Hitting the Pause Button

I've been contemplating what to do with this blog for many months.  I've thought about using the blog as a jumping-off point for writing a book.  And maybe someday I will.  But after much thought I feel that the life of this blog has come to an end, at least for now.

It's been more than two years since Noemi has been home and we are still struggling.  A lot some days.  In ways I never would have imagined and it's been difficult to assign words to our experiences. When I started sharing our struggles I was under the impression that if we worked hard enough, loved severely enough and chose the best strategies we would eventually love and attach and secure our way out of the corner we found ourselves in.   

That's a bunch of hot bunk.

I am in love with Noemi.  This good, good dancing child is the greatest gift of my life:


I want to see her live into this tap-happy joy everyday...cause she has so dang much love to share. Some days she is able and other days she crumbles.  As I have said before, grief never ends--it just changes.  Trauma never goes away, we just learn how to cope.  What I have come to realize is that God put me in her life as her mother so that we can continuously grow and learn from each other.  Noemi has shaped me and molded me and made me fall to my knees more times than I can count. 

Perhaps this is my screwed up, yet beautiful gift for which to be grateful:
I have been given the opportunity to walk with her and love her through the darkest parts of herself  and I have have been given the opportunity to make peace with the darkest parts of myself.  There is grace in the ugliest of places, if I only figure out how to accept it.  I've been like Jacob wrestling with an angel, and not sure when/if daylight is coming.  The wrestling is where the grace lies.  This is where the holy lies.

   Vision After the Sermon, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel

Gauguin, 1888

OK, some days I want to give holy the finger.  It's so much easier to write about something being holy than to live into it in the moment.  I've been clinging to the string of a yo-yo; one moment we're up, one moment we're down.  Never knowing what the hour is going to be like has turned me into a jumpy, untethered ball of nerves.  But that's when my darkest parts get the best of me and I forget to surrender to grace transforming our lives. 

Noemi became potty-trained this summer.  In true Noemi fashion, she put a ton of pressure on herself to do it right or not do it at all.  For the first weeks, she insisted on wearing her undies for nap time.  If I tried to get her to wear a diaper, she felt shamed.  If she didn't wear one, she'd wet the bed and feel ashamed of herself.  sigh.  One afternoon she wet the bed and when I came into her room she had her face down in the pillow, sobbing.  She kicked and hit and muttered, "Don't tell anybody. I don't want you to tell anybody."  My heart broke for her.

I don't want to add to her shame.  I don't want to be part of the equation that weakens her already fragile self-worth.  My job as her mother is to build her up.  Hour after hour.  Month after month.  Year after year.  It's one thing to make public the struggles during a transitional time.  But this is not a transition anymore.  It's one thing to make public the struggles during infancy.  But Noemi will soon be three and is very aware of what folks are discussing around her.  It's one thing to edit hard so that I don't regret anything that I say on here.  But at some point it's beyond challenging to be true, yet sure that she will someday approve what I have chosen to share honestly. 

I could keep posting cute photos of her and funny anecdotes, but this has never been a place to merely showcase my alarmingly charming kid.  I have had this blog to give and get support--for her, for me, for you.  So if I am not going to keep it r.e.a.l. then it's time to pause.    

Thank you for walking with me.  Thank you.  I am grateful for the many people that have held up my daughter.  Your comments of support and encouragement--they have meant the world to me.  Please remain in touch via email at julie*at*robertswitmer*dot*com.  I would love to hear from you.  Really.  No, reaaaaally.

My prayer is that this blog has been a support, in some small way, to you.  My prayer is that this blog has been worshipful by giving glory to God.  My prayer is that this blog has been a tribute to our beginning together--that Noemi will someday read this and know the intensity of our hope, love and dedication.  My prayer is that I have represented her, first and foremost, as our shining treasure. 

I've sung this to my precious daughter every day for the 769 days we have been together...and I will continue...

And He will raise you up on eagle's wings 
Bear you on the breath of dawn
Make you to shine like the sun
And hold you in the palm of His hand. 

Amen and Amen.

Misspelling Woes: Part Two of The Marriage Post

It's no secret that I am a terrible speller.  My posts are riddled with misspellings and I make no apologies.  I have memories of spelling "apple" as "appel" three tests in a row in the second grade, each week being convinced that it was the week I got it right.  I was brought in from recess for that one.  That was the beginning of my life-long misspelling woes.

But herein lies the spelling error of all time:

Following my last blog post Donovan and I were, again, admiring the inscription on our wedding bands.  Picture us snuggled up on the couch, smiling as we took off our rings.  We took a closer look...and then we noticed...(now sitting up straight with a what the hooties? expression)...

Our rings do NOT read:  "Whither thou goest, I will go."

Instead, the inscription reads:  "Wither thou goest, I will go."

whither (adverb):  to what place, situation, position, degree or end 
wither (verb): to become dry and sapless   or:  to lose vitality, force, or freshness 

How did it take us 13 years to realize this?  Um...because I can't spell.  And obviously our ring maker can't either.  We then noticed that the program from our wedding ceremony has the same typo.  sweet.  Guess the folks at the printing place didn't notice.  Or didn't care.  Or thought it was hilarious and had a good laugh at our expense.  I wouldn't have expected our guests on our wedding day to point it out, but really--  oh where oh where were the editors??  

Ahhhhhh yes--my husband is an editor.   

I would like to take this opportunity to note that he was a copy editor at the time of our wedding and looked for misspellings for a living (lest I entirely blame myself for this mega blooper).  And he was entirely involved in the designing of our rings.  At least our Ketubah hanging above our bed is in Hebrew, so I'm going to ignorantly assume that there is no issue.  No withering of the religious contract singed before God--whew.  

We had a good laugh, put the rings back on and have decided to keep the rings just as they are.  If we're going to wither, we'd at least like to do it together. 

The Marriage Post

It's been 13 years since I made a really good choice.  Best decision.  Yesterday was our wedding anniversary and we celebrated over a large pot of mussels.  I pulled the sequin mini out from the back of the closet because, well, I just don't really have the chance to wear such things much anymore.  It was so nice to have a night to ourselves to talk about our wedding, our marriage and how we were transitioning between styles in 1998--oh my. 

I'm counting on lucky 13 to carry us through this next year.  For those first few anniversaries, I was optimistic that the next year would hold so many promises of greatness for our marriage--that our marriage would just keep getting better with each passing year.  But that was before we grew up (after all, we were a mere 22 and 23 when we exchanged rings).  The reality is, it gets harder to make a marriage work.  Not because we don't love each other--not because we aren't grossly committed to each other--not because we weren't a good fit from the start, but because life happens.  Romantics can boo me all they want,  but life can be hard on a marriage.

The first few years we were married we lived in beautiful, Victorian-era apartment building in a small city.  We walked everywhere together and we ate long, late diners on our deck with friends who lived in the apartments above us.  Close-by friends meant eating breakfast together in our pjs on snow days and staying up through the night before stumbling back to our respective apartments.  It was like an extension of college-- like Melrose Place-- except we didn't sleep with each others' spouses.  It didn't matter that we counted dollar bills in white envelopes each month because we only had to worry about ourselves and our little apartment.

Fast-forward 13 years.  Donovan and I bicker over the stove about how to respond to situations with Noemi.  We bite each others' heads off in frantic "who the hell knows anymore" tones.  We debate, analyze, re-analyze and live in an uber-conscious state.  I throw the broccoli and cry, he delves deeper into his work.  Many days, life seems like it's all about the disrepair.  Our focus is rarely on each other or ourselves--but on a sweet little ladybug.  And we are worn out.

Sometimes we see ourselves as a winning team with a strong offensive line, other times we yell at each other from the sidelines as our defensive line gets pummeled. (Did I really just make a sports analogy? I believe I did).   Not that Donovan and I are playing against Noemi.  Let me be clear:  We, the three of us, are playing against the things that had hurt her and made deep grooves in the structure of her brain.  We all play each day to win with the intention of not reinforcing old, destructive brain pathways that were established before we knew her.  We wake up with our game-face on (uh--sometimes) so that we create new, healthy pathways and continuously reinforce the use of those pathways.  With constant, repetitive use they will eventually become the trusted, dominant paths in her brain.   We replay scenes in our minds, debating whether or not we made the best move.  Sometimes yes, sometimes no.  We are in this together--the three of us--playing the most important game of our life to date.

Donovan and I doubt, we debate, we agree, we disagree.  We have no clue.  We lose perspective.  We are tired and somehow, when one is incredibly tired, crusty jelly on the kitchen counter seems so much more concerning.  But we love each other and try really dang hard to make as much quality time for each other as we possibly can.  We are committed to loving and laughing despite our flaws, which have, incidentally blown up like pubescent acne through all of this. 

I now know that this next year may not necessarily be easier.  I no longer trust Mr. Hallmark and his deceiving, wooing, smug-inducing ways.  I have to trust in something greater.  The realities of life tell me that we just don't know which hand we are going to be dealt and that our situations can change in a blink, without warning and without instruction.  Maybe this year will be blissfully calmer and we will get our steady back--perhaps the sequin mini will show its face again.  Or perhaps a new challenge will be thrown our way that will, again, test the strength of our marriage.  Who knows.  What I do know is that we make a choice everyday to be in relationship with each other and I wouldn't want it any other way.

13 years ago yesterday, we read the following prayer together during our ceremony:

God our lover,

in whose arms we are held,

and by whose passions we are known,

require of us also that love

which is filled with longing,

delights in truth,

and costs not less than everything.

Through Jesus Christ.  Amen.  

Last night, we took off our wedding bands and looked at the inscription on the inside:  "Whither thou goest, I will go."  We agreed that it was the perfect inscription for us; and 13 years later it holds more meaning than it did on the day we had the rings made.  So here is a toast to my faithful husband...*clink* ...a true blessing in my life.  He is the one I would choose again today.  I wouldn't want to throw broccoli at anyone but him.

I agree. He's one handsome lobster.

Noemi has fallen hard for the lobster on the corner in front of Mike's Seafood in Sea Isle City, NJ.  We drive by this guy enthusiastically waving to the public all the time, and when we stop for our fresh catch she can't hop out of the car fast enough to shake that big red claw.  She let out a squeal this past weekend, however, when the playful lobster followed her into Mike's.  The moment he stepped over the threshold Noemi let him and all of Mike's patrons know that he had taken a step too far.  Clearly, he belongs on the street and only on the street.  Poor lobster guy--he felt really bad about making her cry.  No worries--they quickly made up and were back to flirting in no time. We finally got the lobster to violate his summer job contract and talk to us, only to find out it has been the same guy in that suit each and every time we stop by.  Thanks, Davor, now Noemi has a name for her crush. 

Crab Therapy and Beyond

After the heightened anxiety of the last few weeks, we fled to the shore for some quiet time as a family.  The beach has proven to be therapeutic for all of us in the past; and I am relieved to see that Noemi genuinely lights up and feels regulated when she has full access to an unending water source.  Tip:  the farther out she has her tongue, the more she is having a blast.  As long as we park ourselves by the ocean's edge, our girl is one delighted soul.  We knew that our family needed some shore time.

Scene One:  The Shore
We initially spent a few days as just the three of us and then good friends joined us to round-out the holiday weekend.  And it was just what we all needed.  Noemi got her water-play and Daddy-throw-me-higher sensory input and I got my sun and butt-on-the-sand input.  I also got to dive into picking crabs with my dear friend, Ellis, who craves them as much as I do--nothing beats a glass of chardonnay and a heaping plate of steamed beauties. For the record, Ellis and I sat there long after the table was cleared and the sky grew dark, picking and sucking away.  Note:  This is not a turn-on to most husbands.  Some girls get manicures, Ellis and I pick crabs.  

Noemi hanging tough with the big kids

Scene Two:  Coming Home
Since returning from the shore, we have been on lockdown for uber-conscious intimate time.  Today, our giggly, rested, regulated girl was back.  She affectionately called me "mommy bird" and tweeted playfully for me to feed her. 

But here is where I get all sappy about how the struggles eventually beget great rewards...if we just are able to hang in there...(oh, and how I hang on by a string sometimes).

As I gave Noemi her bottle last night during our normal bedtime routine, she gently leaned her head back and looked in my eyes.  Mind you, this happens occasionally.  But it's rare that she is truly at complete rest with her eyes for more than a few seconds during bottle feeding.  She has great eye contact during conversation, but bedtime has a history of being a vulnerable time for her.  Typically, she'll look in my eyes then start to tensely blink and avert her eyes while making incessant chatter.  She hasn't physically resisted sleep in months, but it's interesting how she hangs on to the control/resistance through her eyes and voice.  Last night, her eye contact was long enough that I studied the little pigmentation spot she has on her right eye and the lines in her deep brown irises.  It lasted for what seemed like minutes.  Admittedly, I teared up...but she didn't look away.  She just kept sucking and gazing until her eyes slowly closed.

I am fully aware that this seems like such an everyday I-can't-believe-this-is-the-subject-of-a-blog-post baby behavior.  But that's my point.  This is what newborns naturally do.  And this is what Noemi has worked so hard for the last 22 months to learn to do with me.  Noemi has demonstrated before that her "explosive periods" are often an indication that she is on the verge of taking a step toward becoming more attached.  And so, I celebrate the minor miracles that matter so much.   Even though we were back to dodgy eyes during nap-time today,  she demonstrated a new connection last night.  What mother doesn't yearn for that? 

Counting the blessings...

Who's the cutest Ethiopian on the block?

Noemi's Adoption Day was on June 30th and this year was the two-year anniversary of the day we officially became a family.  Oh, holy crap--has it really been two years!?  It was fun to be able to tell Noemi the story of our happy tears and look at photos from the day she became ours and we became hers--she caught on to my excitement and proudly pronounced that it was her "adoppom day."

We sported our traditional Ethiopian garb and headed out for some injera and tibs for dinner with Grandma.  Noemi's little white dress was a bit smaller on her this year compared to last year --I suppose next year it will likely fit more like a tunic.  Is needing more cute dresses a good enough reason to get on a plane back to Ethiopia?  I think so. 

When we were in Ethiopia  in 2009 we bought one present to give to Noemi each year on her adoption day until she is 18.  We gave her a set of jute animals to play with in the restaurant while we waited for her Yëkikk Alicha to arrive (yellow split peas--her yum yum fav).  She's already named each of the animals and spent the bulk of this afternoon feeding them cereal and lifting up each of their tails so they could poop.  atta girl.

Happy Adoption Day, my love.  I am so, so grateful that you are my daughter.  Eternally grateful.

Soul Sista Prayin'

I've had a few weeks to have this "no longer employed" thing sink in. This has certainly been an identity shift for me; and I haven't taken it lying down.  After all, I've only ever worked in this field since my first job when I was 15.  I never waitressed or worked at the mall with my friends.  Instead, my far-too-serious teenage self was volunteering with art therapists at a children's hospital and working in residential facilities for children with severe needs. Part of me regrets never having learned how to make a proper Orange Julius, or blowing off my shift at the boardwalk snack stand, but I've always known where my passions lie.  This is why I've done some kicking and screaming over the past year and a half as I have watched my beloved work slip away.  Now that the slow bleed is finished and I have licked my wounds I'm starting to feel sense of relief.  It's behind me, for now, and it's time to stop whining and move forward.  

I'm trying to rely on God to fill in the gaps.  Parenthood has been extremely isolating in ways I never could have predicted, and shelving my career has exasperated this.  But I know God has a plan, and that my job is to find myself in him.  My job is to find balance in the places where I am--not where I believe I wish to be.  And right now, today, tomorrow, I am here parenting Noemi. 

A wise friend recently referred to my parenting Noemi as "holy work."  That sits well with my soul.  Her 4-hour scream session yesterday certainly did not feel holy, but I suppose the moment where she threw the small, hard box that my Bible came in at my face could be considered baptismal.  It's been a rough few weeks again with lack of sleep and the return of bulldozer-worthy control and aggression.  It's highlighted how much I need a day to focus on something outside of our home.  But perhaps the balance will come when I find balance within myself first, rather than relying on outside experiences to bring me relief.  No doubt, a night out with my husband or a girlfriend is long overdue, but I shouldn't exclusively blame the externals.

As I was on my knees praying yesterday during the seventh inning stretch of our tour of Hades, I begged God to give my tired self strength and to help me remember the big picture and surrender my fear to him and ...and...and...   I was reminded that I don't do this enough.   Sure, prayer is a part of my daily life, but soul-sista praaaayin' on my knees complete with mascara running down my neck isn't.  I've written about reaching the bottom before, and yesterday I felt like my heart was on fire and my brain was going to split in two.  As another wise friend has said: Julie, we now know the soundtrack to hell.

But Noemi and I eventually passed out together on my bed and we woke up less effected.

Last night I sat Noemi on my lap, put my lips to her forehead and prayed out loud for her--for her brain to keep on healing--for her to be able to feel safe and relaxed enough to fall asleep--for her to trust that Mommy keeps her safe and that Jesus always loves us no matter how much we whine, cry, kick and scream (that one was for me as much as it was for her).  And then I felt an eensy-weensy bit more balanced.  I regularly pray for her, but not with her.  Sure, we pray together every night to thank Jesus for her favorite people and the events of the day, but I usually don't focus on her struggles.  Perhaps I should so that she learns not to be ashamed of her struggles and to stare them in the eye and shoo them away.

Perhaps she and I both need a little more holy work--a little more of this kind of prayer in our lives.