Waiting for the Grass to Grow

Growing up, I made a lot of assumptions about my dad.

Our house sat on a corner lot with a yard large enough for a baseball diamond in the back yard, a volleyball court on the side, and a basketball court in the driveway. We also had the metal death trap swing set - you remember the ones that your parents didn't set in concrete so the legs came out of the ground and you swung with giant rusty screws just waiting to jab someone's leg as they ran by. We also had a trampoline (no safety net), a tether-ball pole, a concrete slab where a playhouse briefly stood, a wood pile, and a deck under which we stored a largish swimming pool used one summer, a wagon, a few hoses, and several sprinklers.

With all of these options, you would think my brother and I would never lack for things to occupy our time. And the truth is, we never did.  But we rarely occupied our time playing sports, flying kites, or swinging.  It was more likely you would find us and four or five of the neighborhood kids digging a hole to China (wrapped in tin foil so we didn't burn once we reached the center of the Earth of course).  On another day we might host the Olympics, using screwdrivers as javelins and broom handles as foils.  

We took things apart, buried them, lit them on fire, broke them, lost them, and crashed them. Very rarely did we use anything for its intended purpose and never once did we fill in a hole.

Our childhood left my dad's yard full of holes, his tools broken or buried in the yard, and his cars wrecked more than once.

It wasn't until I visited my parents' house with my own kids that I noticed my dad's was the most beautiful yard in the neighborhood.  The sand volleyball court was now covered in lush grass.  Flowers grew where the dog used to run, and the newly re-furbished deck overlooked a backyard free of holes where my kids ran barefoot from sunrise til sunset.

I always assumed my dad just didn't care what his yard looked like.

But the truth is, he loved his yard. He just loved us more.

Now that I'm a parent I look back and see similar sacrifices my dad made for my brother and me. Whether it was playing with, breaking, and losing the tools from the most organized garage you have ever seen, the hours he spent untangling our fishing lines while never once getting to cast his line, or letting us sunflower seeds in the car he just finished cleaning, everything my dad did told us that we were more important to him than cars or tools or grass.

Now retired, my dad is a full-time grandpa, or Pops as we call him.  Today I watched as the ice cream cones he made his five grand kids dripped down their chins, onto their legs, and somehow into my son's hair.

They were sweaty, sticky, covered in sand, and in heaven.

 Because their Pops cared more if they were happy then if they were clean.

And I hope my kids assume that I do too.

Waiting for the Senior Slam

I'm old.

This is not a realization I've come to lightly, nor am I looking for a groundswell of comments hellbent on convincing me I am still in my prime.  I am not elderly.  I'm not even a senior citizen, although I'm not going to lie, I wouldn't mind being able to order that Senior Slam at Denny's every now and then. And I know the saying goes that you are only as old as you feel. But I don't just feel old. Everything from my DVR to my refrigerator confirms that the youth in my rear view mirror is farther than it appears.

Here are a few examples:

• All shorts and skirts are too short.  This is true for kids, teenagers, 20 somethings, and especially everything in my closet. 
• You can often hear me say, "This morning on The Today Show . . . "  I haven't started calling it The Today Program yet.  I think that happens when I get my AARP card.
• If I miss the early showing of a movie, not only do I refuse to wait for the late showing, I simply opt to wait for the movie to come out on Redbox.
• Weather is a main topic of conversation.  
• I no longer worry about not being taken seriously in my career due to my youthful appearance.  
• Dying my hair is no longer just for fun.
• I can name approximately one out of every ten songs on a rock, alternative, or pop radio station.    This is generally because that is the same ratio of retro songs played by those stations.
• I frequently use phrases like, "You're sitting to close to the t.v.," "You'll poke your eye out," and "Because I said so," with no irony.
• Being carded has gone from an insult to a complement.
• My Cosmo magazine with headlines like, 30 Ways to Please Your Man, has been replaced with a Food Network magazine with headlines like 30 Ways to Cook Chicken.
• I carry Tums in my purse to eat after meals that are too spicy, too greasy, have too much dairy, come from fast food restaurants, are eaten too late at night, are too big, or sometimes just contain food.  If I'm with a 20 something crowd, I pretend the Tums are gum and chew them for a few minutes.  If I'm with a 30 something crowd, I hand them out like candy.
• Every cosmetic I own has the words "anti-aging" or "wrinkle" in it.  Sadly, I also still have products with the words "acne" in them.  This is the work of a cruel God.

I'm not complaining. 

Being old has its advantages.  My car insurance is less expensive, my husband is legally bound to wake up with me every morning, and I am much wiser than I was a decade ago.  

I look at my life, my husband,  my kids, and even my thighs, and to be perfectly honest, I love being 36. Tums and all. 

Waiting for My Jedi

Buried within the blogs documenting trials of motherhood, chronic illness, and my crazy life, last year on this date, I wrote a blog post  to help my fellow brides navigate marriage to a Star Wars geek. It turned out to be one of my most read blog posts of all times, leading me to believe that people married to Star Wars geeks are in deed looking for a community of support, love, advice, and above all, humor.

And so, on this Star Wars Day, I bring to you my second annual post for all of us --male or female--living life with a Star Wars Fanatic.

Things to Teach Your Kids to Say to Drive Star Wars Fanatics Crazy

- My favorite part was when they melted Hans Solo from the wax.

- I like that pointy eared Spock guy.

- What do you think the O.B stands for in O.B 1?  Maybe he was the first Outstanding Battler or something.

- Darth Mal's costume is way cooler than Darth Vader's.

- Why can't Luke just marry Princess Leah? He really loves her.

- I like the movie with the Ewoks the best.

- I really don't understand why everyone thinks the graphics were so great in the original movies.

- I want to be Jar Jar Binks for Halloween.

Happy Star Wars Day.  And as always, May the Fourth be with you.

Waiting for Unconditional Love

All of my life I have heard about unconditional love.

This love without conditions, without bounds, or repercussions, without debt.  This is the love that we should search for. This is the love we should give. 

That of all the loves in the world, unconditional love is the one that is most sought after, most highly valued, and most rare.

I have lived my life believing that unconditional love is rare because people rarely stop being selfish enough to offer another person love without expecting anything in return.

It's hard, unconditional love.  That's why it is so rare.

That's what I've always thought.

Until last night.

I hate surgery.  This is not news for anyone who knows me or who has ever read my blog before.  There is a longer story here, but that isn't what this post is about.  So the short version is, I had a surgery.  I had complications.  It is five weeks later and I am still in a lot of pain.  More actually than I was before.

And the kids are home on Spring Break.

Our kids are four and eight, and with only the three hours a day they are home on school days they can make our house resemble tornado wreckage.  Give them five full days and a mom too sick to get off the couch and  referee, I guarantee, Hazmat would come if I called. Actually, Hazmat may not be enough.

Since my most recent surgery, my husband of 13 years has kept our world running. In addition to his full time job, he is doing laundry, grocery shopping, shuttling to choir practice, homework checks, getting kids showered, making lunches, and is pretty much all around awesome.

This week, his birthday week, my goal was to get the house cleaned up and ready for him since I knew he had a long day at work.  Unfortunately, I felt way too awful to do any of it.  That, plus the kids spring break activities, meant he walked into a disaster area last night after waking up at 5, skipping lunch, and working late.

He came in, kissed me and the kids, and started to work.  First the kitchen, knowing that dishes piling up in the sink drive me crazy.  Then cleaning counters and the floor.  Then on to the laundry, vacuuming, picking up toys, putting things away.

I moved from the couch to the bedroom to lie down - a migraine now added on to the sinus pain - but mostly I needed to cover myself up from the guilt I felt watching my husband, who I knew was exhausted, cleaning our house.

Out of unconditional love.

As I lie in our bedroom with my eyes covered listening to him playing with the kids after working all day and then cleaning our house (and I was pretty sure he still hadn't eaten), I had this thought.  Maybe unconditional love isn't so rare because it is hard to give.  Maybe it is so rare because it is difficult to receive. 

When we receive unconditional love, we are telling that person that it is okay for them to do something for us or give something to us simply because we are who we are.  And I don't know about you, but I know that deep down inside me I have major insecurities that scream out "I'm not worthy of anything from anyone" without me doing something for them in return.  Because I know exactly who I am. I know exactly what I've done and what I think.  I have to live with myself every minute of every day. And that girl that I know, she doesn't really deserve for you to unload the dishwasher without me at least making the bed for you in return.

But that's the thing about unconditional love. Last night as Richie did something so wonderful for me and our family, I laid there in bed feeling incredibly guilty, which since it was an act of unconditional love, I shouldn't have.  I should have rejoiced in it. I should have felt so blessed by this man that God has given me who loves me and serves me unconditionally.  I did feel incredibly blessed, but I still had the guilt.

And the guilt is because I am not okay with the woman in the mirror.  And until I can truly look deep inside myself and accept that I am a flawed woman.  That I am a woman that was born into sin, that has been saved by the grace of God and that his grace covers me, and therefor I am worthy of unconditional love, from my Father and from my husband.  Until I can do that, I will never be able to fully receive unconditional love.

Not from God.

Not from Richie.

And it's a shame, because Richie even cleans bathrooms. 

So I really need to work on this one.

Because I hate cleaning bathrooms.

Waiting to Move a Mountain

I am the one percent.

Not in a good way.

Not in the "I just won the Powerball," way.

Not in the "She is definitely good enough to go to the WNBA," way.

Sadly, not even in the, "Yes, I want to sign you to a recording contract.  Here, I'd like you to meet Reba. You will be singing a duet with her at the CMA's," kind of way.

I am the one percent of people for whom the pharmaceutical companies have to put the "rare but call your doctor immediately if" list of side effects on that pamphlet when you get your prescriptions. I'm am the one percent of people for whom doctors have to take a class in medical school called, "you will probably never see this, but just in case you ever have a patient named Kristen Escovedo, here is a bunch of weird stuff you will need to know."  That title is wordy, I know.  The short version is just Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010.

I am that one percent.  I'm the girl whose appendicitis didn't show up on three separate CAT scans.   Whose surgeon says, "I've seen appendicitis that didn't show up on a CAT scan before, but I've never actually opened someone up, looked at an appendix and thought it was completely healthy, taken it out, and had it show up as appendicitis. That is a first."

He clearly didn't take Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010.

I'm the girl whose ovaries get fused together in the middle of her abdomen after a hysterectomy.

I'm the girl who starts having contractions at 20 weeks for no apparent reason. Goes to the hospital 13 times, and every time has nurses and doctors just cock their head and say, "Umm, I'm not sure what's going on here."

I'm that one percent.

I'm the one percent of people who gets migraines five times a week (which isn't that uncommon) and doesn't respond to any of the migraine medicines (more uncommon). In fact, many of the migraine medicines make my migraines worse (there it is!).

So after eight years of migraines and trying every possible combination of medications that dozens of doctors could possibly conceive of -- after a while, I think they just walk into the sample closet, close their eyes and grab random boxes-- I decided to go a different route -- I'm having surgery.

First thought; I'm having my brain removed.  There have been times during a migraine when I considered it, and believe it or not, in several countries they are doing surgeries for migraine relief where doctors remove a nerve in your brain. This gives you some insight to how desperate I am when I'm contemplating flying to Germany to have a nerve taken out of my brain to get a little relief.

But no, this is a sinus surgery. It turns out, as with most things, I am in the small percentage of people whose passageways to the sinuses are virtually non-existent.  A CAT scan of my sinuses revealed I have a deviated septum (not unusual).  I also have very narrow passageways, (a little more unusual).  As I looked at the CAT scan the doctor pointed out these two large "pods" that were blocking about 90% of my already deviated, narrow passageways. I said, "Are those little circle things that are blocking the way bigger on me than they are on normal people?"

To which he replied, "Normal people don't have those."

There it is.

So, I am having surgery to open up the passageways to my sinuses in an effort to, you know, be able to breathe. 

The doctor has informed me that this is no silver bullet. It might help my migraines, because it will greatly reduce the constant sinus pressure I feel.  Plus, it should help me be able to sleep, since I will be able to breathe for the first time in my life.

But he isn't promising a miracle.

And that is what I've been telling myself since I scheduled the surgery three weeks ago.

Because I am the one percent.

And because I hate surgery.

But then something happened this week.  God showed me that I pray too small.

Let me give you an example.  For almost a decade, I've been praying (figuratively) for God to make a way for a friend of mine to navigate their way over a mountain.  This week, God answered that prayer by picking up the the mountain and moving it. 

For the last month I've been praying that God would give Richie and me some direction in a particular situation.  I've been trying to be quiet and listen for that still small voice. Yesterday he answered with a bullhorn.

I pray too small.

I forget how big God is.

I forget that he made the world in six days.  I forget that the wind and the waves obey his voice.  That he holds the very universe in the palm of his hands. 

I forget that he can move the mountain.

I forget that he can heal the migraines.

Even for the one percent.

Waiting for It to Get Easier

I didn't want to write this post.  A lot of people with better thought out arguments or more researched opinions have already written this post. The news has shifted. Parents who held their children more tightly this weekend quickly pecked them on the cheek this morning as they fell back into the routine of packing lunches, checking backpacks for homework folders, and chastising kids for messy rooms making it impossible to find matching shoes, glasses, gloves, or scarves.

Most of us are ready to move on with our lives.

We are still sad.

We are still angry.

When we stop and think about the 26 people killed, more specifically, the 20 children killed, we can't help but be over come with emotion.

So mostly, we are ready to stop thinking about it.

And I didn't want to write this post.

But here I am.  Computer open. Typing. Maybe because the little four year old boy playing on the floor makes it impossible for me to forget that 20 families are staring at floors in their houses that are void of toys that just last week they were cursing about tripping over.

Maybe it is because I spent 13 years working in school districts, writing crisis plans, and training school administrators what to do in case of various emergency situations.  Like if a shooter enters the building.

Maybe it's because I am one of those parents who held onto my children extra tight all weekend and then gave my daughter a quick peck on the cheek as I sent her off to her third-grade class this morning.

Maybe it's because I keep hoping if I look at this in a different way, if I think of it from a different perspective, if I read enough blog posts, or see enough motivational pictures or scriptures, if I hug my children enough times, or if I just stop and mediate, it will get easier.

Easier to understand. Easier to swallow.  Easier to make sense of something so senseless.  Easier to keep believing in a God who is good and who is big enough to stop someone from walking into an elementary school and shooting 26 people, 20 children, but who did not.

It isn't getting easier.

In fact, the more I look at it, the more I think about it, the more I stare at my four year old, the harder it is to understand.  The harder it is to make sense of anything.

The harder it is to believe.

Weeks like this challenge my faith. They send me running to God screaming "Why?" and "How could you?" and "Where were you?"  "CHILDREN!"

Weeks like this leave me filled with disdain for some of my fellow man and grace and mercy for others. Weeks like this all of the sudden make me think of all of the other injustices in the world; places where children die due to lack of drinking water, genocide, AIDS. Most days I don't give any of these things a second thought.  I flip past any news stories or specials, because come on, they are depressing. And they are  oceans away and have no direct effect on my life.

But this week, when I'm questioning everything that is good in the world, I question all of these things.

And I question God.

And I wait for a voice that sounds like James Earl Jones (because that is what I assume the voice of God sounds like), but the voice never comes.

God doesn't tell me why.

But He does remind me (in a whisper, not a JEJ voice), that He doesn't have to.

Job 38:4-18 (New Living Translation)4 "Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much. 5 Do you know how its dimensions were determined and who did the surveying? 6 What supports its foundations, and who laid its cornerstone 7 as the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy? 8 "Who defined the boundaries of the sea as it burst from the womb, 9 and as I clothed it with clouds and thick darkness? 10 For I locked it behind barred gates, limiting its shores. 11 I said, 'Thus far and no farther will you come. Here your proud waves must stop!' 12"Have you ever commanded the morning to appear and caused the dawn to rise in the east? 13 Have you ever told the daylight to spread to the ends of the earth, to bring an end to the night's wickedness? 14 For the features of the earth take shape as the light approaches, and the dawn robed in red. 15 The light disturbs the haunts of the wicked, and it stops the arm that is raised in violence. 16 "Have you explored the springs from which the seas come? Have you walked about and explored their depths? 17 Do you know where the gates of death are located? Have you seen the gates of utter gloom? 18 Do you realize the extent of the earth? Tell me about it if you know!

I didn't really like His answer. I don't ever really like it when God reminds me that He is God and I am not. But it did remind me that even if I didn't like the answer, He was still God.  He was still in control. He is still here.

It reminded me of all the times when I was a little girl and other kids were mean to me.  My dad would come home from work and I would climb up into his lap and tell him how awful my day was.  Then, with tears in my eyes, I would tell him, "It just isn't fair daddy."

And he would wrap his arms around me and say, "No, baby, it isn't."

And that's exactly what I told God. "Someone walking into a school and shooting twenty-six people, twenty of them little children, God, it just isn't fair."

And as He wraped His arms around me, I heard Him reply, "No it isn't, Kristen. No, it isn't."

Waiting for a Little More Crazy

I've always loved Christmas.

More specifically, I've always loved Christmas trees. Maybe it's because I'm from Montana and there we just call them trees.

Many of my fondest memories of choosing a Christmas tree revolve around my brother, my dad and me wandering through a series of evergreen trees while my we tried to come an agreement on a tree that not only Jason and I approved of, but that my dad, who apparently had better spacial sense than we did, figured would fit into our living room.  This took some doing, as my brother and I are both perfectionists when it comes to choosing the perfect tree.  There is a certain symmetry that must exist on at least three sides, along with a deep green color, and branches sturdy enough to hold lights (the old fashioned giant - one goes out, we all go out- lights), garland, ornaments, and at least four boxes of tinsel. Basically a tree had to be able to hold a family of giant possums on each and every branch to stand up to the kind of decorating it would be subject to at our house.

The biggest argument came down to size.  It went like this. We would find the perfect tree and my dad would (patiently) explain that our house did not have 35 foot ceilings, and as much as he would like to climb 28 feet up the tree to cut off the top seven feet, he was neither a lumberjack, nor crazy, and we were going to have to pick another tree.  This usually went on for about two hours before we finally found one that was closer to twelve feet, which was still five feet to tall, but doable.

I honestly didn't even know they made such a thing as artificial trees until I came to Texas to attend college. If I would have known most 95% of the state had fake Christmas trees, I probably would have ended up in Michigan. As the years went on, I continued to defy the artificial tree racket in Texas and buy a real tree each year.  But something happened to my tree trimming tradition the farther I got from home. I stopped stringing popcorn, and the garland disappeared completely.  My ornaments became color coordinated, and I couldn't even tell you if they make tinsel anymore. My last semester of college, which happened to be the one year I lived by myself, I stood back and looked at my finished tree and thought it was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen.  Mind you, this was before Facebook, before Pinterest.  I'm not even sure if Martha Stewart was a household name.  But I had created this amazing tree, perfectly symmetrical, and not just the tree, but the placement of the ornaments.  The colors and lights (not the outside kind), were all coordinated and just stunning if I do say so myself. And I do.

I loved that tree.

Then I got married.

To a Texan.

A Texan who did not understand my love of real trees. Our first Christmas I had to make the dreaded call to my father telling him that....we had.... bought....an....artificial tree.

To this day it is the only time my dad has hung up on me.

But still, Richie and I made our metal and plastic tree as beautiful as you can make a, you know, metal and plastic tree.  By that time, adding ribbon to your tree had become in vogue and someone made us an amazing bow to top the tree.  We started a tradition of decorating our tree in a different theme each year, to reflect that year in our lives, or you know, just because.  When UNT went to the New Orleans Bowl the first year (oh, how long ago), we did a Mardi Gras tree with masks and feathers.  The year our daughter was born the tree was adorned in all pink.

And then something else happened.

Our daughter grew into a toddler.

She wanted to help decorate the tree.

My tree.

If you have small children or if you have ever seen a tree decorated by small children you know how it goes. First, you put up all of the ornaments that can break, which by this point are most of them, because you have been collecting all of these awesome ornaments for years.  Then, you start handing the small child all of the unbreakable ornaments, which he or she proceeds to hang.

On the same branch.

Every single ornament.

On the same branch.

It doesn't matter if you encourage the child to move to the other side of the tree. It doesn't matter if you pick up the child and physically move the child to the other side of the tree or hold the child up so they can reach a high branch.  It is as if the child is drawn to that one and only branch. So every ornament the child touches gets put on that branch.

Interestingly, if you have two small children, they will both be attracted to the same branch.  I'm not sure why this happens, but it is true.  I have seen up to five children all hanging ornaments on the same branch.

I give props to artificial trees on this point.  Thanks to their titanium innards, their branches hold up to the barrage of ornaments much better than real trees. We have seen it go both ways, as Richie and I came to an agreement in order to save our marriage, which is I get a real tree every three years, or on years when I have a baby.

Once you have children, not only are all of the ornaments bunched up on one branch, but the small children (we now have two), start bringing home "ornaments" they made at daycare, preschool, kindergarten, church, in the back yard, during nap, and anywhere else they have a hook, some paste, and some clay type substance.  I think we have one that is made of used bubble gum and a paper clip that one of the kids tried to pass off as a shooting star.

So as the kids started "helping" decorate the tree, I did what every proud and loving mother does; I waited until they went to sleep and re-decorated it.  I re-distributed all of the ornaments, moving the less desirable ornaments to the lesser viewed side and using ribbon to hide some of the imperfections. The kids don't notice.  The tree looks great.

Everyone wins.

This year is a real tree year in the Escovedo house (every third year - not a baby year) and to my credit, I let the kids pick it (with just a tad of guidance).  And can I just say, it must be in their genes, because they picked an amazing tree. And they are getting the hang of decorating too.  They are eight and four this year and I am to the point where I am starting to enjoy reminiscing as I look at the decorations made in kindergarten and Santa pictures from prior years.

As I sat last night with the Christmas lights on I looked at the tree and then down at our daughter my heart was so full as I said to her, "I think you did an awesome job.  I really think this is our most beautiful tree yet.  What do you think?"

Long pause.

"Anna, what do you think?  Do you not like the tree?"

"It's not that I don't like it. I just think there is something missing mommy."

"What?  What is it?  What do you think is missing? Does it need more lights? Ribbon?"

"Hmmmm... It just needs....I don't know.  Well, it needs more Ryan.  It needs a little more crazy. It just doesn't quite look like, well, us."

As I looked at our beautiful, symmetrical, color coordinated tree, I realized she was absolutely right.

It didn't look like us. 

We are not symmetrical, nor are we ever color coordinated.  We are, well, a little more crazy.

So tonight, she and Ryan got to work fixing the tree.  Out came the foam, scissors, tape, and markers. I watched and they worked carefully putting together ornaments that just a year ago I would have hidden in the back, but tonight I let them proudly hang right in the front where everyone would be sure to see them.

Because thinking back on my childhood Christmas trees, the joy in my memories is not because they were perfect.

It was because they had a little more Kristen.

They had a little more crazy.

I won't have imperfect trees forever, so you can bet your elves I am going to enjoy every bubble gum shooting star ornament while I can.

Turns out, they are priceless.