We're Full of Beans

Two years ago today, around this time, I told my husband it was time to go. He was on the phone with his grandmother (it was her birthday), so he said, "Well, looks like we're having a baby, so I'll talk to you later."

After dropping the dog off at the neighbor's house, we drove the the hospital, where for four hours I labored without drugs because I was only a centimeter when I arrived and they won't admit you till you're three.

I almost punched the nurse who told me I was only a centimeter. I'd been in labor since three am.

The being who was causing me so much pain two years ago just said "Bye" to the TV show she's watching, standing roughly a foot in front of the TV. The being who was making me double over in pain two years ago is currently 35 inches tall, 27 pounds, and has a mouth full of teeth. The being I'd yet to meet two years ago will turn two tomorrow while she watches Sesame Street. Though, I might make her watch Kelly and Michael as that was what was on the TV when she was born. I remember it quite clearly because I kind of wanted to laugh when they later wondered what time she was born. Like her mother, no one was looking at the clock. But, unlike her mother, I was half paying attention to the TV, so I knew roughly when she was born due to where Kelly and Michael were in their opening.

I still haven't lost my baby weight. My boobs are still huge. My hair is finally recovering from the horrors of being pregnant (I was not one of those who had shiny, thick pregnancy hair. I had flat, dull, thin hair-- likely because EMO was stealing all my hair for herself.)

My house usually looks like it was hit by a tornado, the kitchen is always dirty, and there is always laundry that doesn't get done. The dog seems to shed more suddenly, my hair is more curly, and I always want to go to bed at nine pm, but make myself stay up till ten.

I dance around more, I sign stupid songs I make up and someone actually laughs now, there's someone else in the house making up words or mispronouncing them other than me, and I am never truly alone.

EMO knows lots of words: poo poo, pee, puty (computer), okay, oh no, fone (phone), clock, choo choo (train), neigh, sursily (seriously), Melmo (Elmo), Goofy, doggy, daddy, mama, ug (hug), Anna (who is actually Elsa), Scott!, MeMe (who is named MeMe), Toodles, car, toot, Me, Bye, Hi, Gumpy (Grandpa), cammy (camera), shower!, movie (means TV), ouch, shoes!, and likely others I can't think of at the moment.

She's my long limbed baby with lots of hair. She's determined, stubborn, and a dare devil.

Two years ago, I didn't know her. Now, I couldn't imagine not.

Let It Go

When I was in high school, I had a Sunday School teacher who was awesome. He was great for a wide array of reasons, but mostly because --and I don't remember why he said what he did-- he told us if we had any problem, any worry, anything we needed help with to just send it up to God. And he shrugged his shoulders, turned his hands over and lifted them up as if he was handing God whatever the problem was.

He claimed it worked.

I was doubtful.

I was doubtful about a lot of faith based things. I always was. No one (important) ever told me what to believe or that I was wrong for believing whatever I happened to think. When I questioned if everything was true in the Bible when I was twelve, my mom told me she viewed the book as a set of morals. To twelve year old me, that made total sense. Or more sense than what I'd read. Years later when I took a history class on the Middle Ages and found out how the Bible we currently use was put together, I was kind of glad I didn't think it was word for word true. Because it was put together by a bunch of power hungry men who got together to tell people what to believe to basically control what they believed. When I decided when I was seventeen there was no hell, my friend didn't tell me I was stupid or wrong, she listened to my theory and looked as if maybe I wasn't completely mental.

I was always encouraged to form my own believes and find my own way to faith and all that jazz.

So, I was seventeen, stressed, scared, in over my head, and becoming someone I hated.

I was in the bathroom when I tried it the first time. I closed my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and threw my issues at the ceiling.

I let go.

I sent it up to God to deal with.

And the strangest thing, I felt lighter.

Nothing had changed, I was still in the mess I'd been in a moment before, but it suddenly didn't look so horrible and end of the worldish.

Over the years, I've done this several times: just let it go, sent it up.

And I always feel lighter.

It still utterly amazes me each time it happens and suddenly, whatever is the issue doesn't seem as horrid as I was thinking.

It's been YEARS since I've actually done this. To be honest, I kinda forgot about it. When I was having all my anxiety related issues, it never crossed my mind to do just...let it go.

Why?

Because when you're in the thrall of anxiety and panic, you cannot just let it go. That is the whole problem.

So, when my therapist suggested I just not worry about the things keeping me awake at night, I stared at him as if he'd gone around the bend. I'm pretty sure I'd have laughed at him if I hadn't been so sleep deprived and kind of on edge.

I came home, still in a panic about the thing I was worrying about, tried to research it and just solve the problem, but I got no where. So, I texted my dad and he came to the rescue and eased my mind, but I was still worried. It was still nagging at my brain, gnawing away.

And then I remembered the advice of that awesome Sunday School teacher.

I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my hands, and threw my problem at God.

And I felt lighter. My chest loosened and my stomach settled.

I let go.

Does the issue still exist?

Yeah.

Does it still kind of bother me?

Yes.

But, I do know it'll get solved. And it's not worth loosing sleep over, letting it keep me awake and tied in knots.

Faith is a marvelous, wondrous, personal thing. But, I figured I'd share this and maybe help someone else out.