Sunday, May 15, 2016

Hot Mess Express

I've been trying to write the last chapter of my book for 8 months now. We are in another flipping "season" and it's got me searching for the ending.

In honor of keeping one toe on the crazy train and the other 9 firmly planted on the word of God, snippets from chapters 2-3. {I know the sweet Lord above wants both feet planted on the rock, I only speak figuratively friends. *Steps off crazy train platform wearing hot mess t-shirt and last weeks pajama pants*}

Chapter Two: Seasons

Seas-on: /noun/ each of the four divisions of the year (spring, summer, autumn, and winter) marked by particular weather patterns and daylight hours, resulting from the earth's changing position with regard to the sun.

And also: a period when a female mammal is ready to mate. There’s that.

By July 2015, I should have been familiar with *seasons*. You’d think I would have figured out a thing or two about how to just keep swimming and how to just be the vessel God called me to be.

Here’s the thing about Grace. It’s always teaching you something. It will always be teaching you something. You just have to be still long enough to hear it whispering over you.

Grace. It teaches you.

How to be a warrior. How to be strong. How to be graceful. How to appear graceful when you are falling apart. 

Undeserved, unmerited, unearned. Favor. A temporary reprieve. Grace.

We have that definition written on a chalkboard in our kitchen. I’m surprised frankly that our house even has a kitchen. We only have it because it came with the rest of the place. Lord knows it’s not because I have the first clue on how to COOK. On the surface the pretty little sign excuses me from being the domestic diva that simply does not reside in my inner soul. It excuses me when Husband comes home and dinner isn’t on the table. Or even on my mind for that matter.

Grace. We say it before we eat {Take out. From a box. Or a container. Us Davises aren’t picky when it comes to take out}. But it is SO much more than just that. It’s a way of life. It reminds me who’s I am. It reminds me that we can do hard things. It reminds me of where I came from. And where I am going.

The best thing? It reminds me that I cannot earn it. I am a Type A perfectionist kind of girl. I drive myself batty. I gaze lovingly at Type B’s, awe-inspired of their lack of Type A-ness. Then I kick my own tush. Because that’s what us Type A-ers do. We kick our own butts. I love that I cannot work my fannie off and have more Grace. Or snooze through my alarm clock and have less of it. It is mighty. It is forgiving. It carries me. 

You will find that it is easy to express outward grace and gratitude when things are going your way. When things are easy-peasy and the sun is shining on your little red wagon. What never ceases to amaze me, is people who exude these entities even in the face of adversity. I am thankful for the people in my life who, by their own spirit, remind me to be grateful. And graceful. These sweet friends remind me that nothing in this world is to be taken for granted. Nothing.

An old Chinese proverbs reminds us: "When eating bamboo sprouts, remember the man who planted them".

How often do we focus on the bamboo sprouts in our life and fail to remember the man who planted them? I believe that the man who planted the bamboo sprouts deserves our utmost. I believe that sometimes we allow ourselves to become consumed with our bamboo sprouts and fail to offer up praises of gratitude.

So in remembrance and honor of the Farmer who has blessed, and continues to bless, us each and every day, stop in your carefully planned, neatly organized Type A tracks (or your lackadaisical Type B amble, whateves) and whisper up a prayer of thankfulness.

When you are in one of those *seasons*, those moments where you feel like you are suffocating and you can’t find your way out of a shoebox, let alone out of a dark season, I urge you to cling to Grace. Call out to it. Ask it to carry you. As you cling to Grace, you will undoubtedly draw nearer to the one who gives it. The almighty sovereign God who knows each and every season of your life before you get knocked upside the head with them. Press on grace-clad warriors.

Chapter Three: Hobby Lobby

Ho-bby Lo-bby: /noun/ a place to purchase plastic Easter eggs while pushing miniature buggies and listening to instrumental hymns.

A few short months after Husband aaaaaacidentally tried to go through security at Hartsfield Jackson International Airport with a loaded handgun in his backpack while flying out of town on a business trip, I jotted down a few things.

I was eleven months pregnant. No twelve. I was actually twelve months pregnant. Only it was our first pregnancy, the one where we gazed at each other and I tee-teed on a pregnancy stick and the words “you’re pregnant” danced majestically across the sky in a dazzling display of fireworks. Our first pregnancy. The one before the cancer diagnosis. And the chemo. And the fertility nightmare where I grew 3 chin hairs and had to pluck them religiously to keep from going bat-shit crazy. That pregnancy. The first one. The one before we lost the baby girl to Turner Syndrome after not going bat-shit crazy from the fertility treatments. #winning

Nonetheless, we were in the middle of sort of what you might call a little bit of a *season*.

I made a habit that particular season of jotting down my God Wink moments. You know, those sweet, good, and wholesome moments that make up for all of the chaotic ones that try to steal your joy?

January 21, 2010

·         My belly button no longer exists.
·         If you drive too far into the garage you will, in fact, cause damage to nearby items.
·         Lawyers, like cloth diapers, are expensive.
·         Bonefish Grill makes for fabulous take-out.
·         Limiting caffeine increases hunger and ragefulness.
·         Children you once babysat will indeed grow up and go off to college one day. When that day comes, you will feel old.
·         Failing to use a level or laser light will result in crooked wall hangings. It's inevitable.
·         Husbands do not appreciate monogrammed onesies and personalized monthiversary outfits to the same degree that wives do. No amount of enthusiasm and shrieking will make up for the bewildered look they give when you confess your purchases of the day.
·         Attempting to use your bath robe belt as a rope to lift yourself from the bathtub will not prove successful. Repeated attempts will resemble the first.
·         God is capable of more than we can imagine or ask for.

My God-Wink journal sometimes had side notes.

Like the “Top 10 Reasons Why I Love Hobby Lobby”:

{I shall choose to count down because, well, that adds to the suspense and drama surrounding such an invigorating topic.}

10. Storefront located precisely 200 yards from Zaxby's drive-thru. Entirely too convenient to partake in fried pickles and sweet tea on any given excursion.
9. Aisles upon aisles of large plastic Valentines Day decor (i.e. enormous dancing winking heart) and also jumbo bags of colored plastic Easter eggs.
8. Closed on Sundays. Just as you find yourself in need of a distraction from a sudden intense Chick-fil-a craving {like when you wake up and try to get dressed for church but you can’t focus because all you can think about is how you need a Combo Number One}, you pull in the parking lot to realize craftiness must wait until Monday.
7. Cash registers circa 1978.
6. Super cute double-pack seasonal to-do list pads. A must-have on each trip regardless of how many now clutter up the junk drawer in the kitchen. One can never have too many to-do list pads.
5. Miniature buggies.
4. Weekly 40% off 
printable coupon. I refuse to go without it.
3. Craftiness implosion. Projects I never needed (or wanted) to complete are inspired by simply perusing the scrap book paper aisle.
2. Festive gift-wrapping accouterments. For example: zebra print tissue and coordinating ribbon.
1. Jazzy instrumental hymns played overhead. I am often forced to add my own lyrics as I browse the wall art.

These were the things I thought of as I ran about skipping and frolicking on my Wednesdays off back during that season. When I was eleven, no twelve, months pregnant with Cooper, our first born, buying time before the accidental gun-in-my-backpack incident went to trial. To TRIAL. *Sips sweet tea. Shudders. Finds big girl panties. Marches on.*

My routine looked something like: See private speech therapy patients from 8-12. Eat yummy lunch. Take 2 hour nap. Watch approximately 3 minutes of Oprah. Turn off TV. Drink caffeinated drink (D day as of tomorrow friends). Check mail. Fake a reason to go to Target. Cook dinner (a once a week phenomenon when you work 10 hour days the other 4 days of the week). Watch trashy TV. Cuddle with Husband. Prepare for next 10 hour day. (sigh).

Life was good back then. But not near as good as it is today. Post eleventy more *seasons*. Yes, back to the phenomenon of *seasons*. Footnote. No, sidenote. No, off-topic-but-I-need-to-get it-out-there-in-an-effort-of-full-disclosure, note. I admire folks who can maintain a topic for more than seven seconds. I, as you are quickly learning, am not one of those people. Did you see that they recently said Hobby Lobby might shut their doors? Something about the right to birth control. I digress.

Seasons. Yes. Seasons. 

Update: It has taken me approximately 5 years to write this book. In that time, it has been brought to my attention that Hobby Lobby has since updated their cash registers. Digital fancy pants itemized receipts from here on out fellow crafters. But the hymns? Still no words. Just instrumentals. 

Friday, August 14, 2015

Bat Shit Crazy

Sometimes I nut up and act crazy and run around the house sneaking toys out to the recycle bin when no one is watching.  

Big Al, my OB, recently put me on birth control pills. For the first time in over 6 years I realized I am completely capable of bat shit crazy. 

I go to therapy every week. Seasons are hard y'all.  I have recruited several of my friends.  I can't decide if I am surrounded by crazy people or if I am making everyone around me crazy.   
Every week I have to talk about how I feel. Why I feel. What I feel. 

I have to look at this feelings poster and pick my feel. 
I recently asked D if she would take my picture and post it up there. Right next to "smug". D is my therapist. My sweet, sweet therapist who was hand picked straight by Jesus to be my champion during this season. Under my mugshot, snapshot, I asked her to write: Bat Shit Crazy.

Cause that's an emotion too. A feel. 

So about three weeks after Big Al put me on the pill, Coop and Finn were playing in their ginormous Lightening McQueen pop up tent. Only they weren't playing. They were acting the fool. Hoodlums all up in the playroom. Pop up tent gangsters. They would get a running start (halfway across the family room), run full speed AT the tent, man handle it, plow over it, and throw themselves into the furniture. Mama don't play hoodlum. 

So I went a little crazy.

First I winky face reminded them that we are Davises and we don't go gangster on the pop up tent. When that didn't work after three, no four tries, I nutted straight up. I went all Poltergeist on their little people selves. I wrestled the tent to the ground, karate chopped it into pieces and took it straight out to the garbage. 

Ok I didn't take it out to the garbage. Yet. But I'm going to. As soon as no one is looking. 

Having too much stuff is problematic. It makes my skin crawl and overwhelms my soul. Less is more. Less is more. 

Right after I went Poltergeist on the pop up tent, I threw my phone across the foyer in a fit of rage because auto correct kept changing the word "grace" to "grease" when I was texting my mama about my lack of it.

The struggle is real. Because sometimes you have to karate chop a pop up tent. Because I am beyond blessed to be able to be at home with my most important little people and wouldn't trade if for anything in all the whole wide world. Because sometimes I just want to face-plant on the floor and not get up from there til next week. Because it's hard. And I give the kids too many GMOs. And I didn't use cloth diapers. Or breastfeed. And I don't let Coop and Finn play with sidewalk chalk because it's chalky and dirty and gives me the eebyjibbies. Because I fail daily. 

But also because "I can do this". And you can too. This is for you warrior mamas. Bat shit crazy warrior mamas. March on.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

On the subject of dry bars.

I used to wash my hair every single day. I also used to wear sassy, coordinated, and well thought-out outfits. 

I now wash my hair every two three days {if I'm lucky or have someplace other than the carpool line to go} and live in my monogrammed fleece tunic with handy side pockets. Perfect for carrying puffs and/or ninja turtles. 

So the concept of a dry bar is absolutely fascinating to me. You go there. They wash and dry and style your hair. For you. While you sit there. And read a magazine. Or stare at the wall. So why did the lady look at me so crazy when I asked if I could get a weekly pass? JK. You know I haven't gotten to check one out. Yet. 

You know what concept I adore even more than a fabulous hairdresser blowing out your hair? A Kroger or Publix employee who would sashay up to my driver side window and let me ask {beg} them to run to the far back side of the store and snag me a gallon of milk {whole, not skim- we got growing brains in this grocery-getter mommy mobile Holmes} and a box of mini muffins so I would not have to do the car seat shuffle with two babies. In the rain. And the cold. 

Would that not be a dream? If that happened, I would probably be able to go back to washing my hair. And wearing well thought out, coordinated outfits. 

Saturday, January 17, 2015

To Blog or Not to Blog

It's been a long time, Between the Lines. Shoowee. I got an aching in my soul that drove me to dig through my purse {diaper bag} on my flight from ATL to Vegas Baby 3.0 and out pen to paper.

I miss writing. I really do.

I didn't abandon this little blog on purpose. It just somehow got pushed to the bottom of the list of priorities in this incredible season of joy for our little family. And also I lost brain cells with my last pregnancy. I'm sure of it because I tried to do a suduko puzzle on the plane and I honestly could not count to nine to save my life.

The girl in the seat next to me tried not to let me know she was watching me and silently mocking me but I know she was. That's ok because I was silently coveting her Chickfila Combo Number One that she magically produced from her Kate Spade bag and chowed down on mid-flight. 

Instead of sitting in front of the computer screen I sit behind board books these days. Instead of getting struck with silly thoughts to hammer out out late at night, I get struck with thoughts of diaper ointments and kindergarten registration (Wait. What? It can't be). And Letter P Show and Tell assignments. And bedtime prayers. And did we remind Coop to brush his teeth tonight?

And I could not be happier. It's in the fabric of my being. 

God has fulfilled His mighty promise to us. It was touch and go there for a while but His JOY came at just the right moment. His Grace covered us and created in us a spirit of humility that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. 

Sneaking a way for a few days is always good for the soul. Plus you get to go to the bathroom by yourself. {Side-note: I almost did not know what to do in the airport bathroom without Coop and Finn giggling at my feet. "Mommy your booty is big" "Mama tee tee?" "Can I have a drink?" "Have you seen my nun chucks?"}. How can so much happen in 23 seconds while you just try to go to the bathroom?? 

No matter how much I wish I was there to tuck our sweet babies in tonight and whisper prayers over them, I know the value in respecting the need for purposeful, sweet time together as a couple.{Interpreted: Eating loaded chicken nachos together at 3 AM and watching back to back episodes of Shark Tank while snuggling in a giant fluffy bed.} A giant fluffy bed that I did not honor my OCD tendencies with and make up this morning when I crawled out of it. Small victories!

How could I waste time making up that silly bed when I caught a glimpse of the high powered cosmetic magnification mirror in the bathroom? I have a mustache? Why didn't someone tell me? 

I digress. 

I'm happy to be back at this little blog. If nothing else, I need to remember these musings when I am old and gray. Like how Coop calls Darth Vader "Darth Thader" and how Finley Jane carries her babies around by their heads and dances in her highchair when I sing "Ain't No Sunshine". 

No judging if my next post does not happen until 2037 though, mmkay?

"Write what should not be forgotten". ~Isabelle Allende

Wednesday, September 11, 2013


I've all but fallen off the blogostratosphere.

It's just that I discovered Pepperidge Farm's Shortbread Cookies so I've been busy. Eating cookies.

What an incredible season this has been for our family. I wake up praising God, fall asleep praising Him, and whisper a million prayers of gratitude and thankfulness in between.
I feel Finley Jane kick and roll and turn and dance and jab and move constantly and there's just no sweeter reminder of God's Grace.

When I decided to blog about our history of loss and infertility, I had no idea how God was going to use our story, I just knew that He had a purpose for everything, and most thankfully, that His purpose surpassed my understanding (or lack thereof). Y'all have shared unending stories with me and each time I receive an email or text or phone call, I am so incredibly humbled. My heart breaks with each and every story that is shared, but I know that God will use everything for His glory, in His time. I humbly pray for so many of you each and every day and cover you in a million prayers of Hope.

I have always tried to strive to separate joy from sorrow and sorrow from joy. In seasons of our own personal sorrow and struggle (Lord knows we've had 'em), I tried my hardest to separate that pain from the joy I felt for others. In this sweet, sweet season of joy, it is my prayer that I separate that from the sorrow I still feel for so many precious friends who are in seasons of "waiting". Because of that, I decided that y'all didn't need to read about how big my ankles have gotten or how many stretch marks I have gained or about how I still can't look at my toothbrush without hurling. Those are beautiful, precious, sacred things undoubtedly, but I just don't necessarily feel right about blogging about being pregnant this go round.

Social media floods our minds and hearts with unending images and words that we sometimes welcome and are thankful for, and sometimes are not. So I've been quietly dancing in God's grace with indescribable joy. It's all but shut "Between the Lines" down, but I feel God breathing a peace and quiet over me that I just can't disturb.

This post is for my sweet friends who are still in that tough space--the gap we call the "waiting"...I urge you to cling to the one thing that transcended both our sorrow and now, our joy: HOPE. It really does cover those dark spaces and lights the way for beautiful things yet to come.

To our precious friends and family members who have shared in our joy over the past 6 months, we just cannot thank you enough. I always go back to "shared joy is double the joy and shared sorrow is half the sorrow"--us Davises got really stellar at walking in seasons of chaos and I have to say, we could sure get used to frolicking in these sweet seasons of joy.
Much love to you all!

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Think Pink!

Best beach phone call ever. Ever.
A HEALTHY baby GIRL is on the way!

We shrieked. And hand flapped. And cried. And marveled and marveled in God's goodness. While staring at the ocean. Oh, how I will treasure those moments forever.
Chris was in a condo with 6 (SIX) girls when we got the call from the perinatologist. After all the jazz hands and spirit sprinkles I think he broke into a cold sweat and said something about a shot gun. Bless him. She is already wrapped around his little finger, don't let him fool ya.

We came home and I have somehow gotten buried under a pile of burlap and lace and minky dot fabric.

What a season of absolute JOY for our little family. I almost can't get over how sweet it feels to soak up such a season.

Her name is Finley, meaning "beautiful warrior" and we just can't think of a better name to give this little sassy Sugar Britches. She is already such an incredible breath of fresh air that I just don't know what else to do but monogram and surround myself little ruffly things.

So that's just what I am doing...
Emily over at Holden's Hut had these precious burps made up within 10 minutes of us sharing our news. Sweetest things ever. Great big thank you, Emily!!

Monday, June 24, 2013

Angle of the Dangle

A few things I've learned over the past few weeks:

1. It is entirely possible to be extremely nauseous, choke down a Zofran, and somehow manage to eat a plate full of Extreme Nacho Doritos. Dipped in Ketchup.

2. God's grace and provision can wipe away our human frailty in an instant. 2 weeks ago we sashayed back down to Dr. Sermons' office, sweating *tiny* bullets, praying without ceasing to please, please, please not receive bad news and be shuffled to the consult room where the plastic vaginas stare at you as you shift in the itchy blue chairs of doom.

What we saw brought us to our knees (again).
This is where I start to flail around each time and ask if that is really our little baby on the screen.Then there was this:
Break it down Baby. Break it down. Dancing away in there. Stop the DNA tests right now. We know this one is ours.

 Mighty miracles!

3. I will in fact, spend the rest of this pregnancy nekkid. It's because there are no cute stretchy clothes. Anywhere. Any. Where.

4. If you have not become versed in the "angle of the dangle" theory (we had not), my sweet, sweet perinatologist Dr. Stone will gladly educate you on it from behind his spotfree coke bottle glasses. Bless it. LOVE that man. Loved him 3 years ago. Love him now.

We made it through round one of our genetic testing today. Again, God's grace wipes away our human frailty.

First on the agenda was to rule out any markers of Turner's Syndrome. There are none visible-PRAISE the Lord! Amongst the chatter of Trisomy this and Trisomy that, I somehow got lost in our little one's itty bitty button nose. So perfect. So. dern. cute. Could not take my eyes off of it.

In love. Head over heels.

Perfectly formed, no matter what the gazillion (unsolicited) genetic tests may reveal.

The bulk of the tests will be back in around 10 days and that's awful nice of the sweet folks at Northside and we sure do appreciate their attention to detail but to us, they make no difference. Not a one.

Well ok maybe one tiny difference. Because Turner Syndrome affects only girl babies, one of the tests will confirm "the angle of the dangle". And welp, that makes my heart a wincy bit happy.

I'm a planner y'all. And a monogrammer. Please excuse my sillyness.

"He has made everything beautiful in it's time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men, yet they cannot fathom what He has done from beginning to end". -Ecclesiastes 3:11

We are surrounded by the very best prayer warriors, friends, and family in all the world and we sure cannot thank you enough for your encouragement and kind words. Truly, great big hugs and lots of love! After several seasons of, ahem, chaos, we are soaking up His goodness and mercy, dancing in the joy this mighty blessing is bringing us. Thank you for coming along for the ride. I apologize about the Doritos and ketchup visual picture. And the nekkid comment. And the angle of the dangle offensiveness. That is all.