Baby

I have been thinking a lot about my job. I have now been a nanny for almost two years. During this time, I have sporadically worked for about 12 families in a childcare capacity. Consistently, though, I have been with one family for one year, and another for two years. When I started working for them the two-year family, Su was 2. The first day I met Su, she looked up at me with ginormous, chocolate-coloured eyes, and gave me a picture, "For you." She had a remarkable vocabulary for a child of that age, but still very limited, of course, and she sometimes preferred crawling to walking. Now she tells me stories at bedtime, helps make snacks, and moved into a "big girl bed" a few weeks ago.

When I went to her room and saw the big bed for the first time, a few tears sprung to my eyes. This tiny girl who had so completely captured my heart from the first day I met her (as well as her sister) had grown right before my eyes from a baby into a beautiful little girl who matches her socks to her dresses. Things like this always make me wonder at my place in this world. There are four children out of many that I have babysat long enough that I truly do know and love them, and they love me, as well. They are smart, funny, beautiful children with unique hopes and dreams... hopes and dreams that I will never get to watch them grow into, because I am a nanny, and not a normal part of their lives. I will never meet their first boyfriend/girlfriend (except for Sage, who juggled 3 boyfriends at her 5th birthday party), see them graduate high school, I won't know what colleges they choose, I won't be at their weddings, I will never see their children, because I was just someone who was payed for a period of time to be involved in their lives.

Sometimes I feel like a parent, then I remember that parents get to see the lives of their children until one of them dies. I think my parents loved watching my sister and I grow up. Sometimes I think it makes them sad that we are no longer little girls, just like it makes me a little sad that Su moved into a big girl bed. I think, though, that normally they were happy when we were small, and they are happy to see the people we have grown up (and are still growing up) to be now, and when we are even older and we have children and buy houses and start menopause and get gray hairs, they'll be happy that we are that age. All the sorrow that I have recently recognized in my life - a sort of grief over missing these children who are still part of their life - makes me realize how much I want children of my own, and how much I have become like my parents, in appreciating every part of a child's life, not just the cute ones.

One day, maybe God will give me children, biologically or through adoption. Maybe he will not. In either case, I am sure their will be children who are a constant part of my life - my best friend's little sister, my newly-gained nieces and nephews, my future nieces and nephews and the future children of my close friends, and maybe my own. When these kids are in my life, I hope I remember to appreciate them no matter how old they get. I hope that I celebrate their lives with them, whether I live in the same city or another continent. I hope that they'll know that I care about them, about their lives, when they are 2 or when they are 40. I hope I get to be a part of some child's "growing up" experience, just like the incredible women who watched me grow from a child to an adult have been a part of my growing up experience.

Files

I like things to be put in order. At my required counseling session for a college class last week, that is what my professor said about me, "Lisa, you like things to be in order. God made you that way. God is a God of order. Things in your life aren't orderly, so it's hard on you." She didn't say exactly that, really, but all of those things were points she made at some point in our conversation. I like counseling. It makes me feel like I'm putting all the different clutters in my life into little file folders and stamping a label on them that says "Yes, I did think this through". Oh dear, I'm almost obnoxiously orderly. I also take counseling seriously. In junior high, when my parents thought I was crazy and took me to some professional counselor who was supposed to be really awesome and took me to Starbucks, I would hang up the "goal lists" he gave me in my room. I actually did the things on the list. If I didn't, I felt bad and disorganized. So, being the sort of person I am, and having stamped all those files with "Yes, I did think this through", it was time to move them to the "...and I've done something about it" stamp. A few phone calls. A few emails. A very sweet friend who helped me clean my apartment because it was past the point of me handling it on my own. Long talks with Em, even though we're usually half asleep. A lot of prayer. A few fears. Yet where do I find myself? Balancing on the edge of a diving board, just like the first time I learned to dive - now taking a deep breath, about to pluge, then stubbornly sitting down on the end of the board, refusing to budge. That is to say, I feel that I know quite well some pretty major steps I (and my husband, by default, who is much more prepared for them than I) am about to take, but I can't seem to work up the resolve to push them through. Change is hard on me. I think it's hard on most people, and they would tell you that, if they were honest. Mostly people aren't honest, they just come up with excuses for why the change is bad to try to justify their fears and stress. I do that a lot. I try not to, but I know that I do. Emi tells me I do. I'm trying to admit to hating change more and making excuses less. It's hard. Becoming a better person is always hard. I know, because it is in my file of things that I've thought through. Now I have an invisible goal list with goals that I never imagined having when I was 13. Maybe I should write them down. I always feel more accomplished when I make lists. There are little index cards with lists on them scattered through our apartment. Some of them are legible. Most aren't. I feel as though this ended up being pointless, which is too bad. I'm tired and have some kind of ridiculous allergies, so now was probably a bad time to write. Sometimes you just need to write, though. It helps to put things in files.

Grandpa

I've been thinking a lot about self-esteem lately. I've always been fairly confident in my appearance, not because I'm exceptionally beautiful, but mostly because I never thought too much of how I looked. Many of my friends struggled with massive insecurities about their bodies, often leading to very self-destructive behavior, but somehow I escaped most of that.

Until I lost weight. I know that sounds really odd, but in high school I had put on a decent amount of weight, so when I graduated I was a tad overweight. I thought my body looked pretty nice that way, though. I had nice, full hips & bottom, and an ample enough chest, with a comparatively small waist. The summer after my freshman year of college, I grew ill and began to lose a lot of weight, fast. Instead of losing weight in a pleasant way, I mostly just became curve-less. My face looked thin and tired and colourless. Plus, I broke my nose for the second time, creating an awkward bump on the bridge. I didn't like it at all. By August, I knew the truth: I was ugly.

I put on a little weight after, only to lose it & more quickly. I'd look angrily in the mirror every morning, wondering what the strange, ghoul-like creature staring back at me was. But every morning, we got a little more used to each other. I'd always been pale, but now my skin seemed translucent, even a smidge blue. This was perhaps one of the single most convincing factors for me that I was no longer attractive. Yet, the more I got used to it, the more I liked it. I liked how, if I dyed my hair darker, there seemed to be something unusual and dramatic about my face. I liked experimenting with blush for the first time in my life. I even became okay with the new size and shape of my body. Still, there was one thing haunting me: my crooked, bumpy nose.

I sat next to Em, examining my reflection in a mirror. He didn't think I was ugly, I knew. In fact, if I had asked him then (or now) he would insist I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. Of course, as it always is with women, simply having someone tell you that you're beautiful doesn't much change your opinion - unless, of course, you're already convinced you're gorgeous. Then it may strengthen it. But on this particular examination of myself, I noticed something, "I have my grandpa's nose."

My grandpa has a long, narrow nose (like mine) that he's broken something like 4 times (like mine). Em thinks he looks like Clint Eastwood. I like my grandpa a lot. He has an odd sense of humor and has retained serious golf injuries (who does that?). He's been a huge supporter of me my whole life and I'm glad to call him my grandpa. And I have a nose that looks like his.

So maybe it is just how we think about things, after all. I think my nose looks pretty regal. Yeah, regal.

Happily

Two weeks ago, I got married. Thus begins the "happily ever after..." part of our lives. And the parts where Em has really bad breath in the mornings and I try to reconcile a 45hr workweek with newlywed bliss. Chicago's weather also seems to think I need more time with my husband, and happily offers 68 degree weather in August, providing me with the opportunity to leave the little froyo shop I work at an hour early at night. Its difficult to say what being married is like. It's like not being married, except now I wake up next to a beautful man who probably attempted multiple times the night before to steal all the blankets from me. I bathe much more than I used to, and have officially made my first casserole, pyrex pan and all. I'm not certain exactly what I thought it would "be" like to be married. In jr. high, my best friend went through a really rough time. She was struggling with depression, the usual teenage angst and hormones, and some family problems. We moved a bed from my grandma's storage locker into my room because there were so many nights she stayed with us. One summer, she stayed with us nearly the entire few months. We stayed up til 4:00am, making things out of clay, watching movies, and talking. We ate too much sugar, went grocery shopping together, and listened to music. All my best memories of my teenage years were during that time. Being married is mostly like that. We stay up too late giggling and talking about the future. We argue in the grocery store about what kind of juice is the best and rent a lot of movies. We try to figure out what superheroes we would be and we do the dishes together. It's wonderful and complicated and sometimes heartbreaking. Most wonderful of all, it's the beginning. If all goes well (and we don't die young), I have years ahead to learn how to be the best friend, best lover, and best partner for Em, and he has years to do the same for me. Happily ever after is a rigorous training school.

Bows

"Becca's here!" I happily announced to my mother as my best friend of eleven years walked into the room. She immediately helped me to move a table, because she is one of the most helpful people in the world. Continuing into the evening, we chatted about the best way to tie bows, what kind of jewelry we like the best, how my wedding had taken on an "earthy" ambience, and all those sorts of things best friends simply must talk about when one of them is getting married in three days. This time, it's me.

I recieved several phone calls today and only accepted one, from my fiancee himself. He'd just learned about a medical emergency in his family. We paniced. We freaked out. Then we realized that life will go on, we can still get married though it may not be the most ideal circumstances for a wedding. And I remember what one of my bosses told me in his semi-thick Indian accent that I found so hard to understand when we first met, "In the end it's about you and him. You do what you can, but the other people don't matter."

I've been thinking about all the different advice I've been given about marriage, including that. Still, the best is a piece of advice from a woman I barely knew that I met at a music festival a few years ago, before I had met Emi. In a canded and spirited conversation about marriage, she told my sister, my best friend, and I, "Marriage makes you realize what a terrible person you are," she laughed and explained that she never realized how selfish she was until she had to put her husband before herself. What she said seemed sensible at the time. Nonetheless, it has taken on a new meaning lately as Emi explores what it means to die to himself and gives more and more of his time and energy to our relationship. The more he invests his life in me, the more I realize how in the same way I need to return that type of love to him. I'm naturally a generous person - giving sounds easy to me. However, I'm also a very independant person and find it difficult, often, to give up my own will for his. Yet God hasn't given up on me.

In three days, I walk down an aisle overflowing with flower petals (I keep buying more...), and pledge my life to the most incredible man in the world. Every day after that, I'll learn a little more about what a terrible person I am, and what a gracious and forgiving God who is leading me.

Here's to many adventures. And bows.

Fail

I barely made it up the last stairstep. My breath sounded short and... wheesy. I plopped down on the couch, happy that my 6-year-old subject was pretty worn out, too. I sat there, desperately trying to remember what normal breathing felt like. It took me a good ten minutes to get to the point of normal breathing. "I don't feel good," Tyler moaned. I understood the sentiment, so we sat on the couch for awhile, drinking water and munching on Goldfish. We played with the Goldfish a little, because that's just something you have to do with the snack that smiles back.

Sleeping on the floor in a strange apartment without a pillow turns out to be one of my body's least-favourite activities. I did acquire a pillow though, finally. I've had odd and irregular eating habits the past few weeks. My legs start to tremble, threatening to fail, if I've forgotten to eat for too long. I like to pretend that I'm just being a wimp, but I know better than that. I'm tired, but that I've gotten used to. I'm angry, and that's something I never wanted to get used to, but maybe I have.

The last time I went to get a blood draw, the nurse was unable to get anything out of me. She wiggled the needle around, searching for a vein. She found one, but apparently it didn't have enough blood in it. I was left with a vein bulging from my arm, freezing cold, and trembling violently. I stumbled to my classroom - no time to waste - and sunk to the floor in the hallway. I was somewhere between my body just failing to move any more and a slight state of shock. Em came over to me and I showed him my arms. I cried, though I still don't know why. Mostly I just felt angry.

I question God a lot when I start getting sick. I get angry at God a lot when I can't make my body move the way I want it to. I think Christians in general like to shy away from admitting that they doubt or get angry at God, but I'm pretty sure it's a universal thing. The Bible is littered with people who cry out and God, not understanding the state of their lives. In the end, basically all we know is that God's got it. We don't always get answers to the question why, we just know God is bigger than us.

So all the pain I've dealt with the past year is okay, because I don't have to understand why. All the anger and the confusion and frustration is okay, as long as I remember that God is sovereign and I am not outside of His will. I'm not accusing the Almighty of being unjust. Sometimes one just needs to get stuff out of their system, sometimes that helps us recognize God all the more. Sometimes I tend to separate "me" and "my body," so let me broaden that a little to encompass more than my health. All the difficulties Em and I have had (and will have) are okay because God is in control. All the disappointment I've felt toward my parents and friends is okay because God is good. All the trouble I'm having finding that "ideal" job is okay because God is bigger than work. I don't really have to understand why, after all. I just have to rest in what I know is true about God.

Relate

Friendship is a really odd topic for me. I have two friends who I've been close to for the last ten years, about. When I was in high school, I was relatively popular and never seemed to have a problem finding someone to spend time with. I started writing this blog because I had been stewing over all the things going on in my life that go with growing up. When someone asked me what I wanted to write about this time (I've blogged before and abandoned them all for various reasons), I said something like, "Health. I'm really interested in being healthy. And education, because I like it. Getting married. Moving. My usual theological rants." Basically things that are happening in my life, but maybe I could also take a broader perspective on.

So here's the thing, I'm bad at making friends. Em and I talk about this on a regular basis. My sister has lectured me about this since I was about 13. So I've gotten a little more intentional lately. I planned three different "dates" this week, with three different women I have something of a relationship with that I want to deepen. My first one was today. It was with a girl I met when I started college and we were close friends for a few months, but recently have barely spoken. I got to Panera first. She arrived a few minutes later. We talked about some of the things we're working through on our upcoming marriages. Then we sat. In silence. For what seemed like 15 minutes, at least. So I sat there, wondering how it happened that we ended up with absolutely nothing to talk about. Then I went to work, and I wondered how I seemed to have more in common with my manager, a culinary student with completely different beliefs than me, then a girl who lives a very similar lifestyle to me.

Tomorrow I have date #2, and date #3 may have to be rescheduled as work is eating my life a tiny bit right now. Date #2 is with one of my better friends that we've just sort of not made time for each other recently. Date #3 is with a girl I've known vaguely for two years, though have never been close to, who has recently gone out of her way to be incredibly kind to me which has made me realize she's probably the type of friend I actually want to have.

I'm really bad at the whole friends thing. But I'm getting better. I try not to directly talk about God in every single post because I feel like that's a little unnecessary. Maybe it isn't, though. Because sometimes it becomes like the point of the thing I'm writing about is the thing itself, but it really isn't. The point of making good friends isn't just that. It's so that I can practice being the type of friend God wants me to be, and so I can have people in my life with the same intent in their friendships. The point of taking all the vitamins my doctor tells me to and exercising every day isn't so I look better or feel better, it is so I manage my body the way God intends for me to. The point of education is to use my mind in a way that brings glory to God. So now, this whole week turns into a sort of exploration of what God's view of friendship is. I'll keep you all posted.