A Year of Burden

The end of 2018 was lovely. Our family had just purchased our forever home. The George had changed his title to Homeowner George. He was flexing his man muscles by worrying with landscaping, checking insulation, and fretting over the moisture under our home. The children were personalizing their spaces and I was in sweet, southern bliss as I floated down the aisles of Hobby Lobby; carefully picking through country chic decor for my walls. It was a blissful period of time for each of us.

As the year drew to a close, I began asking my friends to pray for me because I felt I was entering a time of turmoil. I could say it was the moving of the Holy Spirit; an otherworldly unsettling; a warning from something higher, but I can’t claim to be a prophetic spiritualist. At the end of October, I had been informed that my grandfather had stage three urethral cancer. Given his age and the intensity of his upcoming treatment, I didn’t expect that the road in front of our family was going to be without its fair share of bumps, detours, and wrong turns. Grandpa was scheduled for seven weeks of chemo and radiation treatments, five days a week. That was an intense schedule for anyone, much less a man in his 70’s with weakening knees. I predicted rapidly declining health, a good deal of fights between my mother and her parents, and a lot of exhaustion for everyone. I wanted to be the pillar my mom could lean against. This wasn’t our first time caring for an ailing family member, but it was the first time I had the maturity to walk alongside my mother as she grieved. Grandpa had been given a 40% chance of surviving treatment. We were entering 2019 with very low expectations. For this reason alone, I asked for an abundance of prayer.

And I titled the forthcoming 2019 the Year of Burden.

Despite the heavy treatment plan, my grandfather walked away from cancer surprising everyone. He was rarely sick, didn’t lose too much weight, and remained mobile for the entirety of treatment. Grandpa may not have felt amazing, but he made cancer look like a fool. Early in the fall, his scans came back with his tumor calcified and no visible signs of cancer.

My prediction was both accurate and incorrect. As is often the case, I based my conjecture off of the information directly in front of me; ignoring obvious signs that were in the background. Grandpa wasn’t the big life event of 2019. I was.

 

Tales with Alopecia: the Mall

If you’ve known me during the past four years, you know I have “cancer stories.” I wish I had a better name for them, but most of my out-of-the-house interactions with strangers are the result of people assuming that I’m struggling through chemo. There isn’t always time to explain the intricacies of Alopecia, so I have some pretty interesting moments that range from a cashier advising me to eat more kale to a  stranger handing me a one hundred dollar bill during a women’s gathering at a Panera.

I’d like to turn the tables and call these interactions “Tales with Alopecia” instead of “cancer stories” because, let’s face it, I don’t want to be an insensitive jerk and “Stories about People Assuming I Have Cancer When I Don’t” is a little too wordy.

For those that care to walk this journey with me, here’s my first tale.

Back at the end of March, I decided to have a girl’s day with my daughter. A girl’s day for us is a trip out to Target, Starbucks, and the mall. What can I say? We enjoy being cliche’ white chicks.

We had just finished buying a whole lot of bath bombs and were heading over to Justice to score something glittery and overpriced, when I noticed my breath. It was a good thing Chrissy wasn’t tall enough to have face-to-face conversations with me because I could have been accused of child abuse with this breath. I pulled some gum cubes out of my purse (I’m a modern woman, I don’t chew sticks of gum. I chew cubes) and offered a cube to my girl before popping one in my mouth.  We were a few steps from our destination when Chrissy asked me a question. I don’t recall the question, but I do recall accidentally sucking my gum down my windpipe.

Recognizing that I was choking, my body did it’s job and I began coughing, hacking, and gagging in the middle of a busy walkway just outside a Vera Bradley store. The gum was good and stuck, so the coughing and hacking only got more violent and was soon accompanied by a bright, red, flushed face that was streaming tears. I was aware that people were staring. I could hear Chrissy asking if I was alright. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew there had to be at least one person who believed I was having a reaction to chemo treatment, and I was cursing myself for being the sort of klutz who would gag on gum in such a dramatic fashion nowhere near a restroom. Despite all this, I could not get the gum to move, nor could I control the red, streaky, mess that was my face during all this commotion.

To further enhance the embarrassment of this experience, when I did finally get the gum to dislodge, it was followed by vomit.

But I was there was nowhere to neatly throw up!

I had worked as a janitor for a few years and I’m usually pretty conscious about leaving messes. Where I was standing was carpeted. I couldn’t leave puked on carpet for someone else to clean up…especially when it was the result of a gum cube.

So I swallowed the vomit.

And it came back in duplicate.

At this point, I had forgotten that I had a daughter and I’m ran (with about four bags and a purse) to the nearest trashcan holding vomit in my mouth…while I’m still coughing. I am now using my hands as a dam against the flood of stomach sludge that is attempting to erupt onto the carpet.

For those of you that are still reading, you can rest. I made it to the trashcan and the janitorial staff at the Hamilton Place Mall were spared the extra work.

After puking my breakfast, lunch, and possibly a portion of my future dinner…oh, and that small piece of gum…into the trashcan, I looked up to see that all foot traffic had stopped and everyone within five feet of the scene was staring at me.

And I’m still coughing.

Apparently my body was so traumatized by the gum that it was experiencing after shock.

My eyes watered profusely and between wheezing breaths, I was trembling.

I kept willing myself to stop this nonsense, but my body had it’s own plan and that plan was total and utmost embarrassment.

Clinging to the edges of the trashcan and hacking like I was attempting to move my internal organs around, I felt a light hand on my back. A very put-together, obviously southern, blonde woman who may have been in in her 40’s was rubbing my back and helping me stand upright.

“Can I help you?” she asked kindly.

*hack, hack* “I’m,” *wheeze* “fine,” I choked out.

“Why don’t you come sit down?” she said gently as she took my bags and escorted me to the nearest bench.

I again told her I was fine, but shuffled over to the bench anyway.

Sitting down, she continued to rub my back as I struggled to control my breathing. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No,” *cough, hack* “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you are,” she drawled in a thick southern accent, “but let me get you one just the same. Do you want a water or a coke?”

“Water,” I choked out.

It was while she was getting the drink that I realized that Chrissy was still with me. Thank goodness I didn’t lose my girl during all this drama.

She came back with the water and sat in between me and Chrissy, sweetly patting my back to help with the coughing.

The water did help, and the coughing was starting to ease up. With all the tears drying up, I could see more clearly. The crowd had dispersed, but I could now see that the nice, southern woman wasn’t alone. With her were three teenage girls and an elderly man leaning on a cane. I felt very guilty. I had ruined their girl’s day and the elderly man probably needed the bench I was sitting on more than I did.

“Thank you,” I finally said without coughing, “I’m feeling better now. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will, sweetie, but I’m just gonna sit here until you finish your drink.”

I gave a half-hearted grin to her party and continued to sip on my water.

She then turned to Chrissy. “Are you her daughter?” she asked with all sorts of sugary-sweetness.

Chrissy nodded.

“Were you scared?” she prodded.

“A little,” Chrissy answered with some trepidation.

“Well, you were very brave,” the woman praised her, “sometimes mommies need brave little girls to help them.”

Chrissy eyed her warily and cocked an eyebrow. “I guess,” she murmured.

Feeling really uncomfortable, I drank the last of my water. “Thank you, again,” I said, “this was very kind but I just choked on my gum.”

“I’m sure you did JUST choke on gum,” the woman said, patting my hand.

I wiped my face on the back of my cardigan sleeve. “Well, thank you for the water and for sitting with me and my daughter. I think I’ll be fine now. I’m just going to sit here and catch my breathe. This was really, very nice.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thank you,” I assured her. I then looked over at her shopping party, “Thank you for lending her to me.”

After wishing me well, the kind onlookers left and I began my apologies to Chrissy, who I imagined was just as embarrassed as I was.

It hadn’t been five minutes before we were approached by a couple of women in mall clothes (you know, the kind of clothes that look almost brand new and you would only wear if you were going where you would be surrounded by judge-y people with money).

“Excuse me,” said one of the women, “we are with the promotions department here at Hamilton Place Mall. We couldn’t help but notice that you are having a rough day.”

I nodded.

“We here at the mall would like to brighten your day by offering you this gift card to Bath & Bodyworks. Is that okay?”

Again, I nodded.

There was further talk and explanation as to why I was chosen. They were quite skilled with their wording and somehow communicated that they had noticed I was a bald woman barfing in a public trashcan without using that exact phrasing.

I was too exhausted to talk or argue, so I took the card and thanked the women before they headed off to promote something else.

After gathering our bags and throwing away our water bottles (turns out kind, southern woman had bought Chrissy a drink too), my daughter and I finally headed to our original destination. As we walked away from the scene of the crime, Chrissy asked, “Mommy, did those people think you were dying?”

“Probably,” I answered.

“They sure were nice,” she mused.

“It’s nice to be nice,” I commented.

Justice was our last stop for the day. As we left the store, we made sure our cashier got a Bath & Bodyworks gift card because I don’t deserve $30 worth of lotions and candles for choking on a cube of gum. And our cashier was having a real-life rough day.

 

 

The Fog

I woke up to a pitch black morning. All mornings are like this now that the crispness of fall has crept down south. I sat in my big, red chair and read my Bible. My prayer for the day was that I wouldn’t be at odds with my son. Our personalities are such that we argue most of the day.

I want unquestionable obedience to my simple commands. It’s not as if “pick up your socks, please,” is an unreasonable request. Yet my son treats every situation as a battle for his unalienable rights.

It’s wearing.

My only wish is that we could have one perfect day without constant struggle.

Inevitably, my son woke up early. I think the Lord traded early wake-up times with his infant need to never sleep to save my sanity.

His first request is always food. No good morning. No snuggles. Only immediate attention to my needs now, please.

I fixed his food and stared out the kitchen window. There was a thick fog settled over the farm. It was eery and beautiful. It was the kind of beauty that only Tim Burton or Edgar Allen Poe would appreciate.

I wanted to photograph it.

I snuck into my bedroom (so as not to disturb the sleeping husband…see my post on Evil G for more explanation), grabbed my camera, and headed for the front door. As I reached for the doorknob, my son looked up from his cereal bowl and asked, “Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d take some pictures of the fog,” I answered.

“Can I come?”

I hesitated.

Would he get too cold or wet and start complaining? Would this be one of our well-intentioned yet inevitably disastrous outings?

Guilt gnawed at me. I rarely did anything one-on-one with my son for this very reason. I could think of all the reasons our time together could be pull-my-teeth-out-with-a-pair-of-dull-tweasers painful, so I hardly gave mother-son dates a try.

He was asking to spend time with me. How many years of interest did I have left? He was already telling me he didn’t want to kiss me in public anymore, and he had put a date on when hand-holding would meet it’s end (April 28th, 2016). I needed to seize these opportunities.

“Sure,” I said.

He eagerly finished breakfast (without pretending that his spoon was a chicken, or a plane, or something else that may make a high-pitched noise that sets my teeth on edge), changed into some warm clothes, and began his adventure with me down the gravel driveway.

At first he complained about having a cold nose and his tennis shoes getting soggy, but after a few pictures, he got excited and asked to explore the farm with me.

I took him along my usual walking route, pointing out some of my favorite things: the gnarly trees that sit alone in the cow pasture, the bamboo forest, the rusty mailbox, the dilapidated, abandoned barn, the lone pumpkin (that exploded last week) that sits on the edge of the ditch.

He talked to me.

No yelling, no whining, no insisting that I serve him NOW.

He told me about the caterpillars he had seen and pointed out the changing leaves. He shared his ideas for future video games. He asked questions about things we passed, “Why are there cracks in the road? Why hasn’t anyone fixed them? What does a dead armadillo look like? Why does it smell so bad near the cows? What do chicken snakes look like? Why can we still hear the dogs barking so far away? Have we seen a coyote before?”

I stopped an introduced him to the neighbors I talk to nearly everyday during my walk.

He was charming, answering questions clearly and remembering to say, “please,” and “thank you.” He threw out compliments. I was amazed at what a good conversationalist my son was. Lately, I had begun to believe all he could do was yell.

We walked home holding hands, occasionally stopping to pick up a new treasure to add to his nature collection. He talked continually, sharing the wonders of the world he was observing.

As we trailed up the drive, I remembered something a friend once told me, “Maybe it’s because you’re with him all the time, but I wish you could see the Isaac I do, because he’s such a joy.”

My son is a joy.

He is stubborn and hard to communicate with, but so am I. I’m sure there are times when he forgets that I love him because I’m so harsh. There are times I wonder if he loves me because he can be so mean. Yet God graces me with foggy mornings where I can see my son again. I can see the good bits that aren’t being overshadowed by his immense strong will. I’m given hope that if we smooth out the rough edges, eventually he will be a great man.

Most of all, I can see that I love him SO. MUCH.

Praise God for a foggy morning that lifted the fog of my hard heart.

American Horror Story

I like scary movies.

This surprises most people since I refuse to go so them.

I like the unpredictability of scary movies. I’m fed by the rush of adrenaline you get from the unknown. The music builds, the mood darkens. You never know when something will jump out and attack. The suspense is thrilling and the relief of having survived the experience is enough to bring me back again.

But I have nightmares.

Anything I watch before bedtime is instantly transferred over to my subconscious. I can’t help but dream about whatever I last watched.

The George does not like this.

Watching scary stuff means I have scary dreams. Which also means I don’t sleep and keep the George up. Not sleeping also means that I’m not the most pleasant person in the world the next day.

Okay, I’ll admit it. A Rachael without sleep is it’s own kind of horror movie.

All of this means that I can only watch anything deemed creepy in the middle of a sunny day.

Sunny day scary movies make no good sense, so I don’t watch them anymore.

And then the FX channel began airing American Horror Story.

I’d seen the ads with the weirdly contorted black leather clad individual suspended from a blood red ceiling. The image was chilling and macabre.

I was intrigued.

Still, I had enough sense to know that the George would give me the world’s largest guilt trip if I watched it and lost weeks worth of sleep.

So I waited.

I read reviews. I heard people rave about it. I had friends tell me that it wasn’t that scary and I could handle it.

Still I continued to wait.

It wasn’t too long before the first season was released on Netflix. Oh, the temptation.

Still I resisted the urge.

As time went on, more seasons with more twisted ads popped up in my Netflix queue. American Horror Story was in the “shows you might like” category….and the “most popular” category…and the “now trending” category….and oh, good gravy, every stinking category I had on Netflix.

But my husband was right. I needed sleep more than entertainment.

I didn’t cave until last week.

We had promised the kids an evening at the mall if they cleaned and organized their closets. They accomplished the task in a record breaking twenty minutes.

We arrived and began hitting all their favorite stores: Barnes & Noble, the Character Box, Build-a-Bear, Starbucks, Earthbound Trading Company, Gamestop, and Hot Topic.

Now I’m not one of those women who’s working hard to be the cool mom. I’m aware that Hot Topic is where all the wanna be misunderstood teens shop, and I’m not trying to encourage my kids to be angsty. But Hot Topic caters to our type of nerd. It often has super hero or Doctor Who window displays and my children are naturally drawn to the store. I walk with them and steer them away from the sketchier items. Isaac doesn’t care for the loud music, so we don’t usually stay for too long.

This trip, they had a huge American Horror Story display. I’m sure it was a subtle tie in to the upcoming Halloween events, but I couldn’t help but stare at the “Normal People Scare Me” mugs and rummage through the character t-shirts.

The next day, I determined that I would watch the first episode. JUST the first episode. I would watch it in the afternoon, make sure I had plenty of happy things to watch afterward, and NOT go to sleep thinking about the scary images I may have seen.

At around 4:00 pm Saturday afternoon, I pulled up the first episode on my Nook, inserted my headphones, and began walking on my treadmill. I nearly fell off the treadmill within the first five minutes. The suspense was insane and at times I found that I had stopped breathing. Reminding myself that air was essential and that I was the person in control, I continued to watch to the very end. I very nearly killed myself as I continued to jump and trip on the treadmill. By the end of the show, I was tempted to move on to the next episode, but by that time, it was beginning to get dark (it had been a gray day) and another episode would not be wise.

Instead I watched an episode of Friends, a documentary about the court of Henry VIII, Philomena, and the Royal Wedding.

Yet when I went to bed, the images from American Horror Story were the only ones floating around in my head.

I saw red headed twins with slashed necks, disemboweled possums, men in black leather suits leering in doorways, half-melted faces staring through windows, strobing lights and wrecked bodies spasming in corners….

I woke up early and prayed.

It occurred to me that I didn’t need to watch this show, not because it kept me from sleeping, but because it stuck with me. There was a certain amount of evil that pervaded my senses. The sexuality, the hatred, the murder, the adultery…

It wasn’t that I was scared, it was that I had allowed myself to be wooed by wretchedness. I had excused the reckless violence and language for the sake of entertainment. All of it was the most vile sin. Yet I had convinced myself that since it wasn’t real, since all of it was fictional, since it was imaginary, and since I would never do any of these things myself, it was okay. But in the night, all I could think about was murder and rape.

How easily this show had invaded my thoughts.

There was no love here.

The show explored the human experience at it’s ugliest. It acknowledged spiritual warfare. It proved that we, as sinners, were capable of the most heinous actions.

Feeding my soul in this way was not healthy.

I struggled through church as I fought myself. What harm could it do to finish the series? It was an incomplete story. I would always wonder. But I felt so dirty. I felt sick. I felt at odds with God.

Sillily, I thought that I would be judged for declaring this very popular show as vile. I did the same with Game of Thrones, and many people dismissed me.  I still wanted to be thought of as cool. My entire life, I had been the outcast but with the recent popularity of geek culture, I had experienced was it was like to be popular. I wanted to enjoy the things that the world deemed worthy of consumption.

After talking with my husband, I had come to the conclusion that I didn’t need to watch another minute of this show, no matter how popular it was.

My morning devotions confirmed my suspicions.

“You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spend it on your passions. You adulterous people! Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself and enemy of God.” – – James 4: 3 & 4

To pair myself with this show was to pair myself with the world. I needed God. Choosing one over the other would have been the worst kind of treachery. My passions did not need to be fed as much as my soul.

So I have decided to return to my path of avoidance. I’ve decided to become an outcast again.

Great Art

“I talked with my girls about nude art,” Daryl said to me as we waited in the hallway for our children to be dismissed from Sunday School, “but after talking to Jenn (his wife) about how you explained it to your kids, I wish I had explained things that way.”

I smiled politely, and thanked him for appreciating my stand point as the children filed out of their classroom and ushered my kids up the stairs to church service.

I didn’t ask what he had told his daughters because as my husband has pointed out many, many times, I stink at asking questions.

The thing is, I generally don’t talk about art or my thoughts on art with others. I’ve learned over the years that there are certain personal passions that can cause your audience’s eyes to glaze over, and art is one of them.

So is the early history of the Beatles.

My daughter is very interested in art. She admires my photography (God bless her) and all my old pieces of work hanging on my parent’s wall at their home. Chrissy has declared that she wants to be an artist when she grows up. I’m excited for her. There’s so much to learn and discover. We’ve begun exploring the world of art little by little by taking online drawing courses and exploring museums.

Before I took Chrissy to our local American art museum, I pondered how to address nude portraits and sculptures. Even as an adult, taking courses on form, I struggled with looking at nudes. I felt awkward and a little dirty. Looking at a naked man was something that I had imagined was set aside for my wedding night. Guilt accompanied my classes. I felt silly for being the only embarrassed person in the classroom but it felt wrong.

I dropped out of the class mid-semester. I couldn’t finish a portrait.

After taking numerous art history courses and one modern art course at Covenant College, my outlook on nudity in art began to change. It was the discussions after class with my professors that changed the way I saw the nude subjects. I was asked to think about the content of the pieces. Was there something overtly sinful about the nude or was I simply looking at God’s creation? Why was the nude form making me uncomfortable? Did anything else in it’s natural state make me squirm? Was the art the problem, or was it me?

It was me.

I had conditioned myself to think that nakedness was sexual.

I was encouraged to remove sexuality from nudity and consider what the human form was like before the fall of man. What was sinful about God’s creation? The human body is God’s perfect creation. We are the only pieces of His creation that mirror Him. Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t that beautiful?

Our sin is what tainted our view of our bodies.

I didn’t want my daughter believing that something so beautiful and perfectly created was evil and wrong.

Before we left for the Hunter Art Museum, we had a talk. I wanted her to see the nudes as God intended. This is His greatest work of art, and He gifted the hands of another to proclaim His greatness to our eyes…another wonderful creation. Everything about the process of creating a nude work declared God’s goodness and I wanted my daughter to understand that. I didn’t want her to be repelled by God’s creation.

I made sure to emphasize that the body was beautiful, but the sin of the world made nakedness wrong. We had no need to cover God’s goodness until sin entered the world. I told her that if there was something sinful happening in the piece, then we should talk about it. I told her that artists used their talents to tell a story about how they feel. I told her it spoke about a person’s heart and that we should take time to listen to their heart and decide if what they feel is important.

We had questions to think about when we looked at a piece:

1. What do I like?
2. What do I not like?
3. What is the artist trying to say?

I told Chrissy that not every piece of art would be something she liked. Sometimes, we don’t agree with the artist, and that’s okay. I also told her that she was not allowed to say that a piece of art was “good” or “bad.” It’s one of my pet peeves. It may not be your favorite, but someone put a lot of time and effort into sharing their soul with you, the audience, and it is important to respect their heart as it bared out in front of you on canvas.

I expected a small portion of discomfort. After all, we are squeamish about viewing strangers at their most vulnerable. Still, I feel it’s important not to turn away. God’s work was meant to be viewed. Perhaps we turn away because nudity declares our shame. It uncovers our sin. The artist says for the Lord, “this is how I meant for you to live. I wanted you to be unashamed. I never wanted you to hide from me. This is the freedom you lost due to your sin. Look. Understand. Mourn. Long for a day when you shall be restored. Glory in being my great creation.”

I hope that my daughter understands what I am trying to tell her. I know that this is lofty talk for an eight year old. Still, I don’t want her to be sitting in a basic drawing class ten years later, struggling to understand how spirituality ties into nude portraiture.

A Staycation Full of Love

If you’ve read my blog before, you know my husband and I had a quick courtship.

We dated for three months.

We were engaged for an entire month.

We were married for a month when we found out we were pregnant with our daughter.

Obviously, we aren’t big on waiting. Patience is a hard virtue to teach at the Kulick abode.

Our anniversary is in November…along with my birthday…and Thanksgiving….and all the pre-Christmas insanity. We’ve never had a lot of time to devote to celebrating our marriage. And let’s face it, having known very little about each other at the outset of our marriage AND having children immediately, we have a lot to celebrate.

We’re survivors.

The fall is so packed with events, we haven’t been able to push our anniversary celebration to another month. Between birthdays, hayrides, fall festivals, Harvest parties, field trips, school, and church events, time just wasn’t on our side.

But there isn’t anything going on in August.

Perhaps it’s too hot to have babies and plan festivals. Maybe everyone is tired after a summer filled with family fun. Whatever the reason, our calendar suddenly opens up for one month of the year.

We decided August would be a perfect month to celebrate our anniversary.

But here’s the thing: the Kulicks hate vacations.

There’s something fundamentally un-relaxing about packing up your life, spending hours on the road, forcing yourself to plan “fun” every hour of the day, getting lost trying to find the “fun” places, and sleeping in a strange bed that a million other people have slept in before you.

The George also isn’t big on parting from money.

So this year, for our anniversary, we sent the kids to a friend’s house for the weekend and decided to party in our little city by the river. Chattanooga has so many fun things to do, but we rarely have a chance to explore it because the kids aren’t very interested in walking around the city and taste-testing beer. We decided to get a hotel room near Downtown (because we live 40 minutes from the heart of Chattanooga) and make a weekend of it. The George did some research and learned the Brewer’s Fest was the weekend of our staycation. We looked up the bands that would be performing and attempted to arrange our schedule around performance times.

I could write for hours about what we did, but instead I’ll simply post photos from the weekend and caption them.

We began our weekend with breakfast at Good Dog. I was a little hesitant because it’s a hot dog joint and I’m not a fan of hot dogs. It was surprisingly great. We were served gourmet sausage, scrambled eggs, gluten free bread from a local bakery, potatoes, and some greens. It was delicious. I still think about it when I’m eating my Special K cereal in the morning.

We then walked around Downtown and did some exploring while we waited for the Art Museum to open. We walked through the local shops and found some fun odds and ends. I discussed decorating our first home with local art and Emily Lapish photographs (we always dream about our first home buying experience). We bought some drinks at a coffee shop (we don’t drink coffee) and went for a stroll over the Walnut Street bridge.

We haven’t been to a lot of art museums in our time together. The first portion of our marriage, we were too poor to pay for admission and then we had kids, which made us even poorer and unable to enjoy art because we’d be worried about running or touching rare masterpieces. I was so excited to go the the Hunter Museum of Art and view what I consider a great collection of American art. There was also a Monet exhibit, and I was thrilled to see some of the pieces that I had studied while I was working on my art degree in college.

After the Museum, we went on a Duck tour. If you don’t know what that is, it’s these military vehicles that have been rehabbed to transport tourists from the streets of Downtown into the Tennessee river. The guides are well-versed in the history of Chattanooga. We learned about everything from the Indians that inhabited the area to the declaration of Chattanooga being the most polluted city in the country back in the 60’s. We also saw an otter!

We made sure to put on our official “duck face” for the tour.

After the tour, we walked down to the Majestic theater and saw a movie with our friends Dave & Abigail. We watched “the Man from U.N.C.L.E.” It was one of the most fun spy movies I’d seen in a long time. And of course, it was equally fun to joke around with my girlfriend during the film.

We then went to Sticky Fingers for dinner, where our waitress unexpectedly walked out of her job mid-way through dinner. Everyone at the table blamed me for being too awkward and being the “last straw” for the poor waitress.

I broke my diet and ordered a cobbler. It must have been evident that I was excited about the experience because I was given four spoons.

We laughed a lot.

We walked back across the Walnut Street bridge late that evening, holding hands as we watched a lightning storm roll in. It was a perfect end to the day.

The next day, we decided to go to the aquarium. We’d been a million times before, but this was our first time going without the kids. It was a rainy day, and we got to the aquarium just as it had opened. It was fairly empty and we stopped and looked at exhibits for as long as we wanted. It was amazing how many fish seemed new to us just because the kids rushed us through portions of the aquarium to get to their favorite parts.

It was relaxing and sweet to discuss science-y stuff with my hubby, but we both agreed that we missed having the kids there to make everything feel exciting.

Considering that we missed the kids, we decided our weekend of fun was over. We were tired of being a couple and not a family. We decided to go get the kids and bring them back Downtown to share some of our weekend with them. Thankfully, the rainy day had cleared up and we had blue skies and sunshine to aid us in our fun afternoon with the kids.

The George agreed that it was a perfect weekend. We had time together. We had time to relax. We had time to laugh, and we had time as a family. We have decided to make this a tradition. August is our new anniversary month. We don’t need to put a strain on my birthday, anyway.

Walking

Not everyday is worth writing about.

Some days are droll and monotonous, filled with all the same bits and pieces that make up the cogs of daily living.

Trips to the store.

Checking the mail.

Mopping the floor.

Picking up toys.

Folding laundry.

Making beds.

Wiping down sticky counters.

Waiting, and waiting, and waiting for my daughter to sound out the word, “in-ter-est-ing.”

Even entertainment seems dull. The same books, the same movies, the same five second vine videos that have been re-posted on Facebook ten million times.

It’s days such as these that I feel King Solomon’s dreariness. “There is nothing new under the sun.”

It’s in these moments of ingratitude that I recognize my need to leave the house. That’s when I go and explore the farm…otherwise known as our neighborhood.

Although nothing about our environment has changed, there is always something new to discover. Yesterday, it was a dead armadillo. I don’t generally enjoy dead armadillos, but it was new, and every time I passed it, it had moved. That’s when my imagination kicked in and I imagined the battle embroiling over the carcass: Buzzard vs. Jackal. Of course, I’m aware that there are no Jackals in rural Georgia, but that’s the beauty of the imagination.

Other days, I get a scare from a random snake or an overly excited dog.

Most days, I’m observing all the beauty around me.

The dew sitting on a spider web.

A cow peacefully chewing cud.

The gathering of butterflies at the end of our gravel drive.

A rabbit darting through the fields.

The reflection of the trees off the lake.

The pattern of the clouds.

The mist rising off the mountains.

About mid-way through my walk, I stop and chat with Junior, our neighbor, and whoever is visiting with him on his porch. We talk about his chickens, local gossip, deer season…whatever the topic of the day may be. We always end our conversation joking about the doughnut I must be trying to work off of my body.

Around the creek, I look for the randomly abandoned New Balance running shoe. I imagine that an angry and frustrated wife has thrown it out of a moving vehicle, swearing that she had, “finally had it” with the ugly cross trainers. I giggle a little because that woman is living out my fantasy. I’d love nothing more than to chuck the George’s hideous, old man, running shoes out the window. But alas, his father sends him multiple pairs whenever he thinks to buy shoes for his son.

I begin looking for a few more of my favorite sights as I walk:

The giant, read barn.

The rusted, old mailbox.

That moody, black cow that gives me the stink-eye every time I pass it’s pasture.

The strange, purple flowers that wind their way around the posts of the barbed wire fence that stink-eye cow is protecting.

The hand-made wooden swing that is draped over a tree limb in front of the deer processing plant.

And the little white house with the pristine garden on the corner of our circle (yes, our circle has a corner).

I’ve never had a walk where I came back feeling that I had wasted my time and energy. I usually feel refreshed and in awe of all the Lord has created. I can tell that we share a sense of humor because there are things on my walk that make me smile and laugh (such as the day that a butterfly flew into my sweaty, bald head and died). I know one day, we will leave the farm and I’ll have to find a new outlet to help me through my first-world problem days. I hope that I will have a place to walk that is as comforting and beautiful as our little piece of heaven.

Possibly with a paved driveway.

Enjoy the pictures I’ve taken during my walks. All of them were taken with my phone (I’m so proud to be an Iphone owner).

     

To the Little Girl at Wal-Mart

Wal-Mart, how I loathe thee.

There’s nothing more depressing than hearing one of the Kulicks start the sentence, “We are out of….” It means I have to make a trip to Wal-Mart. I wish there was another option for shopping in our area, but sadly, it’s nearly the only gig in town. I could drive an extra ten minutes to the Bi-Lo, but wasting gas for a lone container of mustard doesn’t seem very sensible.

So to the Wal-Mart I go.

As I drive, I imagine a LaFayette that has a Target, Starbucks, and Chick-fil-A. I know that I’m dreaming of the impossible since the patrons of LaFayette have proven that they would prefer a Bojangles or a larger Hardee’s over my high-brow, middle class, snobbery.

I find Wal-Mart depressing. It’s a miserable experience from the moment I pull into the parking lot. There’s inevitably someone parked at the entrance, blocking oncoming traffic, and forcing a practice in my patience. There’s also that long stream of people who never look before crossing the crosswalk and overly abusing the pedestrians have the right of way rule. The feel of Wal-Mart is grimy. I don’t know why they chose blue and gray as their promotional colors, but it never looks clean. And of course, there are the “people of Wal-Mart” that make the experience feel extra creepy. At our Wal-Mart, there is a prize table for some sort of promotional campaign that welcomes you as you enter the store. It’s covered with a sad, plastic, blue table cloth and has a stark, white piece of paper with “PRIZE TABLE” printed on it in Times New Roman. The prizes are pathetic: a camouflage hat, a bag of Kit-Kat snack bites, a lone book, and two gift cards. The prizes don’t even cover the face of the table.

To add to the overall pleasure of the Wal-Mart experience, I can not enter or leave the building without being reminded that I’m “different.” Every trip, I have at least one person either openly gawk at me or stop me to ask about my cancer journey. Over the past couple of years, I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring the stares and being gracious and understanding about the cancer mix-up. My patience is not unending, however, and I usually hit my wall while at Wal-Mart.

Yesterday, we needed bologna. The George can’t live without it. I packed myself and the kids into the car and prepared myself for the upcoming torture.

Everything went as usual: the kids acted like they had never been shopping before in their life, an overweight person in one of those beep-beep carts stared me down like I had leprosy as I rifled through the frozen vegetables, everyone and their brother was moving at a glacial pace, and I saw things I never wanted to see in my lifetime.

I had successfully made it past the frowning cashier who was wearing a small, spider-web covered witch’s hat, and was wrangling my wild ones toward the exit when I saw HER.

On a bench next to the hair salon sat a thin, little girl in jeans and a pink t-shirt. She was looking down at her Skittles and swinging her legs cheerily as she pondered which color to eat next. At a glance, she seemed like any other little girl waiting for her parent, but her hair is what made me notice her. Her brunette locks were stringy and hung around her face. It looked as though she needed to run a comb through it, but then I noticed her hair line. It was unusually high, running almost to the middle of her scalp. Her hair was combed over and down into her face to hide the receding line. As we got closer, I noticed a small, bald patch on the crown of her head. It had tiny dots spattered across it, a sign I knew all too well.

She had alopecia.

My gut reaction was to stoop down, hug the child, and assure her that everything was going to be alright because I have alopecia and I’m doing okay.

But I’m not a complete idiot.

I knew how weird it would be for me, a stranger, to hug a little girl who was sitting all alone in a Wal-Mart. I also recognized how uncomforting it would be for an overweight, bald woman to tell her that everything was going to be alright when I was the living embodiment of what she feared most: getting old and losing all of her hair.

Still, I wanted so badly to share my journey with her because I remembered all too well what it was like to be the little girl who couldn’t grow hair. I recalled the shame of being different. I remembered the isolation of being sick.

I thought of what I would tell the little girl if I had been Rachael at 8 years old: a Rachael that had seen the future and knew what life had to hold for her.

I’d tell her it’s okay.

I’d tell her that I knew what it was like to be different and how scary it was to think that someone might find out your secret.

I’d tell her I knew the stress of trying to hide the spots.

I’d tell her I knew the pain of treatment.

I’d tell her that she would never be normal and that there isn’t an easy cure.

I’d tell her that I knew that it hurt when people stared.

I’d tell her that I knew all of this sucked.

Then I would give her hope.

Yes, it hurts to be different, but different is okay. We’re all weird and quirky. You and I were chosen especially by God to wear our quirkiness on the outside because He knew we were strong enough to handle it.

We get to teach others about being kind to those with differences.

You are still beautiful.

You’re parents aren’t mad at you. They love you. They aren’t ashamed of you. They are only trying to shield you from the hurt that comes with being different. They’d still love you even if all the hair was gone. They just hope that you don’t have to experience that hurt and that’s why they push the steroid injections.

People will love your heart, not your exterior.

You are not alone.

You will get to go on dates. You will get married. You will have children.

People won’t fear you. They will admire you for your strength.

Laugh. It’s God gift to you.

People will say ignorant things to you. Be gracious. You say ignorant things to others on occasion too.

While this is part of your story, and builds your perseverance, it does not define you. You are more than your illness. You are a mighty creation of the Lord. he bound you together in your mother’s womb to do great and wonderful things in His name. Not one portion of you is a mistake. You are a perfect and finished work of art.

Raise your head high and know that you are loved more than you could ever imagine.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Weakness on Wednesday

Wednesdays are usually my busiest day.

I wake up extra early to mop the floors and finish another load of laundry. I read my Bible and pray. I make sure the kids are fed, showered, and dressed. I do all our homeschooling for the day. I pack a lunch for the children so they won’t bother the George as he works. I walk my daily five miles, take a shower, and jump in the car to travel nearly an hour to attend my Weight Watchers meeting.

All of this happens before 10:00 a.m.

After my meeting, I usually meet a friend for lunch. We catch up and laugh. It’s always a good time.

I then head to Target where I pick-up any odds and ends that the George has decided we need for the home. This week, we need Windex, mustard, & mayonnaise. I’ll be honest, I usually pick up something adorable for myself or the kids while I’m there. I’d also pick up a candle and some mopping solution because those are two necessities for my daily living.

Once I’m home, I have to clean again. Yes, AGAIN. You see, I can’t take the kids with me to my meetings (well, I can but they prefer not to go and I hate listening to them whine). The George is home to supervise, but since he is working, the supervision is rather lax. The kids do a lot of creative playing while I’m away and creative play usually involves pulling out all your toys and art supplies. I generally have an hour of clean-up time with the kids before I have to make them dinner.

After dinner, I make sure their faces are clean and their hair is presentable so I can rest easier knowing they are out in public. The George gives me a kiss and they all head off to church.

Why don’t I go with them, you ask?

Our church has programs only for children and teens on Wednesday nights. Recently, there was a men’s Bible study added to the regular program rotation, so the George has something to do while he waits for the children to be dismissed.

But there’s nothing for me.

Not that I feel left out. This is a perfect opportunity for me to eat ALONE. All the stay-at-home moms know what I’m talking about. I can finish my food without interruption while it’s still warm. This is just a little bit of heaven.

This is also a perfect time for me to deep clean the house.

I’m going to address the readers who are wondering why, in one day, I have cleaned my home three times.

I wrote a post over a year ago about having OCD. I am a clinically-diagnosed-should-take-meds-for-reals Obsessive Compulsive. It doesn’t look like the disorder you see on television where the person is weird about cleaning and has to have everything match. It’s a need to have continuous order and control over one’s environment. It’s literally on my mind all the time. I can’t relax. Now, I’ve been through therapy and learned how to control my compulsions so that I’m not cleaning the sink fifty times a day (this is a real problem for me and I’m not exaggerating about the number of times I clean the sink), but I still have strict guidelines for how our home is run so that I can function. Cleaning the house twice a day (three times on Wednesday) is necessary for my mental health. I literally wouldn’t sleep if the floors weren’t mopped before I go to bed.

I enjoy deep cleaning without anyone at home. I can clean uninterrupted. No husband needing to make a sandwich just after I mopped. No children needing directions on how to play board games. Most importantly, no one to mess up my hard work five seconds after I had finished my task.

I usually finish up cleaning the entire house around 8:15 p.m.

The George and the kids usually step in the door at around 8:20 p.m.

I then help with bedtime routines: brushing teeth, pajamas, and prayers.

I get to sit down and read (or color) for about an hour before I can’t fight sleep anymore.

Wednesdays are socially, physically, and mentally exhausting for me.

This morning, I woke up at my usual butt-crack of dawn hour and began to pray.

And I fell asleep.

I woke up at a little after 7:00 a.m. I was now running late. I thought about how I would need to alter my schedule, considered what needed to be removed from the usual morning line-up, and rearranged the day in my head.

As I got up from my chair, I couldn’t ignore how my body ached. Being that I have an auto-immune disorder and that I suffer from a lot of various other conditions as well, pain is my constant friend. I try to ignore it most days, but sometimes pain, illness, and fatigue combine perfectly and sheer will can’t motivate me any longer.

I stood by the sink taking my medicines, feeling all the aches and cramps and the heaviness of the day sitting on my bones. I felt tired and overworked. I needed rest.

I went back to bed.

I wish I could say I immediately went back to sleep, but that would be a lie.

I laid in bed, rigid with worry over missing my meeting, running over and over in my head how I was going to fit a trip to Wal-Mart in when I was behind schedule. My mind ran over the details again and again. And although a portion of my spirit was screaming at my disorder to calm down, I didn’t have enough strength to fight with my mental disorder.

I began getting angry at myself.

Angry at my packed schedule that I’d forced on myself.

Angry at my frail body.

Angry at my equally frail mind.

Angry with my exhaustion.

And now that Isaac was awake, I was angry at my son for knocking on my door and asking if I could make him breakfast.

This is when the George rescued me. Although I hadn’t said a word to him (mainly because I assumed he was sleeping), he rolled over and held me.

“You rest,” he whispered softly in my ear, “I will take care of this.”

And he did.

Of course that didn’t keep me from lying in bed and wondering if he was taking care of things correctly.

The George returned after a short while, snuggled up next to me, and held me in a warm embrace.

“Where do you hurt?” he asked.

He didn’t need to ask why I had come back to bed or why I hadn’t gone back to sleep.

“Everywhere,” I pouted, “I’m just so tired and I hurt everywhere.”

The George knows that everywhere is actually limited to my right hip, my right knee, my shoulders, and my abdomen. That’s where pain constantly sits. He held me for a little while and then began massaging the problem areas. As my muscles relaxed, my body began to recognize it’s need for rest. I was drifting off and feeling the heavy warmth of slumber when my husband whispered in my ear again, “Good night, my love. Rest well and don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

It was a simple sentence of affirmation.

Everything would be fine if I wasn’t working. Everything will still be just as it should be if I rest.

And so I slept.

When I awoke, the pain still existed as it always does. The children were still in pajamas. The house was a mess. I hadn’t walked my five miles. Bologna had been added to the list of things I needed to pick up at the store. Laundry hadn’t been started.

But everything was fine.

During small group this past week, we had discussed how important it was to rest your spirit. Taking time to sleep wasn’t to heal my body. My body will always be sick and weak. But I had awoken with a broken spirit. It needed rest and comfort. I needed my husband’s reassurance that, although I’m necessary, I can take time to heal myself before I return to the demands of life.

Now I can get those five miles in.

Reminders

Sometimes all the good intentions in the world can’t save a bad morning.

This morning was a doozy.

Sad fact, our days hinge on Isaac’s mood, and his mood depends on his waking attitude. His fits, tantrums, and overall melt-downs weigh heavy on my anxiety and make me feel like the best candidate for the worst parent in the world award. This leaves me depressed and moody and makes my interactions with the George and Chrissy ugly at best. Hence, a bad morning with Isaac usually transforms into a bad day for the entire family.

I hate it.

Lately, I’ve been waking up extra early to pray and read my Bible. I find that putting myself first helps me to be a calmer, nicer mommy. Praying for my children before we begin the daily grind also helps. I’m reminded that they are my blessings and not my burdens. I recall their sweet attributes and not the sinful attitudes that are thrown at me through out the day. I pray for patience and guidance and feel prepared for the upcoming onslaught of busyness. All the prayer and all the love is very helpful to my mommy heart, but again, there are some mornings that can’t be saved.

This morning, Isaac woke up wet. It happens occasionally when he sneaks a drink before bedtime. The George was busy repairing our refrigerator the night before, so I’m sure the boy took his opportunity and guzzled some water while Daddy wasn’t paying attention (Note: I was at an adult coloring class during the repair because I had been instructed to stay away from the house while the hubby kicked up dust from up behind our very old appliance…I’m highly allergic to dust). All mornings that begin with a wet bed are rough. Not only does it mean extra laundry, it means Isaac hasn’t slept well and will not be very compliant. Today was not exception.

We began with a long shouting argument over his shower. He prefers to eat breakfast right away and was not interested in taking his shower. I insisted that he get clean, giving him several reasons why it was not in his best interest to sit in his filth. However, being reasonable with an anxious ridden, sleep deprived six-year old never ends well. He began yelling and name-calling (yes, yes I am the worst mom ever in the whole entire world, thank you very much. And yes, I do want my son to starve). We then wrestled down the hallway to the bathroom where hitting was added to the screaming and name-calling.

I wish I could say I don’t lose my temper in these moments.

I can say that I didn’t stoop to his level and begin yelling that he was the worst kid ever.

I can also say that discipline was enacted and I won the battle over shower vs. breakfast.

Usually, during these moments of intense struggle over minor issues with my son, I walk away. But a few weeks ago, our pastor had stressed how important it was to win battles of defiance with your strong-willed child. I don’t like “having it out” with Isaac. It’s so much easier if I let him have his way. Yet I’m doing him an injustice if I bend to his will in the name of peace.

He needs to be broken sometimes.

I won this battle, but the war was not over. I knew he was going to be a rage-aholic once he had completed his task and that I would have to fight him through every chore.

I was exhausted just thinking about it.

That’s when something wonderful happened: he took a long shower.

In the time that he was showering and my daughter was eating breakfast, I had time to sit and think. I could have played games on my phone or puttered around on Facebook. Instead, I sat in a chair, closed my eyes, and thought about why I love my son.

I love his passion.

I love that he has a soft spot for his sister and his kitties.

I love that his technical mind.

I love his crooked little smile and goofy laugh.

I love the little gold freckle in his right eye.

I love his strong-will because he will grow to be a fighter for the faith.

By the time he had gotten out of the shower, I was feeling less angry. In fact, I was feeling able to tackle the day. I just needed time to be reminded that my life is a blessing, not a burden.

And to show you just how unburdensome my life truly is, here is a video I shot of a day in the life of the Kulicks. We like to get out and have adventures all around our little town.

I should also add that I was inspired by Levi and Amos Corbett, who vlog constantly with just their Iphones. I figured I could copy them at least once.