Family – Page 8 – Angel Wheeler

Christmas Morning

I don’t know how your family does it, but my family tears it up, literally.

There is no designated “Santa” to pass out gifts. We don’t sit patiently taking turns watching others open gifts. It’s pretty much a free for all!

It is loud. Paper is tearing, boxes are tossed across the living room, people are hollering screams of excitement and sometimes groans of disappointment are heard.

It’s a complete disaster when it’s over, and there’s really no telling how many gifts get thrown out with the wrappings and bows.

I didn’t get many pictures, but I managed a few.

Hope everyone had a blessed Christmas!

Change

It seems my life stays in a constant state of adjustment.

Change happens. There’s no stopping it.

Some changes we create, and some changes just happen and we have no choice but to hold on with a white knuckle grip.

Although I’d like to be in charge of the change in my life, sometimes I prefer the latter. That way I can call it God or Fate or Providence or Destiny and in turn I can take no responsibility for the failures or disappointments that may come from it.

We all experience it, and change is not necessarily a bad thing. It’s perceived as such most of the time, but we must ask ourselves: really do we want to always remain the same person– in the same situations –working the same job –living in the same house– doing the same old things?

Yes!! Yes this girl screams! We do! I do! It’s much safer there and it doesn’t hurt.

But life just doesn’t work that way.

Over the past two years I’ve come face to face and heart to heart with

the death of my dad (grief, tears, sadness, longing)
a move to the little trailer house on the prairie (snakes, wind, dust, mice, trains, and yes even Jehovah Witnesses still visit)
pregnancy and the birth of my child (joy, tears, pain, guilt, fear)
job change for my husband (worry)
quitting my job of 12 years to stay home with my baby (dependence, budget, purpose, freedom, happiness)
learning how to be a mother ( sleeplessness, selflessness, worry, guilt, time management, joy, exhaustion)

And now, now, another biggie is heading my way. Another move. But this time to another town. In another state. I haven’t really talked about it because when I talk about it, that makes it real. I don’t talk about it, not because I’m not excited or I don’t want it to happen, but because I’m afraid. I don’t talk about it because doing my ostrich impersonation is much easier than recognizing that it really is happening.

But change–it is a comin’.

Soon and very soon, we will be packing up our cares and woe, tossed in with a little happiness and excitement and heading to a new destination.

My husband’s dream is to live in the mountains. And I guess we aren’t getting any younger. We’ve sold our little place here in the country, chickens too, and as soon as the buyers little ducklings are in a row, we will know when our last night here will be.

So on this eve of Thanksgiving, with my heart and my head filled with so much worry, trepidation, and fear, that it’s hard to find the excitement, I give thanks to God my Father, the Almighty, Who knows every breath I’ll ever take, Who numbers every hair on my head, Who knows my thoughts before I think them, and my blog posts before I type them, Who did not give me a spirit of fear, but of strength and power; I thank Him for his sovereignty and grace, for His love and providence, for His son and my salvation. I thank Him for my daughter and my husband, my family and my friends, my health and my freedom to just pick up and move whenever and wherever we choose. I thank Him for my past and my future, for my hurts and my sorrows, for my joy and my elation, for opportunities granted and doors closed. For all He has done and for all He is going to do.

Dear friends, please hold me and my family in your prayers as we begin again.

Feeding the Big Chickens

We recently had a family picnic at the park. It was a beautiful September day and we were in the big city, so we decided to grab a couple burgers and enjoy them under the treetops.

The park has a big lake with walkers and joggers circling it. A few fisherman had cast their poles into the water and were waiting patiently in their lawn chairs. A sweet elderly couple sat at a picnic table, his arm draped around her shoulders, enjoying the day.

We sat right at that other picnic table fighting off the flies. I watched that little old couple and my thoughts turned romantic. I smiled at the idea of how sweet and long-lasting their love is. Like something Nicholas Sparks would write. And then as I eavesdropped a little more, I discovered that they weren’t an old married couple after all, but new companions. He was telling her about the time when he was twelve and they visited Wisconsin. He talked about the war. She asked questions about his former marriage. As we got up to leave, I snapped their picture, glad to know that new love exists. That little white-haired couple lifted my spirits and reminded me that no matter how old you are, there is still time to make new friends.

We saved a little bit of our hamburger buns for the ducks. Is it just me, or do you get a little wigged out when all the ducks start surrounding you, crowding into your space, honking and quacking? I was attacked by a duck once, I guess you could call it that, and ever since that experience, I’ve been a little gun-shy. Or duck-shy.

EK has a way of expressing her delight. She OH’s. When she sees that little black baby boy on the Pamper’s box, she says Oh, Oh, Oh, but drags it out. She Oh’ed at the ducks and the swans. I wonder what her little mind was thinking of those gigantic birds. Maybe something along the lines of “Whoa man, that is one big chicken.”

She was just as curious as they were and when it mistook her bare toes for bread crumbs, she didn’t cry, she just Oh’ed at it.

When all our hamburger buns were either eaten or growing soggy in the water, we took a little stroll around the lake and enjoyed the moment with dreams of many more to come.

sleeping, eating, and other motherly woes

Of one thing I’m certain: each day that I’m given is more proof of how little I know.

We’ve all been there, a time in our life when we thought we knew it all. When we stuck our chest out and announced, if only to ourselves, “I got this.”

For me that was 7 months and 3 weeks ago.

Before her.

But now those days are over. Although I’ve always felt like I relied on God, I can tell you that this day, today, without a doubt, I desperately need His grace, His direction, His wisdom, combined with His mercy and goodness and provision, tossed in with a good handful of His forgiveness and a shake or two of second chances.

Raising a child is hard. And I have a good one. She’s not difficult, really. Perhaps a touch stubborn and spirited. She doesn’t sleep like other mother’s claim their babies sleep. And she doesn’t eat like she’s supposed to. She’s adventurous and bold, she’s determined and serious. Sometimes she’s playful and occasionally you could even say she’s sweet. Each day I ask God to help me and to forgive me.

If she has trouble sleeping, it’s because of me not her. I have 0%consistency in my day. Schedules are for trains.

If she has trouble eating, I’ll take the blame on that too, although she’s the one with her lips clamped together.

I’ve scoured the internet for help on every parenting subject that one could encounter with an almost 8 month old. (because the internet doesn’t lie)

*Breastfeeding
*co-sleeping
*baby wearing
*sign language
*pacifiers
*teething
*crawling
*separation anxiety
*night weaning
*sleep training

Plus lots more.
Through my hours upon hours of research, I’ve discovered there’s basically two camps of parenting.

1) “the force your baby to do what you want” camp

2) the “forget about your life, it’s officially over, make concessions for your baby’s needs” camp

I’m no longer looking for advice, I’ve received enough. So really, you don’t need to give me any, but I will allow you to commiserate with me all you want!

I’m just writing to air my frustrations, state my opinions, and talk out loud.

Case in point. Sleep trainers suggest that I put her in her crib for naps and at bedtime when she’s drowsy but still awake. Not to rock her or nurse her, or give her any sleep crutches what so ever. After placing her in the crib drowsy, but awake, she is supposed to put herself to sleep. All on her own. This has actually happened a time or two when she was smaller. I can actually testify that when she’s in her appropriate window of sleepiness, as long as she’s not teething or gassy, when her diaper is dry, and her room is the correct temperature, as long as her nose isn’t stuffy or her socks aren’t too tight, and as long as the moon is in the second house, she will actually go to sleep.

But most of the time, when I put her in her crib, I get this.

Now, how can I tell her no and lay her back down, when for the last two weeks, I’ve been clapping and cheering every time she pulled herself up to standing?

Then she looks at me with this face of “aren’t you proud of me for pulling myself up, that’s a new trick you know mom. When I’ve done it before you’ve danced a jig”, and yes baby I am so proud of you, and then she gives me the “aren’t you going to pick me up and hug me. I’m whimpering over here?”

I’m at a crossroads. If I pick her up, then she won’t understand she’s supposed to lay down. And if I tell her,”no, lay down”, she won’t understand how proud I am of her for working so hard to stand up. During this sort of dilemma, my maternal instinct usually wins. The one that says love and comfort, hush her cries, make her feel safe and loved. I know I’m reinforcing undesirable habits, but I can only pray that I’m building trust and reassuring her that she needn’t worry about her needs being met.

After giving this parenting gig a go for the last 8 months, I’ve come to some conclusions.

Of the little I know, this is what I know:

All babies are unique.
I must figure what works best for my family.
If the situation isn’t a problem to the family, then the family shouldn’t let society (or the internet) convince them it’s a problem.
There’s really no right way to do this.
Most other mothers must be liars, wanting others to believe they have dream babies, or it’s been so long ago, they’ve forgotten.
I don’t have the answers and can only do my best.
I’m going to mess up everyday and I can only hope she doesn’t turn out to be Jeffrey Dahmerish. Or worse.

God bless all mothers, everywhere!

Picture Perfect

After we buried my dad February of last year, I drove back to Texas basically with a pickup, plants, and a photograph.

The pickup still sits in front of my yard, longing for a spin around town.

The plants, I’m proud to say, are flourishing.

And the photo sits on a shelf in my dining room.

It was one of his favorites. At one point, being technologically disinclined, he asked my sister to put it as his profile pic on his Facebook page. I don’t know how he expected her to do that, as he had the picture in a frame two states over, but nevertheless.

It’s a tiny picture, maybe a 3 X 5 in a cheap brass frame with parts of the frame chipped. It displays a much younger us.

I remember the day. Thanks to a generous landlord aunt, my sister had recently scored a cheap one bedroom rent house, albeit in need of some TLC. I was helping her paint, when our dad showed up to check on our progress. I’m covered in paint. He’s not. The hat I’m wearing leaves me to question. Was I painting in that hat or was it on his head and I put it on mine? I don’t recall the detail.

On the back, he’s written, “me & ang, yukking it up in ’91”

I can’t remember the exact conversation, but I know it went something like this: my sister holding a camera, my dad draping his arm around me, my sister telling us to say “cheese”, and right before the camera snapped, my dad sucked in his gut, and I busted out laughing.

“Yukking it up in ’91” he called it.

If I’d known then that we had only twenty more years together. Twenty years. It sounds like a long time when you say it, but it sure goes by fast. What would I have done differently? Anything?

Throughout those years, we had many more times of “yukking it up”, and I’m grateful for every one of them.

But I can’t help but wish we could have one right now.

Miss you dad.

A Cowboy’s Hat

This morning I stumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of ambition, yawned and stretched and tried to come alive.

Not really. It’s Saturday. I slept later than usual, I awoke refreshed and feeling great, and meandered to the bathroom.

Then I peeked out the window to see if my husband’s truck was outside which meant he hadn’t left for work yet. I didn’t see it, and I couldn’t hear any rustling around the house, so I assumed he wasn’t home.

Until I saw his hat on the kitchen table. Then I knew he was here somewhere.

His dirty, black hat, equipped with a toothpick, only goes where he goes.

It’s pretty crusty, wouldn’t you agree? Some people think he needs a new one. But why? This one is nearing the point of perfection.

He catches some grief from others about this dirty hat. Not long ago, a friend asked him when he was going to clean it. Never, that’s when. It takes a long time, years in fact, to get a hat to fit right and feel right, and cleaning it might mess with the dirt, sweat, and grime that has made it the hat it is today.

My mom has finally resigned the issue. She gave up the cause for a new hat. For years on his birthday or Christmas, she would give him gift cards to a western store in hopes that he would buy a new hat. He bought jeans and socks instead.

She hasn’t complained about this hat, but his last hat she hated. She even let him know she hated his hat.

This is his old hat. It’s pretty bad. To the untrained eye, it might look identical to his present hat, but look closely.

There are no toothpicks , the buckle is badly bent, and the dirt is thicker. Much, much, thicker.

On Christmas morning, we opened the door to find a present, wrapped and sitting on our porch. We assumed it was from my brother and his wife Janene, because that’s their style. Just leave it on the porch. But upon opening it, we discovered a brand new black felt hat. It was from J-Dub’s friend Ol’ Earl, who pitied him for his dirty, black hat.

Of course J-Dub has a going-to-town hat too. That’s what he calls his dress hat.

It’s stocked with toothpicks as well. He wears it with his going-to-town watch and his going-to-town belt.

This is my husband’s hat. It has character, it fits right, and it stays on his head. Except for the day I had to chase it across the prairie in -34 degree wind chill. But the only reason it blew off that day was because he had a scarf on his head.

Not an old lady scarf, but a cowboy scarf, otherwise known as a wild rag. I love this picture. He hates it. He looks like an old lady to me. A babushka, an old Russian grandmother. Generally he doesn’t leave the house looking like this, but the bitterness of the cold that day was unbearable. He needed to protect his ears, and the silkiness of the wild rag caused his hat to blow away. Which didn’t make the day any more enjoyable.

While others look at this hat and see a dirty, black hat in desperate need of the trash can, I see a hard-working husband. I see the sweat from his brow on a summer day, the mud from the pens where he’s sorting cattle, the dust and dirt caking his face. I see him rolling out hay in frigid temperatures, breaking ice on frozen water tanks, doctoring sick calves. I see him branding cattle, building fence, shipping yearlings. I see the his love for the occupation, the land, the lifestyle, and his love for me.

I admire this dirty, black hat.

But much more, I admire the man who wears it.