The Drive of Shame

 

My minivan is a disaster.  I'm not talking about a few Cheerios and a candy wrapper. I mean, a real state-of-emergency disaster.  Two days ago, I cleaned it out.  I removed two full bags of garbage.  Out of one average-sized minivan.   I actually picked up all the car seats to clean under them.  Never again.  I had nightmares after that.  Ignorance is bliss for a reason, people!   Plus another bag of junk to bring back in the house. Books. Baby dolls. Lost (and now found) shoes. A leftover lunch (like really leftover.  Think Easter and then go back a week), The purse I couldn't find and then the purse I was using because I couldn't find the first one.  12,642 plastic Easter eggs from two egg hunts and four kids. My dignity.  My self-respect.  

Look, I know I need to clean it.  It's just that . . . laundry . . . a pregnant, hormonal cat . . . television . . . reading . . . sleep . . . Facebook . . . flossing . . . anything . . . . Perhaps the minivan is my secret rebellion.  "Ha! World, take that.  I don't have much but I can laugh in the face of all of you by leaving my minivan a pit of filth."  

Nope.  Really, it's just the four kids.

The worst part of having a messy minivan is what I like to call "The Drive of Shame."  Every morning and every afternoon I make the trek to drop off or pick up our boys up at school and every morning and afternoon, I say this prayer silently in my head:

"Please Lord, do not let anything fall out of the van.  Please keep the eyes of the staff be directed anywhere but the floor of my minivan.  Please, please, please don't allow any adult to make direct eye contact; I can't take that look of horror.  I promise to clean the van.  I promise.  Amen."

Teachers and staff, I know what you're thinking when you see me coming.  I'm really sorry.  I really am.  Please know it's not a reflection of me as a person (mostly).  I apologize in advance if any flying or falling debris lands on your foot or in your eye.  It was completely unintentional.  You might want to remain a healthy six feet back from the vehicle as a precaution. 

Several months ago, not only was the van growing fungus inside, but the entire door just fell off one day.  I'm not kidding. 

It came right off the track and dangled there.  After laughing and then crying and then laughing again, we got out the duct tape. I drove the van around for close to three weeks (while we waited to get it fixed) with a door that was duct taped closed.  I lived in fear the duct tape would fail while I drove down the freeway and one of the kids would fall out. It also happened to be the door the kids used to get in and out of the van at school.  So, I had to rig up more tape and a sign to keep the staff from trying to open it.  (This is a dramatic recreation below).

Not quite accurate.  There was more tape involved in real life.

Oh Minivan, my Minivan . . . why art thou so disgusting?  Oh, yay, that's right.  The four kids. We haven't even talked about the smell.  Spilling milk in your van is bad.  Bad. Bad. Bad. 

I sincerely hope that our minivans aren't a reflection on our lives.  If so, Houston, we have a problem here.

But that's definitely not true.

Right?

Crap.

Telling the Truth

The other day Katherine and I stopped by the 99 Cent Only store to do a little grocery shopping. (Don't knock it until you've tried it, folks).  After getting back in our van (with my $1 a box protein bars!), loading up the groceries and Katherine, I turned on our 2003 Honda Oydessy and sat for a moment.  I won't say I was enjoying the air conditioning since it was close to 90 degrees that day (the AC doesn't work right now) and I wasn't hooking up my iPod to the radio (since I have neither a iPod or the fancy hooking-up receptacles to do this).

I was just taking a quiet moment, a deep breath, when The Girl was contained and I could sit.  Just sit.  And of course, I was checking Facebook.  My window was rolled down to let the air in.  Rolled down windows aren't that common in Houston, I've noticed, especially since that's how I roll these days. This might have been why I attracted the attention of the shopping strip security guard. Dressed in his "security blues," he resembled a (great) grandfather more than an actual impediment for any would-be thieves.

"Ma'am?" he said, coming close to my window. (Yes, I'm called ma'am now.  Ugh).

"Yes?"

"Everything okay?" he asked.

I looked around quickly.  Had I been so engrossed in Facebook that I failed to notice a bomb detonating or a carjacking?  "I'm fine."

He nodded and threaded his thumbs through the belt loops on his pants.  "Good.  Good.  I just wanted to check.  You never know with these old cars."  Then he smiled and walked off.

I sat there for a moment, a little embarrassed, a little tired, a little offended. 

Let me explain.  Generally speaking, I could care less what we drive, that most of my clothes come from the thrift store, that I can stretch $100 to feed our family of six for a week if I need to.  I could care less than our minivan and our car are 12 and 13 years old respectively; they are, after all, paid off. But I got embarrassed anyway and I got my feeling hurt a little (even though Grandpa Security Guard was just being nice).  I don't want to be reminded that our financial struggle is real.

Three or so years ago, my husband I gave up our credit cards.  All of them.  They've been cut up, thrown away and unused.  We gave up our credit cards so that we could work to become debt free.  See, when we moved to Houston seven and a half years ago, we were debt free. And then autism happened.  And then surprise kid number three happened. And then my husband struggled to find a job.  And then autism happened again.

With all those things, our debt grew.  It grew and it grew and it grew and . . . well, you get the point. These last few years have felt like watching a horror movie at times.  I watch my life and wince.  "Ouch, that one hurt." "Oh, that's going to be hard to recover from." "That one's gonna cause some bleeding, folks."  I've had to take my life with a sort of observational detachment or I would have long ago been locked up somewhere in a strait jacket.

Sometimes, life turns out to be nothing, nothing, like you expected.  There are some moments that are such pure joy--a love, a marriage, a baby, a new home--and some things are harsh, hard, messy. So, I'm going to fess up now.  I'm not good at the serious stuff usually.  My natural inclination is to crack a joke and laugh because that is so much easier than crying (plus I'm less likely to look like a sobbing tomato).

Today, I'm confessing: My life is hard. 

There, I said it.  Things are not easy.  I'm struggling with anger and resentment.  I'm struggling with depression and anxiety.  I'm struggling with financial worry and feeling inadequate. I feel a little like God handed me a gigantic pile a of dirt, said, "Here, move this," and forgot to give me a shovel so I have to use my hands and my hands hurt from the calluses and the broken nails and the bleeding.

My life is hard when we are struggling to potty train a six year old and I have to change yet another pull up.  My life is hard when I sit and wait while an insurance company decides the fate of therapy for our boys.  My life is hard when I juggle bills and more bills.  My life is hard when I see our families distance themselves.  Maybe that's actual distance because they live far away or maybe it's distance because our kids aren't perfect and never will be.  My life is hard when I have to make people see my kids aren't just a diagnosis or when I have to stay on top of teachers, when I have to fight.

My life is hard when I have to ask for help.  I know that sounds stupid, but . . . Oh. My. Goodness.  I hate asking for help.  

Here's another truth:  I'm tired.

This is not the kind of tired that a 14 hour nap will fix (however, I am willing to try if anyone wants to give me the opportunity).  I suspect this is the kind of tired that is soul deep.  That may not ever be fully healed until I'm in Heaven.  This is a lingering, overwhelming tired.  It's a tired that keeps me up at night. 

Since I'm letting it all hang out: I'm overwhelmed.

Am I making the right choices?  Is that what I should spend my time doing?  Should I worry about this?  Have a done enough?  No, really, have I done enough?  How can our family thrive when each day, each hour, sometime each minute is a lesson in survival?  How?  How?  How? Why? Why? Why?

But, and here's the good part.  Here's the only part I have to hang on to.  Here's the part that never gives up and never lets me down.  Here's the truth: God loves me. 

God loves me so much, He knows me and still loves me.  God's love for me showed up as Jesus.

Jesus' life was hard, especially his death.  Brutal, wretched, bloody, gruesome, necessary.  Jesus' hands did literally hurt from the calluses, the broken nails, the bleeding.  For me.  For you.  Jesus understands that life is hard. He knows.  He understands.

Jesus knew about being tired in his soul.  In the Garden of Gethsemane before he's taken away to his death, he said, "My soul is very troubled (Matthew 26:38)." His death was foretold and imminent.  Jesus was tired. He knows.  He understands.

Jesus was overwhelmed.  As he hung on the cross, he was overwhelmed by our sin, the sin he took on for each of us. He cried out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me (Matthew 27:46)?" His why was much bigger than mine will ever be.  His why was for me and for you.  Jesus was overwhelmed. He knows.  He understands.

This is the truth I have to hold onto because it makes all the hard, all the tired, all the overwhelming worth it.  The truth is simple and so, so hard to comprehend.  But that truth is mine.  I just need to remember it and take hold of it. When all else fails (and life is teaching me, it will), this is the truth I cannot forget: God loves me.

I don't have a monopoly on the hardness, the tiredness, and the overwhelming. Each of feels this in some way.  Maybe the season is short for you and maybe it's much longer.  But know that this is your truth too.

God loves YOU.

He knows.

He understand.
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God loves YOU.

That One Time I Took the Boys to Get Their Pictures Taken . . . .

Preface:  I wrote this story almost seven years ago (and posted it on Facebook) but I thought it would be fun to add here on the blog (that I sporadically post on).  Just a month after this happened, Daniel was formally diagnosed with autism, although we were already fairly certain that would be the case.  At the time, Daniel was a month shy of three years old, Ben was a little over one, and I was five and a half months pregnant with boy number three.  So, yay, not sure what the heck I was thinking!  I hope you get a good laugh out of it. 

"Let's start with him," the photographer said, pointing at Daniel.

Neen was the photographer's name, or at least that's what his nametag said and he looked all of 18 years old. He had a wide smile and an eager expression and I knew, I just knew, that he'd be no match for Daniel.

Somehow, in my great wisdom, I had decided to single-highhandedly (and five and a half months pregnant to boot) take both boys for photos. There was trouble on the horizon and I was all alone.

Daniel looked at us, dressed in a blue striped shirt and matching shorts. His eyes round and owlish behind his glasses. His face shone with the innocence and obedience of any sweet, precious toddler. And then, as is often the way with two year olds, the switch flipped and that look was gone, replaced by outright stubbornness and defiance.

"Daniel," Neen said. "Could you sit down for me?" He pointed at the white backdrop that covered the wall and ground.

"No."

"Daniel, can you stand here for me?"

"No."

"Daniel, can you catch the ball?"

"No."

And so on and so on and so on. I tried to help. I resorted to begging, pleading, bribing, and finally threatening . . . but Daniel stubbornly refused to cooperate. Oh, he played with the props--a duck, a monkey, a bear--but he wouldn't go near the backdrop. Neen was not to be deterred though--he got help, in the form of two other employees. They tried too--they begged, they pleaded, they bribed, and I'm sure ten minutes after meeting Daniel, they really WANTED to threaten.

After perhaps 20 minutes of trying to coerce Daniel into something that resembled a smile, and failing miserably, Neen decided it was best to "give Daniel a break" and move onto Ben. Little Benjabean (my nickname for him) had looked on with interest from the stroller and when it was his turn to perform, he did not disappoint. Of course, if you've ever met Ben, you'd know that there's nothing he likes better than smiling and showing off for people. So Ben laughed and smiled and Neen took about 30 pictures in which Ben posed for the camera each and every time.

Meanwhile, Daniel played with the monkey.

Then it was time to get pictures of the two of them together. There is was, a spring background, a cute little "wall" for them to sit on, and let the fun begin. Not one time would the two of them sit next to each other. Not once, for even a split second did they both look at the camera at the same time. In fact, what happened was a wrestling match of epic portions.

In the end, Neen's smile was much more wobbly than when we started and if he ended up with even half the headache I did, then I hope he took the rest of the day off. I'm certain he had a deeply philosophical inner-monologue about his career choice.

Afterwards, exhausted and grumpy, I chose pictures quickly and it wasn't too hard since my choices were very limited. The boys sat quietly next to each other this whole time and devoured a bag of Goldfish crackers.

One day, I'm sure I'll look back on this and laugh and think about how silly my boys were when they were almost three and 14 months. And one day, when they are big and grown, I might even wish to relive this day just to have them little and cuddly again, to see Daniel with that look of pure mischief in his eye or Ben with his cheeky little grin. Even though it was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad trip to the photographer's, I still thank God that I have two little boys to do it with. Motherhood is the coolest job in the whole world, even on days like this.

Of course, I couldn't tell this story without proof so . . . . Enjoy!