The Night I Bathed in the Toilet By Candlelight

Here's a dirty little secret of mine: I  bleach the hair on my arms. I have great hair,  but the downside to having thick, dark hair is that I have thick, dark hair.  On my arms.  On my legs.  On my eyebrows.

Yesterday I decided to try Nair for the first time ever.  Because, what's the worst that could happen?

HA HA HA HA HA.  WELL.  Let me tell you about the worst that can happen.

I applied a thick layer of the cream to my arms and waited the prescribed one minute.

It is important to note that the instructions for Nair state, in capital letters, "DO NOT LEAVE ON FOR MORE THAN 10 MINUTES."  It is also important to note that my oven was self-cleaning while this ill-fated attempt at hair removal was going on.

At the end of my one-minute, at which point the acid had nearly disintegrated all of my arm-hair and I was climbing into the shower, the greedy, power-hungry, menace of an oven sucked up all the power in the entire house and every single breaker blew.  Including the one for the water pump.

I flipped on the shower, the pipes hissed at me, then - silence.

Silence except for the voices in my head going, "No, no, no, no, no, NO, NO."

I rushed to the sink.  Nothing.

I ran to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge.  Why is there no bottled water in my house?!

Then the lights went out.

Then I said a lot of cuss words in my head.

So, to recap:  I am standing in my kitchen, in a towel, in the dark, with acid slowly burning the hair off of my arms, and in 8 minutes, my skin - and the water is out.

Things I considered: 1. Rinsing it off with juice. 2. Running to the neighbors house in my towel. 3. Using the water in the toilets. 4. Wiping it off with a towel, letting the hospital treat the boils with skin grafts, and wearing long sleeves every day for the rest of my life.

I hope you'll agree with me that using the water in the toilets is the lesser of the evils represented here, effectually proving that I'M NOT CRAZY.

And that is how it came to pass that I stood over a toilet, a lantern between my teeth, and frantically sponge-bathed Nair off of my arms with toilet water, in a surreal, embarrassing race against the clock.

Which brings me to the morals of this story - there are three.

1.  Any over-the-counter product whose main selling point is that it chemically burns things off of your body in 2 minutes, do not use that thing.

2. Amend your toilet cleanliness standards from "A Party Guest Should Be Able to Throw Up In It" to "Would Personally Be Willing To Rinse Nair Off Of Arms In It."

And finally, most practically,

3. Cleaning your oven is overrated.

Update:  There are no boils on my arms, and the rash should disappear any day now.  Aaaaaannny day.

Letter to 22-Year-Old Me

It has been almost six years since a doctor told me that Madeline was blind. I remember everything.  What I was wearing.  What he said, exactly.  The 6,704,870 thoughts I had on the drive home.  Some traumas turn into blurs; this one is emblazoned on my memory.

In my wildest hopes I would not have dared to image Madeline as she is today.

This is what I would tell six-years-ago-me, if I could.

Kate,

Everything is going to be okay.

Right now, in the future, Madeline is watching The Magic School Bus episode about outer space.  That's right - she can watch TV.  She sits really close on her little red footstool, and she has two younger brothers, with perfect vision, who also sit close because that's how their big sister taught them to do it.  (They also took their first steps with a white cane, which was adorable.)

Here is what I want you to know, young, scared Kate.

Madeline is going to have friends.  She is going to run - fast and hard and fearless.  She knows braille.  You know braille.  It is hard, and you're going to cry and quit for a little while, but when Madeline is in kindergarten, you help her with her homework and you both read it pretty effortlessly and everything is okay.  (Incidentally, Madeline is going to surprise you all the time with the things she can see.  Even when she is six, she will still be surprising you - and every doctor and teacher she has.)

You've never cried in an IEP meeting, or after one.  Only before - because fear of a thing is almost always worse than reality.  Try not to worry.

Madeline is incredibly bright.  Her vocabulary is enormous - annoyingly so.  But she's not just smart-bright; she's a sparkle.  Everything in her whole life is over-the-top big.  She says things like:

"I know I have a lot of days left to live, but I know that no day could possibly be better than this day."

"I will listen to you, I will listen to teachers, I will listen to anyone, even after I DIE I WILL LISTEN."

"The only thing better than your painting is GOD."

And "Pluto is the most important planet in my life." 

She is some kind of special; people are drawn to her.

There are so many bright, happy things about your life.  Here is the most important thing:

Darling, do not fear what you don't really know.  Do not grieve for things you have not lost yet; you may not end up losing them at all.

Madeline's middle name is Hope - you had no way of knowing how perfect a christening that was for her, but I am here to tell you she has lived up to it in every way.  She has been spreading hope, warm in the hearts everyone who has the privilege to watch her, for six years now.  For six years, just sparkling and hope-spreading: hope to families touched by ONH, hope to teachers, hope to doctors, hope to friends - hope to everyone.

Don't worry.  Don't be afraid.  It gets better.  You get better.  You are carried on rhythms of grace, on the backs of friends, and on prayers of the faithful the whole way - every step.  Every hard-fought step, every uncertain step, every hail-mary, God-save-us step, you are carried.

Life is brutal and it is beautiful; Glennon Melton calls it brutiful.  And, God, is it ever.

But you can do this.  You are doing it, and you are doing a good job. Darling, do not fear what you don't really know. 

love, present Kate

P.S.  She does eventually learn to buckle her seat belt and put on her own socks, so don't sell her; she pulls through.

 (All photos by Brooke Courtney Photography)

My Previous Works

Today I drug out the big box full of my and Madeline's baby books.  It was all sugar and spice and everything nice until I came across a manila folder full of some elementary school work that my mom saved.  YOU GUYS.  I HAVE NOT LAUGHED THIS HARD IN WEEKS.  Maybe months.  Maybe ever.

As it turns out, I wrote quite a few books in my younger years.

First, this ode to my mother.

She's okay,  I guess.

Then this one.

At the time I was using Kathryn as my pen name.  In my defense, this was before anyone introduced me to the concept of "plagiarism."

I was also doing all of my own illustrations.

Just to be clear, not everything is a vegetable.  (MOM.)

I wrote some fiction, fairy tales in particular.  Probably because I could not resist trying my hand at the "castle-inside-the-first-letter" technique.

Also, it seems my mother used to scream at me when I barged in on her in the shower.   This is a universal and timeless part of parenting.

In my early works I experimented with some creative spelling.

And it is xspeshalee clear that my excellent self-esteem was already in tact.

My longest work to date is a short story titled, "A STORY OF AN UNICORN" [sic.]  It turns out my parents were ruthless editors who did not feel that young unicorn romance and baking witches into cakes were wise plot choices for me at this point in my writing career.

Neither was young unicorn polygamy.

They did, however, encourage me to keep writing books, to which I responded:

 

Maby I will, maby I will...

Gotta Go Through It

We're going on a Lion Hunt! (We're going on a lion hunt!) We're not scared!  (We're not scared!) Look what's up ahead!  Tall grass!  Can't go over it. Can't go under it. Can't go around it. Gotta go through it. Swish, swish, swish.

"Going on a Lion Hunt" is still a favorite story of mine; it's rhythmic and suspenseful and fun.  But now, as an adult, it is also my mantra: what I whisper to myself when I feel the tendrils of despair start to curl around my heart.

All of my favorite people have been through some stuff - terrible, awful, heartbreaking stuff.  I'm proved right every time I meet a new person whom I instantly like; the more I get to know them, the more I learn about the stuff they've been through:  chronic illnesses, serious depression, betrayals, affairs, ugly divorces, deaths of children, addiction, cancer.

I like them,  I've learned, because those terrible circumstances create something beautiful inside of us.  Something  precious is forged in our hearts as we walk through the difficult, painful places.  The gauntlet strips off pretension, pride, insincerity, piousness, and anything false.  Underneath we find gentleness, humility, wisdom, compassion, bravery, and indomitable strength.  Refined by fire, the Bible calls it, burning off the dross, leaving the gold.

There are no shortcuts to that beautiful, beautiful countenance.  You have to go through some stuff to get there.

Just like there is no shortcut to a baby; you have to go through labor, and morning sickness.

Just like there is no shortcut to a Thanksgiving table full of well-adjusted grown-up children; you have to go through the Terrible 2's.

There is no shortcut to seasoned love; you have to go through the fights - all of them - no giving up.

There is no shortcut to forgiveness; you have to feel the pain to get to the other side.

There is no shortcut to health; you have to trudge through the pain, the meds, the therapy.

There is no shortcut to healing, to moving on, after a catastrophic loss; you just have to keep walking through.

When it comes to the tough stuff of life, the best way out is always through.

So if this season of life seems so hard you can't breathe, know that while you might come out weary, broken, a little worse for the wear, you'll shine.  Refined, like gold.  Take a deep, raggedy breath, say a prayer, and steel yourself.  

Because you can't go over it. Can't go under it. Can't go around it. You gotta go through it.  

 (source)

There Is Room

As much as I know friends and families that are aching for babies, I also have friends that aren't quite sure.  That are, if not off-put, at least confused by the "waiting until your thirties to think about babies" trend that is rampant in my generation.  I don't presume to know what's "right" for every family, in every situation, but I do know something of having babies.  So this post is for all of the might-be, would-be moms and dads who are cautiously dipping their toes in the water, who are apprehensive and curious.  This is for those that are wondering.    

If you are wondering about having a baby,  

Hoping. Debating. Considering. Trying. Scared. Uncertain.

Is there time? Am I ready? Are we ready? Financially? In our marriage? Emotionally? In my career?

"Is there room?"

Is there room in my lifestyle? In my budget? In my family?

I am a mother of 3 babies; 2 of them were unplanned.  I am here to tell you that the answer is "yes."  There is room.

There is room in your home.  There is room for a tiny cradle, even if it sits squarely between your bed and your dresser - or in the middle of the living room.  Babies don't need Pinterest nurseries, their own rooms, or even cribs. Babies need mommas' arms, and there is room.

 There is room in your body.  Just when you think you can't stretch any more, you can.  Your body was made to take care of that baby, and whether you are pregnant with one or with five, there is room.

There is room in your lap.  If you are worried about a big sister or a big brother, don't.  One of the most precious gifts you could ever give your child is a sibling.  Moms' laps have room for two - and three, and four, and five.  Buried in babies is the purest joy, the deepest satisfaction. There is room.  

There is room in your heart.  If you are afraid that you will never be able to love anything as much as you love your husband (boyfriend, girlfriend, mom, dad, or dog), you will.   If you are afraid that you could never love another baby as much as you love your first - you can - and you will.  If you think the love might break you, it will, and that's good.  A mother's heart has an inexhaustible capacity for love.  There is room.

This is what I am learning and re-learning from my third child:  there is room.  There is room in my body, room in my home, room in my lap, room in my heart.   Babies are gifts, and there is always room.