Authentic Moments

Around this time of the year I always remember all of my ridiculous travel stories flying home from college for the Christmas break. My very first time coming home for Christmas, I had no idea what the heck I was doing. I overpacked like crazy. I had a huge rolling luggage, a large duffle bag, my backpack, and a small carry-on bag. Of course this is in addition to the sweater, winter coat, scarf, hat, and mittens I was wearing because it was snowing pretty hard when I left my dorm.

The plan was to catch the shuttle that picked up at the Bookstore and ride it all the way to Midway Airport in Chicago. My dorm was on the complete opposite end of campus from the shuttle pickup. And with all the luggage it was definitely about a 30 minute walk especially in the snow. As usual, I was running late. Like very late. Like the shuttle is leaving in 15 minutes and I’m still throwing things in a bag late. I somehow made it down three flights of stairs with all that luggage and out the door. I’m hoofing it across campus as quick as I can which is still pretty slow. The luggage was so ridiculously heavy.

I was basically running as fast as I could down God Quad. I looked at my watch. The shuttle should be leaving at that very second. I kept running hoping that it was running late. I got to Main Circle which is still a pretty good distance from where I needed to be and I gave up. I couldn’t run anymore. I was exhausted from everything weighing me down. Literally.

At that moment, an angel appeared. An NDSP officer was parked at Main Circle for whatever reason. He saw me, jumped out of his SUV, grabbed all my luggage and threw it into the back and told me to jump in. He tore down the road basically flooring it the whole way as I could see the shuttle pulling out of the parking lot. Ugh, I thought, what am I going to do? I just missed the shuttle.

The officer laid on the gas even more and screeched to a halt as he cut off the shuttle which was now halfway into the main road. He got all my luggage out and stood at the shuttle doors until the driver opened the doors, loaded my luggage, and sold me a ticket. Then he drove away without even letting me say thank you.

I could feel the glares boring into my skull as I shuffled to my seat exhausted and out of breath.

Thank you, NDSP officer. Thanks for helping a so-bad-at-time-management, freshman girl get home for Christmas.

(I do wish I could say that was my only misadventure due to me being late. It soo was not.)

 

Let me set the scene.

My parents L-O-V-E Disneyland. It’s actually pretty cute. They went there on their honeymoon. They took me there every year between the ages of 3-12. We even all went when I was pregnant with Olivia (our first kid) because my dad had won a free trip for four.

They’ve been dying to take our girls to Disneyland basically since Olivia was old enough to walk. But I’ve always said that we can’t go until no one needs a nap. Which is roughly when the youngest of our kids is around 4 or 5 years old.

This was my dad’s reaction when we told my parents we were pregnant for the 4th time:

We’re just going to go to Disneyland. You just keep having babies. We’re never going to get to take the girls.

Pure gold. 🙂

As I’ve mentioned before, when I was pregnant with the twins I had to get my hormone levels checked every two weeks. Which means I had to get blood drawn every two weeks. And, as I’ve mentioned before, I hate needles. Hate, hate, hate. Mostly because I have bad veins. They are thin and deep and most times I have to be stuck repeatedly. And even when they do find a vein that works, usually my blood will clot and they have to stick me a few more times to find another vein.

Probably the most painful part of my labor and delivery with the twins was getting my IV put in by that first nurse. She tried at least four times, if not more. My arms were covered in bruises the next day from all the sticks.

Anyway, my point is, I have bad veins. Period. I have a hundred nurses/blood center workers to back me up.

Every time I walked into CPL to get my blood drawn I’d warn the phlebotomist about my veins and I’d ask for the baby needle (butterfly needle) because they usually have more luck with it.

One phlebotomist that I came to know from my frequent visits was such a character. She was loud and opinionated and hilarious. This is from the first time I met her and her reaction to my warnings:

You have veins the size of a sausage. You’re making me nervous. Are you always like this? Who have you gotten before? What was their name?

What is an “Authentic Moment”? Check it out.

Also, I had to look up how to spell phlebotomist. It would be an amazing Scrabble word.

If you’ve never read Simcha Fisher’s blog, I Have to Sit Down, you should start. She is opinionated and frank and so so wise. But mostly she paints a picture of a very faithful Catholic wife and mother that doesn’t make you think she is levitating and glowing as she washes the dishes. After having Olivia I scoured the blogosphere for other moms like me and it made me so depressed. They all sounded so perfect and put together. Which was great for them but I was drowning. Then I found Simcha and she made me feel better because what she says is so true. What most impresses me is that despite her signature snark, she is so charitable. She has such an understanding and compassionate heart.  She recently had a miscarriage and part of the post is one of the most beautiful things I’ve read about the love of a wife for her husband during pregnancy:

Last night, I was cold and couldn’t sleep, so I snuggled up against my husband, who is always warm. When I’m pregnant, I like to press my belly against him so that we can all be warm all together, me and him and the baby.  ”Here you go, little guy.  This is your daddy.  You will like him.”

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What does “authentic moment” mean? Read here.

I have never seen such an unabashedly excited reaction.

We were at a friend’s wedding a while back.  The groom had lost his father at least a decade earlier. There was a beautiful bouquet of flowers on a seat in the front row meant to honor him. During the ceremony, the priest spoke the father’s name and prayed for the couple to live their lives in the same spirit in which he lived his. The groom’s eyes welled up for a second but he controlled the surge of emotion. His sister, a bridesmaid, maybe unaware of this tribute, eyes instantly bloodshot from the sheer force exerted trying to push back the wave of tears. Eyes red, lips pursed, unable to blend the sorrow and joy of the moment, resolute tears streamed down her face.

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What does “authentic moment” mean? Read here.