When I was pregnant with the twins in 2008, there was a day I was standing outside the grocery store talking with a friend. We hadn't been there long when we were approached by a Filipina woman who left me speechless in a matter of moments.
The petite, dark-haired lady appeared old enough to be a grandmother and had a flamboyant personality. She stepped into our conversational space in a way that would suggest she was close friends with one of us. I naturally assumed she knew my friend. We continued our conversation, which had left off with my friend asking me about my pregnancy symptoms. The Filipina lady didn't skip a beat when she interrupted and said in a shocked and rather loud voice, "You're pregnant?" When I answered, "Yes," she reached out and ,while rubbing my belly, said, "I thought you were just fat!" I was stunned and could only smile awkwardly as my friend and I stared at one another in disbelief. In another moment, the woman had disappeared into the store, leaving me searching for words with my friend. Within seconds we realized neither of us knew the woman and we laughed with the realization that we had been victims of a verbal hit-and-run!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Learning the True Meaning of Discipline
The subject of discipline recently came up in a friend's blog. Interestingly enough, I had just been thinking on this same topic. His question was posed within the framework of disciplining your children, however, my ponderings on discipline were taking a different course...
When I was a teenager, I spent a very short amount of time studying Tae Kwon Do. I'm not sure why I was pursuing that particular martial art, or any for that matter, except that I knew the instructor. As an adult in my mid twenties I returned to study the same art, but again it was short-lived as having children, going to college, and living life all provided me with lovely distractions.
Upon moving to Japan, and following my historical ten year gap in pursuing martial arts, I found myself once again drawn to its study. This time I decided to take on Karate. My initial motivation was my 8 year-old son. I thought it important to provide him not only a physical outlet, but an opportunity to receive discipline and focused instruction from another adult. We found an instructor through the Navy Morale, Welfare, and Recreation department and set out to try Karate on for size.
Our sensei's (teacher's) name was Nobuaki Ota. He was roughly 5'5", balding, ridiculously strong, easily old enough to be my father if not more, had an infectious smile, and didn't really speak a lick of English. Thank God that body language is easy to follow in martial arts. By the end of the first session with Ota Sensei I was exhausted - and hooked! Whether my son loved it or not would remain to be seen, but I needed to know more.
Sensei worked me to a bone. My crimson face and every pore of my body dripped sweat throughout every lesson. Each week I found myself more focused than the week before. I hung on his every word, dissected his every movement, and studied his Japanese in order to learn the correct terms. He gave me a DVD to use in studying the correct forms or "kata". I couldn't get enough.
Being an extrovert, I desperately wanted to know more about Ota Sensei. Knowing him compelled me even further to study the Japanese language. It was such a joy to us both when we could understand each other without the use of a translator. Eventually, I came to know more of him and his life. He had taught Karate for 30 years and still has a child who lives in the United States. We were even blessed to have a lovely evening among a group of Japanese and American friends where we all went to Japanese style karaoke and shared coffee afterward. Sensei can sing a beautiful Japanese ballad.
Seeing the smile cross his face when I would perform my kata correctly or when I performed admirably during our sparring brought me immense joy. That smile, along with one of his few English words, "good", made me want to work harder. In a sense, the feeling was similar to how I would feel if my dad expressed pride or an appreciation of my work. Eventually, the day came when Sensei said I was ready to take my first test. I was nervous, excited, and only sure I was ready because he was sure. I trusted his wisdom and guidance.
The day of my test turned out to be more than just a test of Karate skills. I was a fish out of water. Traveling to a sports facility south of my home in Yokohama - an area I was only vaguely familiar with - I had no idea what to expect. Simply walking into the building was a test of courage. I was surrounded by a sea of Japanese faces, none of whom I recognized. As it turned out, I was the only foreigner in the entire place and people stared. I must have been a strange sight. My anxiety was growing and I felt as if all my training was leaving me in a rush of adrenaline. Just as I was feeling completely lost, Sensei strode in with confidence. It was hard to contain my relief.
We stepped outside where he went over my moves and their Japanese terms. Since the whole test would be conducted in Japanese it would be critical for me to understand the judges as they gave instructions. All my movements were to be ordered from the initial bow to the last, with each kick, punch, and turn to be performed in concert with a command. I focused insanely on each person going before me, so that by the time it was my turn I found myself moving with relative confidence and fluidity with the judge's commands. Sharp, quick, controlled, focused - the whole room disappeared as I moved across the floor. Only afterward did I realize that it seemed the whole room was sizing me up.
The following week Sensei gave me a certificate written completely in Japanese and translated it as best he could. In essence, I had passed. There was no fanfare, no party, just back to work. After that first test, Karate took on a whole different meaning for me. I began to see the minutia of detail that went into every movement. The lifelong study of an art had never had personal significance to me until then.
One day during our practice I recall being pleased that I had finally conquered a movement that had given me difficulty. Over and over I had practiced and repeatedly I had stopped and gone back to the beginning with a heavy sigh. I was hoping for and maybe even expecting to receive the proverbial "pat on the back" when Sensei approached me and went straight to my hand. While conquering the movement with my legs and perhaps most of my upper body, I had lost focus on my hands. He reached and corrected my thumb, which had gone lazy and strayed from what should have been its perfect resting place. Finally, I understood the true meaning of discipline. According to the definition, discipline, in part, is behavior in accordance with rules of conduct; behavior and order maintained by training and control. In that moment with Ota Sensei is when it occurred to me that I would spend the rest of my life working to perfect this art and still never get it right! Wow, what a concept! Even more amazing to me is that I'm perfectly content to spend the rest of my life trying.
When I was a teenager, I spent a very short amount of time studying Tae Kwon Do. I'm not sure why I was pursuing that particular martial art, or any for that matter, except that I knew the instructor. As an adult in my mid twenties I returned to study the same art, but again it was short-lived as having children, going to college, and living life all provided me with lovely distractions.
Upon moving to Japan, and following my historical ten year gap in pursuing martial arts, I found myself once again drawn to its study. This time I decided to take on Karate. My initial motivation was my 8 year-old son. I thought it important to provide him not only a physical outlet, but an opportunity to receive discipline and focused instruction from another adult. We found an instructor through the Navy Morale, Welfare, and Recreation department and set out to try Karate on for size.
Our sensei's (teacher's) name was Nobuaki Ota. He was roughly 5'5", balding, ridiculously strong, easily old enough to be my father if not more, had an infectious smile, and didn't really speak a lick of English. Thank God that body language is easy to follow in martial arts. By the end of the first session with Ota Sensei I was exhausted - and hooked! Whether my son loved it or not would remain to be seen, but I needed to know more.
Sensei worked me to a bone. My crimson face and every pore of my body dripped sweat throughout every lesson. Each week I found myself more focused than the week before. I hung on his every word, dissected his every movement, and studied his Japanese in order to learn the correct terms. He gave me a DVD to use in studying the correct forms or "kata". I couldn't get enough.
Being an extrovert, I desperately wanted to know more about Ota Sensei. Knowing him compelled me even further to study the Japanese language. It was such a joy to us both when we could understand each other without the use of a translator. Eventually, I came to know more of him and his life. He had taught Karate for 30 years and still has a child who lives in the United States. We were even blessed to have a lovely evening among a group of Japanese and American friends where we all went to Japanese style karaoke and shared coffee afterward. Sensei can sing a beautiful Japanese ballad.
Seeing the smile cross his face when I would perform my kata correctly or when I performed admirably during our sparring brought me immense joy. That smile, along with one of his few English words, "good", made me want to work harder. In a sense, the feeling was similar to how I would feel if my dad expressed pride or an appreciation of my work. Eventually, the day came when Sensei said I was ready to take my first test. I was nervous, excited, and only sure I was ready because he was sure. I trusted his wisdom and guidance.
The day of my test turned out to be more than just a test of Karate skills. I was a fish out of water. Traveling to a sports facility south of my home in Yokohama - an area I was only vaguely familiar with - I had no idea what to expect. Simply walking into the building was a test of courage. I was surrounded by a sea of Japanese faces, none of whom I recognized. As it turned out, I was the only foreigner in the entire place and people stared. I must have been a strange sight. My anxiety was growing and I felt as if all my training was leaving me in a rush of adrenaline. Just as I was feeling completely lost, Sensei strode in with confidence. It was hard to contain my relief.
We stepped outside where he went over my moves and their Japanese terms. Since the whole test would be conducted in Japanese it would be critical for me to understand the judges as they gave instructions. All my movements were to be ordered from the initial bow to the last, with each kick, punch, and turn to be performed in concert with a command. I focused insanely on each person going before me, so that by the time it was my turn I found myself moving with relative confidence and fluidity with the judge's commands. Sharp, quick, controlled, focused - the whole room disappeared as I moved across the floor. Only afterward did I realize that it seemed the whole room was sizing me up.
The following week Sensei gave me a certificate written completely in Japanese and translated it as best he could. In essence, I had passed. There was no fanfare, no party, just back to work. After that first test, Karate took on a whole different meaning for me. I began to see the minutia of detail that went into every movement. The lifelong study of an art had never had personal significance to me until then.
One day during our practice I recall being pleased that I had finally conquered a movement that had given me difficulty. Over and over I had practiced and repeatedly I had stopped and gone back to the beginning with a heavy sigh. I was hoping for and maybe even expecting to receive the proverbial "pat on the back" when Sensei approached me and went straight to my hand. While conquering the movement with my legs and perhaps most of my upper body, I had lost focus on my hands. He reached and corrected my thumb, which had gone lazy and strayed from what should have been its perfect resting place. Finally, I understood the true meaning of discipline. According to the definition, discipline, in part, is behavior in accordance with rules of conduct; behavior and order maintained by training and control. In that moment with Ota Sensei is when it occurred to me that I would spend the rest of my life working to perfect this art and still never get it right! Wow, what a concept! Even more amazing to me is that I'm perfectly content to spend the rest of my life trying.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The Right Man
When I was a little girl I had a mental checklist of all the things I hoped for in a man, a husband. I dare say that most girls ponder this question. Commonly, I think the list begins with preferred hair and eye color. Focusing on the tangible for me was just an easy (and shallow) place to start. For the record, my dream man was supposed to have dark hair and blue eyes and in many ways resembled Clark Gable.
It's sad to say that I think the picture in my head of the perfect man was drawn from many a Hollywood character or actor. My dream man would serenade me like Bing Crosby, dance like Fred Astaire, be passionate and soulful like Elvis, be highly educated and a lover of languages, have the ability to fix anything, adore children, be a crime fighter, and generally leap tall buildings in a single bound. This was not an exhaustive list by any means, but you get the idea.
As I moved into my 20's I thought the love of my life was required to sweep me off my feet. I longed for sweetness, romance, and spontaneity. Visions of dancing the night away filled my head. My knight-in-shining-armor would be a renaissance man who would fill my days and nights with meaningful conversation, culture, and playful banter. In short, he would light up a room when he walked in and therefore, my life. Of course, everyone would be drawn to him, but he would reserve himself for me alone.
We recently watched a movie in which a young girl fell in love with a man who very much fit my youthful description of the perfect man. The whole thing seemed very romantic until toward the end when it was discovered that he had been deceptive all along and suddenly left her. All the charisma in the world can't take the place of a man who will be there for you through all the ups and downs in wedding vows and life.
I've now been married twelve years. My husband fulfilled the dark-haired requirement of my youth, but that is nearly the extent of the similarities between my fantasy and real life. He is a good dancer and has wonderful rhythm. Though I'm rarely blessed to hear him, he also has a nice singing voice. He can fix pretty much anything, but can't really clear the ground more than a couple feet in a single bound. What I've learned in our twelve years is that the things I hoped for as a girl couldn't hold a candle to the qualities I've been blessed with in my husband.
He goes to work every morning and comes home every night. I could set my watch by his punctuality. He is dependable and true. Not once have I ever worried, even as I knew he might be faced with temptations in foreign lands during deployments, that he would ever be unfaithful. His commitment to me and our family is solid and he provides a wonderful example for other sailors and men in general.
He anticipates our needs and seems to think of everything I don't. Our brains are simply wired differently. Because we view the world from our two different angles, which are often so opposite one another, we tend to have all the bases covered. It's like doing the sack race with someone who is completely in step with you, allowing you to run to the finish line. We compliment each other.
For many years I had difficulty appreciating his reservedness. Being an extrovert made it hard for me to understand. If I ever thought it was weakness, he has proven me wrong as he has stood in the gap and shored me up during our greatest challenges. When I've needed him, he's been there. He may be a man of few words on most occasions, but when he speaks I have found it important to listen to his wisdom.
Anytime I have struggled spiritually it has been my husband who has brought me back. When church was the last place I wanted to be, he made sure I was there. He lifted up my countenance and set my eyes upon the heavenly places.
He's not the polished renaissance man I dreamed of in my youth, and thank God for that. If he were "Mr. Charisma," he would likely be focused more on pleasing everyone around him instead of living for his family and making us his number one priority. God knew what I needed even as I tried desperately to manufacture my own future. He knew my husband's heart and prepared him just for me. Thankfully, I have found that my dream is further surpassed every year by reality. Ultimately, I found that when I got out of the way, the unexpected happened - the right man was there all along - waiting for me. He will never be perfect (nor will I), but he's perfect for me.
It's sad to say that I think the picture in my head of the perfect man was drawn from many a Hollywood character or actor. My dream man would serenade me like Bing Crosby, dance like Fred Astaire, be passionate and soulful like Elvis, be highly educated and a lover of languages, have the ability to fix anything, adore children, be a crime fighter, and generally leap tall buildings in a single bound. This was not an exhaustive list by any means, but you get the idea.
As I moved into my 20's I thought the love of my life was required to sweep me off my feet. I longed for sweetness, romance, and spontaneity. Visions of dancing the night away filled my head. My knight-in-shining-armor would be a renaissance man who would fill my days and nights with meaningful conversation, culture, and playful banter. In short, he would light up a room when he walked in and therefore, my life. Of course, everyone would be drawn to him, but he would reserve himself for me alone.
We recently watched a movie in which a young girl fell in love with a man who very much fit my youthful description of the perfect man. The whole thing seemed very romantic until toward the end when it was discovered that he had been deceptive all along and suddenly left her. All the charisma in the world can't take the place of a man who will be there for you through all the ups and downs in wedding vows and life.
I've now been married twelve years. My husband fulfilled the dark-haired requirement of my youth, but that is nearly the extent of the similarities between my fantasy and real life. He is a good dancer and has wonderful rhythm. Though I'm rarely blessed to hear him, he also has a nice singing voice. He can fix pretty much anything, but can't really clear the ground more than a couple feet in a single bound. What I've learned in our twelve years is that the things I hoped for as a girl couldn't hold a candle to the qualities I've been blessed with in my husband.
He goes to work every morning and comes home every night. I could set my watch by his punctuality. He is dependable and true. Not once have I ever worried, even as I knew he might be faced with temptations in foreign lands during deployments, that he would ever be unfaithful. His commitment to me and our family is solid and he provides a wonderful example for other sailors and men in general.
He anticipates our needs and seems to think of everything I don't. Our brains are simply wired differently. Because we view the world from our two different angles, which are often so opposite one another, we tend to have all the bases covered. It's like doing the sack race with someone who is completely in step with you, allowing you to run to the finish line. We compliment each other.
For many years I had difficulty appreciating his reservedness. Being an extrovert made it hard for me to understand. If I ever thought it was weakness, he has proven me wrong as he has stood in the gap and shored me up during our greatest challenges. When I've needed him, he's been there. He may be a man of few words on most occasions, but when he speaks I have found it important to listen to his wisdom.
Anytime I have struggled spiritually it has been my husband who has brought me back. When church was the last place I wanted to be, he made sure I was there. He lifted up my countenance and set my eyes upon the heavenly places.
He's not the polished renaissance man I dreamed of in my youth, and thank God for that. If he were "Mr. Charisma," he would likely be focused more on pleasing everyone around him instead of living for his family and making us his number one priority. God knew what I needed even as I tried desperately to manufacture my own future. He knew my husband's heart and prepared him just for me. Thankfully, I have found that my dream is further surpassed every year by reality. Ultimately, I found that when I got out of the way, the unexpected happened - the right man was there all along - waiting for me. He will never be perfect (nor will I), but he's perfect for me.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Caution: Slippery When Wet
In February 2009 I was approximately 4.5 months pregnant with the twins. It had been a long time coming - 6.5 years to be exact. Koen was then 9 years-old.
On that day we were walking through the community center on our base. We eventually came upon a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign where maintenance had just mopped. Koen said, "Be careful, Mama." He then reached out and wrapped one arm around my waist, while placing his other hand on my pregnant belly. As we carefully crossed the wet floor, he closely watched every step I took. I was chuckling at the cuteness and sincerity of his concern when I asked him if he was worried about me falling. He said he wasn't worried about me, but that he had waited a long time to be a brother and didn't want his siblings to get hurt!
Oh, the heart of my son! All I could do was smile.
On that day we were walking through the community center on our base. We eventually came upon a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign where maintenance had just mopped. Koen said, "Be careful, Mama." He then reached out and wrapped one arm around my waist, while placing his other hand on my pregnant belly. As we carefully crossed the wet floor, he closely watched every step I took. I was chuckling at the cuteness and sincerity of his concern when I asked him if he was worried about me falling. He said he wasn't worried about me, but that he had waited a long time to be a brother and didn't want his siblings to get hurt!
Oh, the heart of my son! All I could do was smile.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
My Son's Mature Moment
As a home school family, we're always looking for new and exciting educational opportunities, not just for our kids but for the whole family as well. Living in the area we are currently located has blessed us with access to an amazing home school support group. They are very active and provide activities such as P.E., a spelling bee, a science fair, a history fair, field trips, dance, and the list could go on. Recently, we've been attending a weekly co-op where my son Koen has been studying Bible history and (if you can believe it) cake decorating. He loves it!
This week, we headed off to co-op with the twins. It happened that I was teaching a Japanese culture class to elementary students this week and the twins would be in the nursery. With Koen's help, we got the twins into the nursery and they began playing under his watchful eye. I only had a few minutes before needing to set up my classroom. I asked Koen to stay with them while I was in the next room setting up for my class. I told him that there would soon be another mom come in who would be watching the kids and to please stay with them until then. He was happy to stay and play with his brother and sister. He loves that too!
Soon after I stepped out, another mom stepped in to watch over the nursery kids. Moments later a second mom arrived to help. The first mom told Koen it was okay for him to go to class and they would take care of the twins. Koen, being the young man he is, looked around the room and took stock of his surroundings before responding, "Well, there are five kids and only two adults. That's not a very good ratio, so I think I'll stay until one more adult comes." The other mom was slightly stunned at his response and thankfully shared it with me later on. It was a blessing to hear another parent comment on the maturity of my 11 year-old. That was a proud Mama moment! My son is such a cool person! :)
This week, we headed off to co-op with the twins. It happened that I was teaching a Japanese culture class to elementary students this week and the twins would be in the nursery. With Koen's help, we got the twins into the nursery and they began playing under his watchful eye. I only had a few minutes before needing to set up my classroom. I asked Koen to stay with them while I was in the next room setting up for my class. I told him that there would soon be another mom come in who would be watching the kids and to please stay with them until then. He was happy to stay and play with his brother and sister. He loves that too!
Soon after I stepped out, another mom stepped in to watch over the nursery kids. Moments later a second mom arrived to help. The first mom told Koen it was okay for him to go to class and they would take care of the twins. Koen, being the young man he is, looked around the room and took stock of his surroundings before responding, "Well, there are five kids and only two adults. That's not a very good ratio, so I think I'll stay until one more adult comes." The other mom was slightly stunned at his response and thankfully shared it with me later on. It was a blessing to hear another parent comment on the maturity of my 11 year-old. That was a proud Mama moment! My son is such a cool person! :)
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Shared Sorrow, Shared Miracles
As I sit here staring at my pregnant belly, I’m contemplating the reasons why I would tell this story. It’s not only mine to tell. The truth is that I’m only playing a part in the miracle that is unfolding. The journey I am on is entwined with that of another person whom I love deeply – my sister Valerie.
As a kid, one thing my sister always knew with absolute certainty was that she wanted to be a mom. She’s always had the heart of a mom. I understand that drive toward motherhood. I was the same. Neither of us could have imagined that having children would turn out to be a struggle. Infertility is not something on your mind when you are busy saying “I do” and planning a future complete with a family. I think most people naturally assume that it will happen in due time, if not on command. It’s simply not that, well, simple.
I was married in 1999 with no immediate plans to try and have children. We knew eventually we would have a family and were in no hurry. It turned out that God had other plans and we were pregnant six weeks later. I was stunned to be pregnant considering my historical lack of ovulation. In fact, I hadn’t had a period for seven months prior to becoming pregnant. It was definitely meant to be.
When our son was born, we knew we didn’t want to become pregnant again until after I finished college. Fast forward 2.5 years – I graduated, we moved half-way around the world, then began trying to conceive. Year after heart-breaking year we waited. It was agonizing, especially seeing friends around me becoming pregnant. I was sad, frustrated, envious, and confused about why we were having such a hard time having a second child. We wanted desperately for our son to have a sibling as well. After more than five years of infertility we finally decided to see a specialist. Until then I’d never heard of secondary infertility. Since I wasn’t ovulating at all, and hadn’t cycled in roughly nine months, the doctor recommended we use the fertility drug Clomid. After one cycle on Clomid, I became pregnant. We were elated that we’d conceived so quickly. Unfortunately, our joy lasted only three months before I learned I’d had a “missed miscarriage.” One day the baby was there with a heartbeat, arms, and legs. A week or so later, the heart had stopped and the arms and legs had already begun to disintegrate. I was devastated! I eventually had to undergo surgery to remove what my body would not miscarry on its own. I knew at the time that there was a reason for my loss, horrific as it was, and I was determined to find a positive.
One year later, my husband and I decided to try one last time to conceive. We would use one more cycle of Clomid and prepared ourselves to except the results, no matter what they were. It was our last hurrah. Once again, using one dose of Clomid, we conceived. At seven weeks we learned we were having twins! I was able to carry nearly to full-term two beautiful, healthy babies – a boy and a girl. My children were nearly ten years apart. They are miracles to me considering my history.
During all the time I was having fertility issues my sister was having a fertility crisis of her own. Unlike me, she has always been able to naturally mark her cycles on a calendar. She could tell you nearly within hours when she would start her period. I thought she was tremendously blessed in that regard. Unfortunately, though she was able to conceive with no assistance, she had recurrent miscarriages. Around the time she had her 6th or 7th miscarriage, I made a comment to her that if it came down to it that I would carry a baby for her. I know for certain that she would do the same for me. That first conversation was sometime around 2007. She thanked me, but quickly dismissed it as a possibility. As she continued having one miscarriage after another, she gradually began to think that perhaps she would never be able to carry a baby to full-term. Sometime around her tenth loss, she and my brother-in-law began to think seriously about my offer. Perhaps surrogacy might be their only chance to have children.
After delivering my own twins, moving again half-way around the world, and undergoing a double mastectomy and reconstruction, we decided to pursue IVF using my sister’s egg and her husband’s sperm. We were incredibly blessed to become pregnant on the first attempt. Now at 13+ weeks, I stare at my pregnant belly thinking about what we’ve done and what’s to come. People ask me if it was a difficult decision to make, being a surrogate for my sister. They wonder aloud if I will have a hard time giving the baby to my sister and brother-in-law. Some have put me on a pedestal for doing this for my sister. All I can say to these things is that it would have been infinitely more painful to watch my sister miss out on motherhood – to see the loss in her eyes as she plays with my children would be heart-wrenching for me. The day we deliver will be a day full of emotion. I have to say though that this is something Valerie and I are doing for each other. She is giving me just as great of a gift. She is allowing me to be an aunt for the first time, to give my children a cousin to walk through their lives with them. She’s also giving my own infertility struggles and miscarriage meaning. I truly believe I went through these things in order to prepare my heart for the moment my sister would need me…to relate to her…to grieve with her…and ultimately, to play a role in making her the mom she was always meant to be.
A large number of people have told me they've contemplated being a surrogate. The thought honestly never crossed my mind until my sister had this need. Now that we're walking this path together I can't imagine not being here with her. It's been an amazing experience that's brought new closeness to already tight relationships between my sister, brother-in-law, me, and my husband. We are all excited about what the future holds and looking forward to someday in August when we can count ten fingers and ten toes!
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