When did I become an underachiever?

Once upon a time I was going to write books and make art and be a rock star and save the environment and bring about world peace.

At the very least, this time last year I was attending informational sessions on getting a Master’s degree in education to go teach art.  Now I work at a soybean seed plant. 

I can’t decide if I’m actually cynical about this or if there’s a truly beautiful lesson about authenticity (and humility) hiding in the story. 

Fifteen years ago: I was one of the smartest kids in school.  Ten years ago: I was a funny and creative mom who wrote and illustrated books starring my kids (just for fun).  Five years ago: I took on organizing and directing a praise & worship group at church. 

Being an overachiever has its rewards.   I’ve always been a positive feedback junkie and there were plenty of good grades and compliments and affirmations to keep me feeling great about myself.

And then my faith began to deepen and I began to wonder if earthly approval is really all that special.  What a mess THAT created for a junkie like me, addicted to the quick fix of hearing that I’m smart or special or talented.

Now I wonder about my reasons for doing ANYTHING.  I wonder if my actions reflect the real me or if I’m still chasing affirmations. Who is the ‘real me,’ anyway?

In the doubt about who I am, it doesn’t take much to summon up the old fashioned desire to be liked and respected and I find myself dancing around and putting on whatever color people want.

The more I dance around and change colors, the further from authenticity I travel. 

And watch it spiral from there, because I recognize what I’m doing, and it pisses me off.  And the more pissed off at myself I become, the harder it is to believe what God wants me to hear: that I’m loved, no matter what I do.  That I’m beautiful because He made me.

Does God give a shit about my artistic achievements? 

I think He cares more about what’s in my heart than my list of earthly successes. 

And perhaps a heart that works at a bean plant is easier to keep humble than a heart that is all hopped up on compliments about creative brilliance.

Of course, that assumes my creative work would ellicit such a response.

Sigh.

I guess I won’t count humility on my list of achievements.

So I’ve been out for another round of soybean photos…

I had the chance to ride along one morning and capture some planting in progress.  It was a great excuse to get outside on a beautiful morning. And tractors are fun. Thanks, Pete! 

The third shot is actually from my first round of photos.  I’m no expert, but as a part of the conditioning process, beans are vibrated around on big noisy tables. Somehow–magically, if you ask me–the good beans drop from the high corner and the broken ones drop from the low corner. 

I’m not sure why the good ones travel uphill.  

Maybe they’re just fighters.

I’m suddenly

acutely 

aware

that I would rather be an artist

than an secretary.

My checking account argues:

just answer the fucking phone.

So it all started last fall when I removed my head from my ass and realized that I had to get a real job before we became the next foreclosure statistic.

And I went and got myself hired at an egg farm and that was okay, even if I came home smelling like, well, an egg farm.  The people were cool and the work kept me busy. 

Then a neighbor told me about a job at a seed company.  I pretty much blew off the idea at first, but decided that I didn’t have anything to lose by submitting a resume. 

And now for fun at my new job I’m flexing some photographic muscle and making soybean art to decorate the office walls.  Watch for more to come as we follow soybeans through their many phases throughout the year…

It’s my experience that as we get closer to walking a path closer to God, it tends to mobilize the forces that get pissed off when someone moves closer to God. I’ve decided that I’m unafraid to label it as such even if it only serves to label me. 

My husband and I are on the cusp of some big and powerful and faith-filled changes, and our three year old son has been sent through the medical wringer for the last couple of weeks.

 This is a child who screams bloody murder at the mere mention of brushing his teeth, so protective of his personal space he is. (Now if I could get him to feel protective of the right to use the potty, we would be getting somewhere.) 

As you can imagine, he doesn’t open his mouth or ears or eyes for any doctor or nurse in the world, so when he came down with a fever two weeks ago and decided that he couldn’t walk anymore because his knee hurt, no one really expected him to be a model patient.  Our new favorite nurse practitioner did manage to take a peek in his throat and take x-rays and get a finger-prick, which showed suspicious gran and lymph readings, and we were immediately sent to an orthopedic specialist.  He brought in the whole orthopedic team to move our little guy’s legs around, and our J. was such a trooper.

The doctors talked about bacterial versus viral infections and mentioned rheumatoid arthritis. 

And they wanted to draw blood.  Two whole tubes of it.  While we talked, the toddler fell asleep on my lap.  His sister colored happily. 

I was worried about waking him up by sticking a needle into him.  My husband and I debated about how it was going to go, and then the nurses entered with a dose of condescension, suggesting that,”Oh, is Mom going to be okay?  Do you want to wait in the hallway?”

Does the bitch want to get slapped?

I was staying right there, to watch them do their job.  Or to see them mess up their job, which was actually the case.  For ten painfully long minutes, I watched my son fight harder than I’ve ever seen him fight.  “Kicking and screaming” doesn’t quite do it justice.  It was determined wailing and flailing.  He was on a mission.  The nurses struggled and jabbed and scraped the needle around in his little arm.  At one point, the timiest bit of blood started to flow.

Then the nurse let go. 

And the needle fell out of his arm. 

Finally they decided that he was traumatized enough and they said they’d try at the next day’s appointment.  So we took him home with orders to pump him with ibuprofen (translation: sit on toddler and get medicine spit into our faces every eight hours).  When the next day came, they decided that the toddler truly was a worthy opponent and they skipped the blood draw.

Days went by, still no walking.  And we gave up on the ibuprofen.  A few more phone calls, another office visit, theories about cartilage, then an MRI last Friday, at a clinic 40 miles away. My husband took him alone and this is where I get to sing the praises of a partner who truly helps to carry the load.  He is a loving caregiver to our children, and I’m absolutely blessed to be sharing a family with him. 

I just about changed my mind and took the day off work when I heard that they planned to administer the sedative through an IV. 

That meant starting an IV while he was awake.  And yes, S. reports that he flailed and fought, but the medicine was quick.

Since he was going to be sedated for the MRI, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to draw blood.  After the scan, they inserted the needle to take the sample.

And it woke him right up.  And so went the wailing and flailing. 

They did manage to draw the sample, and my husband drove a very tired and cranky toddler 40 miles home.  When a call came only a few hours later from the clinic, he was hopeful about hearing results.  The last thing we expected to hear was that the blood sample was drawn improperly.

You heard me right.

Today, along with the scan results (no fracture), we learned what happened to the blood sample.  Get ready for this. 

Seriously, you’re not going to believe this:

The nurse did not put a label on the tube of blood. 

She went to lunch and no one could find her and the 30 minute window they had according to protocol to get the label on passed.  My son’s blood has been tossed out in the biohazardous trash because no one bothered to put his name on it.

It could very well be that blood tests will not reveal to us exactly what is going on in J’s little legs, but it sure may help the doctors rule out a few things.  

In the meantime, J. is back to walking most of the time, but still complaining of his knees feeling “tired” and has even pointed out pain in his ankle as well.  His fever is gone. 

And we’ve had enough of small town doctors.  We  gladly accepted a referral to see a rheumatologist at Minneapolis Children’s Hospital next week.  Maybe someone there will know how to take a blood sample from a beligerent three year old. 

And put a label on it.

Me (driving in the car): Look at the moon guys–it’s big and orange tonight.

Kids: Oooooh!

Me: Oops, it’s so low that it’s hiding behind the trees, maybe when we go around the corner, we’ll see it again. 

Three year old: I can’t see the moon.  

Me: Just wait a minute, hon.

Three year old: Mom! I CAN’T SEE THE MOON.

Me: Yes I know, but it’s coming back.

Three year old: Mom!  I CAN’T SEE THE MOON!  I CAN’T SEE THE MOON!

Me: I CAN’T MAKE IT POP OUT OF THE FREAKIN TREES, YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO WAIT.

Ah. The harmony of daily life.

I can’t quite finish a post.  There’s too much pressure to say something brilliant since I’ve been so delinquent about my blog since September.  So here are all my drafts in whatever state I left them: 

I’ve been dreaming about houses.  

Two months ago, I dreamt that we were buying my supervisor’s house.  There were all sorts of problems in the dream because they weren’t leaving and wouldn’t take their stuff so that we could move in.  (The freaky part about that story is that he came into work the next day and announced that his house was on the market.)

Two weeks ago, I dreamt about a house for my sister and her family.  They are looking to move into a house this year.  I saw the entire layout, down to the furnace in the basement.  Built in the 1940’s–single story tudor with a bashed in garage door.

Two nights ago, I dreamt about a new (old) house for our family.  The backyard had a patio painted to look like a pond and every evening all the kids in the neighborhood went out to get free root beer floats.  There was a door to the backyard from the dining room.  We had a tractor. 

I can’t tell if I’m exploring elements of my psyche or if I’m just feeling trapped by my house and all the junk we have piled into it. 

When you see me at the grocery store, you never want to be stuck behind me in the checkout lane.