That one moment...

The moment that changed my life was not my moment.

When I was sixteen, my dad accepted a new job in a different state. The move that we made as a family when I was sixteen changed the course of my entire life. When I look back over my thirty years, no other single moment changed things as drastically as that one.

As I ponder that particular memory, a couple of things jump out at me. First of all, it wasn't my moment. It wasn't my choice. In fact, if it had been up to me, we would not have moved. We were comfortable. I was happy. I had a plan for my future. I didn't want to change it.

The second thing I think of is the fact that because of that move, I am changed. If we hadn't moved, I would still be quiet and shy. When we moved, I was pushed outside my comfort zone. I made new friends, which is very hard to do at any age, but especially at sixteen.

If we hadn't moved, I would not have married The Hubs. I would not have two beautiful sons. I wouldn't be the same me that I am today.

Sometimes, someone else's moment can change your life more than anything else.

Sunrise on my morning run.

INFJ

The Blogtember challenge for today is to take this short personality survey and to respond to my results.

Apparently, I am Introvert, iNtuitive, Feeling and Judging.

Interesting. 

Actually, I'd recently read this article and when I showed it to The Hubs, we both knew that it was ME to a T. I am an introvert, and there is no debating that! (He likes to say that he is introverted, but the only thing in the article that describes him is his extreme hatred of small talk!)

The Jung Typology Test results personality profile states:

INFJs are deeply concerned about their relations with individuals as well as the state of humanity at large. They are, in fact, sometimes mistaken for extroverts because they appear so outgoing and are so genuinely interested in people -- a product of the Feeling function they most readily show to the world. On the contrary, INFJs are true introverts, who can only be emotionally intimate and fulfilled with a chosen few from among their long-term friends, family, or obvious "soul mates." (source)

There is nothing in the world more important to me than people, and getting to know their heart and connecting on a deep level. I truly do care and want the best for everyone (idealist... see below!), and this has sometimes gotten me into trouble. (Oh, the stories I could tell if I had the time and space!) 

Also interesting:

INFJs are distinguished by both their complexity of character and the unusual range and depth of their talents. Strongly humanitarian in outlook, INFJs tend to be idealists, and because of their J preference for closure and completion, they are generally "doers" as well as dreamers. This rare combination of vision and practicality often results in INFJs taking a disproportionate amount of responsibility in the various causes to which so many of them seem to be drawn. (source)

The words "idealist" and "dreamer" are me, me, me! My handle has been daydrmr82 for YEARS. The Hubs and I just had a conversation not that long ago about how my idealist tendencies have caused me great disappointment in different aspects of my life. I grew up believing in the happily ever afters and the Prince Charmings and "if you work hard enough, all your dreams will come true." Oh, man! AND I do tend to take a disproportionate amount of responsibility for just about everything. True.

While this kind of thing is really interesting, I think that personality profiles can sometimes be a crutch. You see, my personality profile states that I'm strong in "Judging." It means that I have a heightened sense of discernment and my commitment to justice is strong. However, on the downside, I can also be judgmental. Herein lies the problem. I can easily say, "Well, that's just my personality - can't be helped." Just because it is my natural bent to judge does not mean that it is ok - or right. So, if you want to take a few minutes to take the personality profile for fun, I think a lot of insight can be gained. I'm not going to settle for what the profile says that I am, though. I know I am still capable of change. 

Turning Blue

The Downton Abbey craze hit me after Christmas. (Spoiler alert! Do not continue reading if you don't already know what happens in season 3.) My sister bought me seasons 1 and 2 on blu ray and I started watching them after Little Brother came home from the hospital. I fell in love with the characters and got caught up in the story line. Then I started watching season 3 and after the first episode, things started going downhill rather quickly. I'm not even excited about season 4. In fact, I doubt I'll watch it. I almost despise Downton Abbey now.

Lady Sybil (Photo Credit)

It started with Sybil, and turning blue.

Lady Sybil dies in a terrifying, excruciating childbirthing scene. The acting is beyond stellar. Essentially, she suffocates before her family's eyes, turning a devastating shade of blue that was all-too-familiar to me.

Little Brother turned that same shade of blue.

When Little Brother was in the NICU, I would hold him for a certain time period every day. They call it "skin-to-skin" or "Kangaroo Care" and it is mommy-baby bonding time. One day, as I was holding him, his Dr came to speak to us.

"He is doing really well," the Dr. said. "I think we may move him to the Special Care Nursery. He might even be home by Christmas!"

I was delighted by this, naturally! I could almost see the words "Home For Christmas" hanging in the air like a cartoonish speech bubble above the Dr.'s head. They didn't have time to evaporate in my imagination before Little Brother's monitor started beeping loudly.

While he was in the hospital, Little Brother was hooked up to all kinds of monitors. The one that had started beeping was his oxygen saturation monitor. As long as his oxygen levels stayed above 85%, all was well. His levels had dropped.

This, in itself, was not altogether startling. In fact, it happened all of the time. I turned to look at the monitor, trying to massage Little Brother's back at the same time to stimulate his breathing a bit. That usually worked.

Not this time. The oxygen saturation number dropped, and kept dropping, and Little Brother's face was blue and suddenly a nurse stepped in, whisked him from my arms and started helping him breathe with the dreaded green bag.

Time slowed, and the moment was burned into my brain. I could still see his little blue face, and all that I could do was watch helplessly. Please God, Please God, Please God, Please God... That was the only prayer I could come up with at the moment. I could almost hear the Holy Spirit groan.

It felt like an eternity passed, but the numbers on the monitor slowly began to rise and soon the monitor stopped its incessant alarm. He was safe.

This turning blue thing that Little Brother did happened more times than I care to count. Every time it happened, I was afraid. It was in those moments that I clung to Isaiah 49:16 and remembered Hannah, who gave Samuel to the Lord.

That's - partially - why I'm not a huge Downton Abbey fan any longer.



Today's Blogtember assignment was to tell about a time when I was afraid. 

Cold Water

Today's Blogtember assignment is to pass on some useful information. As much as I love to give advice, I don't find myself full of useful information at the moment. However, I just told a story to my sister-in-law yesterday, so I'll relate that as it is the first thing that comes to mind.

When I was a senior in high school, I took some college classes at a local Junior College. I also played basketball. My basketball practices took place at 6:15am, and I barely had time to get to my 8:30am English Comp 102 two days a week. I was one of those model students who NEVER slept in class, but there were times when I struggled to keep my eyelids open in that particular class. It wasn't that the professor was boring, and it wasn't that the topic didn't interest me. I was a teenager and I had gotten up early for basketball practice, run like a fiend, got home in time to eat something FAST and take a FAST shower (you know, the kind where you are still sweating when you get out because you haven't cooled down yet), then barely made it to class on time... I was tired.

One particular morning, the professor was talking about a poem (it may have been My Last Duchess but I couldn't say for sure) and my eyelids felt soooo heavy. It was like there were invisible lead weights attached to my eyelashes.  I know my head was bobbing as I fought valiantly to stay awake. I can still feel the relief wash over me when I recall the professor saying it was time for a break.

As I walked past her desk, she said, not unkindly, "If you go to the water fountain and take a cold drink of water, it will wake you up."

I'm not sure if it was the embarrassment of knowing that she had noticed my bobbing or the cold water, but either way, it is useful to note that drinking cold water will keep you awake!

Make It Count

My parents have always said this. They said it when I was growing up. They say it still. What they mean by it is simple: your attitude is important. Don't let your circumstances dictate your attitude. You have a choice. Choose wisely.

If I could spend three months doing whatever I wanted...

... I would spend three months alone.

There is something about motherhood that sometimes makes me feel as if I am going to wither away if I don't get some peace and quiet. My batteries seem always to be running low, and it's hard to find the time to recharge. I have said numerous times in the last few months that if I could have anything at all in the world, I would choose to have a night in a hotel room by myself. I would sleep for as long as I want. Sweet, uninterrupted, peaceful, deep sleep. It's what I miss most.

If I had three whole months of peace and quiet and alone-ness, I would travel. I would go see some sights. I'd spend a month traversing Europe, seeing all of the things that I've always wanted to see...  Paris, Rome, Greece, London, and as many more as I could.

If I had three whole months to myself, I would write. For a solid month, I would rent a cabin in some secluded spot, preferably in the mountains somewhere, with beautiful vistas for inspiration. I can see myself with pen and notebook in hand, sitting on a rock and writing furiously, surrounded by nature. Or, writing while sitting at a table in front of a fire, with a large, steaming mug of tea.

How about a cabin like this?
(Photo Credit: Carolina Mornings)

If I had three whole months to myself, I would attend some seminars. Maybe intertwined with the first month of traveling, I could attend a Jane Austen seminar in England. (Doesn't this one look interesting?) Maybe intertwined with the second month of writing, I could attend a writer's conference, or work towards my MFA in a low-residency program. I love learning and growing, so education is heavenly to me.

As I spent the time musing on what I would do with three months, however, I was a little ashamed of myself. It's probably a good thing that I don't have three months with which to do whatever I please. I would waste three months in being self-absorbed, and that is never a good thing. Plus, I can't imagine going three months without seeing my precious sons and handsome Husband.

Still, it's kind of fun to think about it...

Origins

I'm Italian on my Dad's side of the family. Both of his parents are Italian, and you know what that means... My very own Italian grandma! Mmm... If I could have any meal in the world, it would be one of Nonna's Sunday dinners. Homemade pasta, homemade sauce, roast beef (or pork!), steamed veggies, salad, and something sweet to finish. If I'm really lucky, Nonna will make gnocchi. *sigh* Just thinking about it makes me hungry. Nonna taught me a few things, and when I can, I make my own pasta and sauce.

Forgive the terrible photography - this is the real deal, though!

It's not ALL about the food, but a lot of my family memories on my dad's side revolve around the kitchen and the table and tons of delicious food. (Interesting note - no one on my dad's side is terribly overweight despite all of that food.)

I grew up hearing the stories of my Italian heritage. My Nonna's father was a first generation immigrant. He owned a grocery store - his very own Italian market! I get excited just thinking about it. My Nonna grew up in the apartment above the store. Oh, the stories she can tell! I think I learned my love for history from listening to her tell stories about her life and the lives of her family members.

This month, I'm blogging along with Jenni from Story of My Life for her "Blogtember" challenge.