"Outnumbered" OR "Blessed Beyond Measure"

If you're a regular follower of this blog, then you know that me and Hillary are officially expecting our third child (our first child together) in October. In case you haven't heard that story, feel free to check out the post previous to this one. It was quite a journey to make it to this point.

Even though the big secret was revealed to the whole world, there was still another secret that far fewer people were privy to:

Boy or Girl? 

Only a select few people knew. Not even Hillary and I; we arranged with Hillary's doctor to seal the identity of the gender in an envelope, which we delivered to Hillary's mother, Teresa, and Hillary's brother's girlfriend, Mohini. The two of them had volunteered to throw us a gender reveal party as soon as they heard we had a baby on the way. 

It was almost a month between the big Facebook pregnancy reveal and the gender reveal party. And in that time, Hillary researched (and practiced) every old wives' tale she could find about determining the baby's gender.  

What she considered the most important tell was the baby's heartbeat. Using a home fetal doppler, she found (and still finds) the baby's heartbeat at least once a day. According to the doppler, the baby has a heart rate of around 150 bpm. And, according to whatever nebulous place on the internet where one finds such information, a heart rate that slow indicated a boy. 

Hillary was also incredibly nauseous for the entire first trimester. And, according to a friend of ours who experienced the same symptoms, those are symptoms of being pregnant with a boy (the friend in question had, appropriate to her theory, given birth to a boy). 

When the gender reveal party finally arrived, Hillary and I were treated to an amazing surprise: a volcano. 

We were to pour baking soda into the volcano, and watch as lava streamed out the top. The color of the lava would indicate the baby's gender. 

Volcanos are messy, so we took it outside. And there, in our front yard, we saw it. 

PINK lava. 

Honesty time. And yes, I realize that's pretty much all the time with me, especially when I post my thoughts and exercises and whatever else on the internet for all to read. But time to lay out the truth like a fitted sheet. Because that's the thing with the truth: it looks easy, but most of the time it's corners have elastic in them and you can't get them around the mattress without someone's help. 

I was a little disappointed. 

Don't get me wrong; I am absolutely thrilled that me and Hillary are going to bring this little girl into the world. I consider myself the luckiest man in the world (eat your heart out, Lou Gehrig), that I not only get to raise this child of mine, but the two beautiful, wonderful girls that God decided to bring into my life. And I could not ask for a more supportive, hard-working, and loving woman to call my wife through it all. 

But, even so... I sort of wanted a son. And I don't think there's anything wrong with that.  

Maybe it's something hard-wired into the DNA of a man, to want a smaller version of you running around behind you, learning all the things you learned, from you, watching him grow and wondering what kind of man he's going to be. And, of course, there's the patriarchal desire to continue passing your name to your descendants. As if I was a Game of Thrones character looking to extend my family bloodline. 

By that evening, when all our friends had gone home and Hillary and I had put our two current girls to bed, the shock of seeing the pink lava had worn off. And I'd had time to consider what I'd been telling people for weeks, who'd been asking the ubiquitous question, "What do you want your baby to be?" 

"Healthy," I'd said. 

And, by God, I am sticking by it. 

This child is the child that Hillary and I prayed for, the one we'd spend month after month trying for, mourning for, and placing all our hopes and dreams in. After losing the pregnancy in October (see last blog post), all we wanted was a happy, healthy baby together. The way I look at it, God has a lot more experience in choosing the perfect children for their parents, and I haven't heard an instance yet of Him getting it wrong. She is our child, our gift from God, exactly as He has intended her. The gender He's picked is good enough for Him, so it's certainly good enough for me. 

Last weekend, Hillary and I got to attended two weddings on the same day; one in the early afternoon, and one in the evening, one-hundred-and-fifty miles apart. It made for a lot of driving, but we got to see our beautiful girls drop flower petals just before a bride made the walk to meet her groom. 

No, really, I'm not crying. There's just something in my eye. 

And then, as I gradually stretched the truth of the matter around my mattress of life, I began to realize  the full weight of what it meant to have the unparalleled honor of being a father to three daughters. 

One day, I will be the guy walking a girl down the aisle to meet her groom. 

And I'm going to get to do it three times. 

There are going to be, at fewest, six prom dresses these girls are going to be fitted for, which I'm going to object to because of the (in my eyes) scandalous amount of skin they show, but for which I'll eventually give in at the girls' insistence, because I'm their dad and I'm already wrapped around their little fingers. 

Boys galore are going to be brought to our house, and I'm going to feel like almost all of them are not good enough for my girls. I'm going to ruthlessly create lists of all the qualities I don't like in them, but I'm going to keep (most of them) to myself because I want to trust their judgment. And besides, everyone knows telling a teenage girl she CAN'T date a certain boy only makes her want to date him even more. 

I'm also going to learn how to disassemble a gun on the kitchen table, clean it, and meticulously reassemble it. Just in case. 

There are going to be sleep-overs, make-overs, tea parties, wrestling matches, games of tag and hide-and-seek and video game marathons, sword fights and scary stories and campfires and s'mores. And it's all because God decided to bless me with three little girls. 

Yes, I'm hopelessly outnumbered. But this is exactly how God intended it. So I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Seeing how grown-up Faith and Zoe already are, and how fast they're growing up, I barely held it together as the wedding progressed. And as much as I can't wait for our new baby to arrive, I want to revel in this magical time of not knowing, of simply wondering and waiting and hoping. 

Oh, and if you're wondering, the baby is completely healthy. 

See you in October, Elliot Katherine Smith. 

"Running on Empty" OR "My Easy Week"

It's the last week before spring break. Also known as the Last Great Battle of the school year.

Sure, there will be troubles to come. After all, KPREP is a mere 24 days away (we're keeping count), and there will be days upon days of dreary review material, during which the kids will hate me and I'll hate Common Core and we'll all pretty much loathe life. But this week is the Last Great Battle, because it is the last week before an extended break. And what a break it is; the first break since returning from Christmas vacation, snow days notwithstanding. Long-anticipated through cold, dark, dreary days.

And this week finds most of us, teachers, running on empty.

This is the week when we try to quickly assess over content we know our students will forget over the long week's vacation. The last chance to get another project finished, to try some new activity to keep our students occupied and happy and engaged for just five more days.

So we scour the internet for ideas. We beg, borrow, and steal from colleagues. We comb the resource closest. Anything and everything is thrown at the wall, to see what sticks.

And as the days progress, students get wilder and wilder and wilder.

As of now, there are three days left in the week. Three days I am not looking forward to. But three days I've got to endure.

Which sort of what makes this feel like the longest week of the year.

I'm right on the cusp of race season; my favorite races of the year are all mere weeks away. But nothing this week but anticipation.

Normally I can occupy myself with the NCAA men's basketball championship. But, this year, the University of Kentucky lost in the second round to Indiana, a team with more sleeper potential than anyone living in the Bluegrass state gave them credit for. With them gone, I've lost all interest in college basketball. Which leaves baseball as the only viable sport to become invested in. But even on its best days, baseball can't hold my attention the way football and basketball can. Since the baseball regular season has yet to start, I've got nothing to distract me from the thickness of this miserable week.

But then I remember what this week is really supposed to represent. Yes, it's a week when I'm still responsible to teach my students the content they need... but, more importantly, it's Holy Week.

Holy Week is the week before Jesus' crucifixion, when He returned to Jerusalem even though he knew what awaited him there. On Sunday, He rode triumphantly into the city, as onlookers proclaimed, "Make way for the Christ! Make way for the Christ! Blessed is he, who comes in the name of the Lord!"

Jesus knew word would spread. He knew the teacher of the law and Roman guards alike would surround him before the end of the week. He knew of his arrest, his farce of a trial, his conviction. He knew he'd endure hours and hours of torture before being subjected to the most painful death imaginable. But still, he rode into Jerusalem for the Passover festivities with his head held high. He knew who'd send him, and what he'd come to do. And he thought we were worth it.

How whiney must my complaints sound to him?

I gave up social media for Lent, and it's been difficult. This last week of media abstinence has me nearly foaming at the mouth to open Facebook, just for the heck of it. It's almost as though giving it up for Lent has actually increased my dependence on in instead of breaking me of the habit cold-turkey.

On this day, nearly two thousand years ago, my Lord was giving one of his last addresses to his closest followers. I can't wait four more days to take a personality quiz?

A woman anointed Jesus's feet with perfume and her tears, overcome by the weight of her sin and guilt in the presence of her Savior. And I'm complaining that I have to teach three more days before I get a week off?

My Friday is going to consist of whatever activity I can throw together to keep my kids occupied until the final bell rings. Jesus' Friday consisted of him crying at a lonely rock, pleading with his Father one last time for some way, any other way, to save all of humanity than what he was about to go through.

On Saturday, my family and I are flying to Disney World, the self-proclaimed 'Happiest place on earth'. Jesus would get no sleep on Friday night, because of his trial that takes place in the dead of night. He endures stones, whips, thorns, and finally the cross.

When I lay it out like that, I know I've got nothing to complain about.

But, darn it. I'm a weak human. I know what Jesus went through for me, and the mark it should make on my life and my thankfulness for my job, and the ever-warming weather, and a week's break. But those happy thoughts feel awfully useless when I'm staring down a room full of thirty-three 7th graders who're losing their minds.

 The three days left this week are going to be the longest of the whole year. And the struggle is going to be remembering that I shouldn't complain about ANYTHING that happens during them, because no matter how many last-minute grades I have to put in, disciplinary actions I have to take, or meetings I have to attend... the end of my Passover week is going to be a heck of a lot easier than Jesus' was.

A while ago I wrote a short story in Cut and Dry, my creative blog, from the point of view of the Apostle Peter, set on Good Friday. If you have a moment, check out "Upon This Rock".

7-23-14: "The Long Run", OR "Beginning Again"

Well, it finally happened.

For the first time since I started judiciously blogging, I am a married man.

Yeah, we were pretty stoked. 

 I started this blog not long after my now ex-wife moved out, around summer 2012. I had a few good posts that summer, but then fall rolled around. With both the summer sun and my wife gone, I lapsed into a series of unhealthy habits and unfortunate decisions, things that didn't reflect who I truly was. I suppose, looking back now, that they were all actions of a man trying to figure out who he was outside of a relationship he had invested nearly seven years into; someone trying to figure out how to "Enjoy his own company", as a therapist put it (and yes, I saw a therapist for a while, with absolutely no shame). 

One of the most moving moments during that time is recorded in cartoon form on the wall of Side Bar Grill, one of my favorite places in Lexington. Someone was nice enough to take a picture of the cartoon and Tweet it to me.

During that dark time, I wrote a lot. It was pretty much the only outlet I had for all that depression that didn't involve a bottle, and it was a heck of a lot more healthy. Many of those writings are only now seeing the light of day. Two of the pieces, titled "Storm Clouds" and "Smash", have been posted on my short story blog, Cut and Dry, if you'd like to check them out. Fair warning: they're pretty dark, because it was a pretty dark period in my life, "Smash" in particular.

Spring 2013, I reconnected with a girl named Hillary Smith that I had been sort of acquainted with in high school. We definitely hadn't been friends; I couldn't recall even one conversation the two of us had shared the three years we were at Belfry High School together. Though she'll deny it now, back in those days she was WAAAAAY out of my league. She insists I should have asked her out, that high-school-me and high-school-her totally would have been an item.

She is far too kind. Anyone I was friends with in high school will verify just how far out of my league she was.

We had been Facebook 'friends' for several years, though there had been zero correspondence between us. I did know, though, simply from her posts and pictures, that she was married to another guy she and I went to high school with, they had two daughters, and they were still living somewhere in Kentucky. But in the spring of 2013, I started noticing a few changes in her posts. She was using pronoun phrases like, "A change in my life", and "My latest adventure", and "My new apartment." It was a change that I had noticed in my own moody Facebook posts and short writings.

I'm not sure why I messaged her that day, and asked her about her life change. Call it fate. Call it destiny. I'm calling it God getting fed up with me making poor decisions and nudging me in the right direction.

Fast forward, a little more than a year later. I'm stepping off a plane onto a tiny runway in the Florida Keys, honeymooning with that acquaintance I messaged out of the blue.

She's still out of my league. As long as she never realizes that, I'm in the clear. 

I normally use this blog to describe my various exploits in running, athletics, or anything else I'm doing that could possibly injure me in some way. I mean, the blog is called "Runner Confidential," for crying out loud. But this post has nothing to do with running, exercising, or being active in any way. Unless you count that we've been riding bikes to get around the Key West, which I totally am. Hey, I haven't ridden a bike in, like, twenty years! It's hard! 

No, this blog post is simply to celebrate how far God has brought me and Hillary over the last two years. In case you hadn't heard, she's had a harrowing year or so, herself. If you're curious, one of the many links above goes to her blog. If you're both curious AND lazy, then click here to check it out. 

For those looking to hear more about my exploits on running, I promise I'll get back at it as soon as I'm out of the Florida humidity. Until then, I'm going to be snorkeling, deep-sea fishing, and peddling around an island with the love of my life. 

In case you're desperate for something to read/look at until I get back to running, you can check out 'A Man's World', where I post silly rules for maintaining my manliness while living in a house filled with women. I post there pretty frequently, because my phone makes it easy. Thanks, technology!  

Also, sorry for the sheer number of links in this post. You should click on all of them; they all go to cool stuff. Well, all of them except this one.