Ode to surgery

After plastic surgery,  we went topless.

So, I’ve made a list of observations this week in honor of my first plastic surgery and outpatient surgery experience and thought I thought I’d share my top 10:

10.   There is but one goal in the outpatient surgery center - to get you out as fast as possible.  It is not about comfort, people.  It is about turnaround.  Are you breathing?  Can you lift your eyelids?  Please walk to the bathroom and change your clothes.  The car is outside.  

9.  You will be asked if you have any questions no less than 42 times the morning of surgery.  You don’t have any questions because you don’t know what to ask.  There is an explanation of what so-and-so doctor/nurse is going to do followed by, “Do you have any questions?”  It is confusing.  Should I ask a question or is this rhetorical?  I have been asked so many times that I’m wishing I came with a list.  Am I missing something here?  Is this the time to be sarcastic?  It’s my nature, but I’m still trying to get that gold star.  

8.  You will not know or remember the kind people who spend those 5-10 minutes with you prior to surgery.  As a medical professional, I personally enjoy the connections I make with people.  I find it so odd that these people spend their days meeting and greeting half dressed, half-asleep people in shower caps.  They are probably very under-appreciated for their efforts because no one can remember their faces or names, yet they help keep you alive and comfortable for a good 2 hours of your life.  Enclosed in my discharge papers was a card with autographs of all the people who came in contact with me so I can write their names on the survey that I will get in the mail.  Nice touch. I will.  They deserve to be recognized for their heroic efforts.  

7.  You will have no idea what medications you’ve been given but it will darn sure take a long time to wear off.  After 6 hours I was still a loopy loopster and Kate was yelling at me for falling asleep on the floor while playing polly pockets with her.  

6.  There is a list of instructions that you will be given to follow which in spite of all the times you were asked if you had any questions and didn’t, you and your husband will not be exactly clear on what you can and cannot do.  For example, when leaning down to get a trash bag out of the cabinet, your husband will yell freakishly at you because of some brief recollection about not bending over. 

5.  “Swelling peaks at day 3” does not mean that it starts at day 3.  It means that there for darn sure will be swelling on day 3 and maybe after that it will begin to slowly diminish to the point where your nostrils are similar in size and the bridge of your nose gains definition.  Prior to that, there will be throbbing pain from the sinus cavity to the tip of your nose.  Maybe this was when I was supposed to ask the questions.  I was thinking that I should have been more inquisitive about the details of the “cheek lift” and the cutting and pulling of the skin from my ear to put on my nose.  Yes, I do hear much better out of my nose now.  

4.  I am not as good at wound care on myself as on other people.  I used to do burn care and I’ve seen dozens of skin grafts.  I never loved it but found it intriguing - the healing process, the dressing changes, making it look pretty, until this experience.  The magic is gone.  I am totally unintrigued.  Sutures around and through the nose, then some more pulling on the ear are not cool.  I get queasy looking at it, touching it, and because the nose happens to be smack dab in the middle of my face, it is somewhat consuming of my thoughts, especially with the twitching shooting sensations that I assume are from damaged nerves and whatnot.  
It’s like this: 
I need to do laundry. 
MY NOSE.  
“Mommy I’m hungry.  Can I have lunch?” Yes, what would you like?  
MYNOSEMYNOSE
Is that a booger?  
NOIT”STHESTITCHESINMYNOSEMYNOSEMYNOSE
Is my nose running?
MYNOSEMYNOSE 
I hope I don’t sneeze...
something is pinching
IT’SMYNOSE
My earring is pulling, I’ll take it out. 
Wait, that’s my ear stitches.  Shoot...

3.  Tape is sticky.  I always hated tape on the face.  Especially on little people with tubes in their noses.  I felt so sorry for them and in hospitals sometimes they put socks on their hands to keep them from pulling the tubes out.  They just want the tape off!  I flat out hated it.  Guess what?  It is bad and evil.  I still hate it.  It is itchy, especially when it’s 93 degrees.  It makes the already pulling skin crawl.  I spent 24 minutes trying to remove tape residue in order to replace the tape.  The good news is it’s almost the exact color of my skin so people don’t notice.  In a dark room.  

2.  There is good news.  Some of the stitches will probably come out this week.  This results in less tape, the ability to accessorize - I get my earrings back, and less pulling.  One more step forward for the beautification committee.  It is a relatively short amount of discomfort in comparison to the magnitude of what I could endure, already have endured, and what others endure.  Inconvenient, annoying, uncomfortable, yes.  Permanent damage - hopefully minimal.  I have told 5 new medical people my story this week and once they lifted their chins off of the floor, they may have walked away with at least a tiny glimpse of the magnitude of God’s miracles.  It is also estimated that about 100 of you will read this, laugh, and maybe pass it to your friends to prove my insanity which will only serve me better the next time we act a little crazy around here.  And, when it’s all said and done, I may look 27 on my 37th birthday from all this skin pulling - you will all be jealous. 

1.  Lastly, I consider myself pretty comfortable in my skin, metaphorically and otherwise.  This has not come easily or without a price.  It has been a long process of swallowing my insecurities or airing them out in the wide open public or whichever the situation calls for.  I have discovered that there are days that I’m not going to look that good but in order to function in the world, I have to be in the world.  And, besides that, someone is going to tell me out of courtesy that I look good.  I love those people.  So, day 2, I ripped off the bandage from my ear and aired out the stitches and paraded myself in straight-up public with the bandage on my nose.  I find myself analyzing other people’s thoughts, watching for double-takes, and staring back.  It’s just a band-aid, people.  What this has made me appreciate and be more aware of is 2 things:  

1.  I have spent 14 years of my life with differently-abled and sometimes differently looking people.  I love them.  I love who they are and I want the world to love them like I do and like their families do.  People are curious, people are ignorant to who you are as a person, or who someone is different from you actually is, people are human.  People have no idea what any of us have been through or are going through at any moment.  This has been a gentle reminder and public service announcement I have no idea what people are going through at any moment so I have no right to judge and have even more incentive to empower the families that I know that they do not owe the world an explanation.  

2.  My own children are watching.  They are watching to see how I react to people, how comfortable I am.  If it’s no big deal to me, it’s really not to them. They are impressionable little sponges.  Here’s a few quotes:

• Man honks at me at a red light. Kate yells, “Hey, quit honking at my mommy!  She has stitches in her face!”
• Kate is on Facetime with her BFF from school (um, yeah, this happened), “My mommy can come get you for a playdate as soon as she’s finished with her stitches.”  I explain to said child’s caregiver that statement.
• Doorbell rings, just finished removing the tape adhesive and I answer it, full out uncovered stitches, hair wet, wound in my nose.  Bailey: “You really need to cover that up before you answer the door.”
• “Mommy, I really don’t like your ear or your nose.”  Neither do I, Kate. Thanks.
• Kate breaks off toenail and says, “It doesn’t hurt.  I’m just like my mommy and if I’m going to be brave like my mommy, then I’ll just have to get in the bathtub.”
• Yesterday.  “Mommy, your ear really doesn’t look all that bad.”  Thanks, Bailey.

I’ve been given a small opportunity to show them how I deal with different, how to accept people’s differences, and how to react or un-react.  I shall use it as best as I know how.  

It’s just a band-aid.  

I leave you with this very lame tribute to my experience:

Ode to Outpatient Surgery

by, Kimberly Jessop

We’re all here early

No food or drink

That means no coffee

Too hard to think

About signing the papers for directives, consent, next of kin,

oops, I just stole your pen.

You owe us this much and sign the HIPPA,

Could I please have a sippa?

Wear comfortable clothes

No earrings, no make-up, bed-head galore,

PJs and sweatpants?

She really should have worn more...

EVERYTHING off. Gown opens in back.

Follow directions and no one gets hurt,

Gripper socks on.

 You won’t need your shirt.

Possessions in bag, 

you can climb onto the bed

under the warm paper blanket

shower cap on your head.

Let’s review history, 

You don’t have much, right?  

More than you’d think-

Do we have all night?  

There’s a stick in the arm

Everyone’s in a hurry

A syringe full of drugs

You took my glasses so it’s blurry...

A cold OR 

then out like a light

woke up to strange lady 

Did I sleep here last night?  

She hands me a bag 

of my worldly goods

Stand up and walk.

 

If I could see, then I would...

“A gold star!” she exclaims.

For what? I am thinking 

I have tape all over my face 

And I feel like I’ve been drinking.

Car is waiting outside

For them to shove you in

Thank goodness for him - 

My next of kin.

Into the car

I leave in a haze 

Home to sleep it off 

for the next couple of days.

Yes, surgery’s over 

I’ll check this one DONE

Another scar to prove

This battle I’ve won.  

Sassy number six...

Dear Kate, 
It’s been six years since I first laid my eyes on your sweet face.  Tiny and fierce.  That part has not changed.  Your big eyes hardly ever closed.  You instantly had our hearts.  You always had a plan and before you could talk, we spent most of our time trying to figure it out.  Even now, we usually don’t find out until after the fact.  You are always happy, and always ready for a party.  You have joined your daddy as co-chairperson of the hospitality committee and together you make sure that everybody is happy and has a good time.  You are a bona fide monkey - you can climb anything and you teeter on the edge of everything.  You are the first to say thank-you and regardless of how terrible I think I’ve been at being your mommy that day, you tell me how much you love me and that I’m the best mommy ever and the best cooker ever especially when it’s cocoa krispies or chicken nuggets.

You were certainly God’s gift in a time when He knew I needed you most.  I prayed that your Nana would see my children, and oh yeah God, if you could make this last one a girl, that would be great too.  And He did.  A precious girl named appropriately after my mother.  I sent your daddy to the store for a gallon of pink paint for your room.  Your daddy and I fought over naming you but in the end I won, and he knew that he didn’t stand a chance.  I love introducing you as Martha Kate because I know that so much of her is in you.  

I sometimes feel guilty because I had so many distractions when you were little in taking care of Nana and then taking care of myself, but now I know that it only makes me treasure the time I spend with you even more.  Even though you don't remember, you helped comfort me from so many unpleasant things. You went with me every morning to see Nana before she went to heaven - and even when you were that little, you knew to kiss her gently.  I wanted you to soak up as much of her as you could, and I needed your company too.  I tell you that I think your favorite place on earth is my lap.  I love how you sit in it, fall asleep in it, and reach your arms up to be held even at 6.  And I hold you.  I think that’s why God has kept you little for so long - so I can hold you and make up for the times when I couldn’t.  

At 6 years old you have developed quite a sense of fashion, a love for music, love for dancing, an imagination that is bigger than the sky, and a heart that is bigger than your body.  You don’t command an audience but if I happen to catch one of your theatrical performances for the latest Disney soundtrack or one of your daddy’s 80’s songs, I’m sure to be mesmerized by your confidence in your dance moves, your passionate expressions, and your ability to stay in tune with every word.  (As I write, I’m listening to you video yourself singing Happy Birthday to yourself complete with ‘cha-cha-cha”).  You have determined that red cowboy boots go with everything.  I’m almost convinced that you’re right.  You love jewelry - especially the kind that sparkles and love to wear it and pick it out for me to wear.  I let you because I used to do this too.  And, you LOVE high heels.  We were in the grocery store parking lot the other day, I was hurrying you as usual, and you stopped dead in your tracks and said, “Listen, mommy! I love that sound!  Do you hear it?”  I didn’t so I asked what sound and you said, “high heels!”  There was a lady across the parking wearing heels.  You have taught me to slow down and sometimes stop to appreciate the little things in life.  

You love the outside.  When you were a baby you would be screaming your tiny little head off and then I would walk outside and you would instantly stop - wide-eyed and looking at the trees.  We spent the first 6 weeks of your life in the backyard swing.  Maybe that’s why you like to swing so high now - or maybe because it is the closest to flying that you can imagine.  You love to play and dream up elaborate stories for your toys - they have such a fantastic life.  The Polly Pockets and the Lalaloopsies get to go to school with the Playmobil people, live in castles with Rapunzel, swim in hotel pools with Barbie, and have picnics with Strawberry Shortcake.  It drives me crazy that you mix them all but I also know that the beautiful thing about your personality is that you don’t see boundaries or limitations.  Everybody and everything should get along.  You are certain that cookies and candy are a food group and if they were you’d be considered a great eater.  You love to draw and make cards - you make me one at least every week and one for anyone else that needs one.  Now that you can read and write, they are even better! 

At 6 years old, you are decisive, opinionated, and not easily persuaded.  It takes you point five seconds to decide if you like something and you don't ever look back.  I hope this is how you always are.  And, believe me, there’s no forcing you into it, unless I want to pay.  You don’t really care what people think and if anyone dares to say anything about how your boots don’t match, you look at them like they have two heads and somehow make them believe that THEY in fact were wrong for wearing sandals. 

You are my helper and I’m learning to let you help because you’re getting really good at it.  You like to help me plant flowers and pick them out and I know this is how I learned to love plants, because I helped my mother too.  You just learned how to pull the plants out gently and love when it rains because you know they will grow.  You love to help me cook, windex my windows, pass out the plates, and help with my painting projects.  You even figured out how to wrap birthday presents in the car on the way to the party, a skill you will find useful for many years to come.  When I need something done quickly, I ask you because you can get it done before the boys in the house can think about it. 

Yes ma’am you are quite a girl - 33 pounds of sunshine.  Full speed, all day, all the time, until you crash.  You bring people into your world and they have a hard time saying no.  This will serve you well too.  We all love you so much - even your brother, though he looks grossed out and doesn’t always act like it.  I”m proud of who you are - confident, creative, and self-sufficient - and more proud of who you will become.  
Happy birthday, Martha Kate Jessop!  I love you so much!

Mommy

Because I'm the mother. That's why.

Mama, I don’t know how we do it.  There’s so much packed into M-O-M that it would be impossible to write a job description.  I’ve spent the last few weeks pouring over a calendar trying to carefully plan an appropriately stimulating summer break for my 2 kids while we go to work.  I realized the magnitude of this task about 15 seconds after I quit paying for full time daycare and sent my kid to preschool.  Here come the holidays.  I remember the first time I heard a preschool mom talk about her spreadsheet for summer break when Bailey was 3.  I was very puzzled and thought it was ridiculously over the top.  I get it now.  I kind of need one but can’t figure out how to make one.  Sure, there are great summer camps out there, like fairy ballet camp which is destined to be your little girl’s dream come true for the cost of one week’s groceries and only covering 2 hours of your 8 hour day.  Oh, and the nine year old boy can’t stay home and wouldn’t and shouldn’t wear tights.  I feel like I’m part of a strategic planning committee with the sole purpose of preventing my children’s brains from turning to mush while providing a safe, loving environment free of property destruction.   I’m the chair and there are no board members.  

And it's the end of school.  The last few weeks are filled with testing, parties, and ceremonies, field days, and field trips - all the fillers that they need to fit in the the instructional year or saved for their last hat trick to entertain when the kids are buck wild.  The outside activities that are trying to wrap it up too - cramming baseball games into every night of the week, recitals, plays, etc.  The standardized bubbled in testing week nearly killed us.  Four straight days of bubbling in answers after 3 weeks of multiple choice practice tests sent my impatient and distractible boy into a fit of rage.  He looked longingly outdoors as we fought to the finish of 40 more bubble questions.  He wore me down to the point where I quit checking the answers and just settled for finishing - I was impressed with his educated guess on Harriet Tubman.  And, the folder.  Sometimes I forget, ok, maybe a lot.  The surprise extra homework makes for interesting breakfast conversation on nouns and verbs.  I'm over the conduct grades - Bailey gets to give his to himself and he follows the rules.  Kate is 75% excellent and 25% talks too much, so we're good.  And the lunches.  They are tired of picking out what they want and I’m tired of giving them choices.  Even though I never pretended to make the Bento style Pinterest lunch, the lunchables that I used to save for when I was in a real hurry are becoming all too frequent.  I’m not proud, but they are fed.  

We are tired, but so were our mamas.  Forever engrained in my memory is the sound of my mother’s footsteps back and forth across our ranch house’s hardwood floors every morning before she came into wake me up for school.  I now know how precisely timed all of this madness was, and what madness it was.  She was almost running - the plates in the china cabinet shook every time she walked from the kitchen to the bathroom, bathroom to the bedroom, the hairdryer blowing, curling iron slamming, breakfast cooking, slinging lunches.  She even ironed the clothes.  Then she went to yelling the wake up calls - first me, then my brother, then my brother, then my brother.  I wondered why she drank so much coffee.   Poor thing, that coffee slid off her dashboard more times than it stayed on when she backed out of the driveway to go to work and teach other people’s kids, and heaven knows she needed that coffee.  I sure do.  

And that’s just the every day.  On top of that, we are supposed to make productive citizens out of these short people that look like us.  The footnotes include conversations on how to talk to adults respectfully and choose your friends wisely, serving as mediator between Coach Daddy and boy child when the frustration turns to yelling over not swinging the baseball bat in the game, and listening to your new reader sound out every word of a 30 page PInkalicious book.  Again.  Because you, mama, hold the magic key.  You understand the souls.  You know when and why they are afraid, frustrated, exhausted, sick, need to be held, loved, and understood.  You held them, fed them, looked into their baby eyes with your bleary weary eyes every night while the whole world slept.  You can detect a fever from across the room, a cough in the middle of the night, and your own kid’s cry among a crowd of 100 kids even if you can’t see their face.  You anticipate their needs.  You take pride in the quick reflexes it requires to get the trashcan to catch the puke before it hits the carpet and your “seatbelt arm” is second nature even if they are all buckled in the backseat.  You can fry bacon, clean a skinned knee, and call out spelling words at the same time. You know what makes them tick, what excites them, and what’s going to make them sad. Because, you will be sad too.  You bow up when somebody messes with your baby and the a mad mama evokes more fear in the eyes of coaches or school principals than any other human on earth. When the lunches are packed and they are at school, you start worrying about dinner, spelling words, getting to bed on time, remembering the red bandana and the extra large box for the train you volunteered to make for the graduation ceremony, and what in the world you’re going to do with them when the bell rings on the last day of school.  

I was listening to the Today show the other day and one of their segments on Mother’s Day was about how research has been done that proves that being a mother actually helps improve women’s memories.  First of all, I must say that it’s absurd that someone funded a research study on this and after I pondered over how much money must have been wasted on this, I laughed.  Of course it does.  Let’s save that money for cancer research so we can all hang onto those memories a little longer.  As soon as you’re handed that baby, you go instantly from a life of self absorption and self-centeredness to focusing on the demands of a precise schedule of feeding and caring for a newborn on no sleep.  It’s a rigorous exercises in memory development.  At first it’s about stamina but then over time you start taking pictures of things in your mind and store those for later out of survival - where’s the pacifier because if you don’t know, you’re life will not be pretty, where’s Thomas the Train, Lightening McQueen, my baseball hat, my Barbie shoe, that little Happy Meal toy that clips to my backpack, my homework sheet, my red socks, my shoes.  Then it becomes just what you do.  Your husband calls to ask where the so-and-so is and you instantly shift your brain to the left side of the top cabinet above the washing machine, under the couch in the living room, or the last place it should be - in the closet where it belongs.  It won’t do to say, “I saw it somewhere,” so you store it, along with the schedules of 3 people in the house, your grocery list, and oh, yeah, BUY TOILET PAPER.  In all that remembering, you also somehow became the holder.  Hold the baby doll, the iPod, the gum wrapper, the snotty kleenex, the chewed gum, the cool bug that's barely alive, the limp flower she picked for you, the shiny rock, the dress-up shoes because her feet hurt, the purse you begged her to leave in the car, the five-year-old because she's tired.  You are mom.  You hold stuff and you know where stuff is. 

Yes, it is clear that while the daddys have strengths they are not running this circus.  My husband called me this week in the middle of the day to talk about what he might grill this weekend and then another time demanding to nail down our summer vacation plans at that very moment.  And, has the nerve to ask about details of some message I sent to someone months ago.  I thought you were working? I am.  I love him but, really?  

But, there are the moments that make it all worth it.  There is the end of the day when I’m finishing work on and decided to download the Frozen soundtrack for Kate to listen to so I could get something done.  I’m laughing so hard at her passionately singing every word to those songs to my computer that I get nothing done.  Or, one day after school last week when my boy made me an afternoon snack of flavored water and peanut butter crackers.  You know he loves me because he hates peanut butter.  There’s watching him be so excited about getting to play in the infield for the first time, practicing his fake pitches during the game, and then somehow in all that dancing around he was doing, actually stopping the ball.  Sure, we lost but he had more fun at that game than any he’s played all year.  There’s the night that I decided we had enough daylight after dinner to work on riding a bike without training wheels and she got it, in about 5 minutes.  There’s my patio full of flowers I’ve never seen because I let her pick them out and help me plant them, who knows if they’ll live.  And, my favorite.  There WILL BE handmade Mother’s Day Gifts.  God bless those teachers who remember the mamas.  We love them - especially the handprint ones.    

So, no, my nails aren’t done.  Ever.  My underwear usually doesn't have holes, I don’t have time or money for massages, or sometimes even my own lunch.  I'm more jealous of the gal down the street's minivan with the remote door opener than any convertible I see.  But, I’m doing it.  I'm there.  I’m at the baseball game, the kindergarten graduation ceremony.  I pause what I’m doing to watch the neighborhood boys play kickball in my backyard, run out to the street to yell at my kid for forgetting his bike helmet, and drive back up to the school to deliver the picture money and the homework folder.  I get my kicks through the excitement in my kids eyes when their seeds they planted sprout up, when I watch them ride a bike for the first time, and when they pile on top of me on the couch every time I sit down.  I let her wear red cowboy boots with smocked dresses and  pick out my jewelry for church.  I take pictures of the chalk mermaid she drew on the concrete, and the first frog of the year that he picks up and squeezes til his eyes bulge out.  I take pictures in my brain of her “dance routines” to LET IT GO (bless it), and him running across home plate. I answer questions like, “how do mama birds teach their babies to fly?” and “do you ever get mad at your friends?” because they are teachable moments that I hope will be stored in their memories. 

Yes ma’am, we are the CEOs of a corporation with unlimited opportunity and unlimited benefits.  We’ve earned the right to say, “because I’m your mother, that’s why” or “because I said so.”  We’ve earned the right to a clean house, to use the bathroom with the door closed, to 30 minutes of silence, to sit on the couch and do nothing, get our nails done, or buy ourselves some nice flowers, even if it’s for a day.  Of course, none of this will happen and we know it.  Even still, the return on our investments will be great.  It’s exhausting and never-ending but there’s no better job.  

I love this quote from Kelly Corrigan where she compares motherhood to the skill needed in a game of golf:

“Perhaps the precision involved in holing a crucial putt is, by comparison, a smallish party trick when held up to delicate, well-timed conversations about prejudice, self-respect and personal standards, faith, citizenship and STDs.”

Happy Mother’s Day!

January 12, 2005 

May 19, 2008

1977

1986

1997

Mother's Day 2009

Happy Easter!

The hills are alive with...chicks and bunnies!  I do love spring, and I love Easter even more.  I’ll openly admit that I love seeing people decked out in their best pastel ensemble on Easter Sunday morning.  I’m a sucker for a smocked bunny dress and new white sandals.  My mother went to great lengths to make sure that we were dressed to the nines and color coordinating on Easter morning.  Head to toe.  Daddy’s tie matched her dress and my brother had pants that didn’t look like he was expecting a flood.  We had new shoes - most of the time too big because we had to get the summer out of them and by the end of the day, I almost always had blisters, but beauty is pain.  My mother got up at some hour closer to night than day to prepare an Easter meal - ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, congealed salad, and pineapple upside down cake.  We hunted eggs.  Real ones.  The hard boiled ones that we had dyed the day before and then spent the rest of the day playing outside and pulled out the ham again for a sandwich for dinner because heaven knows, she wasn’t cooking again.  She made sure that we looked our best, the yard looked it’s best, and that her dinner was the best.  It always was.  This didn’t stop even as we got older and had our own kids.  As I helped clean every dish in the house after that meal, I often wondered why in the world, she didn’t just order a ham, or go out, and just enjoy the day.  But, to her, this was enjoying the day.  It was not until I was grown did I actually get it.  I began to see through the work to the look of satisfaction on her face after everyone complimented her on how delicious the Easter meal was that she had so lovingly prepared, how sweet our kids looked in the smocked outfits she bought for them, and how beautiful her flowers and Easter decorations looked on the table.  And, it was all true.  And, she did enjoy the day, she gave her best to her family.  It was a measure of her success as the matriarch of a family she poured her heart and soul into every day. 

It is no secret that I’ll never hold a candle to what my mother could accomplish in one day’s time - even when she was not well, but I carry on some of the traditions and I’ve started a few new ones.  I still decorate my table with the eggs and bunnies that decorated hers, but I chose to leave the ham cooking to Honeybaked and traded that meal in for brunch at a restaurant.  There’s plenty of them open and no dishes to clean up.  But, the one thing that remains is the tradition of celebrating the beauty of spring with family and friends.  

I’ve spent some time this weekend thinking about how these traditions came to be.  The Easter holiday gets confusing with the chicks, bunnies, eggs, large rabbits, and then the real reason - the Cross - all mixed together.  It is for me, so it has to be for kids.  I actually had to look it all up to remind myself because the correlation between a cross, an empty tomb, and a creepy large rabbit laying eggs just doesn’t make sense.  I also found myself shamefully shopping everywhere for an Elsa doll, that apparently doesn’t exist, for Easter when I realized how I too had lost the focus and standing in Wal-Mart said to myself, “this is ridiculous, Jesus died on the cross and I’m trying to find and Elsa doll.”  I love it when God kicks me.  Especially in Wal-Mart.  

I was brushing Kate’s hair for church and she asked, “mama, why do you want us to look so fancy?”  I explained to her that today we celebrate when Jesus rose from the grave and gave us the promise of heaven and we are showing respect by being at our best.  

I took the kids to put flowers on mom’s grave on Friday.  This isn’t something we had done before together - we celebrate mom’s birthday with a balloon release but it’s taken me a while to get to this point.  As I thought of all of the preparation my mom did for Easter Sunday, I just couldn’t bear her grave not looking it’s best for Easter Sunday.  So, we picked the prettiest tulips we could find - red and yellow and delivered them together.  The only real flowers in the cemetery - that much more appropriate.  She hated silk flowers - so tacky - she would say.  

As most outings are with my kids, you can never predict the direction it will go.  I had talked with both kids, but especially Kate about our plans for Friday which had already led to so many questions that were hard to answer about cancer and death - tough topics for me.  Try explaining what cancer is and how you have been healed but your mother was not to a five-year-old when you don’t understand it yourself.  She drew a picture of our family playing in the snow for Nana because she never got to play with her in the snow.  I’ve just learned to let her go where she wants to with the information, but at least she was a little prepared.  As we drove through the little road, she excitedly asked, “is that Nana’s patch, over there?”  Bailey shook his head at her and said, “she thinks it’s called a patch.”  I kind of like it - she certainly deserves her own patch.

Our family in the snow having snowball fight with Nana and G-Daddy, grass is surprisingly green.  Stephen is the bald one, Kate is the tiny one, and a pile of snowballs.

Kids don’t really hang out in cemeteries very often, or at least mine don’t.   Kate especially was fascinated with the headstones and Bailey read all of the names and asked if they were related to so-and-so.  I love how kids can take such a somber place and make it an adventure.  They raced to find mama’s and as Kate read her own namesake in print, it made me even more grateful that she too was a Martha.  There was a big double tree to climb and we looked through the blooming dogwoods to the field below - it really is beautiful.  Bailey wanted to find my grandparents so we headed to the other side and not surprisingly, I found it based on my memory of my exact view of the church from where I was standing the day my grandmother was buried 23 years ago.  I showed Bailey the “B” in my granddad’s name that was his namesake.  Kate saw a cross on a tombstone and asked if that was where Jesus was buried.  I laughed and Bailey rolled his eyes, but then realized that maybe this was her first reference point for understanding of what a grave or tomb was like.  This led to an explanation of how Jesus was buried in a tomb but He rose again on Easter Sunday which is why we will be celebrating Easter in a few days.  Bailey, my concrete thinker, asked where Jesus’s tomb was and if you could actually see it.  I explained that you could go and visit the tomb and He was buried in Jerusalem, and not Tennessee, but the tomb would be empty because Jesus rose again to give us forgiveness and the promise of heaven.  

The tomb would be empty.  

Now that’s when I realized why I was really there.  This was the most tangible discussion of what Christ did for us that I had had with my children - standing in a cemetery in Eastview, TN putting tulips on my mother’s grave so that the tradition that she started of looking your best on Easter would continue.  Never would I have thought that’s where it would go, but I know she would be proud.  She would never want us to blubber over her in a cemetery of fake flowers but would love the fact that her granddaughter skipped around asking questions and her grandson climbed trees and threw rocks to watch them travel through the dogwoods to the fields below.  And, that we talked about how her Lord gave us the peace that heaven gives us even in the presence of death by using an empty tomb.  I left out the part that it's precisely because of this promise that I could get stand there with them and have this discussion without falling to pieces, but some day they will read this and understand.

We got in the car to head home, I was exhausted from holding it together, but just said a quick thank you to God and thought to myself, “well, that went well.”  It could have gone in so many other directions.

And so, we carried on this weekend with all of the Easter traditions.  We hunted eggs in the yard - only mine are plastic because I’ll surely find a stinky rotten egg in a few weeks if I use real ones.  And we had to use flashlights because by the time I got around to hiding the eggs it was dark.  Kate and I went to the church egg hunt complete with large walking Easter bunny with an outfit that was more akin to a shag rug than a fluffy bunny.  She watched in suspicion as he creeped around, stepped over her sitting there looking at her eggs, and slid under the deck railing.  She made no attempts to have her picture taken, for sure.  And, Bailey, who decided that he was too old for the church egg hunt, still found the Easter bunny tracker on my computer and followed it all evening on Saturday, announcing that he was in New Zealand, and then England.  He and I saw a rather deflated Easter bunny at Kroger with a large head and my favorite comment yet, “Look mommy, the Easter bunny is texting.”  Let’s just say I don’t really promote the idea of large human-sized hopping rabbits.  They kind of creep me out.  I do, however, love watching children run with excitement through blooming spring flowers and green grass to find candy-filled eggs, and then eating it until they’re sick.  

And, on Easter Sunday morning, we were all bathed and clad in our best.  Bailey’s pants were 3 inches too long, for that matter, so were the sleeves on his sport coat - no sense in buying them to fit right here at the beginning of shorts weather.  He and his daddy had new bow-ties and pastel pants.  I got myself some polka dot red wedge sandals and Kate had a new dress and shoes.  She complained of blisters about 30 minutes into church and I said, “I’ll get you a band-aid after church, beauty is pain.”  But, all the girls in my class asked to take their shoes off because they had blisters too from their floppy new flats, so it was a barefoot kind of lesson.  We lined up on a pew of people in a crowded church full of people in their new Sunday best, complete with a papaw in front of us who’s Easter Sunday tradition must have included bathing in Old Spice which left us all with headaches and slight nausea.  We had brunch as a family and spent the rest of the afternoon quietly at home.  But, most of all, we celebrated all that the resurrection gives us - new life, forgiveness, heaven, and peace. 

So, today, I will pack up my chicks and bunnies and prepare for the upcoming summer months which will bring a whole other level of chaos and I try to plan a semi-entertaining schedule for 2 kids while we go to work.  I’ve determined that in keeping with my mother’s traditions of earning your keep and to keep my sanity level to a controllable level, that this will be the summer I intend to put the children to work, no more freeloading here - I’ll let you know how that goes.   

What I do know is that there is one thing that won’t ever get packed up and put away, that will remain constant through every season of life, that forever shapes our future as imperfect Christians, that gives us a reason for the empty tomb, and that promises a much better life than the one we know - the Cross. 

Happy Easter from the Jessops!

The Marthas and me.  Easter 2009 complete with smocked bunny dress bought by Martha. 

just a link

Here's the link to the latest caring bridge:
the mustard seed

Is it enough?

I think this is what I sat down to write last week but couldn’t so I’ll try again. Sometimes things go in a different direction.  I now know why.  

Last May, I met a lady named Amy who I referred to as my mirror (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/kimberlyjessop/journal/index/2/0/desc - windows, walls, and mirrors).  She inspired me to run.  Over the weekend my mirror ran too - straight into the  arms of Jesus, cancer free.  We only met twice - that one weird awkward meeting in the “bad news room” and then at the Miles for Melanoma race.  I might have showed up at the race or walked it or I might have just gone to a football game, but I trained for 6 months because she sat in that room and told me that she did it last year and made it about 400 feet.  I was so ashamed that it took that big of a kick in the pants to motivate me.  She was at the race in October, watched me cross the finish line, I hugged I gave her a an obnoxious Got Sunscreen shirt - she wore it because she told me.  I had a medal, but she was the real winner.  Her being there was way more effort than it took for me to run those 3 miles.  I knew it and it hurt.  Our stories were so similar - she had 3 kids, I had 2, her dad died of cancer a month before she was diagnosed and my mom a year before I was, she was stubborn and some people say that about me, same sense of humor - some people say I have one, she hated scans and I do too, same doctor, same desire to do nothing but be a mother, same kind of loving devoted husband, same frustration with medical crap, stupid things people say, cancer getting in the way of life, and same comfort from the God who made us.  She was running out of options and starting on the same drug that worked for me.  She said, “It has to work.  I have 3 kids.”

In her last blog post 3 weeks ago, entitled “the brilliant new road” she was clearly at peace.  I read it and went numb. 

I started reading the latest book Glitter and Glue from an author who’s work I love - Kelly Corrigan - last weekend.  I read her first book, The Middle Place, on my way back from Chicago in October of 2010.  I don’t read much because I devour books like dark chocolate covered cashews and the laundry doesn’t get done.  But, for some reason I have a bad habit of picking ones about people with cancer, who’ve had it, or known somebody with it that inspired them to write.  (Is this where I fit?)  It’s like I’ve got some sort of radar to pick those books - I swear I don’t know what they’re about before I read them - or maybe it’s that cancer is becoming more like the latest trend - like alternating your 2 colors of scrunchie socks.  Except, very not cool.  This book was about her diagnosis of breast cancer as a mother with 2 young girls to care for.  It was straight to the the gut, hilarious, and real.  After a few ugly cries I made it through the book but so many times I was torn between tossing it in the trash it and wanting desperately to finish. I got my own cancer a couple of months later.  I was thrilled when I skimmed the synopsis of this latest book and learned was not about her life with cancer, but was not another family somewhere across the world.  And, I love glitter! Awesome.  Breaking the streak.  It turned out to be about her connection and appreciation for her mother through an experience she had as a nanny of children who had just lost their mother.  To cancer, no less.  Told ya I know how to pick ‘em.  I blubbered my way through that one too.  Again, way to close to home but so real, and I really dig real. 

Add all of this together and you’ve got a basketcase who’s facing 3 month scans in a few days, misses her mama, aches for children who’ve lost their mama, and desperately clings to each day on earth honored with the privilege of the greatest and most coveted title God grants to women - Mother.  What a hot freakin’ mess. 

The book obviously brought back painful yet sacred memories of some of the last moments with my mom.  There was a point when I realized that somewhere at the end of her illness, I had started to mother her - to protect her from the scary, to keep her from worrying - she wasn’t worrying about herself, only us.  Truth be known, she hated it and loved it too.  Loved it because it was me and she knew I’d be there and hated it because this is where we were.  She trained me persevere, to take care of who needed taking care of, to finish what I start.  She knew I wouldn’t back out.  I think she was proud and miserable at the same time. 
I remember desperately wanting to play the “not fair” card but yet desperately wanting to curl up next to her.  I put on my best poker face for small talk, followed ridiculous orders to get Chik-fil-a ice cream for us - and make sure I get money from her purse, and when she no longer responded, still read the paper or notes from friends to her or the parts I could get through, because for heaven's sakes people, tell people how you feel about them when they can appreciate it.  There was an afternoon a couple of days before she died, that I was sitting beside her at my post as usual and I looked over to see her awake, eyes wide open and looking at me, for a long time.  I scooted closer and held her hand, not quite sure what to say or do.  I think she was asking permission, if she’d taught me enough.  Enough to make decisions, to raise my kids, to do the important stuff.  I squeezed her hand in assurance that she had.  That was the last time I saw her awake.  
It was enough.  At 31 years old, I’d barely scratched the surface of life with college, career, marriage, birth to two babies, but I didn’t know that.  I’m starting to get a better idea.  I didn’t know how I’d survive the next fever my kid gets without calling her to see what to do.  I didn’t know how I’d cook a real dinner without calling her to figure out what goes where, how long, and what temperature.  But I had it.  I had God on my side, the prayer where I beg for a little more strength memorized, instincts, enough to wing it, and enough stubbornness to keep a roach alive in a puddle of Raid.  I’ve had people say how upset they were when I was diagnosed with cancer because I didn’t have my mother.  Truth is, I’ve never once been angry that she wasn’t here for this.  It was better that way.  As much as I would have loved to have her here, it would have killed her and I’ve taken down plenty of people in my path.   


So, I do what every blubbering mother with cancer from a mother with cancer would do.  I love the heck out of my kids and my husband.  I’ve learned from my mistakes and God bless her, some of hers.  I’ve learned to delegate and make myself understand that people are capable.  She wasn’t good at that and wouldn’t mind me saying but I figured out how important letting other people do the dirty work can be if you want to enjoy the good stuff.  And, how much they want to do it so you can enjoy the good stuff.  I say things like, “I didn’t fall off the pumpkin truck on the way here” to my kids because she would.  I cook cornbread like nobody’s business and don’t use recipes because she didn’t either.  She had the good ones memorized and so do I.  I feel the blow in the gut when a mother with cancer loses the battle on earth or another mother gets diagnosed and I know what she’s about to feel and face.  I try to remember to say thank you, to tell people they matter, to keep the glass half full.  I send emails to authors of books I read to thank them for being real and writing about real.  I pray for strangers with cancer.  I’ve stockpiled a stash of big girl panties to choose from because I need a lot.  I keep my boots on hand and my lipstick ready.  I try to make each day enough.  

check out page 6
MRFMattersDecember2013.pdf

am I Buodfil

I was sorting through my stacks of duplicated school papers, mail, and general junk tonight - what to keep, what to throw away, what sign up date I missed, and what I actually did sign up for, what a tens place actually is, and which papers I need to sign and return, what stays home - and kind of felt the exhaustion of the last couple of weeks and the overwhelming responsibility of motherhood in general.  There's nothing like a stack of papers to make you realize what your made of - how much work there is to do, what you've already done, and a little summary of your inadequacies as a mother - however small they may be. And to think, I actually get paid to empower other mothers, with children much more delicate than my own, what a hoot.
I came across last week's homework for Kate which explained why she didn't have clue how to spell "where" or "when" because her 103 fever and what appeared to be pneumonia took precedent over practicing those 3 spelling words.  I also found the list highlighted where I was supposed to bring spoons instead of plates to the party, explaining why the room mom commented on how someone forgot the spoons.  I signed up for plates and bought the plates, but didn't realize that was a subjective list.  I thought I was doing so well for having been able to figure out how to work a full week with a sick kid, have them both decorate Valentine boxes, write names on their store-bought character Valentines, cards for the teachers for teacher appreciation week (because of course, it should be the same week), send in the party supplies before the parties, manage to show up to the Valentine parties, work, and figure out what to do with 2 kids who get out of school at 11:30 (butpleasesignthemoutafterthepartyat10:30'causewedon'twantthemanymore) with a full work day. This, my friends, did not come with the instruction manual.  I don't remember getting one, now that I think of it.  Oh, and Monday's a school holiday.  Oh, and Kate's kindergarten class will be doing individual research projects with an activity to teach the class next week.  It's to prepare them (their moms) for the higher grades.  Research?  Seriously?  For fun? I asked Kate what she'd like to research.  She said, "hearts." I feel certain not the beating kind.
I gave up on being the kind of mom who makes printed cute sayings from Pinterest stapled on ziplocs of fruity heart shaped trail mix, although very jealous of them, and resorted to "get it done."  In my mind, I know I could be her, but in reality, I can't make it happen.  I don't even try.  I also gave up on searching for fun things to entertain my children on school holidays.  I don't think I ever tried.  I know they are perfectly happy in their PJs, with me, a few legos, scrambled eggs, and play-doh.  They tell me so and why mess with perfection.
I came across several things in that stack of papers that make me laugh, stop, and think.  Amid the pharmacy bills, house note, insurance cards, tax documents, cancer clinic bills, and random loan offers were these beauties:

A picture of Kate and me.  I'm not sure where, but the sky is blue, our hair looks good, and we are happy.  And, she loves me.  That's all that matters to her, and me too. 

A note from Bailey after I let him have it for his intolerable laziness when he half does what he is supposed to sending me into a complete tirade and then him yelling back because he has to have the last word and me sending him to his room.  Two wonderful things that could only be decoded by me: 1) He realized I was mad enough to write the note to his daddy to give to me to apologize instead of telling me himself and 2) He knows exactly what he needs to be sorry about - we've rehearsed this many times and since it doesn't change with really any new or different situation, it applied beautifully.  I do realize the need to review the spelling of "rude" but I'll tackle that another day. I also like the face with the straight line mouth.  Nice touch. I love him and I'm assured that somewhere under there he gets it.

Love this one.  "I dot wat to."    I've said this so many times.  More in my head than out loud, although the out loud became much more frequent beginning about 3 years ago.  I want a big poster board with this on it to hold up or a t-shirt - maybe in glitter letters.  I found this on the last page of a stapled booklet of activities to complete.  She said she was tired of it. I think Kate sums it up perfectly for many things in life.  How great would it be to draw a big old "X" with a permanent marker and then scream, "I DON'T WANT TO!"  I can make a list - cancer clinic, the alarm clock, figuring out what to eat for dinner, wearing a bra, CT scan, MRI, clean out the dishwasher, super glue the toy, super glue the bleeding lip that really needs stitches but it's just so freakin' late and he's a boy anyway, etc. I know it's toxic, but he was breastfed, right?  What if, at the end of the day, when you're just tired, it would work to hold up the poster or put on the t-shirt?  The problem is that the "need to" in spite of the "don't want" never ends, but I love that it works for her right now.  There's plenty of time to learn the "you have no choice."
Now, over the past three years, my mothering mode has ramped up to hyperdrive.  When you are told that your job as a mom might be cut short - which I came to realize all too early that a mother's job is never finished, no matter how old they are - you get with it.   By that, I mean that if there is a first time for anything, you make sure you're there - with a camera.  When you try to explain that you may have to work at Valentine party time and a tear appears, you say, "just kidding," rearrange your schedule to get it all done and realize that you will take the day off next time.  When your son has a bad day because he might have actually started to come out of his shell and talked too much in class, you pick him up put him in your lap and talk him through it, explaining that "G" is for good, and he's really good - nobody's really "E" for excellent in life.  You make sure they "get" the lesson out of the mistakes they made, or you made. You let your kids decide whether to wear PJs all day on a school holiday instead of trying to plan some memorable experience because that one will be just as memorable and have no guilt about wearing yours too. And at the end of the week, when you really want to hold up the sign and REALLY wanted a hotel for the weekend with no washing machine or kitchen, you'll completely settle for a Starbucks and 20 minutes in the Anthropologie sale rack.
I've realized that I'll always be one-upped.  There will always be the mother who sells 300 boxes of cookies to your 38, the one who took her kids Disney World over the school holiday, the one with the cute printed paper Pinterest sayings - we got some, so thank you.  The kid who got that "Terrific Kid" award but you have no idea how or you would darn sure make sure your kid is terrific enough to quit hearing about it again.
But, in the eyes of my own kids, they won't remember my inadequacies, or the pieces of paper I overlooked.  Well, except for that one time with the picture with the baby kangaroo.  But, heck, how was I supposed to know that if you didn't pay $7 you couldn't even see then dang things.  The form was not that specific.  And, I won't really remember in the morning how exhausting it was to discuss why "hurricames" occur around water and why we just can't get a fire-bellied toad because I draw the line at live bugs in my home and they eat crickets.
Truthfully, it's pretty much all erased every time those freshly shampooed heads snuggle up against me or I get the very first glimpse of those sleeping faces before they greet the day every morning.   The magnitude is exhausting but I certainly would trade it.  I wouldn't trade the bruises on my feet from the Lego bricks, changing a vacuum cleaner bag full of rainbow loom bands, the bowl of crayons sitting on my coffee table for decoration or artistic expression, the watermelon toothpaste on my bathroom counter, or the fingerprints on every light-switch in my house for anything in the world. This is definitely what I signed up for.  I want to.  THIS is ALL the instruction manual says.  The manual was wrapped in a blanket - one blue, and then one pink, and handed to me, to write myself.
Here's the best one - hidden among the ABCs and some other random jargon, as the real stuff so often is:

Yes, you are.  Inside and out.