Magical Choices, Part 2

So I owe you an update.  Yea, I know.  That’s a dumb thing to say because there are like, all of three people, maybe, reading this, but it sounds way too weird to say “I owe myself and my need to process and document life for the purpose of the future an update,” sooooo I’m sticking with the I owe YOU an update line.

I owe you (and my need to process and document life for the purpose of the future) an update on Disney World.

We went to Disney World for fall break.  We were planning to go to the lake.  We were planning to have cool temperatures, boat rides, fires, smores, quiet, peace, relaxation, and absolutely nothing on our must-do list, which seems to have grown to epic proportions lately.

Then my in-laws invited us to Disney World.  Invited, as in, we will pay for your family of four to enjoy a weekend at the most expensive magical place on earth.

Would you say no?

Neither did we.    

The kids were beside themselves thrilled. I went kicking and screaming.  Well, actually I was stewing silently about my lost lake trip and keeping my entire body to myself and not touching anything or anyone and using antibacterial wipes if I was forced to touch something and passing out wipes to my kids and my husband and anyone near me who would take one.  But internally, I was kicking and screaming.  And what I was screaming was, DON’T MAKE ME GO!!!!!!

Our flight took off anyway, and God answered my first prayer when our plane landed safely in Orlando with the seat backs and tray tables in their upright and locked positions, and most importantly, the oxygen masks and barf bags untouched.  And although I never expected God to follow us from the airport to Disney World, I’ll be darned if he wasn’t right there with me the entire weekend, answering my prayers one right after the next.

Now I do need to tell you that my prayers were sucky prayers.  I wasn’t praying for big, important, world peace and a family for every orphan kind of things.  I do that, sometimes, but not when my focus is on keeping my anxiety in check and my OCD under wraps in such a way that my husband and children can enjoy themselves without being traumatized by my insanity. Disney World is not the place to plead for an end to war.  I was in a battle of my own, friends, and it was all I could handle at the time.

I should also tell you that I’m aware there are countless people who do not think I’m crazy because of my anxiety and OCD, but because I don’t share their adoration of “the happiest place on earth.”  There are people in this country who are completely in love with all things Disney.  We saw at least half a dozen couples on their honeymoons at the Magic Kingdom.  If my fiancé had even suggested we consider Disney World for our honeymoon, I would have returned the diamond without hesitation and fled, and I mean every word of that y’all.  

Disney is a highly entertaining place.  In my opinion, it’s a great place to take children once every few years.  I think It’s a Small World is an adorable ride and I love Thunder Mountain Railroad.  I could do without the women in shackles on the Pirates of the Caribbean extravaganza (shouldn’t someone be complaining loudly enough about that to get some much needed, politically correct updates?), but I admire the way Disney parks are kept clean and organized, the “cast members” remember to stay in character at all times, and boy do those folks know how to put on a parade.  But I am not one of those moms who shows up at the gates of the Magic Kingdom with Minnie Mouse ears on my head secretly harboring fantasies about becoming a squatter in Cinderella’s castle.  And if any one of my friends ever mentions going to Disney for a girls’ trip, I will never speak to her again. 

Ever.

I go to Disney World because I want to witness my kids enjoy it.  Without them, I’m staying as far away from that place as possible.  So those prayers of mine before we arrived and the entire time we were there?  Well, I’d say totally and completely selfish pretty much sums ‘em up. 

Please, Lord, let the weather be nice.

Please, Lord, let the hotel be clean.

Please, Lord, let the kids get along.

Please, Lord, let my in-laws keep up.

Please, Lord, let the lines be less than thirty minutes.

Please, Lord, let me keep my lunch through the Space Mountain ride.

Please, Lord, PLEASE let me survive two full days of large crowds, public bathrooms, and people walking around chomping on turkey legs the size of my arm. (Could I get an Amen for that one, people?  Seriously, those things have to be a public health hazard.)

The thing is . . . God knows me.  He knows my heart, and he knows that sometimes, it does beat for others.  Sometimes, I put away my egotistical desires and ask the One who makes the impossible possible to do meaningful things in the lives of those who need him.  Sometimes, I forget about my own needs and ask God to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, heal the sick, provide for the poor. 

But sometimes . . . many times . . . maybe even most times, I go to God with nothing but my own mess.  My ugly, selfish, sinful mess. 

And He hears me.

And He loves me anyway.

And He takes my self-seeking prayers, and my filthy heart, and my inability to look past my own circumstances, and He shows me just how much I mean to Him.

The weather was perfect.  The hotel was wonderful.  The kids got along.  The in-laws were amazing.  The lines were well under thirty minutes.  I kept my lunch through Space Mountain (uh, barely, and just for the record, I am officially retired from that ride, along with The Tower of Terror at Hollywood Studios, which I will curse until the day I die).

I’ve often heard it said that God meets you where you are.  I’ve also heard it said that he has no intention of keeping you there, but we’ll save that for another day and another blog.  Here’s what I think . . .

I think God met me at Disney World.  Amid the noise and clutter of a weekend I didn’t expect and wasn’t sure I could embrace, I think God showed up in a thousand different ways to remind me of a thousand different reasons He loves me. 

For the sake of full disclosure, I must tell you that those amazing in-laws I mentioned hired a concierge to help us navigate the logistical maze that is five parks in two days.  I am quite sure Ramon was very expensive.  I am also quite sure Ramon was an angel sent from heaven.  With his MBA from NYU and the five languages he speaks, Ramon left a lucrative career in risk management to start his own concierge company, and he now spends over 325 days a year escorting groups of people around the Disney parks, and any other major Orlando attraction.   

Ramon was not only an angel, he was a genius (and some might say certifiably crazy because of the previously mentioned 325 days a year at an amusement park).  We never looked at a map.  We never looked at a schedule of events.  We never argued over what to do or where to go or when to eat.  We followed Ramon around like ducklings as he calmly and casually escorted us to each ride, show, restaurant and park. He took pictures of the family in all the right places.  He saved us a spot in the shade to watch the parade, complete with a little mat for the kids to sit on.  He found, cleaned, and set tables for us while we ordered lunch so we could sit right down and enjoy our Disney dining experience.  He secured us a table at Animal Kingdom’s Rainforest Café in under two minutes when there was a sixty-minute wait.  Our group of 4 adults and three children hit five parks in one weekend and never felt stressed, rushed or even tired, and the kids were able to do almost every single thing they wanted to do, and more, in a 48 hour vacation. 

I don’t know when we’ll go back to Disney World.  This trip might have been our last because, ya know, Ramon.  Without him, we just couldn’t hack it, and based on the treatment we received, Ramon is not in our budget. (If you’d like to find out if he’s in yours, I will gladly share his contact information as I highly recommend him to everyone on the planet).

The thing is, even without Ramon, I know I would have enjoyed our trip to Disney World.  Despite all my resistance, I found much more joy than I imagined I could on our surprise getaway.  The weekend was miraculous, in my opinion, and not because of the beautiful weather and the short lines and the generous in-laws and the personal concierge.  The weekend was miraculous because God is in the business of making miracles, and I asked him to come along.  I invited God to join us, and God never turns down an invitation to be present in our lives, no matter where we’re going.  And because I asked God to come with us, and I knew without a doubt that he would show up, I saw Him everywhere. 

Bring On the Semi-Colon!

Surgery is a very interesting thing.  The anxiety dreams I’ve been having are nothing short of hilarious. The brain is miraculous, the way it weaves your fears into a film that plays on repeat while you sleep.  I’ve been late for the surgery, failed to do the prep work for the surgery, and forgotten the surgery altogether, all in the middle of the night over the course of the last week.  And in the grand finale of all surgery anxiety dreams . . . last night there were no operating rooms available, so my doctor threw me over his shoulder, my gown blowing wide open to reveal everything I never want revealed, and carried me on a trip around the OUTSIDE of the hospital to find another location to do his job.  Pretty sure that one’s never happened before, which I suppose just goes to show my brain might be slightly . . . ‘abnormal’ is the first word that comes to mind, but in the name of that whole self-love thing, let’s go with ‘creative.’

Surgery is a lot like pregnancy, I’ve learned.  It ignites an intense desire to nest.  I forced my family to cut short our Christmas trip to the lake so I could come home and get things in order before my three to four day stint in the hospital.  Not sure exactly what I’m afraid of – do I think my home and family will crumble without me?  Is my husband not capable of putting away the Christmas decorations and returning the too-large Christmas clothes and helping the kids write thank-you notes and cleaning the toilets and doing the laundry and vacuuming the basement and painting the powder room because the color is slightly too dark and has been bothering me for months and HOW MANY THINGS CAN I GET DONE BEFORE THIS SURGERY??? 

My husband is very capable.  Well, at least up until the part about painting the powder room.

Of course, my real fear has nothing to do with forgetting to arrive at the hospital on time or failing to clean out the fridge before my 4-6 week recovery period begins.  My real fear is that I might die on that operating table today because bad things happen. 

I know, I know. I could die any day of the week in a car accident or crossing the street or choking on a piece of chicken.  But today, the possibility of death seems just too close. There will be anesthesia and several hours of surgery to remove part of my colon and my appendix and several days in the hospital where people have pneumonia and the staff bacteria thrives and you just never know. 

Bad things happen.

It always sucks the air out of a mother’s lungs when she imagines the thought of leaving her children, but when your children are 8 and 10, like mine, you can’t help but let your mind wonder to the fact that they will likely remember very little of me if I do die in that hospital today.  And that stops my breath altogether.

I keep thinking of the millions of things I still want to do with them.  The millions of memories we still have to make.  The millions of things I still need to tell them.  And just in case I’m out of time, I’m going to tell them one thing, right here, right now.

Be love, my darlings.

BE LOVE.

Be love to your family and friends.  Be love to teachers and classmates.  Be love to people who serve you meals and people who ring up your purchases and people who cut your hair.  Be love to your future college roommates and your future spouses and your future children.  Be love to those you disagree with and those who make choices you don’t understand.  Be love to strangers in your city and the sick all over the country and the hurting from one end of the earth to the other. 

Be love.  The world is seeking it and you can be people who share it.  Sometimes, it will be hard.  Sometimes, you will have to search deep in your heart to find love for someone, because sometimes, people seem unlovable.  But God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son to die for them (John 3:16) and He is love and He showed us how to love and we have His love and we can BE HIS LOVE to everyone we encounter.

I’m sure I’ll be coming home at the end of the week.  I doubt the toilets will be clean, but I know my family and home will be happy and healthy, despite my absence.  I will be sore and tired and incredibly grateful the hard part is over.

But just in case . . .

Be love.

A First To Remember

As a parent, I have had the great pleasure of experiencing so many monumental “firsts.”  His first smile, his first steps, his first word, the first time he slept through the night at seven and a half months old you’ve got to be kidding me oh no I’m totally not and it was only after I FINALLY relented and let him have his first bottle of formula oh my goodness the little traitor who had been keeping me up all night for months because I thought he was just growing so quickly and so very hungry and trust me he had another bottle of formula every night after that.

“Firsts” are exciting.  They are thrilling and reassuring and pull of pride and joy and love.  But sadly, the special “firsts” start to slow down as infants turn into babies into toddlers into children into big kids who have permanent teeth growing in more directions than you can count.  Of course, the first day of school is always cause for pictures and text messages to grandparents, and I imagine there will be great amounts of emotion expended down the road when we experience his first date, the first time he drives a car, and his first college application.  Today, however, I have to tell you about a “first” I never saw coming.

Charlie started middle school this week. It was quite a roller coaster for my little fellow, as the jubilation he has felt for months about leaving lower school turned into some serious anxiety about three weeks before school was scheduled to begin.  Yes.  Three weeks of ten-year old anxiety.  That meant lots and lots of questions and comments about middle school and what was it going to be like and what if he couldn’t handle it and what if he couldn’t open his locker and what if he couldn’t find his classes and why in the world did his school make kids start middle school in fifth grade anyway?!?!

There were two days of orientation, and that helped . . . a little.  Still, on the morning of the first day of middle school, my Charlie was pacing the kitchen by 6:30 am, worried about his shoes and his socks and his first class and his last class and carpool and . . .

It was a half day, so I picked him up at noon.  There was a smile on his face as he slid into the car, and his entire demeanor was visibly different – calm, relaxed, okay.

He chattered happily about his day on the ride home.  My teachers are nice, I know a lot of people in my classes, it’s not that different from lower school.

We got home and he had homework, because middle schoolers are big time like that.  Now at Charlie’s school, one of the perks of moving up into the middle school is that the students each get their own tablet, which is basically a laptop computer on which they do almost everything.  So my son pulled out his tablet and prepared to complete his first homework assignment of the school year.  His task was to send an email to his math teacher.  And that’s when it happened.  The “first” I wasn’t expecting, but which was just as thrilling and reassuring and full of pride and joy and love as the others Charlie has provided through the years.   

I remember the first time I had to send an email.  I was a student at the University of Georgia, not long before graduation, and much like my son, I was required to email one of my professors as a homework assignment.  In order to do it, I had to drive to campus, find a parking spot, search for the computer lab I’d never set foot in before, wait for an empty computer, figure out how to get the computer to turn on because the person before me had shut it down, wait at least ten minutes for the computer to get going again, and navigate whatever email procedure I had been instructed to use to demonstrate to my professor that I could successfully send a message through time and space using the latest and greatest technology.

Charlie’s homework wasn’t quite so complicated.  And within weeks, I’d be willing to bet he won’t even recall doing it because he will have sent so many emails since then.  I, on the other hand, will remember it forever.

I will remember the way his face lit up.  I will remember the way he threw his hands in the air and squealed like the child he is.  I will remember the exhilaration in his voice when he hollered, “I DID IT!” 

The kid was absolutely giddy.  He had sent his first email.

I guess that’s 2013 for you, huh?  We just keep adding things for parents to pray about. 

Lord, please let my son use email wisely and appropriately.  Please watch over him as he navigates the world of technology, which gives him access to all the things I hope he never wants to Google.  Lord, please let my son send and receive only positive, uplifting email messages from now until the end of time.  Amen.

I can’t wait to see what Charlie thinks when I start emailing him.  I’m thinking maybe a Bible verse of the day . . .

Think his face will light up every time he opens it?