The hard stuff

This post is almost two years in the making. This past weekend I learned that a couple I knew at Union were killed in a car accident leaving behind a 2.5 year old daughter. I also learned that another friend from high school split up with his wife. I needed to write this, as a tribute, and also to clear my head. Tragedy strikes when we least expect it. This is for Dan and Aimee, Randy, Eric, Katherine, Debbie, Ryann, and Katie. Lord Jesus, Come Soon.

I had my Holden Caulfield moment, that rupture and shattering of naivete, almost two years ago. Up to that point I had looked on our generation as different than our parents, the invincible generation that would make better decisions, learn from our parents' mistakes, and be happier for it. We were so young, so healthy, we knew so much more about taking care of the environment and ourselves! We would all die in our eighties or nineties, still happily married and surrounded by children, grandchildren, great grandchildren!

And then disaster(s) struck. The first crack in the fragile shell of my ignorance came when my best friend from high school and his wife split up. I don't know the circumstances or exactly when it happened, but one day I saw a "people you may know" on my Facebook page. It was his wife, but her maiden name. I checked out my friend's page and his relationship status had changed to "divorced." I was crushed. This was not supposed to happen to him, to anyone close to me. We were all supposed to live "happily ever after." I walked around in a daze for a week or two.

That was, until another of my friends from high school sent me a text message one morning, asking what had happened to another of our friends. Immediately I signed on to Facebook and followed a trail of funeral announcements, condolences, and shared memories. His wife had passed away. Again, I was crushed. I shed angry tears for him and their 18-month-old son. How could God let this happen? What about happily ever after for their little family?

Then, suddenly, we received word that my cousin had lost her battle with cancer. We had known for some time that she had been receiving treatment, but most of us had thought she was in remission, so this was a total shock. She left behind two beautiful girls and her talented husband. My Grandma had now attended two funerals that should never have happened, one for her daughter, and now her daughter's daughter. No parent should have to bury their child, and no grandparent should have to bury their grandchild.

And then, one early Tuesday morning in May, the last week of school, I signed on to Facebook once more to see a funeral announcement. This time it was from my college friend. In utter confusion I searched her page ... It was her daughter, her adorable, active, smiling-all-the-time, 19-month-old daughter, who I had never met but had watched grow up through pictures and videos since my friend had gotten pregnant. I screamed, right there in my office at work. I wept bitter tears for half an hour, until my students came in and I had to pull myself together. I messaged her cousin to ask what had happened. He said he didn't know, that no one really knew yet. I cried for days, every time I thought about my sweet friend and her husband, now childless. My stomach sank when I read the story of how it happened. A genetic fluke that no one saw coming. Why, God?

Then, the very next day another friend from high school posted a cute picture of her daughter, still just a baby, with the caption, "She doesn't look like a leukemia patient, does she?" Another sucker punch to the gut.

Things were falling apart all around me, and I couldn't do a thing. I couldn't hug my friends, cry with them, help them with housework, cook for them. They were scattered from Washington to Kentucky, and I was stuck in stupid, stinky California. I sent notes of encouragement but words seemed so empty. I sent cards and money, but those don't bring people back.

In all of this, I just kept thinking "What if that had been us? What would I do, how could I go on?" There are no answers.

There's just no way for us to make everything okay again. The hurt heals, but it leaves an ugly, permanent scar, a constant reminder of what might have been.

I'm not going to go in to "Where is God in all this pain?" because many people have said it better than I ever could. I do believe that God brings good out of situations that the devil caused. And I do believe that Jesus is coming soon to raise the dead and reunite broken families. What other hope could there be?

Life has never quite been the same since that Spring. I've thought about my friend who lost her daughter every single day. I've been reminded of the fragility of life, of relationships, of health. I've feared losing my own child, losing my husband, losing my family. But seeing the courage and faith of my friends has helped me see that life goes on, that there is always a ray of hope, that God provides for us even when we think He's taken everything away from us.

Since that horrible spring, my best friend is in a great relationship, my widowed friend married an amazing girl, my cousin's husband is playing professionally for a high-profile orchestra, my friend and her husband had a little boy not too long ago, and the sweet little girl is still receiving treatments for her leukemia. Their paths took some awful twists and turns, and the wheels will always squeak a little from the strain, but the hope of what's ahead keeps them going. And, if tragedy should strike here, I know God will bring us through whatever it is. Because I know that at the end of the road, I will see Jesus, and He will wipe away all tears from our eyes, there will be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, no more pain, for the former things will all pass away. And then, sweetest of all promises, He will declare IT IS DONE. And then, what a reunion!

Slinga da ink and pusha da pen

My senior year was the greatest year ever. I was in a great relationship, my classes were awesome (two core classes and five or six music classes? Yes.), my job was easy and fun, I carted my friends around in my Ford Aspire (The Easter Egg, aspiring to be a real car, etc, etc), I went to New Mexico, New York, and San Diego on music tours, I was the president of my choir, and thanks to Mononucleosis and a collapsed lung the previous summer, I was skinny and finally comfortable in my own skin. I had enough scholarships to last me a year and a half at the State college in my hometown, and two of my friends were planning to attend with me. The only bad part of that year was that my sister was serving as a missionary for a year half way around the world. It was my first Christmas without her, and she missed
all my performances and my graduation.

When she returned from overseas, we all went to a family reunion before she went back to Lincoln, Nebraska to start working and to take some summer classes at Union College. Every time we talked, she told me she was praying that I would go to Union. She also had the entire music department on my case. The band director treated my mom and me to brunch and the department chair called me twice. I told them thanks, but I already had plans to go to the State school, which was so much cheaper and closer to home. Besides, I had been to Union twice, and HATED it. The first time was in the blazing hot summer before my sister's freshman year, when the temperature and humidity matched each other at about 90. The second time was for her January birthday, when you could spit and an ice block would hit the ground. No mountains, miserable weather, and the Hot Topic in the mall considered Matchbox 20 hard rock. No thank you! I would rather spend my weekends skiing than cow tipping in some lame corn field.

But, I missed my Seester terribly, so I drove myself out to Lincoln one summer day to visit for a few days. I don't know what, but something about Union just felt different this time. It could have been the friendly atmosphere, it could have been the delicious vegetarian cafeteria food (... cue crickets chirping ...), but the thing that impressed me the most was that the dorm rooms had built-in desks, drawers, and bookshelves. Odd, I know, but the dorms at my college of choice had crappy WalMart desks and almost no storage. Practicality, people!

Anyway, I filled out an application. I told my sister that the only way I would go was if I didn't have to pay anything while I was there. I said a prayer, telling God the same thing. I was basically on my own for college expenses, and I could definitely not afford tuition plus room and board at a private college.

I went back home to continue preparations to go to the state school. I was fairly certain that my grades weren't good enough to earn enough scholarships to attend Union, so I was pretty confident that my plans wouldn't change. Then my friends who were both planning on attending with me each called me and told me they were going to other schools. I prayed some more. My sister worked with the Financial Officer at Union to find a way to get me there. She called me every day to tell me they had found yet another scholarship. I remained skeptical, but kept praying.

Then, a week or two before school was scheduled to start, I got a call. My sister said that my loan application had come through, and that with scholarships, loans, and on-campus work, I would not have to pay anything out-of-pocket until I graduated. God had worked it out, and I had better start packing. I turned in my resignation to my job and said goodbye to my family, friends and boyfriend. I still had to take my ACT since Union did not accept SAT scores, so without studying, I took the ACT when I got to Union, and I did a lot better than I expected.

So began four years of amazing classes, amazing friends, and amazing worship experiences. In fact, I'm still an Adventist because of Union College. College life was tough, and I missed my friends and family at home ALL THE TIME, but the great experiences I had there made the sacrifices worth it. I studied music, became a vegetarian, fell in love, spent endless hours talking with friends, learned how to play Rook, rehearsed and practiced four (or more) hours a day, swam many miles in the pool, explored Lincoln on my bike and rollerblades, attended hundreds of concerts, watched the Twin Towers fall, and changed my major six times. And never once did I go cow-tipping.

Head-explosion avoidance for dummies

For as long as I can remember I've had a horrible temper. My poor family dealt with it by leaving me alone until I apologized ... or until I appeared to be happy again. Afterwards, they wouldn't mention the Crazy they had just witnessed, although looking back on it, I'm sure they still remember the terribly hurtful things I said and did while raging away. I don't remember ever physically hurting anyone (other than myself), but I would hit pillows, scream into them, rip paper, kick rocks, throw stuffed animals, ANYTHING to get that terrifying burst of energy out of my system.

When Robert and I got married, he didn't just leave me alone to rage. He called me out. I realized how childish I was acting, and the tantrums ceased.

Then, after my daughter was born, I felt I was losing control of my life. I felt alone, helpless, hopeless, and misunderstood. I could no longer express my needs in a calm way. Sometimes, I couldn't even find the words to say it in a loud, angry, yelly way. So, the Crazy returned.

I realize now the reason I've had temper problems my whole life. Somewhere along the way, I felt misunderstood. So misunderstood that there was just no way to put my thoughts and feelings in to the right words to help those around me understand. So I raged. It was neither an effective way to get my point across nor a particularly helpful way to endear myself or my point of view to others.

My immediate response whenever I am frustated is to blame others. I would get so angry because my kitchen was disorganized, because my husband would sleep through everything, because the laundry detergent wasn't working very well. Every incident that had me shaking with anger was someone else's fault.

The Crazy took on a life of its own again when my dear mother-in-law  came to help after K was born. She and I have always been able to get along and understand each other pretty well, even though she speaks only Spanish and my first language was English. I understand quite a bit of Spanish, but expressing myself in that language is not easy for me. When she started giving advice on everything baby-related, I couldn't explain to her why I was doing things a certain way. I knew in my head why, but to explain it in English was difficult, to explain it in Spanish, impossible. My first rage fit was after she and my husband had come home from the grocery store. K was screaming her little head off and I was trying to get her in to the Moby wrap so she could go to sleep. My mother-in-law rather abruptly said "Give her to me." And I couldn't defend myself. I couldn't tell her why I didn't want to give her the baby. So I handed her the baby and went down the hallway, threw the Moby wrap into the wall, and screamed. Not my finest moment.

There have been several such incidences ever since then. I never have felt angry with my daughter. But I have felt so, so angry with my husband, with my mother-in-law, and with myself. It is so silly and stupid to act this way. But at times it feels like the only way to get them to listen. It doesn't get them to listen, by the way. It just shuts everyone down.

And so, in writing this post, I have realized that the reason I get defensive is not because I am being attacked or ignored. It is because I cannot communicate. Because the way I say things is ineffective. Because I need to stop and think before I yell scream speak.

When my child gets older and starts to communicate, I need to remember how frustrating it is when you know what you want or need but you can't find the right words. I need to remember what it's like to feel like everyone is ignoring you or like no one understands you. I need to be sympathetic, but I also need to give her the tools to deal with her frustration in a constructive way. And if she needs to rage a little bit, I need to make sure there's nothing fragile in her room.

Our Story

Robert and I met online (ugh, I hate telling people that, but there it is) in September of 2006. I was teaching in Arizona and had just gotten out of a very strange relationship, the details of which no one needs to know but yours truly. After what I had been through, I was in no way ready to jump in to the dating pool again. My job at the time was high-stress, and I was doing a lot of extra activities to help out. I didn't have time to go out and meet people, and I'm not into clubs. So in the few minutes I had at the end of the day to decompress, I spent time on a Christian dating site. (This was in the days before Facebook took over the world. Undoubtedly, I would have been on FB if I'd known how excellent a waste of time it was.) 
One evening, just after I had returned from a weekend trip with the student leadership to Northern California, I popped online to see if there was anyone new to chat with. I didn't have any new "matches" so I was about to sign off, when I got a message. This guy's picture was ... Well, let's just say he looks much better with a haircut ... and smiling ... and in person. Fine, new friend, but DEFINITELY NOT Mr Right. He was friendly, seemed like a good person, but I told him up front that we wouldn't date. I was too young, too tall, and I did not speak Spanish, all his own specifications for Ms Right. He asked if he could call me. No, I said, but we could be friends, and I gave him my username for another chat service.

We talked online every evening. We discussed church, family, careers, past relationships, friends, and finally, after almost a month, I gave him my phone number. The first time he called, I stared at my ringing phone with sweaty palms, and I just couldn't answer it. What if he's crazy? What if he's scamming me? What if he has a weird voice? He left a message. I listened. He sounded normal. I texted him some lie about being busy, and could I call him tomorrow? So, we talked. And ten-minute conversations turned in to hour-long conversations. One night, after attending a family funeral, we talked for eight hours. That conversation could have been the end of it based on confessions we made to each other. Either one of us could have called it off. There were tears shed, apologies made, but instead we chose to let that conversation solidify our commitment. We would meet, and maybe we would fall in love.

So meet we did. I flew to Burbank one Friday afternoon in mid-December. I was nervous. He was late. He drove a Lexus. He brought me flowers. I was shaking. He kissed me. He was good-looking. We held sweaty hands in the car. We went to Trader Joe's to buy food. He took me to his house. He showed me the back yard. He kissed me again. And KISSED me. Whoa.

We went to dinner at a fantastic Italian restaurant in Glendale and ate the most delicious pizza I've ever had. Then he drove me to Malibu. The Christmas lights were all up, and I don't remember seeing any of them. We stood out on a beach in the frigid December wind and listened to the waves. Then he asked me to drive the brand new Lexus back to Glendale. He said I looked cute driving, all alert and wide-eyed, white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. (Normally, in my own car, I'd be steering with my knees while fixing my hair or eating a giant burrito. It's just, it's a Lexus, man!) We went to church the next morning, and neither of us remember what the sermon was about. We spent the rest of the weekend exploring Glendale, hiking, and eating. A lot.

I came back to visit twice after that. The last weekend in January, I auditioned for a Master's program in trumpet performance in Irvine. It went well, and we looked forward to living in the same city. We talked about where I would live, and I suggested asking my uncle to put me up while I looked for an apartment. He suggested that we should just get married. (Insert vinyl record screech here.) Um, okay? I bought a bridal magazine in the airport on the way home.

The next few weeks were crazy busy for me work-wise. Robert and I were already thinking and planning for a wedding, but he suddenly realized out loud while we were talking one day that he hadn't even asked me properly. My response: "I know, you'd better get on that." He emailed me the next day to ask for my address so he could send me a gift for Valentine's Day. I was scheduled to fly out to Burbank on the 15th of February since our school had a long weekend break. I mentally prepared for a proposal on the 15th or shortly after.

Fast forward to Monday, February 12. I was feeling down that we would spend Valentine's Day apart, and he reminded me that I had a surprise coming. I asked when it was coming, why it hadn't come yet. He said Tuesday, or Wednesday, or both. I thought, well, he's sending two gifts! On Tuesday, the school I worked for had an all-day assembly to celebrate Valentine's Day. We played games, sang songs, watched a video, I don't remember what all we did, but since I wasn't throwing myself in to teaching, I spent the whole day running to the office and checking my mail box. (I worked at a boarding school and lived on campus, so all of our mail came to the main office.) At 5:00, I gave up and went home. Robert called me early that day and said he couldn't talk because he was going to a concert with friends. He sounded weird, and I could tell he was feeling guilty about something. I asked him who he was going with, and he told me a bunch of people from his work. He said he'd be home by 10:30 and he would call me then. Okay, tell me that you wouldn't be suspicious if your boyfriend was obviously lying. Robert says I cheapen the relationship and the story when I say that, but hey, I just tell it how it is. I went to sleep depressed and convinced that he was having second thoughts about our future together. At 1:40 am Wednesday, I woke up to my ringing phone. 1:40?!? Yeah, he's definitely having second thoughts. Great. He said "Hey baby, I just got home and it's super late, but I wanted to tell you I love you. I hope you like the surprise, but don't be too surprised." And we said goodnight, and I didn't go back to sleep for a good half hour. I thought, Wow, he bought me a laptop or something.

Next morning, Valentine's Day, aka Singles Awareness Day, one of my students came in to band with a bad attitude about how much she hated V-Day, aka SAD. Lol, that abbreviation is somehow so appropriate. Anyway, I told this student that V-Day wasn't all it was cracked up to be for us couples either. To cheer myself up, I pulled out a brand new piece for the kids to sightread (yes, I am a nerd and I get my kicks from forcing my students to coordinate their brains, their fingers, and their lungs at 7:00 in the morning ... Sad, sad, SAD). In the middle of the piece I was getting all crazy-eyed and yelling out cues and flailing my arms, and unfortunately probably showering my flutes and oboes with excitement drool (I wouldn't be a music teacher if I didn't get the license to anoint my young musicians once in a while), when the Senior Class President walked in with a camera, followed by the Business Manager with a camera (neither of which played in the band), and I just kept up the crazy while my trumpets cracked notes right and left. Then I heard a voice. A strangely familiar voice, but a voice which I was certain did NOT belong in Arizona, let alone my band room at 7:15 on a Wednesday morning, said "I have a flower delivery for Miss McGuire." The band stopped. A couple of students let out romantical swooning sighs, and let me tell you, I was the last person in the room to even see him. But there he was, looking hotter than I ever could have imagined in jeans and a sport coat, holding two arms full of roses. A million things went through my head at that moment, ridiculous things like "Did I do my makeup this morning?" "Why did I wear these heels today?" "Are my teeth even clean?" Oh yeah, and "How did he get HERE?" He walked down to my little platform while a saxophonist serenaded us with "Here Comes the Bride." I freaked at this point and started hyperventilating. He hugged and kissed me, and said some really beautiful things which I don't remember and which made me want to cry (but I was shaking so hard the tears just wouldn't come), and then he got down on one knee (Ack!) and said it. It was surreal. I knew the words were coming, but they still knocked me senseless for a moment or two, and I couldn't say anything. I kept thinking I had said yes, but he still was kneeling there with the ring, ready to slip it on my finger and smiling. I suppose I finally gasped out something resembling a yes, because my students were suddenly clapping and cheering. My boss gave me the rest of the day off, and we spent it together, he blissfully happy and I, dazzled, in a haze of happy confusion.

So, we met in September, saw each other in December, were engaged in February, and married in September. Fast much? Indeed. Four years later we got pregnant, and now we are a family of three (four including the dog).

And now, for the other side of the story, as explained by Robert. When he realized out loud that he hadn't proposed, he had the idea right then and there. He emailed me for my address the next day so he could make the proper arrangements. The first thing he did was to call not my father, but my principal, for permission to propose. He then ordered airline tickets ($69 one way Burbank to Phoenix ... Southwest, we luv u), reserved a rental car and a hotel room. He gave me many subtle hints about it, none of which I understood (not too smart, this one). By the time it came around to time to leave, he was sure I knew all about it. Apparently a testament to my dim-wittedness. When he told me about the concert, he was on his way to the airport with his BFF, Alvin, who ended up being our best man, with 3 dozen roses and an engraved ring. They got there late, though (he blamed traffic, I blame his inability to be on time to ANYTHING) and Robert missed his flight. There was a later flight, but by the time he made it to Phoenix, the rental car company wasn't sending shuttles, so he had to wait almost an hour before they managed to pick him up. He drove to his hotel which was all locked up for the night, the night manager nowhere within earshot of Robert's inconvenienced, then annoyed, then frantic knocks on the door. Finally, at 1:40, he got to his room. He called me, and was so worried I would faint when I saw him that he told me not to be too surprised. Yeah, that worked ... Not at all. I'm not a fainter, but if I was, I would have been a lifeless lump by the time he made it to my podium. And there I was, little material girl me, thinking he had bought me some shiny expensive yummy toy that required multiple shipments.

So how did that whole "internet dating" thing work out for ya', you ask? Well, if I had to do it over again (God forbid ... Learning to live with one man was enough education to last me a lifetime, thank you very much), I would take more time getting to the whole marriage part. I never did escape the feeling of being rushed in to wedded bliss, but I really don't think we could have managed to wait any longer, me not having a place to live and all that. But even though it's been tough, and rocky, and pretty messed up at times, the good always outweighs the bad. God can fix any situation. And he's had a lot of fixin' to do here in the Gomez household.

So that's our story and we're stickin' to it.

By the way, that amazing pizza restaurant? We had our rehearsal dinner there, and two days later, on our wedding day, they closed their doors, never to reopen.

About

So what's it all about? What am I all about? Why am I doing this? I want to write. I love writing. Well, I guess I should say I love having written. The process of writing brings out my natural lazy side ... I'd rather be eating cookies or reading or drinking a nice cup of tea, to be perfectly honest. But, here's this blog, and here are all these ideas swimming in my head needing a place to jump the dam.

I'm a 31-year-old mommy to a squishy-sweet 9-month-old beauty. Her daddy's name is Robert ... Good, strong rock of a name for the man who keeps me clear, positive, and focused. READ: The man tolerates no foolishness. This incites great mental gymnastics for me because I am extremely prone to foolishness, of the drama queen, slam-the-door-in-your-face-because-your-opinion-differs-from-mine variety. So he tries really hard to be patient with me. And I try really hard to keep my head from exploding. My darling baby inspires me to be a better wife, mom, citizen, human. I stay home with her and my cockapoo, Pippin. My days are always full of excitement ... cleaning, cooking, laundry, eating, sleeping, breathing ... I love it. My only responsibilities are to keep the house clean and the baby happy and healthy.

I grew up in Colorado, lived there until I went off to college, and proudly root for all the sports teams. I'd like to live there again someday and I'd like for my kid(s) to call it home. I graduated from Green Mountain High School in Lakewood. I played baritone then trumpet in the marching band, pep band, concert band, and pit orchestra, sang soprano in four different choirs, played viola in the string orchestra ... I also attended other classes and occasionally did homework.

I ended up at Union College in Lincoln, Nebraska, by the grace of God. I'll post that story one of these days. I earned a Bachelor of Arts in Music. Those four years solidified my commitment to live my life in service to Christ. The spiritual culture there was incredible. I loved my professors, my classes, my fellow students. The school song starts out "I wanna go back to Union again," and it's so true.

After college, I planned to go right back to school to earn my Master's Degree, but out of sheer mental and physical exhaustion, I needed to take a year off before I plunged back in to the books. I volunteered as a task force music teacher in Paradise, California. Ah, Paradise, what a great place to relax. Well, that one year off turned in to three years off when I got a job at Thunderbird Academy in Phoenix. And then I got married and couldn't afford grad school without establishing my California residency, so I took a part time job at Glendale Academy. And in my fifth year of teaching at Glendale, I got pregnant and decided to be a SAHM. So here I am, eight years of teaching under my belt and no Master's Degree. And I've never been happier.

My daughter was born in April of 2012. My labor was amazing, delivery was a breeze, and the first three months were the most difficult of my life. I felt like I was watching my life from a theater box. I could not shake the fog of post-partum depression. Finally, when my daughter was almost seven months old, I told my husband that I needed help, or I was going to end up dead or in a mental hospital. I started seeing a counselor. She asked me to make a list of things that would make me happy. I couldn't think of a single thing. I mean, sure, I thought of things I wanted to do, but I knew that the only way I was going to be happy was if I decided to be happy. So one day, I told Robert I didn't want to fight with him anymore, and I started praying. It's been a little over a month, and we really have only argued once or twice. And that decision to be happy? The best decision I ever made.

And then, this blog. I had a lame blog once upon a time, but I hadn't updated it since I got engaged. Plus, I was stupid and young and ... Just, ugh. In high school, sophomore year was the year of the Big Chief. Everyone had to write at least 12 pages a week in these tablets, about anything we wanted, and at the end of the year we compiled them into a big notebook full of thoughts and stories. I remember how easy it was to fill those pages, how cathartic it was to write, and how rewarding it was to go back and see all I had written. Well, I guess this blog is my new Big Chief.

I hope you enjoy my random musings, I hope I can make you smile a little, I hope to inspire someone, maybe you, to write your own story and learn a little about yourself in the process.