The more I learn, the more I'm thankful for.
When I was taking Genetics, for example, I gained an overwhelming appreciation for not having any debilitating/life-threatening genetic problems.
Developmental Psychology, though, didn't really strike me as the kind of class that would make me ridiculously thankful.
But it has.
We just submitted papers on Friday about our personal development. While my life hasn't been a walk in the park, I certainly like to think that I've come out okay. I've had some ups and some major downs, but with the help of family, I've made it through some of the roughest years of my life.
With the help of family.
We've spent the last several classes talking about family and parents and parenting and siblings and all that jazz. We've had in-class discussions about growing up with siblings and "helicopter parents". I sat in class on Friday just totally overwhelmed that I was given the opportunity to be part of such an incredible family.
And no, I'm not receiving compensation of any type for saying this.
In fact, I'm the only one who even knows I'm awake at 2am writing this.
Let me introduce y'all to my family:
I have a mom. I call her Momma.
I have a dad, too. I call him Daddy.
I have two younger sisters that I call Lane and Beef.
I have two younger brothers that haven't really earned nicknames yet.
My family is only screwed up in the sense that I never know how to explain my sibling situation to people. You see, I have two sisters that look just like me, or so I'm told. I have a brown-skinned, brown-eyed brother who lives with our parents and has been legally made a Nichols. I have another little brother, also brown-skinned and brown-eyed, who looks nothing like the first brother, doesn't live with our parents, and has yet to be legally made a Nichols.
But he's my brother, nonetheless.
The US government doesn't recognize this yet, and the Guatemalan government won't let him leave the country yet, but he's ours. He's a Nichols. He's been my brother since I laid eyes on him in August 2007. I don't know him well, he speaks a different language than I do, and we temporarily live in different countries, but he's one of us. When people ask how many siblings I have, I tell them four. Because it's true, despite the complexities.
So that's my (immediate) family.
Momma and I have been close since I was fourteen. I remember so clearly the day she became my friend. Neither of us were expecting it. It's not that we didn't get along, because we did--at least, as well as most mothers and fourteen-year-old daughters did. But this day, things changed. I had been struggling a lot emotionally, and had reached my breaking point. It became evident physically that I was not okay emotionally. Momma, being the sensitive, attentive person that she is, noticed immediately and knew she needed to intervene.
She drove me home from church separately; for some reason my family had taken two cars to church that day. We didn't really talk or say much. She missed the turn to our house, though, and kept driving up the highway, heading North. It was then that the conversation began. I don't remember much of what either of us said, but I remember her telling me how desperately she wanted to help me and how much she loved me and wanted me to be okay.
Sheesh, I'm tearing up just writing this.
I don't remember how our conversation ended, either. But when we finally made it home that day, I stepped out of the car with a new friend. We started having late-night talks. (In high school, "late night" meant after 10pm.) I trusted her explicitly, and she trusted me, too. Years passed, and our relationship deepened. I shared my life with her. Having her as a constant in my life was one of the main reasons I didn't completely lose it emotionally.
Toward the end of high school, she and Dad allowed me to begin making decisions for myself, since they knew someday I'd be on my own. I had more of a say in what movies I watched. I could choose what I ate. I picked out my own clothes. I got to decide if I wanted to sleep or go to church. They began to trust me with smaller things because they knew they had done everything possibly to raise me to make good decisions. From them I learned to trust God, forgive others, use a hammer, have self-control, say "please" and "thank you", persevere even when quitting seems better, mow the lawn, pick a perfect watermelon, do laundry, sew on buttons, change a tire, show patience, enjoy nature, bake muffins, listen intentionally, and love unconditionally. (Among other things.)
They had given me roots. When I was ready, they gave me wings. When I left for college at age seventeen, I proved to them that I had learned to fly.
Since then, I've soared.
My mom has never had to worry about calling me. In fact, I've had her ask me if I'm trying to set the record for the number of times you can call someone in a single day. Since that Sunday in the car, she's been my best friend. I call her for advice. I call her to vent about life. I call her to see how things are at home. I call her to celebrate good grades and share disappointment in bad ones. I call her to have her talk me out of (or into) doing something. I call her to tell her about cool stuff at Target. I call her just to talk.
I've never had that stereotypical father-daughter relationship with my dad, but we're close in a different kind of way. Rather than talking, our relationship is about doing. Daddy has been the one to go running with me, show me how to build things, and teach me how to build a good fire. It's because of him that I enjoy being active and love being outside: he took me skiing with him when I slowed him down, let me run with him when I belonged in pointe shoes, took me camping when I was miserable to be around, and always told me to keep going when I got discouraged. He's an incredible judge of character, and even though he didn't always approve of the guys I chose to date, he allowed me to learn for myself. He still gets visibly upset every time I go back to college. Before this year, Dad would almost always come to pick me up for school breaks. Every time, I would talk his ear off for the first hour-and-a-half while he drove, just nodding and listening. Eventually, I'd fall asleep. I would so enjoy those times in the car with him, just the two of us. It was the greatest way to start off my breaks
My sisters are both crazy. Lane and I have definitely gotten closer over the last five years, though we're not superclose. As Beef has gotten older, she and I have started to have more frequent conversations and fewer shouting matches. Even though the three of us choose not to tell each other everything, there's definitely a sense of trust. More than anything, we can laugh together, quote Gilmore Girls together, and have finally reached the point of actually enjoying each others' company. I love my brothers more than they'll ever understand. One of my favorite things is when Cristian wraps his arms around me, lays his head on my shoulder, and says, "Luh-loo, Ayin." Bringing him (and eventually Brandon) into our family was one of the greatest gifts my parents ever could have given my sisters and me. It's not without its frustrations, but it's not without its joys, either.
So many children don't have the opportunity to grow up in the nurturing environment that I had. So many teenagers spend countless hours arguing with their parents. So many people have been hurt and scarred by their families. The more I learn about families and parenting, the more I'm grateful for the way I was raised. There simply aren't enough words to express my thankfulness.
The challenge for me is to someday continue the incredible family legacy that my parents and their parents have established.
