Rachel Callahan

When Children Are Like Salt in a Wound.

June 30, 2014June 29, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Deception: A Parent's Best Friend, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

Ali lost her fourth tooth in a month on Thursday night.

Okay, “lost” doesn’t accurately portray the traitorous and forceful separation of tooth and child that had to take place.

Unlike the three previous teeth, this one wasn’t eager to turn loose, and I didn’t exactly achieve stellar parental ranking by a) insisting on removing it from her gums, and b) requiring two takes to actually get it out.

But it needed to be set free – it was DIS-GUSTING. Her gums around it had turned a deathly shade of purple, the tooth was being propelled from her being by an adult tooth underneath and therefore it was sticking half a tooth above the rest, and when she bent the tooth over, the cavernous, half-detached underside mooned whomever happened to be watching.

So I ripped it out of her mouth right before bed, and of course it had to be a bleeder.

(More like a spurter.)

Which did not help her lack of endearment toward me.

But she dried up, quickly scrawled a note to the tooth fairy, and went to bed.

As always, instead of doing the responsible thing, which would include finding the needed fundage and writing my response right after I put her to bed, I didn’t remember until 11:45pm.

I stumbled downstairs, hurriedly typed out a sad excuse for a note, and began looking for five dollars in cash. But keeping cash around is not exactly listed in the strengths column on my résumé.

I did not have a five, nor did I own five ones. I had a twenty, but I wasn’t feeling that guilty about my aforementioned medical-treatment-without-consent.

So I hitched up my conscience and I stole $5 out of Ali’s bank. In order to give it back to her as a farcical creature that she is surely going to be upset about when she finds out that it was all A Lie.

And I kinda intended to pay her back? But also assumed I’d forget. After all, I’m not good with cash.

I went to bed and slept like a baby. Because bent morals and Mommy-Guilt are feelings I’m used to combatting by now.

The next morning, Ali walked into my bedroom brightly, holding the note and cash. She silently handed me the note to read, then tenderly placed the five dollar bill in my hand.

“Am I allowed to give you my five dollars from the Tooth Fairy?”

“That’s sweet, honey! But don’t you want to put it in your bank?”

“I have lots of money from the Tooth Fairy in my bank. And I know you haven’t felt good this week. So I’d really like for you to have it.”

…

Children are tiny, often toothless, superior moral creatures.

And I. Am hideous.

(But I did sneak that money back in her bank.)

(So we’re even.)

(Except that she’s a better human than me.)

Cherries Need New PR.

June 26, 2014June 26, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Actually Possibly Informational, Utter Silliness

I spent 31 years of my life automatically assuming that I despised cherries.

There was the cherry cough syrup I was given against my will as a young child, shaping my first impressions of cherries as The Fruit That Tastes Like Gastric Acid.

Then there was cherry-flavored candy – it didn’t matter whether it was Skittles, Starburst, Now and Laters, Pop Rocks, Bonkers or DOTS, cherry was always last in my lineup to eat.

(Right after grape, which also needs new PR when it comes to its candy-flavoring counterpart.)

(Oh – and watermelon. WORST CANDY FLAVORING IN THE WORLD.)

But. Back to cherries. Because cherries, unlike grapes and watermelon, have a catastrophic issue.

After my introduction to cough syrup and candy flavorings, I met my Grandfather’s favorite treat, Chocolate Covered Cherries. Not the chocolate covered dried fruit of today, but the chocolate-covered-moist-maraschino-cherries.

I hated all candies that burst in one’s mouth (remember Gushers?), so Chocolate Covered Cherries were the Nicolas Cage of chocolates and the Sarah McLachlan singing over images of abused dogs of cherries. That nasty bloody liquid squirting into my mouth when I mistook my Granddad’s treats for a truffle….it was child cruelty. Sarah McLachlan should have been singing for ME.

Let’s not skip over the sins of maraschino cherries themselves. According to Wikipedia, they are…

first preserved in a brine solution usually containing sulfur dioxide and calcium chloride to bleach the fruit, then soaked in a suspension of food coloring (common red food dye, FD&C Red 40), sugar syrup, and other components.

Cherry’s PR: “Let’s take a red fruit, bleach it with frighteningly named chemicals, then re-color it red! While we’re at it, we’ll add ‘other components,’ since we haven’t disfigured them enough already.”

The only redeeming value that I could find in cherries as a child (and I’ll lose a friend or two over this admission) was that my favorite candy was Brach’s Red Licorice, which is loosely supposed to be cherry-flavored. But then when Brach’s broke my heart and discontinued my best friend in candy form, my breakup with cherries was solidified.

(Although I will still eat a Twizzler now and then. But it’s not the same.)

As I entered my adolescence, I learned the more euphemistic meanings of cherries, tacky cherry-covered clothing came in style, and then a few years later, Katy Perry made cherries forever synonymous with the taste of Chapstick.

I had literally never tasted a single real, live, unaltered cherry in my entire life until the summer of 2013.

My grocery store had them out in a sample tray.

(Which is smart on their part since my generation is never going to be like, “yeah, let’s try cherries for our fruit of the week.”)

On a whim, I reached in, popped one in my mouth, and scrunched up my face, just waiting for The Nasty to hit my taste buds.

But no!

It was fantastic.

Full of flavor but without juicy explosions, sweeter than I had imagined but without a cough-syrup aftertaste, and all around delightful!

And also, who knew that half of them were shaped like adorable little hearts?

I was shocked, I tell you. And for the last year, I’ve been addicted.

This fruit had been hiding in plain sight, incorrectly linked with the seediest of flavorings, keeping fruit-lovers everywhere away from their bounty, for at least three generations.

Because Cherries need new PR.

Technology Killed the RomCom.

June 25, 2014June 25, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Utter Silliness

I admit it. In the past, I was a Romantic Comedy junkie.

(I still really really really like them but have tried to move on to more adultish genres.)

(I am sometimes successful at this.)

The 80’s and 90’s were a hot bed of Romantic Comedies, and as that paralleled with my impressionable childhood and adolescence, I had all of the fodder my addiction could slurp down.

But a few weeks ago, I realized something. There’s a reason for the decline in the number of new Romantic Comedies.

All former RomCom plots could be debunked by modern technology.

As soon as this struck me, I began going through them in my mind, desperately manic. Like a checklist, every one of them made zero sense in the context of today.

However, I realized I was fully unqualified to do this thesis on my own – I am admittedly a pop culture dunce. So I brought in my friends Jamie and Knox, superstars and brilliantly funny hosts of The Popcast, which has the venerable status of being the ONLY Podcast that I have or will ever listen to (aside from This American Life because everyone should listen to This American Life.)

We decided to do a blog/pod collaboration: They will be discussing this topic on their podcast today, and I will be discussing it here. So after you read my post, be sure to click over and listen to their analysis, which is guaranteed to be 97.5% more knowledgeable than mine.

But.

First, let’s discuss my findings.

Say Anything.

Clearly this scene was severely more romantic than today’s version, which would be gifting a song through iTunes.

“Oh look! He sent me a romantic song. I still hate him.”

Or making a playlist on Spotify and naming it after her.

“Uh, no. Making a playlist takes all of 10 seconds. If you really love me you’d make an old-fashioned mixtape – the kind that you wait all night for a certain song to come on the radio and scramble to hit record before the opening stanza completes. THAT is true love.”

Serendipity.

If they were meant to be together, then match.com would have known that and linked them up. Then it wouldn’t have been a movie but just a commercial for match.com. Serendipitous indeed.

…Or worse, their relationship would have become lost in the murky darkness of “Craiglist Missed Opportunities” where decent people fear to tread.

The Princess Bride.

They knew it was true love before he left the farm, so they would have totally connected to each other on the Find my Friends App. Buttercup would have checked the app obsessively and seen that he was right there and wouldn’t have pushed him down the hill. Without that “AAAAASSSS YOOOOOUUUU WISSSSSSSH”, would it have been such an amazing movie? No.

Also? She would have most likely and quite idiotically not passcoded her phone, and Humperdinck would’ve used it to find The Dread Pirate Roberts even sooner.

No chocolate-coated ball of magic could have saved him from the fate of Find My Friends.

(But Fezzik’s text messages would have been precious.)

Sleepless in Seattle.

Pandora doesn’t have call-ins – who listens to national radio shows anymore? And anyway, kids these days don’t know how to make an actual phone call – that’s ludicrous.

…Now the kid might have snapchatted his sad, lonely Dad…THAT’S a more believable plot.

While You Were Sleeping.

His family would have checked his Facebook Profile, seen that not only was he not in a relationship but that he wasn’t even friends with her, and totally kicked her out of that hospital room.

The Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind.

You may be able to erase a memory, but you can NEVER erase an online footprint. And online footprints ruin all attempts to forget anyone.

Bridget Jones’ Diary.

It would’ve been Bridget Jones’ Blog, both men would have found it and totally trolled her. Or if not a blog, then at the very least an old LiveJournal account that a quirky 30-something would cling to.

Sixteen Candles.

Samantha’s family couldn’t forget her birthday because Facebook.

“Grandma Helen and 184 other people wished Samantha a Happy Birthday. Don’t YOU want to write on her wall?”

When Harry Met Sally.

Sally would have never called Harry to weep about possibly turning 40. She would have posted annoying downer statuses on all social networks fishing for optimistic lies from her friends from High School.

“I’m gonna b 40. Someday. #lifesucks #oldie #crying”

Pretty Woman.

Edward would have just found a date on Tinder.

And who wouldn’t swipe right to Richard Gere?!

You see?

IT’S TRUE.

We, as a nation, have outgrown Romantic Comedies.

And as penance for our technological sins, we are left with Romantic movies that didn’t intend to be comedic but actually kind of are – like Twilight.

Be sure to listen to The Popcast to hear more examples of RomComs flushed away by our modern age. And to experience the magic that is Jamie and Knox.

The Slumber Games.

June 24, 2014June 24, 2014 Rachel Callahan Guest Post, Kids: The Experience.

Guest post by Lindsey Murphy.

Two tributes: One adult male, one adult female.

Three rivals:

District 4: Male, four years old. Tactics include wetting the bed, loud footsteps, and the desire to play with other tributes at ungodly hours of the morning.

District 3: Female, three years old. Susceptible to bad dreams. Deep attachment to blanket. Thumb sucker (this is to your advantage for self-soothing, but against you in the event of a stuffy nose. Also, orthodontics will be a long term consequence.)

District 1: Female, one year old. Weapons of choice include six razor sharp teeth and pinching claws of death. Also equipped with howling shriek of doom. Uses dimples and adorableness to lure in her victims before attack.

Arena: 1200 square feet, one full bed, two twin beds, one crib.

Objective: Survival…or at least a minimal amount of sleep.

The games begin when the last light is off.

Time: 11:00pm

It’s go time. Roll over and turn out the light after falling asleep reading. As soon as you get comfortable, get ready for your first attack. Screaming three year old, middle bedroom. Nightmare. Run in before she wakes the baby in the room. Assure her that there are no bees (or bats) in her room. No, you will not read a story. No, she may not have a cookie. Counterattack with blanket and back-rubbing. Success. Tiptoe past the crib and climb back into bed. Roll over, get comfortable, and close your eyes.

12:30am: Four year old, running through the halls, needs to go potty. Kick male tribute and shove him out of bed. Warn him to avert his eyes downward lest he be blinded by the bathroom light. Whisper death threats to the four year old to keep him from waking his sisters in his proclamation of urination. Begrudgingly move back to your side of the bed when male tribute returns.

2:00: The scream of a Ring wraith pierces the night air (over the two sound machines, that is). Weaning baby, hungry and mad at her discovery that she’s in her crib, alone. Run. Snatch baby from crib and tiptoe back to full size bed. Rock screaming baby. Snuggle screaming baby. Pat the baby’s bottom. Whatever you do, do NOT nurse the screaming, weaning baby.

2:15: Nurse the weaning baby.

2:30-4:30: Undergo a series of co-sleeping attacks in various positions. (Her personal favorite is the “snow angels.”)

5:45: Four year old is up, demanding to watch TV. Engage immediately or he will recruit three year old for backup. DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN. The games are over once they join forces. Keep them isolated at all costs. Kick male tribute. Kick him again. Remind him that this is his male heir and pull out the “I’ve been nursing all night” card. Male tribute joins four year old in twin bed and fends off several jumping attacks and endless questions.

6:00: Sneak baby back into her crib

Enjoy 30 minutes of uninterrupted, touch-free sleep.

6:30 Three year old climbs into bed to snuggle. Baby wakes up. Male tribute plops the squiggling fury of teeth and claws into bed with you. Your defeat is imminent. Try to tame rivals with kisses and lullabies.

7:15 The games are over. Get up and face the day with as much kindness as you can muster. With minimal sleep and lots of coffee. And no naps.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

35 Things to Do in Birmingham.

June 23, 2014July 21, 2020 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I Love Birmingham, Pop Post, Popular Posts

I’ve lived in Birmingham my entire life. Seriously – even college. The longest I’ve ever been away from this city was six weeks at the age of 16 when I went overseas.

As a kid, Birmingham was clearly a dying city. My parents told stories of what it once was, but it was impossible to imagine. Downtown was boarded up, everything happened in the suburbs, and we were all bored.

There was nothing to do.

In the past five years, my city has gone through a beautiful metamorphosis. Residents began having a new sense of optimism and burden to invest in the city. Things began to actually change, and all of a sudden, we had a vibrant, beautiful, exciting city.

(Did you know that we have the number one amount of green space per capita in the nation? A great deal of that has been created in my adulthood.)

It’s officially summertime, and it’s time to get out and explore the city – both the new and the old. If you’re not from Birmingham, you’re on your own. (And you should really consider moving here.) If you are from Birmingham, here are my suggestions.

1. Hike the trails at Red Mountain Park. [Free] They’re beautiful, have fascinating iron mining relics, and some pretty stunning views. Make a checklist of the major lookouts and treehouses and find them all.

Some of the trails even look like this. How much more magical could Birmingham get?

2. Tour Birmingham’s Local Coffee Shops. [Cheap] My favorites are Seeds Coffee Company, Church Street Coffee and Books, Octane, Urban Standard, The Red Cat, Hart and Soul, and O’Henry’s. Tell me if you discover any more jewels.

3. Go shopping at The Grand River Outlet Mall. [Free to as much as you want to spend] – They have a great kid’s play area, fantastic shops, and even better deals. Make sure you stop by the welcome center in the food court and get a coupon book.

While you’re in the area…

4. Find the Leeds Memorial Park. [Free] The slides there are taller than any other slides in Birmingham. AND they still have a merry-go-round! If you have children who like thrills, it’s great. And if they don’t, there’s a little kid park, too. If you need lunch afterward, check out Rusty’s BBQ. Rusty will make you feel at home, and he has the best white sauce in the city.

5. Eat a hamburger and enjoy the views at Tip Top Grill on Shades Crest Road. [Super Cheap] And while you’re there, walk down to Lover’s Leap. Just hold your kid’s hands well.

6. Visit Aldridge Gardens in Hoover. [Free] Take a stale bag of bread to feed the fish, ducks, geese, and turtles – they’ll be expecting it. Also, find the totem pole on the other side of the lake – it’s pretty fantastic.

7. Eat an outdoor dinner (or lunch) at Chez LuLu. [Moderate] Leave the kids with someone else if you can – it’s quite romantic.

8. Go to a Movie in the Park at Avondale Park. [Free] The amphitheater there is fantastic, and they have a fantastic operation headed up by Marco of Silvertron Café, which is where you should eat before attending.

9. Hike The Ruffner Mountain Nature Preserve. [Free] A largely forgotten jewel of Birmingham, this mountainside is fantastic. The views are well worth the hike, with or without kids – just don’t try to bring a jogging stroller.

While you’re in the area…

10. Eat lunch at The Irondale Café (of Fried Green Tomatoes fame – the food and the movie), then watch trains go by. [Cheap] Make sure you appreciate train graffiti – it’s quite magnificent.

11. Take the kids to The McWane Center. [Moderate] It’s fun, sneakily educational, and is a great thing to do when it’s too hot to go outside.

12. Go to an ArcLight Stories night. [Cheap, not with kids] This is a unique and fascinating event where several people tell short stories from their lives. You will laugh, you will cry, you will learn to appreciate humanity.

Photo provided by ArcLight Stories

13. Cool down at Steel City Pops in Homewood. [Cheap] If you need lunch to boot, Nabeel’s is around the corner and Little Donkey is next door. Tip: If you have a popsicle aversion like I do (even thinking about the feeling of biting into a popsicle makes me cringe,) get a milk-based one. They’re soft and quite manageable.

14. Go to a movie at The Alabama Theatre. [Moderately Cheap] It’s unforgettable.

15. Plan a walk downtown. [Free] You’ll be amazed at the things you notice.

16. Go on a Scavenger Hunt at Crestline Park. [Free] The contest is closed, but you should still be able to find the clues!

17. Canoe the Cahaba River. [Moderate] I have very fond memories of doing this as a kid, and seriously want to do it as an adult. We did tube the Cahaba a few years ago, and I must say I was a fan of Lazy-Man’s’-Canoeing.

18. Go on a Sunset Walk along the Ridges of Red Mountain. [Free] You knew I was going to suggest this, right? I guarantee it will change your outlook on the city forever.

19. Go to a Birmingham Barons game. [Moderately Cheap] Experience why this stadium is changing the face of Birmingham.

While you’re down there…

20. Visit the LightRails. [Free] It will make any night cheerier.

21. Take a short walk on the Irondale Furnace Trail. [Free] It’s a fun and easy view of some of Birmingham’s industrial history, as well as a gorgeous taste of nature.

22. Railroad Park. [Free] It’s one of our favorite places to hang out after dinner as the sun is setting. They have playgrounds, lakes, walking trails, and more.

23. Discover the hidden trails at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens. [Free] That place is GIANT. You have no idea.

24. Drive a little over an hour to Spring Valley Beach Water Park. [Moderate] It’s been a few years since we’ve visited, but we loved it. They have waterslides, a huge pool, and they allow you to bring in all of your own food.

25. Spend a day hiking, swimming, BMXing, or relaxing at Oak Mountain State Park. [Cheap]

26. Try out the Zip Lines at Red Mountain Park. [Moderate] We did this and it is fantastic. And although it makes a great date, kids can do it as well – that is, if your kids are braver than mine.

27. Visit Vulcan, of course. [Cheap] The free park is improved and better than ever, but it’s worth a few bucks to go to the top and see his view of the city. Also, those few bucks get you into the museum, which is always worth a walk-through.

28. Visit Tannehill State Park. [Cheap] I feel like half my childhood happened at Tannehill. And they’re all good memories.

29. Visit The Birmingham Zoo. [Moderate] Go in the mornings – the animals are always perkier, unlike me.

30. Walk along The Jemison Park Nature Trail. [Free] It’s beautiful, easy to manage, and shady. It also has a unique way of getting across the creek.

31. Learn in Downtown – visit The Birmingham Museum of Art and The Birmingham Civil Rights Institute. [Free/Cheap]

32. Take a tour of Sloss Furnaces. [Cheap] Make sure you bring your camera – it’s more beautiful than you might think.

33. Head to the Gardendale Splash Pad. [Free] They also have an adjoining playground when it’s time to dry off.

34. Go on a drive through Mountain Brook and see who can spot the biggest house. [Free] Feel free to pretend that Birmingham’s royalty lives here.

35. Go to Bessemer and eat at The Bright Star. [Moderate] You’ll immediately feel like you’re stepping back into Birmingham’s past.

Enjoy your summer. Explore. And let me know what you find.

And if you’re not in Birmingham, what do I need to come experience in your city?

You might also like 10 Best Hikes and Runs in Birmingham, Where to find Birmingham’s Sunsets, or 30 Hiking Destinations in Birmingham.

See more pictures of magnificent Birmingham sights at Picture Birmingham, my photo site that benefits The WellHouse, a local ministry that rescues victims of human trafficking.

“Life is Hard,” Say Kids Everywhere

June 19, 2014June 18, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

Tuesday’s plans included the grocery store and the pool. When I told the kids this news, Ali said with a sigh, “Let’s go to the grocery store first. I like to get the hard things over with first.”

“Oh really, honey, is going to the grocery store so hard for you?”

“Yes, it’s just not fun. And it’s a lot of work.”

I internalized the rest of the conversation so as to not permanently prevent my daughter from having children. But here’s how it went.

I am SO sorry that tagging along at the grocery store is so hard for your seven and a half year old body. I know it’s terribly taxing, as they only give you one cookie each, you have to pick out snacks and lunch food, all while riding around in the race car grocery cart that you’ve outgrown but I still allow you to use.

You poor, poor thing.

I have noted your complaint and found it LACKING.

Until you have to tell a three-year-old to SIT on his BOTTOM fifty-hundred times during each two-minute interval then have to wrench his leg free of the upper cart because he didn’t SIT on his BOTTOM like you told him to and now he’s screaming because he’s stuck, your trip to the store isn’t hard.

Until you have to maneuver a whimsically-shaped shopping cart that is the shape and weight of a whale that just ate two wriggling children and that is scientifically crafted to be physically unable to pass by another whale of a grocery cart without knocking twelve cans of corn off the shelf and onto your toe, YOUR TRIP TO THE STORE ISN’T HARD.

Until you have picked up a pack of ground beef only to drip meat blood onto your shirt and toes and possibly toddler, your trip to the store isn’t hard.

Until you have had to answer the question(s) “are we done yet can we have another cookie I wanna go home why are we at the store I want candy can I have a car from the overpriced toy shelf I don’t want those cookies I want these cookies I NEED a balloon my favorite color is not red I don’t like that juice I want this juice can I have a cookie?” then your trip to the store isn’t hard.

Until you have had to explain to a whimpering toddler why you will not turn around and ask for another free cookie just because he dropped his AS HE ALWAYS DOES and no he cannot have it back because it’s covered in grocery store floor germs AS IT ALWAYS IS, your trip to the store isn’t hard.

Until you’ve had to pick up three dozen boxes of previously delicately-iced cupcakes because you knocked over a rickety folding table with your whale of a cart that took up twice the given clearance on either side of the table which was inexplicably placed in the produce section, your trip to the store isn’t hard.

Until you’ve had to politely dodge nosy elderly ladies who feel the need to tell you that your child isn’t properly harnessed or is leaning over the edge of the cart or has chocolate on their face or has non-matching clothes, your trip to the store isn’t hard.

Until you have to hold your breath and bite your lip to keep from crying out in pain when your grocery total comes up because HOLY FREAKING QUINOA grocery prices have skyrocketed, your trip to the store isn’t hard.

Until you’ve had to maneuver your blimp of a cart to the car and unload groceries and children and attempt to return the cart and close all doors and properly latch all children while your phone rings and the children whine about how hot they are without losing your already-fragile mind, YOUR TRIP TO THE STORE ISN’T HARD.

And until you’ve run home, carried bags of groceries up the stairs and into the kitchen, frantically unloaded the cold stuff, packed a cooler, and sprinted back to the car to take your precious children to the pool so that they can have a fulfilled life, then YOUR TRIP TO THE STORE ISN’T HARD.

That is all.

An Anniversary of Questions.

June 18, 2014June 17, 2014 Rachel Callahan Dysautonomia, On a more serious note. . ., Thoughts about Faith, Writing WAY Out of my Comfort Zone

June has come back around.

It has been a year since I quite suddenly became unwell.

I remember the night that it started – a Friday night – wide awake half the night, my lungs overcome with pain and feeling like they’d been deflated, my head dizzy and full of pressure, my heart beating faster than a Shakira song and my mind petrified about what could make me feel so wrong. The next night, I slept sitting up because every time I laid flat I thought I was going to die.

On Sunday I went to the Doc in the Box, positive that whatever was making me feel this near-death would be immediately evident to whatever doctor drew the short straw of the Sunday afternoon shift.

How nice that would have been.

It took four agonizingly slow months, six doctors, and a dozen tests to get a diagnosis of exclusion – a diagnosis that says “We acknowledge that you are sick. We see the problem. However, we have no idea what is causing it. Here – take some pills to control the symptoms.”

The diagnosis was Dysautonomia, and the drugs were beta blockers, designed to make my heart slow down. Those pills have been a blessing and a curse. A blessing that they have helped with most of the symptoms many days, and a curse for their side effects (hello exhaustion, hair loss and weight gain.) But I realize exactly how valuable they are when I forget to take one, become nearly (or literally) bedridden, and am reminded how very, very sick I still am – and that I’m just masking a mysterious behemoth. I’m in the process of trying to completely change medication types right now, hoping to find a way to have more good days than bad.

All of the initial tests gave me a way to write about what was going on without being too serious, but the last six months have been difficult to spin. I’ve written half a dozen update posts since, but have published none of them. They contained the long, painful details of the process, the symptoms, the feelings, the side effects, the frustrations. But every time I started to re-read a post for editing, they felt so arduous that I couldn’t make it through them again, so I certainly couldn’t subject anyone else to them.

But that’s the problem. Writing is often grueling now. Getting thoughts to form and being able to write them out is impossible at times – and it’s made worse when I go back and comparatively read my writing from over a year ago. I think to myself, “I was so much better. Will it come back? Will thoughts come easily again?” Your kind words and support have meant infinitely more to me in the past year.

I’ve spent nearly a year being convinced that there is an underlying cause for my illness – if only we’d look a little deeper, do a little more research, run one more test. Could it be my head injury? The bats and their guano? One of a million rare syndromes? And as more problems surfaced and issues were diagnosed – my compromised immune system, my eye issues, and so on, my hope deepened – surely the more ingredients there were to add to my Dysautonomia, the greater the chances were that when mixed together just right, they would present a solution.

But neither that Doc in the Box nor the eleven other specialists I’ve seen since can find it.

One even stared at me, troubled, for a whole two minutes. Then said, “Please come back in six weeks and tell me what you’ve figured out. I don’t want to lose track of you.”

But after the last round of tests that took over three months, a few hundred dollars, and zero helpful takeaways, I feel done. It’s time to accept the fact that I may have a chronic illness that can only be controlled, not eradicated. And even the control is partial at best and completely unpredictable.

That realization has been difficult for me to swallow. I’m a fairly unemotional person, but trying to work through the reality that the past year may be a preview of the rest of my life has brought out tears, anger, and sadness. But also, a seeking of God’s promises and comfort like I haven’t needed to do in a long time.

I hang out in the Psalms a lot – David’s raw emotions and honesty with God and God’s responses to it have always been a comfort to me. Another reassurance came through 1 Peter 5:6-7…Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s Mighty Hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.

Other times when I’ve read that passage it felt very forceful. Get yourself humble, to the ground and under God’s hand!!, but now it feels safe. I am under God’s Mighty Hand. I know I am – I have personally experienced Him in miraculous ways that prove to me without a shadow of a doubt that He is there and He cares for me – personally – and even by name.

So where else would I rather be?

Where I am is where He has me right now. What I am dealing with is what He wants me to be dealing with right now. And He has already blessed it by using the fruit of my trials to help others. I don’t think He expects me to live every moment of it with a skipping blissfulness (He knows me too well for that), but He does know what He is doing.

And I can trust that even if I continue having no idea what is wrong with me or how to get better, He has me under His hand.

And those are sustaining words. As long as I go back to them regularly.

Hosepipe.

June 17, 2014June 16, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Kids: The Experience., The Blissfulness of Life

If I understand the differences in regional dialects correctly, some of y’all don’t call this a hosepipe.

You call it a “garden hose” or just a “hose” or some other type of gibberish.

In Alabama, we call it summer entertainment.

That is, unless you’re not the one holding the hosepipe. Then it’s called a source of great anxiety.

Or, more likely, a sure thing.

But once you get past that initial moistening and it melts the southern summer heat off of your overclothed legs, you realize it’s not such a bad fate after all.

The hosepipe holder, however, must take occasional moments of solace to ponder the gravity of his position,

As well as study the Geometry of the task at hand.

Like a Royal Guard at Buckingham Palace, he must also perfect his posture and carriage of weaponry.

But don’t worry. He’ll remember you exist.

And he’ll take care of all of your cooling needs.

ALL of them.

Until you start to wish that you didn’t exist.

At which time you can simply move along, and let him get back to his training,

His marching of the perimeter,

And his technique testing.

Because it’s serious work.

Grueling even.

But if the hosepipe is taken away, great heartache will commence.

Grieving will become necessary for all involved.

Well – almost all.

Because turnabout…is fair play.

The Gravity of Granting Permission.

June 15, 2014June 15, 2014 Rachel Callahan Every Now and Then I Can Be Sappy Too., Storytime, The Blissfulness of Life, Thoughts about Faith

I’m not one to write a post for a particular day such as Easter, Thanksgiving, or Christmas, and especially not Father’s or Mother’s Day. I don’t even acknowledge it on Facebook or change my profile picture to include the appropriate parent.

I know – I‘m a social media pariah.

I get my cynical anti-bandwagon genetic makeup from my father. He and I are very much alike – we don’t express our deep sentiments too freely and especially not in public.

So the fact that I’m about to actually write a Father’s Day post should be noted as monumental. And also should not be expected to have a sequel. Ever. But I was overcome this morning with the urge to tell one story.

I got engaged at 18, and we set our wedding date for six months later when I would be the seasoned age of 19.

Chris had not only asked my Dad’s permission to marry me (and endured two weeks of complete silence before he received an answer), but had also asked his permission to date me a year earlier. Or, as he worded to my dad, “May I date your daughter with the intention of marrying her?”

Upon that first questioning, after spending an afternoon mulling over his own opinion (we’re also both mullers), Dad came to me and said “I’m fine with it, but do you want to date him? Because if you don’t I’ll tell him no and then you won’t have to do it.”

I had known I was going to marry Chris for at least three months (way before Chris realized it), so I was agreeable to date the guy. But I was fairly surprised that my Dad was skippy about the whole thing – after all, he’d spent seventeen years frightening away any potential suitors with his intimidating silence and vague illusions to loaded weapons. I’d never dated anyone, and Chris, although fantastic in every way, was twenty-three years old. A freaking adult.

But this story happened after the second permission granted by my Dad, and after Chris and I got engaged.

Within a month, I started battling crippling anxiety. The kind that would make me have to leave work because I couldn’t quit crying. I realized that this anxiety was centralized around my upcoming wedding when I couldn’t sleep one night until I hid my veil in the closet.

Being an analytical person, I had to understand why, because I certainly wanted to marry Chris with all my heart. I began to realize that I was terrified of making this decision. Nineteen-year-old me loved Chris and desperately wanted to be with him. However, this was a decision – the decision above all decisions – that would affect the rest of my life. What made me qualified to make this decision for every other iteration of me that there would ever be? And most crucially, was I absolutely positive that this was God’s will for my life? Because above everything, that was what I needed to know – the assurance that I was entering into this because God wanted me to, and not just because I selfishly desired it. If I had that, then I knew the future would be okay.

It was October, my wedding was in March, and during the next two months my anxiety steadily increased. I went from being a nearly unemotional person to a constant mess. And when I wasn’t anxious, I was anxious about becoming anxious. I told my parents and Chris about my inner struggle. I prayed. I cried. I searched the scriptures for reassurance. But God was silent.

Chris, meanwhile, was terrified, although he didn’t tell me this for several years. On the outside he was supportive and steady, but he thought I was working toward breaking up with him.

My anxiety ruined the holidays for me, and nearly halted my wedding planning because thinking about it filled me with an unbearable fear. (Maybe that’s why I was still arranging my cake plan forty days beforehand.)

Finally, on the evening of New Year’s Day, I broke down with my parents. In between ugly, hiccuping sobs, I told them, “I just need to KNOW. I need to know that this is the right decision! I can’t keep going on like this.”

And my Dad, who had always been reserved with his words and certainly had never shown any glee about giving his only daughter to another man, said,

“Look at me. You know how long I’ve prayed about this and that I spent two weeks agonizing over it before I gave Chris permission to ask you. Do you really think that I would have said yes if I wasn’t absolutely convinced that it was God’s will for you?”

The effect was immediate.

The burden disintegrated and I knew with my entire heart that he was right. This was the word that I had been looking for, assurance that I wasn’t even sure was possible, and now I was completely confident in my decision.

Although I still struggled with chemical anxiety until after the wedding, it had nothing to do with the upcoming marriage. My assurance never faltered again, and I was able to enter into marriage with an undoubting heart that was full of anticipation and joy. And my Dad seemed pretty happy, too.

In the thirteen years that have followed, I have never, ever questioned my decision.

Because of the gravity my Dad took in helping me make that crucial choice, I now have a magnificent father for my own children – a father who takes on their upbringing with just as much passion and responsibility.

(And a good bit of whimsy.)

So for all of the times that my Dad scared the crap out of me about associating with unsavory men (geez – I got grounded one time just because I was with my older brother and he didn’t call before we went somewhere else, so there was no way I was going to hang out with anyone worse than a not-call-homer), I am eternally thankful.

It was never many words, but the ones he did say shaped the rest of my life.

Parenting By Manipulation.

June 12, 2014June 11, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

For those of you who were around last year, you will remember that Ali got fired from Private Swim Lessons. And rightfully so – she doggedly persevered in her 6.5 year rebellion against allowing water to come into contact with her face.

The child doesn’t have a strong-willed cell in her brain – except when it comes to fear. And the convergence of h2o:face is the epitome of all fearful events.

At seven and a half, I foolishly hoped that things in her head would have magically fixed themselves over the winter. But as soon as the pool began coming up in conversation, she was quick to remind me that she had no interest in putting her face in the water, and therefore, there was really no need for me to make her take swimming lessons again.

But the kid is SEVEN AND A HALF. She’s as tall as a nine year old, and she’s starting to look seriously absurd in her Puddle Jumper – the same one she’s been wearing since she was one.

Even Toddler Ali is judging her.

So I decided that yes indeed, we were going to do swimming lessons again, and no indeed, I didn’t think it would work.

But I had a plan. It was a hail Mary, but it was all I had.

I would use her brother against her.

I signed them both up for lessons this year, once again with The Beloved Mr. Ray, and they would be receiving their lessons together, so that I could fully use Ali’s Elder-Sister-Complex to my advantage.

Thereafter, every time Ali began to bemoan the impending lessons and the inevitable facial-liquid contact, I would remind her in a grave, dramatic, and super-important voice, “Your brother is listening to you, honey. And if you’re afraid, he will be afraid. You must be brave – for his sake.”

It would shut her up every time, but she still wasn’t exactly looking forward to the process.

Nor was I, for that matter – not just because of her, but because of the flashbacks I was sure to have from last year – from Noah’s pootastrophe.

Thankfully, he’s potty-trained and past those Dark Days. But still. My Parenting PTSD is deep with that one.

Day One.

We showed up at the pool and began lessons. Ali was unsure but quiet. I was quick to remind her how very, very important her role was – she was her brother’s biggest influencer, and she didn’t want him to be scared for years upon years like she was/is – riiiiight??

It worked. She didn’t notice that Noah wasn’t paying any attention to her (but instead was whimpering over and over about how much he needed to poop and giving me The Tremors), and by the end of the day, she was willing to attempt it.

It was equivalent to a moon landing for our family.

Day Two.

Although Ali had successfully faced off with the water the day before, she had told me (privately, out of ear shot of her impressionable brother) that she had no desire to repeat her successes, and would really like to no longer attend swim lessons.

But that wasn’t an option, because her brother needed to learn.

Once in the pool, she again felt the full burden of my manipulation.

And, miraculously enough, swam. For the first time in her seven and a half years.

There was something empowering about that first swim. Something that grabbed ahold of her subconscious with a power greater than her fear. And with Mister Ray’s magical teaching abilities (something to which she didn’t offer a fighting chance last year), she was sold out.

She could swim in the deep end. She could swim so long that she had to come up for air and then go back under. She could even jump in the pool.

She. Was a Swimmer. And our family had metaphorically taken a trip to Jupiter, thanks much to her completely disinterested little brother and my shameless use of him as a pawn in my parenting chess game.

Noah learned very little, but that was the plan. I had no intention of him swimming. He has years of appropriate puddle jumper use to go.

So. If I were a Disney movie, would I be characterized as a magical Fairy Godmother, who finds unique ways to help their elect discover the strength within themselves? Or would I be an Evil Stepmother, pitting my subjects against each other with narrowed eyes, a pointy nose, and an evil Raven on my shoulder?

I don’t know. But what I do know is that it worked.

So, Parents. Find your children’s weak spots. Find their sense of responsibility. Find where their conscience is most sensitive. And use that sucker against them as hard as you can.

For the Greater Good.