In Which I'm Just Kind Of Broken Right Now.

I have found that there are seasons of my life when I am exponentially more emotional than others, and, people, I’m in one. 

The last time I remember feeling this way was when I worked as an assistant to the speakers who came in for my university’s summer conferences. I spent most of that summer attending conference sessions on everything from how to be a better priest to the genealogy of the Old Testament. (Wake me when it's over...) I don’t remember most of the session content, but I do remember that being one of the hardest summers of my life, both spiritually and emotionally. And I do remember at least a portion of one presentation specifically. 

I'm Which I'm Probably Slightly Neurotic...

Hello. My name is Johanna, and I'm a hypochondriac. Super. Now that I've gotten that off my chest, we can move on to bigger and better things... 

But for real. Let me explain something to you. I am a legitimate hypochondriac. Like completely and utterly paranoid, every ache and pain is a prelude to cancer--which I probably already have anyway--kind of hypochondriac. And I'm not making light of this. I have a real problem. It doesn't help that my father died of cancer at the ripe, old age of 41 when I was only 14 and that my mother is a nurse and that I majored in self-diagnosis courtesy of the Internet and my own vast medical knowledge. It also doesn't help that I've had some small but disconcerting health concerns, including thyroid disease, ovarian cysts, and lumps in the back of my mouth that turned out to be nothing more than rotting food that was catching in some scar tissue caused by my semi-annual cases of strep throat. (That was an over-share, wasn't it?) Hardly debilitating by any stretch, but for someone who can convince herself that those white spots in her throat are actually tumors and that the uterine pain is actually ovarian cancer, any foreign pain can be cause for absolute, life-altering panic.

It's an unpleasant way to live life, particularly for someone still under the age of 30. I often feel like I have no control over the thought processes that lead me from neck and back pain to tumors on my spine. It's utterly terrifying. 

In Which I'm Still Pondering...

I've had people ask me over the last couple of days since returning home when I would be writing about the trip, and honestly, I'm still processing. Maybe it's the jet lag, the utter lack of sleep, or the reality of being home, but I have begun to finally feel the effects of this experience and they rush over me in waves. And not the sweet, relaxing, subdued, calming type waves. I'm talking tidal waves. The kind that completely rock your world and knock you senseless for a minute, leaving you clawing for breath. 

In Which I Am Exceptionally Unprepared

Hello. I’m not sure that we’ve met. My name is “Drastically unprepared for a potentially life-altering trip half way around the world.” What an absolute pleasure!

But for real. I’m nowhere close to being ready for this trip.

These past two weeks have been an absolute blur, and that’s probably the understatement of my whole life. I’ve had more commitments this month than I think I’ve ever had ever, and I’m pretty sure I’m losing. my. mind.

In Which I Am Utterly Exposed...

So it looks like Tim and I are taking a trip at the end of this month. To Indonesia. To do mission work.

(Please pick your jaw up off the ground and continue reading.)

PSA: Parents, Please diaper your babies.

It is a well-known fact that when a baby, who is not yet potty trained, roams around the house commando, that baby will inevitably have to go to the bathroom. It simply can’t wait. It won’t wait.

Such was the case at the O’Nan household last night. Upon giving our littlest a bath, I dried her off and let that baby run free, if only to watch her naked bum run in the opposite direction. (Too much information? Sorry ‘bout it. But I get the feeling that other mothers will feel me on this.) As I proceeded to clean up the swamp bathroom, I could hear the typical pre-bedtime mayhem of a domineering big sister oppressing a feisty and vulnerably naked little sister. And then I heard nothing. Suddenly, Tristan was behind me, and she had her hand held out to me. There was clearly something on it that she wanted to show. I think we can all gather where this is going: The kid had crapped and not within the cotton-fibery confines of a cheap but functional Walmart diaper.

“Tim! Tristan just pooped somewhere!” I bellowed out from the bathroom. “Find it!”