Wife. Mama. Runner. Those are the first three words I’d use to describe myself to a stranger.
Here’s how those words look different to me this week:
I’m a wife who doesn’t have to fear that if my husband is pulled over he might not make it home alive.
I’m a mama who will never have to explain to her son that he can’t play hide and seek in the store clothing racks because someone might mistake him for trying to steal.
I’m a runner who doesn’t have to shout “on your left” out of concern that the color of my skin might scare the person I’m approaching.
That’s white privilege. Simple, ordinary privileges. Tied to simple, ordinary words.
Knowing where to start is hard, but I feel pretty confident I can start with words. Here are a few: I’m sorry. I love you. I stand with you. I believe you are worthy of more.
In late 2018, Patrick and I had the opportunity to travel to Chile to visit my brother who now lives north of Santiago as an astrophysicist (his actual job). The first stop on our South American adventure was to make the long trek down to Patagonia as a trio.
After a three hour flight south from Santiago and nearly five hours of driving the gravel “La Ruta del Fin del Mundo” or “The Road to the End of the World” set to this playlist, we arrived in the famed Torres del Paine National Park. The region is home to flamingos, pumas, penguins and even a famed giant sloth, but it’s one silly looking dude who’s clearly the star of the show here: the guanaco.
The guanaco is a relative of the llama, a South American deer if you will. He’s really not much to write home about compared to his roommates, but here, he’s king. We were quickly trained to focus our eyes to find one and while they have a population of more than 3,000 in the park, day by day went by without a sighting.
On day three, amidst what felt like hurricane strength winds we found a guanaco. He was on top of a ridge looking down on us shining with the true Simba status he deserves.
We’d quickly learn from our guide that you nearly always have to look up to find the first guanaco. Guanacos live in herds and while famous to us park goers, they aren’t exactly on the top of the food chain. See earlier puma mention. Guanacos appoint a sentinel, or look out, to stand at the highest point nearby and watch over the other guanacos as they graze below. Find the sentinel and you’ll likely spot his friends.
It was my favorite moment of the trip, as evidenced by this 100% genuine reaction to my brother when we saw him. The idea of the sentinel has stuck with me since. We all need a lookout. As Lauren Daigle might say, look up child.
I hope you have a greater lookout that you turn to for counsel. I know I do. I was reminded of these pictures this week as we enter days, weeks, maybe even months of uncertainty. Whatever you do next, look for the sentinels. Look for the helpers. Look for the stories of the people showing immeasurable care.
Maybe even put on your best guanaco impression and go be that sentinel. Your herd needs it now more than ever. And while you’re at it, wash your hands too.
Each fall at Chick-fil-A we gather as a company in our main building atrium to hear updates from our leaders on what’s taken place throughout the year. The space is billowing with beautiful stone floors and a five story spiral staircase that if you arrive early enough can be the best seat in the house. Inevitably, I never arrive early enough and wear heels like I shouldn’t have, therefore I spend the hour shifting my weight from left to right, cursing my improper choice of footwear, while balancing my phone and a cup of hot tea in hand.
Last fall, while contemplating my poor footwear choices, I listened as a leader I admire dearly shared a line I won’t soon forget, “we get to do this.” He talked about record breaking growth. About Operator frustrations. About all of the challenges and celebrations that come with growing a brand beyond what anyone of us could imagine. What Shane didn’t talk about was feeding an almost three month old in the hospital at 4 am, but it’s the line that sticks with me at this moment. We get to do this.
I expected to spend today putting the final things together to tomorrow waltz across those stone floors in printed, pointy-toed heels (yes, I already have an outfit picked out) and head back to a job I love with B attending daycare on-site with me. Instead, we are here at CHOA watching an almost three month old battle salmonella.
Friday afternoon B started acting off. He was running a low grade fever and I called the nurse who assured me it was likely something I ate but to watch it and give Tylenol if need be. By bedtime his fever had made it above 100.4 and we opted for Tylenol. By midnight his fever had spiked again. After an agonizing 90 minutes back and forth with the nurses line and never getting a call back from a doctor, a nurse suggested bringing him to the ER just to be sure. That nurse (and doctor who never called) were our guardian angels. We checked in around 2 am.
By 6 am our little guy was pooping green with blood, vomiting and still running a 102 fever. We waited for what felt like an eternity to see a doctor and to hold it together while B acted like the world’s happiest guy. When the day shift doctor took over she began a flurry of tests that felt a little overkill to two sleep deprived parents who were 99% sure this was a viral infection and ready to go home.
Rather quickly, we would learn B contracted salmonella. You or I would get the same, have a bad stomach ache and get on with our lives, but to someone so tiny this gig is pretty dangerous. We’ll never know exactly how we contracted the bacteria, but my best guess is somewhere between me making dinner and feeding B earlier this week, which was a test run of sorts for what rushed evenings might look like soon. It only takes a touch to pass the bacteria along and boy am I working through mom guilt over here.
While we’re still pretty shaken and still very nervous, we know we’re in the best hands possible at CHOA. We caught this thing quickly and we’re praying the antibiotics are doing their job and not allowing this bacteria to enter his precious little bloodstream. As I publish this post, they are looking good.
We’re settled into a room complete with a futon, full bath and crib. I’ve joked that it feels like P and I are shacking up in Brumby again (sorry mom and dad), but this time there’s a baby in the room with us instead of Jessica (Jess, you’re much quieter as a roommate).
While I expected to be closing the chapter on these night time feeds very soon, I’ll savor the chance to have them now. I texted with a girlfriend earlier this week on the best way to wean night feeds as B has been sleeping until 3-5 am each night, but the last 24 hours have thrown that and all of our plans to the wind. In fact, I think I’ve written on this predicament of God + Kaitlyn + well placed plans before ?
The next few days most certainly will not look as I expected, but I’m reminded that we get to do this. To snuggle. To be cared for by talented healthcare professionals. To miss work for a few more days and still have our jobs to return to. To fight. To be parents. We get to do this and we don’t plan on giving up anytime soon.
To baby B, oh the prayers we have for you right now my little friend. We pray for your strength, for your healing and for those strong kicking legs to keep knocking those monitors off (after the doctors take their readings, please).
