This throw-back Thursday is dedicated to the ghetto pool and the years where we were basically drowning in littles. Good thing we have some pictures because it’s pretty much a blur.
Category Archives: memories
Wishes and Obstacles
I turned 40 years old in April.
I am probably about halfway there, if I live until I’m 80.
A little backstory to my wish. When I was 8 years old my cousin, who was 6 years old, spent time with us pretty often. Things were rough at her house. My aunt had made another bad man choice and I’d say odds are pretty good that my little cousin was being abused. She was definitely being neglected. I grew up on the good side of town. But my cousin, she was on the poor side of town. The times I went to her side of town and stayed are burned in my memory. The games we played in the trailer park where we dug for treasures in the dumpster. The times we stayed outside as long as possible to stay away from her “step-dad” and all the smoking and drinking. Her mom and step-dad fought a lot. They screamed and threw things. Then as we got a little older, they had a baby. He was left next door with his grandmother for hours or days. They preferred the baby boy so my little cousin was treated even worse into her preteen years.
As I got older, my middle school, middle class attitude caused me to draw a line in the sand between myself and my cousin. She was over there with THEM. I was over here, where things were clean, quiet and comfortable.
When I left college to work in a group home filled with girls in state’s custody, I encountered more girls like my cousin. More children who had grown up not just in poverty, but were growing up with abuse, neglect and hopelessness. For every teenage girl that came through and stayed at the group home, there were a many younger siblings they had left behind. They were old enough to run away, or get in trouble so that they were removed from the home but their younger siblings were still there. Or had been scattered among foster homes.
At 23 years old, I knew that I would be a foster parent. What I really thought was that I would open my own group home. Then the state decided every child should be in a home, not an institution, so true long-term group homes have been all but eliminated. The vision, the dream, the desire I had then looked like this: A safe, stable, clean place that any child could find refuge in for as long as they needed it. This vision included meals together, chores and outings, hugs and encouragement, protection and spiritual guidance.
My belief system is anchored in the belief that God has a plan. He knew my childhood, He knew my early working years, He knows my marriage and family now. He is in control.
What I also believe is that I have to move forward with my wish. So that He can show me how the obstacles can be removed. I cannot stop moving forward because of what other people may think, because of discomfort or inconvenience. I will not stop moving forward. If God wanted me to have a different dream, He would have given me one.
My inspiration for this post came from this TED talk.
Throw-back Thursday: One boy, One girl
I can still remember taking this picture. I was pregnant for the third time and was due to be induced the very next day. We had no idea if this addition would be a girl or a boy and I remember looking at Foster and Katie and thinking “they have no idea what’s about to happen!”
Foster is 10
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| Getting some extra Wii time the morning of his 10th birthday. |
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| Cake that Foster and Daddy picked out during their special Daddy/Foster time. |
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| And she really is! She took half of the money from her piggy bank ($21) to put in the birthday card she had made for Foster. She loves her big brother so much. |
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| That’s almost a real smile! |
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| Photo by Katie |
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| Photo by Katie |
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| Photo by Katie |
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| Lego Minecraft = Mommy made a great choice! |
Foster’s Lovey says farewell
Dear Foster,
You went to bed without me tonight. I know you have been saying for awhile now that you don’t need me, that you aren’t a “baby”. I started to think back to the beginning…February 14th, 2004 when we first met. Your mommy was really into those parenting books and one of them must have said something about an “attachment object” so that a new baby would feel a sense of security. I guess that’s why some people call them security blankets. Your mommy called me your lovey. She got you as a baby shower gift and since she didn’t know then if you would be a boy or a girl…you were stuck with my color – light yellow. Although, I don’t really look all that yellow now…ten years (or 3,650 nights later) I look sort-of grayish yellow…all pulled strings and worn places.
I knew your mommy was onto something when you started to sort of pick at the fuzz on me and suck your thumb. I felt pretty happy that I could provide you with comfort when you were hurt, help you relax at nap time and keep you company through the nights. I know there was at least one night that we spent apart, you still had your thumb but I’m sure it wasn’t the same, otherwise your mommy wouldn’t have asked your Grammy to overnight express me back from her house!
We’ve been through some great times together…six years of thumb sucking, sometimes picking at my fuzzy side and sometimes petting my silky side. I know it was hard, giving up that thumb and making all those big transitions you’ve made in life. Man, each time your mommy had another baby you were treated as older and bigger, but when you and I hung out at night, in the quiet of your room, it was like old times…when you were the little one.
Then there were the really scary and sad times…when your Daddy was gone to Columbia, Iraq, Kuwait…the really long trips. The time you broke your collar bone and the time you had a stomach virus so bad you ended up in the hospital. When your Nana died and you didn’t understand it all.
I was glad you shared with me when you gave your life to Jesus, right after praying with your mommy and daddy in the living room…I was so relieved that you had found the true Lovey.
What I appreciate about you the most is that during the day you let me play all kinds of things with you…games like “smack my sister” and when you would wad me up and use me as a bomb. It was fun times buddy, fun times.
I know that when you started reading and praying at night I wasn’t as necessary as before but I was honored to still be a part of your life. You are growing up and I know I need to let you go.
I thank you Foster Owen Grubb for sharing a part of your life with me. I know that your mommy will put me away in a safe place, a place for all those truly, one-of-a-kind special things that have defined your life and hers.
Farewell dear friend,
Foster’s Lovey
12 years ago
It’s the 12th anniversary of 9/11.
I remember reading in my history books about World War 1 and World War 2 and the Civil War and thinking, as a child, that those “stories” were unbelievable. I’ve always had a hard time realizing that there were actual people, families who were alive then and dealing with all that comes with war.
I never would have thought that I would be changed by war or a national tragedy. But, the anniversary of September 11th is weaved into our story.
Chris and I had been dating for 9 months. I knew we were supposed to get married and I was 4 years older than him so I was impatient. I was waiting on the ring, the proposal, the planning (like a majority of 20 something year old females tend to).
The morning of the attacks Chris called me with a frantic tone in his voice. “I’m leaving right now,” he said. I was watching the news and had seen what happened but it was less than an hour before and I was thinking, “Why is the military flipping out over a plane crashing into a building?”
Chris was headed out to another airbase to offer support. He said “Will you marry me?” with urgency. I’ve never been one to panic easily so I just said “Oh no…you aren’t getting off that easy. I want a REAL proposal, with A RING.”
I like to think that when Pearl Harbor was bombed that there was at least one other clueless female out there thinking and saying the same things I did that day. I should have said “YES! Of course! Now go save the day!”
Even though it did feel like it by the end of that day and the end of that week, it wasn’t the end of the world. It was a hard time for America, the beginning of another military and societal struggle.
Except for the 9 months before the attack, Chris and I and our family have been affected by the events of that day. From rushed marriage proposals, to months apart due to military deployments, we feel the effects of 9/11.
So, without realizing it we have become one of those “real” families woven into the fabric of our nation’s history.
I am so thankful that we haven’t had to sacrifice more. That we are all still alive and together.
The Lord foils the plans of the nations; he thwarts the purposes of the peoples.
But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever,
the purposes of his heart through all generations.
Psalm 33: 10-11
a moment captured
It’s not often that I catch a picture of all of my babies smiling these big, genuine smiles. I am not a photographer. The lighting is always wrong and their are weird blurry spots where there should be a child. The background is full of unflattering things no one wants to see, like dirty dishes, filled to the brim trashcans or toys randomly thrown about the yard.
I have a couple of friends who take pictures of my kids because we run in the same circles and I look at their pictures and think “that is the most beautiful child in the world” (not that I’m biased). You’ve seen some of them, I post them on here and tag them on Facebook.
I always do feel a little proud that somehow my husband and I managed to give birth to these little beauties. Well, I feel proud briefly until I have to break up a screaming fist fight before someone ends up bloody. Then, I realize that pictures only tell so much.
I want to frame the pictures from the professionals. They are classy and elegant.
This picture, the one where all of my children have piled into a cardboard box, is the one I want to memorize.
The one I want to stare at and have the image burned into my brain.
I want to be able to smell the smell of summer and dirt. I want to hear the sound of giggling and laughing and jostling one another. I want to see the sight of Foster’s sense of humor, Katie’s desire to please, Theodore’s sweet spirit, Parker’s adoring look at Daddy and Jonah doing his best to imitate his big brother.
Only my pictures, the ones I took, the moments I felt compelled to pick up my camera and “capture” are the ones that can give me all of that. Imperfect as they may be.
reunited (and it feels so good)
Yesterday Chris went back to work at his “real” job. That’s what we call Daddy’s civilian job. After he returned from 190 ish days out of the country, we desperately needed that time to adjust to being a family again.
Deployments effect everyone in the family differently. Each of the kids, Chris and I are all getting used to being together again. If your family has never gone through a long separation you could have the false impression that when you are together again it’s all celebration and fun. Most of the time though, the emotions are fluctuating and range from elation to confusion to frustration to joy.
What I feel, what my kids feel more than anything is relief and security. A family is meant to be together, separation for any reason feels chaotic and insecure.
I don’t have nearly enough pictures taken to chronicle the past month’s fun. I haven’t been grabbing my camera as often, or blogging. Hopefully, now that we are getting back to “normal” I’ll be able to spend time on those things.
the woman in the picture
This will be the first Mother’s Day I have spent without my children since having my first child 9 years ago. I won’t be with my mom today either.
My Grandfather Drew has passed away and I have traveled to California to be present with my dad and my Aunt Eileen.
In our culture, it seems that whenever loved ones die, we find ourselves pouring over old photographs. This time has been no different.
As I’ve studied the past through small aging images, trying to piece together what life was like for my Grandfather who was born in 1923, I seem to always begin with the woman (or women) in the picture.
It might be different for men, but we women seem to divide ourselves into 2 categories. Those who have (or had) children, and those who have not. This is really a shame.
What I am finally growing to understand, through maturity I suppose, is that the defining aspect of a mother is not the moment she birthed a child. A woman becomes a mother, when she gives birth, gives life to the part of her that nurtures.
I remember that moment vividly in my life. In my 5th grade class, in my rundown school, there was a hole in the floor around a pipe. As we were sitting in class one day, we start to hear this small, quiet mewing coming from under the floor.
Of course, we were curious. When we were freed from our little wooden desks and allowed to move about the class, several of us rushed to the spot we had been eyeing for what felt like hours (it could have been minutes). As we sat hunched over, peering into the dark hole trying to see if there was really a cat stuck under us. I sat there saying “here, kitty kitty, here kitty kitty” but we weren’t able to see or hear anything.
It seem to be several days of this, and I grew increasingly anxious that this poor little cat was going to die under our classroom.
One day when only a couple of the girls were peering over the hole (the boys had moved on to bigger and better distractions) we had the idea to try and lure the kitty closer to us with food. I can see us now, on our knees, getting dusty and dirty, using a few fingers to grasp (slightly as to not crush the puff but with enough pressure we wouldn’t lose our grip on it) an orange cheese puff down between the hole in the tile and the pipe. We dangled and called, dangled and called then all of a sudden this furry paw shoots up and bats at the cheese puff, successfully knocking into the dark, underworld the kitty was stuck in.
From that point on, I determined that I would keep that cat. She needed to be rescued, protected, loved and fed. I was the woman for the job.
After a short time, several instances of defying authority and consequences from my teacher, principal and bus driver. I was riding home with my new cat in a cardboard box.
That feeling, that need to nurture is what makes a woman a mother.
Some women do have children, but others, many, many others spend their lives nurturing other children, in the mission field or as an aunt. As a nanny or a neighbor. As a teacher or a friend.
Women nurture their animals, their cats and dogs, their horses.
We nurture our own parents as they age and become like little children.
I may not be with my mother today or with my children, but I feel blessed that I get to spend time with another woman in my life who has been a wonderful example of how to nurture others.
All the Little Grubbs 