Nod to Jeff Foxworthy.
Although these mostly apply to the first year with twins, some still apply to me now.
- If you feel you could win most arm wrestling matches.
- If you get only 10 minutes without a baby in a 12-hour period.
- If you have had 16 or more diaper changes in one day.
- If perfect strangers ask you about your kids' conception.
- If you feel like a celebrity . . . in that you can't go anywhere without being stared at, stopped, asked a million questions, admired, complimented, and/or consoled.
- If there is no such thing as a quick errand.
- If you can't remember which baby woke you up last night. Or which baby you just changed. Or who you just fed.
- If you have to paint your kids' toe nails to make sure you don't mix them up, regardless of whether they are identical or fraternal.
- If there are bags under the bags under your eyes.
- If starting solids means wearing a hazmat suit.
- If changing diapers means wearing a hazmat suit.
- If you have two of everything and you hide things that you only have one of.
- If you coordinate your kids' outfits most days without even thinking about it.
- If you have single-handedly consumed an entire 1/2 gallon of ice cream in 24 hours.
- If your kids giggle at each other's jokes in their own baby language.
Any others I forgot to mention? Leave yours here.
Friday, July 1, 2016
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
What Happened to My Uterus
This post is for those who are curious about the details of my hysterectomy last year, since I didn't share much right after it happened. Be warned, however, that some might consider these details icky, so proceed at your own risk. You have been warned.
One year ago today around evening rush hour, I was sitting in our NICU room with Tracy, admiring our strong 4-pound baby boys. We just put them back in their open cribs, which they had progressed to only a couple days before. We loved that since the transition to open crib we could hold them whenever and for however long we wanted. Tracy had just finished reading a book to them, a nightly ritual during their NICU stay.
Then I felt it. Whoosh. A rush of blood. Two weeks after the boys were born, I was bleeding only slightly by that point, so I definitely knew something had to be wrong when I felt about an entire period's worth of blood all at once. I told Tracy and our NICU nurse what had happened. Immediately, which means that it still took 20 minutes to arrive, she sent someone to find a wheelchair to take me to the emergency room in the other wing of the hospital. A few minutes later, I felt another huge rush of blood. I was hemorrhaging. Finally the wheelchair came, and I said goodbye to my babies, comforted that they would be well cared for by the NICU nurses.
As we started walking, Tracy and I cracked jokes and laughed that yet another function or organ in my body was malfunctioning. I joked, "What will it be this time?" and "How convenient that we are already here in the hospital!" For those who know my "story," this reaction probably doesn't surprise you. (For those who don't, click here.) But the joking soon came to screeching halt.
The skywalk system between medical buildings felt exponentially longer than it should've as wave after wave of blood gushed out, each time slightly more painful. When we approached the check-in desk in the ER, I felt dizzy and tired. Tracy filled out the necessary paperwork while I tried unsuccessfully to stop my head from spinning. Then came the barrage of the same questions over and over again from several separate nurses and doctors, as you always experience when you go to the ER. They kept asking Tracy if I looked especially pale to him. No, that's just how she looks, he said. Thanks, babe.
I started to feel so cold; my hands and legs shivered, and my teeth chattering involuntarily. Now I understand why in the movies or TV shows, people say they are cold when they have been shot or stabbed or whatever and are bleeding to death. I've been there. (Bleeding to death, not getting shot or stabbed.) Eventually even breathing became difficult for me, so they gave me an oxygen tube. The bleeding slowed down, but the pain increased with each wave of blood. The doctors explained that they would try to stop the bleeding with a D&E, but if they couldn't they might need to perform a hysterectomy. Without question, Tracy and I told them to do what they needed to do.
Then came more questions, but not the same ones as before. "What is your name? What city do you live in? How old are you?" That's when I started worrying. Until then, I hadn't exactly enjoyed the experience, but I wasn't scared. I had only started bleeding about 30 minutes before and only recently felt significant pain. But no one asks you those kinds of questions unless they are concerned about your brain function from blood loss. I heard Tracy say to one of the nurses, "Now she looks really pale." Later he told me that I looked like a corpse, complete with blue lips and china-white skin.
At that point, I could barely keep my eyes open. As they rolled my bed away to go the OR, I held his hand and with all my energy whispered to Tracy that I loved him. For a second I honestly wondered if I would see him again. If I'd see my babies again. If I'd see any of my family or friends again. I wondered if it was already too late to stop it, if my time was drawing to a close.
I woke up--obviously. I felt that strong, deep, all-too-familiar ache in my abdomen and weak throughout my entire body. A large white bandage covered the doctors' work, but I already knew. They removed my uterus. I never got the actual number from the doctor, but before and during my surgery, I received anywhere between 6-10 units of blood.
Later, my doctor explained that the placentas had grown into the uterus lining, called placenta accreta. Most likely, my uterus had some scar tissue from my appendix or first ruptured ectopic pregnancy, which caused the placentas to grow into the lining. Although all the pieces of the placentas came out (after the doctor fished them out--ouch), two weeks later my uterus "thought" some of it was still there and bled to flush it out.
If we had been at home when it happened and if we had had to fight through Houston rush hour traffic to get to the emergency room, Tracy and I are sure I wouldn't have survived. But I did. Again. How about that?
I wonder what's next. My gall bladder? My spleen? A kidney? What other organs don't I need?
One year ago today around evening rush hour, I was sitting in our NICU room with Tracy, admiring our strong 4-pound baby boys. We just put them back in their open cribs, which they had progressed to only a couple days before. We loved that since the transition to open crib we could hold them whenever and for however long we wanted. Tracy had just finished reading a book to them, a nightly ritual during their NICU stay.
Then I felt it. Whoosh. A rush of blood. Two weeks after the boys were born, I was bleeding only slightly by that point, so I definitely knew something had to be wrong when I felt about an entire period's worth of blood all at once. I told Tracy and our NICU nurse what had happened. Immediately, which means that it still took 20 minutes to arrive, she sent someone to find a wheelchair to take me to the emergency room in the other wing of the hospital. A few minutes later, I felt another huge rush of blood. I was hemorrhaging. Finally the wheelchair came, and I said goodbye to my babies, comforted that they would be well cared for by the NICU nurses.
As we started walking, Tracy and I cracked jokes and laughed that yet another function or organ in my body was malfunctioning. I joked, "What will it be this time?" and "How convenient that we are already here in the hospital!" For those who know my "story," this reaction probably doesn't surprise you. (For those who don't, click here.) But the joking soon came to screeching halt.
The skywalk system between medical buildings felt exponentially longer than it should've as wave after wave of blood gushed out, each time slightly more painful. When we approached the check-in desk in the ER, I felt dizzy and tired. Tracy filled out the necessary paperwork while I tried unsuccessfully to stop my head from spinning. Then came the barrage of the same questions over and over again from several separate nurses and doctors, as you always experience when you go to the ER. They kept asking Tracy if I looked especially pale to him. No, that's just how she looks, he said. Thanks, babe.
I started to feel so cold; my hands and legs shivered, and my teeth chattering involuntarily. Now I understand why in the movies or TV shows, people say they are cold when they have been shot or stabbed or whatever and are bleeding to death. I've been there. (Bleeding to death, not getting shot or stabbed.) Eventually even breathing became difficult for me, so they gave me an oxygen tube. The bleeding slowed down, but the pain increased with each wave of blood. The doctors explained that they would try to stop the bleeding with a D&E, but if they couldn't they might need to perform a hysterectomy. Without question, Tracy and I told them to do what they needed to do.
Then came more questions, but not the same ones as before. "What is your name? What city do you live in? How old are you?" That's when I started worrying. Until then, I hadn't exactly enjoyed the experience, but I wasn't scared. I had only started bleeding about 30 minutes before and only recently felt significant pain. But no one asks you those kinds of questions unless they are concerned about your brain function from blood loss. I heard Tracy say to one of the nurses, "Now she looks really pale." Later he told me that I looked like a corpse, complete with blue lips and china-white skin.
At that point, I could barely keep my eyes open. As they rolled my bed away to go the OR, I held his hand and with all my energy whispered to Tracy that I loved him. For a second I honestly wondered if I would see him again. If I'd see my babies again. If I'd see any of my family or friends again. I wondered if it was already too late to stop it, if my time was drawing to a close.
I woke up--obviously. I felt that strong, deep, all-too-familiar ache in my abdomen and weak throughout my entire body. A large white bandage covered the doctors' work, but I already knew. They removed my uterus. I never got the actual number from the doctor, but before and during my surgery, I received anywhere between 6-10 units of blood.
Later, my doctor explained that the placentas had grown into the uterus lining, called placenta accreta. Most likely, my uterus had some scar tissue from my appendix or first ruptured ectopic pregnancy, which caused the placentas to grow into the lining. Although all the pieces of the placentas came out (after the doctor fished them out--ouch), two weeks later my uterus "thought" some of it was still there and bled to flush it out.
If we had been at home when it happened and if we had had to fight through Houston rush hour traffic to get to the emergency room, Tracy and I are sure I wouldn't have survived. But I did. Again. How about that?
I wonder what's next. My gall bladder? My spleen? A kidney? What other organs don't I need?
Monday, July 14, 2014
Perfection for an Imperfect Couple
On July 14, 2007, I married Tracy David Wulf. Today is July 14, 2014. We have been married for 7 years.
Why is this anniversary so special? We were married on 7/14/07. Today is 7/14/14 and is our 7th anniversary. Seven and its multiples (or perhaps multiples in general--hehe) are a theme for us apparently.
Also, seven, in several religions, is considered the symbolic number of divine completion, holiness, and sanctification.
Now, I'm not saying that Tracy and I are perfect personally, nor has our marriage been perfect. But the longer we've been married, the better we seem to read each other, to read and address each other's needs, to love each other better, more selflessly. We are not done progressing, but I'm amazed how two imperfect individuals can become one and love each other completely.
It makes me wonder how we will grow by the time we reach our 14th anniversary (7/14/21).
The Wulf Pack: Created on July 14, 2007
Time:
7 years.
84 months.
364 weeks.
2,555 days.
Events:
4 moves.
2 college graduations.
3 major surgeries.
1.5 IVF cycles (long story).
2 little boys on the way...
1 happy couple
Why is this anniversary so special? We were married on 7/14/07. Today is 7/14/14 and is our 7th anniversary. Seven and its multiples (or perhaps multiples in general--hehe) are a theme for us apparently.
Also, seven, in several religions, is considered the symbolic number of divine completion, holiness, and sanctification.
Now, I'm not saying that Tracy and I are perfect personally, nor has our marriage been perfect. But the longer we've been married, the better we seem to read each other, to read and address each other's needs, to love each other better, more selflessly. We are not done progressing, but I'm amazed how two imperfect individuals can become one and love each other completely.
It makes me wonder how we will grow by the time we reach our 14th anniversary (7/14/21).
The Wulf Pack: Created on July 14, 2007
Time:
7 years.
84 months.
364 weeks.
2,555 days.
Events:
4 moves.
2 college graduations.
3 major surgeries.
1.5 IVF cycles (long story).
2 little boys on the way...
1 happy couple
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Wulf Cub Names
One of the fun parts of expecting a baby is choosing a name. Well, for some people it is. Not so much for us...
Three things you need to know when it comes to choosing boy names: my husband's name is Tracy, he is picky, and other kids can be really mean.
With these bits of information, it won't surprise you to learn that my husband can be sensitive when it comes to boy names. Any possibly gender-neutral names are immediately thrown off the table. If he has heard of one girl ever having the name or can even envision it turning into a girl's name in the future, he rejects it. If it's still a fairly new name, he vetoes it for fear that it will turn into a girl's name some day. Most of the time, when I suggest a name, Tracy shrugs and says he has to think about it--probably wondering how kids could mock it. Other kids are mean, and his name is Tracy. Enough said about that.
But it doesn't stop there. Our kids' names also can't have a W sound in it because "it will sound weird" with Wulf, as Tracy claims. He's not a fan of alliteration apparently.
When we were dating, my roommates wrote poems using our names, but overall it never really bothered me. Since we've been married, people have asked whether we will name our kids Casey, Stacy, Macie, and/or Gracie. NO. People already occasionally call me Tracy, and we aren't going to make the situation harder by adding more options to the mix. Obviously, any rhyming with our names will not even be considered.
Most expectant parents will admit that brainstorming names also brings up memories of people who have ruined certain names. I will not share which names fit into that category for us, but needless to say, the list of possible names is shrinking before we have started.
So I ask Tracy what names he likes. What does he suggest?
I swear the man is bipolar. He strongly opposes perfectly good names for sometimes small reasons, and then the man facetiously offers names like Harry or Gray. If we have a girl in the future, he jokes that we should name her Timber.
Harry Wulf. Gray Wulf. Timber Wulf. Ha. Ha. Very funny.
Or he suggests Biblical names, but not the ones you'd usually think of. "How about Maher-shalal-hash-baz? We could call him Hash-baz for short. If it's good enough for Isaiah, it's good enough for me," he laughs.
Thanks, Tracy, you're a big help. This naming thing could be more difficult than I thought.
To be continued . . .
Three things you need to know when it comes to choosing boy names: my husband's name is Tracy, he is picky, and other kids can be really mean.
With these bits of information, it won't surprise you to learn that my husband can be sensitive when it comes to boy names. Any possibly gender-neutral names are immediately thrown off the table. If he has heard of one girl ever having the name or can even envision it turning into a girl's name in the future, he rejects it. If it's still a fairly new name, he vetoes it for fear that it will turn into a girl's name some day. Most of the time, when I suggest a name, Tracy shrugs and says he has to think about it--probably wondering how kids could mock it. Other kids are mean, and his name is Tracy. Enough said about that.
But it doesn't stop there. Our kids' names also can't have a W sound in it because "it will sound weird" with Wulf, as Tracy claims. He's not a fan of alliteration apparently.
When we were dating, my roommates wrote poems using our names, but overall it never really bothered me. Since we've been married, people have asked whether we will name our kids Casey, Stacy, Macie, and/or Gracie. NO. People already occasionally call me Tracy, and we aren't going to make the situation harder by adding more options to the mix. Obviously, any rhyming with our names will not even be considered.
Most expectant parents will admit that brainstorming names also brings up memories of people who have ruined certain names. I will not share which names fit into that category for us, but needless to say, the list of possible names is shrinking before we have started.
So I ask Tracy what names he likes. What does he suggest?
I swear the man is bipolar. He strongly opposes perfectly good names for sometimes small reasons, and then the man facetiously offers names like Harry or Gray. If we have a girl in the future, he jokes that we should name her Timber.
Harry Wulf. Gray Wulf. Timber Wulf. Ha. Ha. Very funny.
Or he suggests Biblical names, but not the ones you'd usually think of. "How about Maher-shalal-hash-baz? We could call him Hash-baz for short. If it's good enough for Isaiah, it's good enough for me," he laughs.
Thanks, Tracy, you're a big help. This naming thing could be more difficult than I thought.
To be continued . . .
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
The Day My Life (and My Appendix) Exploded
Five years ago today, Michael Jackson died. As much I enjoy "Thriller" and "Billy Jean," I remember June 25, 2009, more significantly because my own life changed forever. My appendix ruptured. I experienced more pain than I have ever felt before or since. I spent 12 days in the hospital from infections and complications, and I didn't fully recover until several months afterward. That day shook me. It pushed me to a state of physical helplessness and humility that made me realize that my physical strength can be taken away at a moment's notice. Little did I know then, however, how much that day truly altered my life.
Two-and-a-half years later with medical help, my husband and I finally received the happy news of pregnancy. But at six weeks, I had a feeling something was wrong. I had severe, debilitating cramps, which didn't seem like a normal pregnancy symptom. However, I ignored that feeling. At 8 weeks, the cramps got worse, and I started bleeding. When I finally saw my doctor at 9 weeks, the doctor confirmed my suspicion that I had an ectopic pregnancy caused by tissue damage from my ruptured appendix. And by that point the embryo itself had ruptured. Surprised that I could even walk on my own, the doctor immediately checked me into the hospital, and within hours I was in the operating room. My doctor told me that we had a good chance of another ectopic pregnancy occurring on the other side.
My husband and I knew it would not be smart or safe to try to conceive without using IVF and began planning accordingly. As we started our first IVF cycle, we found out that I was pregnant again with another ectopic pregnancy. Once again, I found myself in the hospital--coincidentally in the room next door to my last visit six months before.
After the first ectopic, we felt how little control we have in life. After the second, we wanted to throw our hands in the air and say, "We surrender!" As much as my appendix episode humbled me physically and mentally, the subsequent consequences of it have equally humbled me spiritually and emotionally. Eventually, we gathered our hope and strength to try again.
When we completed our IVF cycle and awaited the pregnancy test results, my mind and heart unavoidably raced through the possible outcomes--positive and negative. What if it worked? What if we have twins? What will our kids be like? What if it didn't work? What if we never are able to have our own kids? I believe in general I kept a positive attitude, but I learned long ago to have a backup plan, to anticipate the unexpected. I don't wear rose-colored glasses.
As I wondered how I would react if IVF didn't work, I realized that even after three major surgeries, multiple disappointments, and everything going horribly wrong that I was still there. I made it through, and I even made it through a stronger person than I was before. Even if the result came back negative, or even if--God forbid--something were to happen either during the pregnancy or after, somehow I would make it through the pain and sorrow and eventually find a way to be okay. I would find a way to find joy.
The wait suddenly became far less frightening. The positive result sank into my heart deeper and sweeter.
It may seem stupid to remember or bring up a traumatic event from which I have long recovered, but because of that one event, I am a different person than I was or would have been without it. My husband and I are a different couple with a different vision for our family. But because we never gave up and didn't become bitter because of our difficulties, I believe we are different for the better. As I remember that day and all that has happened since, I remember the lessons I have learned from all of it and realize that I still need and will need those lessons just as much now and probably even more in the future as I did five years ago.
Two-and-a-half years later with medical help, my husband and I finally received the happy news of pregnancy. But at six weeks, I had a feeling something was wrong. I had severe, debilitating cramps, which didn't seem like a normal pregnancy symptom. However, I ignored that feeling. At 8 weeks, the cramps got worse, and I started bleeding. When I finally saw my doctor at 9 weeks, the doctor confirmed my suspicion that I had an ectopic pregnancy caused by tissue damage from my ruptured appendix. And by that point the embryo itself had ruptured. Surprised that I could even walk on my own, the doctor immediately checked me into the hospital, and within hours I was in the operating room. My doctor told me that we had a good chance of another ectopic pregnancy occurring on the other side.
My husband and I knew it would not be smart or safe to try to conceive without using IVF and began planning accordingly. As we started our first IVF cycle, we found out that I was pregnant again with another ectopic pregnancy. Once again, I found myself in the hospital--coincidentally in the room next door to my last visit six months before.
After the first ectopic, we felt how little control we have in life. After the second, we wanted to throw our hands in the air and say, "We surrender!" As much as my appendix episode humbled me physically and mentally, the subsequent consequences of it have equally humbled me spiritually and emotionally. Eventually, we gathered our hope and strength to try again.
When we completed our IVF cycle and awaited the pregnancy test results, my mind and heart unavoidably raced through the possible outcomes--positive and negative. What if it worked? What if we have twins? What will our kids be like? What if it didn't work? What if we never are able to have our own kids? I believe in general I kept a positive attitude, but I learned long ago to have a backup plan, to anticipate the unexpected. I don't wear rose-colored glasses.
As I wondered how I would react if IVF didn't work, I realized that even after three major surgeries, multiple disappointments, and everything going horribly wrong that I was still there. I made it through, and I even made it through a stronger person than I was before. Even if the result came back negative, or even if--God forbid--something were to happen either during the pregnancy or after, somehow I would make it through the pain and sorrow and eventually find a way to be okay. I would find a way to find joy.
The wait suddenly became far less frightening. The positive result sank into my heart deeper and sweeter.
It may seem stupid to remember or bring up a traumatic event from which I have long recovered, but because of that one event, I am a different person than I was or would have been without it. My husband and I are a different couple with a different vision for our family. But because we never gave up and didn't become bitter because of our difficulties, I believe we are different for the better. As I remember that day and all that has happened since, I remember the lessons I have learned from all of it and realize that I still need and will need those lessons just as much now and probably even more in the future as I did five years ago.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Getting a Girl Pregnant Becomes a Group Effort
Normally getting pregnant is nothing like the Academy Awards, but in my case, I have a long list of people to thank for getting us here. I know we would not have been able to do this alone--physically or emotionally.
Obviously without my brilliant doctor and his staff at the fertility clinic, I would not even have the possibility of being pregnant. No fallopian tubes eliminates any chance of natural conception for us. Not only did they do their jobs, but they were kind and friendly, making an unenjoyable and painful IVF process more bearable. I am so grateful for the miracle of modern science!
I am so thankful to friends and my sister who have undergone IVF or similar infertility treatments and experiences. (And my wonderful friends who haven't experienced infertility have helped me so much as well.) Several of these friends reached out to me on Facebook, one gave me a cute IVF survival kit, and another gave me shots while Tracy was out of town! Their strength, friendship, and encouragement allowed me to glimpse the light at the end of the tunnel, regardless of the actual outcome of our treatment. They are strong, amazing women, and I am proud to stand among them as an infertility survivor.
Of course my family has been so supportive and encouraging. They (particularly my mom and sister) listened to my sobbing and my never-ending questions patiently and comforted me. Breaking the news to family was emotional and so rewarding! They have been waiting and hoping just as long, if not longer, than we have!
More than anyone, I need to thank my husband. He allowed me to complain and sympathized when I felt discomfort and pain during the entire process. Although he did indeed put up with my crazy hormonal outbursts and "shot me" pretty much every night, I am most grateful for his ability to make me laugh in these hard circumstances. Right before he gave me a shot, he would crack a joke, tickle me, or do something silly. It didn't make shot time every night any less painful or make me look forward to it, but it lightened the mood. I am so glad I married this man.
By now at the Academy Awards, the theme music would have played, and I would have been escorted off stage, but lucky for me there are no commercials. In giving credit and thanks to these people, I imply my gratitude to God above all. Our journey has been rockier than expected, and I have had moments of anger and frustration with God, but I truly believe that I am a stronger person because of my experiences and hope I will be a better mom because of it.
Obviously without my brilliant doctor and his staff at the fertility clinic, I would not even have the possibility of being pregnant. No fallopian tubes eliminates any chance of natural conception for us. Not only did they do their jobs, but they were kind and friendly, making an unenjoyable and painful IVF process more bearable. I am so grateful for the miracle of modern science!
I am so thankful to friends and my sister who have undergone IVF or similar infertility treatments and experiences. (And my wonderful friends who haven't experienced infertility have helped me so much as well.) Several of these friends reached out to me on Facebook, one gave me a cute IVF survival kit, and another gave me shots while Tracy was out of town! Their strength, friendship, and encouragement allowed me to glimpse the light at the end of the tunnel, regardless of the actual outcome of our treatment. They are strong, amazing women, and I am proud to stand among them as an infertility survivor.
Of course my family has been so supportive and encouraging. They (particularly my mom and sister) listened to my sobbing and my never-ending questions patiently and comforted me. Breaking the news to family was emotional and so rewarding! They have been waiting and hoping just as long, if not longer, than we have!
More than anyone, I need to thank my husband. He allowed me to complain and sympathized when I felt discomfort and pain during the entire process. Although he did indeed put up with my crazy hormonal outbursts and "shot me" pretty much every night, I am most grateful for his ability to make me laugh in these hard circumstances. Right before he gave me a shot, he would crack a joke, tickle me, or do something silly. It didn't make shot time every night any less painful or make me look forward to it, but it lightened the mood. I am so glad I married this man.
By now at the Academy Awards, the theme music would have played, and I would have been escorted off stage, but lucky for me there are no commercials. In giving credit and thanks to these people, I imply my gratitude to God above all. Our journey has been rockier than expected, and I have had moments of anger and frustration with God, but I truly believe that I am a stronger person because of my experiences and hope I will be a better mom because of it.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Happy Mother's Day! With or Without Kids
As a woman who has struggled with infertility for four and half years, I should hate Mother's Day, and at one point I did. Through time and the wise, comforting words of women who have gone through similar frustration, I have come to realize that even though I have not given birth or am not currently raising children, I am already a mother.
I have served several times in the young women program at my church. Time after time, I have learned to love those crazy teenage girls. I don't claim to love them as much as their actual mothers, but I celebrate their accomplishments, I cry when they show love for others, I beam with pride and excitement when I see the light of understanding and growth flash in their eyes, I worry about them and their futures. As I have seen pictures and updates from girls I worked with in the past on Facebook, I feel a sense of privilege that for even one second I got to teach and lead these amazing young women, some of whom are now becoming adults. I also feel sorrow and concern when I see that some have made questionable choices in their lives. Doesn't that make me a mother?
As powerful an influence that my own mother undoubtedly has had on me, I can't forget the other women who have loved me, guided me, provided examples for me, and encouraged me both growing up and in my adulthood. My friends' mothers and my leaders at church exemplified confident women who cared for children outside the walls of their homes. The time they spent with me and the time they spent serving me definitely translated into my feeling loved and supported if I needed help.
Ever since I left for college, I haven't seen my mother (and yes, my father too) as much as I would wish, especially during the difficult experiences of two emotionally and physically painful surgeries. But I was showered with the love and care of remarkable women. I can admit that without their motherly concern toward me, a non-relative, I think I would have struggled so much more than I did to recover. On one occasion when my mother visited us, she thanked the women who had become surrogate mothers and sisters to me. I too am grateful for the women in my life who have mothered me.
Even those women who don't call me sweetie, give me a warm hug, or tell me how special I am--like teachers (who hasn't called a teacher mom?), professors, co-workers, and bosses--have played a motherly role in my life. They have mentored me, guided me, corrected me, and supported my efforts that would lead to my skill development. These women too have my gratitude and respect.
Although I do not have children of my own yet, my womanhood in itself means that I am a mother. There are so many I can love, nurture, encourage, guide, and help.
So please, feel free to wish me a Happy Mother's Day!
And Happy Mother's Day to my mother and all the mothers (with or without kids) in my life!
I have served several times in the young women program at my church. Time after time, I have learned to love those crazy teenage girls. I don't claim to love them as much as their actual mothers, but I celebrate their accomplishments, I cry when they show love for others, I beam with pride and excitement when I see the light of understanding and growth flash in their eyes, I worry about them and their futures. As I have seen pictures and updates from girls I worked with in the past on Facebook, I feel a sense of privilege that for even one second I got to teach and lead these amazing young women, some of whom are now becoming adults. I also feel sorrow and concern when I see that some have made questionable choices in their lives. Doesn't that make me a mother?
As powerful an influence that my own mother undoubtedly has had on me, I can't forget the other women who have loved me, guided me, provided examples for me, and encouraged me both growing up and in my adulthood. My friends' mothers and my leaders at church exemplified confident women who cared for children outside the walls of their homes. The time they spent with me and the time they spent serving me definitely translated into my feeling loved and supported if I needed help.
Ever since I left for college, I haven't seen my mother (and yes, my father too) as much as I would wish, especially during the difficult experiences of two emotionally and physically painful surgeries. But I was showered with the love and care of remarkable women. I can admit that without their motherly concern toward me, a non-relative, I think I would have struggled so much more than I did to recover. On one occasion when my mother visited us, she thanked the women who had become surrogate mothers and sisters to me. I too am grateful for the women in my life who have mothered me.
Even those women who don't call me sweetie, give me a warm hug, or tell me how special I am--like teachers (who hasn't called a teacher mom?), professors, co-workers, and bosses--have played a motherly role in my life. They have mentored me, guided me, corrected me, and supported my efforts that would lead to my skill development. These women too have my gratitude and respect.
Although I do not have children of my own yet, my womanhood in itself means that I am a mother. There are so many I can love, nurture, encourage, guide, and help.
So please, feel free to wish me a Happy Mother's Day!
And Happy Mother's Day to my mother and all the mothers (with or without kids) in my life!
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