine and well until one Saturday afternoon a group of my friends stopped by to offer me the extra ticket they had to a Cardinal baseball game.  I asked the manager if I could take off and go to the game and he said I couldn’t.  So I quit.  I went to the game and had a blast.  Two weeks later my step dad came home three kinds of pissed off at me. He had casually inquired from his friend how I was doing on the job and was informed that I had quit two weeks prior.  My boss–busting me out in the spirit of full disclosure.

It has been a long-time coming for me to fully embrace the spirit of full disclosure.  Understanding the damages that relationships can incur under the auspices of revealing only the details which are easy to swallow has been a motivating factor in the way I choose to interact with others.  There are many qualities in myself that I wish I could hide, many choices I have made that I wish I could omit and I am confident there are many more mistakes I am going to make.  Striving to be my authentic self is something that has made my life fuller and my relationships stronger.  Remembering what a brat I was is a reminder to ask my children VERY specific questions.

NOTE: Thanks to Leslie, I finished the race.  Like an ironic revelation in the spirit of full disclosure, it revealed that I am pathetically out of shape.  Thanks, Les!

Carla, Leslie, and Me