My Second Dad

Someday, I will have lost my dad three times. The first time was when he suffered a head injury in 1986, the second time was when he started having seizures in 2004, and the third time is yet to come.

Isaac's second birthday party was on Saturday and this was the first time I realized that I missed my second dad, the one I knew growing up. After his car accident, but before his seizures began, the fear of a "tantrum," or a violent outburst, always lurked in the shadows. However, Dad was the best dad he could be. And I miss him. As we got ready to leave for the party at Heritage Park, for the first time I realized how much I ache for the dad I had growing up.

Dad was active and DID stuff with me and my sister: swimming, mall trips, ice skating (he couldn't skate because of his knee injury from the car accident, but watched and waved to us behind the railing), driving to volleyball games, volunteering for school fundraisers, putt-putting, etc. At any hour of the day, Dad was just a phone call and 10-minute car ride away; he came to kill spiders, play Uno, or drink Root Beer floats in the garage while it rained. I'll always remember the sounds of dripping rain in the dark garage, sipping at our floats in lawn chairs.

Now, after the 2004 seizures (and recurring ones), Dad can't do much. I am thankful he remembers me and his grandchildren, but I miss his joy in doing things. He spends most days in his "office," a rental apartment that his brother owns, reading Greek translation books. It's almost funny that while Dad can't keep up with a Nancy Drew book, he still manages his Greek. He does two half-hour sessions on his exercise bike, reads those books, makes lunch, takes a shower, watches TV...and that's about it. Remembering his life before, this routine depresses me, but I have to remember that he is content with the routine. He clearly knows his life is supposed to be more than this, but he needs the repetition, the stability.

On Saturday, I thought how much pre-2004 Dad would have loved to come to the party. I can just picture him walking to the playground, carrying a tower of wrapped presents for Isaac.

Like most people, I didn't realize how great of a Dad I had. His love and generosity were too often overshadowed by his head injury and the possible "tantrums." He no longer enjoys large parties, but used to. I'll always remember him coming to Pizza Hut after volleyball games, surprising the large table by paying the whole bill. He loved people and loved being generous. I wish he could be here, playing with Isaac and holding Esther. If that same Dad were here today, I could see him packing up his apartment and moving down to Greenville in a U-haul truck, spending every day with his grandchildren and treating us all to frozen yogurt.

I can't bring "either" Dad back. But I can pass on his legacy by enjoying doing things with my own children and giving all of my heart to them. My sister and I were Dad's world; Isaac and Esther are now mine.

Currently, we don't have a garage, but when it rains, maybe we'll set up lawn chairs in front of the window and drink Root Beer floats.

Checking IN

Dissociating. To separate or disconnect.

This is a concept ingrained into my psyche. It's more than just daydreaming or not paying attention. "Checking out" is probably the best description. For as long as I can remember, I've checked out as a coping mechanism. Basically, if my mind is somewhere else, somewhere "safe," then nothing can hurt me. Of course, this is all subconscious and appears in many ways.

Reading. YouTube binges. Doodling. Staring at a wall.

Normally, it's fairly harmless, but when you have two children, one of whom is a very energetic and loving little boy, you need to be present and you need to PLAY. Why is this so difficult at times? Because it requires my mind to be engaged constantly with another mind. There's little time to "check out" and be in my "safe place" when there's such a constant demand for my mental presence.

When two little hands are grabbing for me and a little voice demanding my attention, I hate it when I feel myself withdrawing into myself. I hate that I want those little hands and that little voice to let me check out. How can a loving mother want that? That's why I'm glad I've recognized this fault of mine.

And it's gotten better over the last two years. Sure, it's easy when your babies are tiny and don't notice whether your mind is present or not. All they need is cuddles, milk, and de-pooping. But, slowly, they develop and need deeper attention. They need someone to build blocks with them, someone to chase them in the yard, someone to pretend that the Tickle Monster is out for vengeance. Really, these things require little to no effort, but when you're used to decades of having the mental freedom to check out, it becomes yet another brick wall to break down.

Yesterday, I played with my son in the backyard and saw the pure joy on his face when I reached my hands through the playset slats to grab him, I heard the bubbling giggles as I chased him from one fence to the other, I saw the glow in his eyes when he figured out how to blow leaves out of his hands...these are the moments that make a childhood. Years from now, I don't want my babies remembering that they had to coerce me into playing or drag me away from a book. It's a work in progress, but there IS progress.

Babies

I'm actually a little glad that my labor and recovery with Isaac was so rough because it makes me feel less apologetic for how easily Esther came into the world. Since I was chilling at five cm. for over a week, when the doctor said, "When you feel any consistent contractions, JUST GO," we took her literally. Especially because I wanted plenty of time to get that epidural.

A friend kindly told me, during our church's small group, not to feel badly about wanting an epidural.

"I don't feel bad that I want one," I said, "but I do feel bad for how MUCH I want one."

Somehow, a truly loving mother should at least feel some reservation about getting an epidural, right? Nope. I adore the thought of going "all natural," but after Isaac and the death-torture-straight-from-the-bowels-of-hell contractions, I wanted that needle in my back, plunging my body into sweet, blissful ignorance.

So, around 1 a.m. on Thursday morning, I had two big contractions, woke up Ryan and my mom (who was staying in our guest room), and off we went to the hospital. Isaac was conveniently snoozing at our friends' house where we left him that night because I was pretty sure I was having some small contractions and, again, after the doctor's "JUST GO!", I was glad to let him stay for his first sleepover.

It was a weird feeling, driving through the dark and down a very empty I-385. So different from Isaac when we drove in the afternoon, me convinced that every other driver was looking over in horror every time I felt those death-torture-straight-from-the-bowels-of-hell contractions. Although, when I'm in that much pain, I don't show it much...I probably just looked like I needed to poop. But THIS time was actually fun. I wasn't in much pain yet, was pretty sure I'd get an epidural in time, and was actually feeling very happy.

That didn't change. The whole labor and delivery was delightful. Seriously. Who knew it could be FUN? One of the best reasons for going without an epidural is wanting to be fully alert and present to the delivery process. For me, I was able to enjoy so much more with the drugs. So. Much. More. Esther took her time in coming, but that was fine. In the hours before she came, I played Words with Friends, felt my belly as the contractions intensified which was fun because I felt nothing, joked with Ryan and the nurses, ate cherry Popsicles, and even napped.

Right before Esther was born, I felt some of the really intense contractions even through the epidural. It hurt, but it was a good hurt. I was glad to feel some of the pain. The doctor and nurses came in soon, said, "Looks like you're ready to push," and I was like, "Ok, I'll just put my phone away..." And, 10 minutes later. Esther's sweet, little (VERY little) head came poking out. Ryan brought a small mirror so I could see everything this time and I'm so glad for that. It was weird and marvelous to see Esther born into the world.

While I've felt sadder and more irritable this past week, I'm doing well. Almost suspiciously well. I say "suspiciously" because I always have this suspicion that anything good can't last. Even as I watch Isaac's precious face as he sleeps or nurse Esther and cherish that little hand curled around my finger, I sense the loss of them growing up, becoming independent, leaving the nest...I wonder if I've ever truly lived in the moment as an adult.

However, that fear of loss at least helps me enjoy these little moments while I have them. I can't freeze Esther in time or preserve her cuddly newborn-ness, but I can treasure this baby while she's a baby. Just like I couldn't (and can't) freeze Isaac, and now see a VERY active toddler who loves climbing and getting into everything, I know I've properly treasured each stage of his life so far.

But still, I so wish they could stay babies just a little longer!