Rough Draft Mom

Challenge Du Jour

2011-07-30T16:41:00.006-04:00

I abandoned you five months ago, blog. You're not alone. I kind of abandoned myself somewhere along the way, too, so I know how it feels.

I had myself convinced that reading ramblings of motherhood, barring some drama such as extreme prematurity, wouldn't appeal to anyone. And that may be true. But boy is something missing when I don't purge what's on my mind in this way. So I decided to hop on today--well, rephrase--I decided to refuse to leave the house today but encourage my husband and kids to do so, to see if I could rekindle our spark, you and me. Mostly me, I admit. (Sorry blog, it's true: I'm using you.)

I enter every decision in my life with extreme doubt. Doubt in my ability to see it through. Doubt in the probability of it turning out well. Doubt in whether success and happiness is what I deserve, probably. Childhood trauma, however major or minor, turned soul-infesting expectation that shit is gonna go down, if you will. So in April, I decided to go back to school. I was considering various Masters programs, and they all seemed to end behind a desk, in front of a computer, donning business-casual, conservative gold hoop earrings, and a lovely, perfectly acceptable bob. Why? I don't know. But it didn't lend me the spark I needed to dive in and go for it. Then I entertained the idea of indulging in a seedy little pleasure I had beginning when I was much younger. I loved "playing" with hair. It seems like my thought process was, "well that would be ridiculous--you going to school for that, after being a teacher and a writer. . .AWESOME! Let's do it!" So here I am, mid-dive off a comfortable and solid cliff and an ocean of possibility, and all I can say is, "what in the hell was I thinking?!"

Not because I don't enjoy what I'm learning. "Playing" with hair is, indeed, highly entertaining for me. I have a lot left to learn, but I'm doing well and having fun with it. I'm the old lady of the group, though, and it's incredibly difficult to mesh with the other students--my antithetical peers--but it's good practice. I intend whole-heartedly to run my own business one way or another, so I'd better get used to feeling like the odd man out.

But going to school every night with a husband and three kids left at home? Brilliant move. Granted, this is all happening during the kids' summer break, so I have the ratrace of playing recreation director by day, good student at night, followed by the inevitable wifely duties (and yes, I am referring to the whole, chef-in-the-kitchen/maid-in-the-livingroom/whore-in-the-bedroom trilogy) and I'm. Freaking. EXHAUSTED.

If I had thought about this more, I may never have done it. I guess in a way, it's good that I didn't. That's always part of my problem: overthinking. It's what stops me from so many things, the what-ifs. I didn't consider that I would become the type of parent to say, "Mommy's just going to rest her eyes for a few minutes," and proceed to completely pass out for a solid hour while Charlotte takes a nap, or the type to find wrinkled clean clothes in a laundry basket for days in a row because folding and putting away seems like a monumental waste of time, or the type of wife who would tell my husband that if he wants sex that bad, he should find a girlfriend.

Nevertheless, here we are, trudging along, blazing through the doubt like the soldiers that we know we are (ie, after Charlotte, can't we get through anything?). I'm not clear where we'll land, but I know for sure that I cannot wait for the kids to go back to school--Addalie's starting Kindergarten!--and we'll all be alright in the end.

I think. I hope.

An Update In Bullets

2011-02-01T11:06:00.005-05:00

Charlotte likes to draw with chalk
Charlotte likes to eat chalk
Addalie is a great big sister (most of the time)
Olivia is now an ice skater
Addalie is now a gymnast
Charlotte climbs everything
Our grass is ugly/dead
Maggie Ruby is excellent with the kids
Christmas was fine, but we're glad it's done
Olivia got a telescope from Santa through which the moon looks awesome
Olivia raised $700 for the March of Dimes instead of asking for birthday presents
The Jeep made it's monthly visit to the mechanic for a water pump issue
I'm getting great at making baby back ribs
Olivia won Character Kid of the Month for the whole third grade
I finished Eat Pray Love (finally) and have proclaimed it's my favorite book EVER
Jason finally took the boat out on the lake and it didn't cost us $1000
Jason still hasn't learned to put his clothes in the hamper
Addalie picked out a PINK ceiling fan for her room
Jason purchased a PINK ceiling fan for Addalie's room (because I made the mistake of saying, "get whatever. I don't care.")
I want to get a new Mary Engelbreit desk calendar because last year's made me so happy
I want to go to the Scrapbook Expo in April in Orlando as a treat to myself
I love my girls
I love my husband
I love my dog
I love my camera
I love stickers

Dear Nancy, Lisa, and the Finnish People,

2010-11-06T08:55:00.009-04:00

or Photos By Specific (and mildly threatening) Request (well, not too threatening)

Today, we have to get our children to three birthday parties in three hours. Why, you ask, do we need to attend all of them? Well, we don't, of course. But it just so happens that if I had to attend any three parties in an entire year, these would be the three. They are actual friends. Thank God for Ross, where I get reasonably cool toys and gifts for fairly cheap, because this many presents is NOT in my budget otherwise.

Anyway, Addalie's party--SANS take-away gifts--(oooh, rebel!!! I DIDN'T GIVE OUT GIFTS TO OUR GUESTS! CAN YOU IMAGINE?!) was fun, Charlotte's celebration was lovely, and Olivia's is in the works. She's having a birthday Walk-A-Thon where she's donating to the March of Dimes in lieu of presents. Gotta get working on that. And then, I do solemnly vow NOT to have birthday parties next year. Give Momma a break!

What's New: I Blinked and Months Had Passed

2010-11-01T09:48:00.010-04:00

November 2nd? Really?!

Well, the holidays are on their way, and as usual I enter the realm with a hearty mix of child-like excitement and pure dread. I hope to get the chance to build some family traditions this year. We generally do the same old things every year, but I think the time has come to add some significance to the holiday in a new way!

As a great launching point for new traditions, my friend gave me the gift of a lifetime when she whisked me away to a mountain cabin for a long October weekend. Where North Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia meets, so did we, with beautiful foliage, peace, and solitude.

Gratitude for the catharsis is all I can say about it, really. And I hope we can do it again because life is short and it's experiences like these that fill you up. In a world that depletes the spirit at many turns, we owe it to ourselves and to those we love to take the time to fill up.

And filling up was good timing because when we returned, my whole household passed around a stomach virus. All five of us in 5 days--fluid everywhere. The Great Emptying. Sadly, Liv and AG were the final victims, and at precisely the hour of trick-or-treating, the switch was flipped, and pukefest 2010 esued.

I didn't even get a picture of Addalie in her Halloween costume (Tinkerbell). She had fallen asleep, awakened enough to pass out one bag of candy, and then she feel that she must attempt to trick-or-treat. It lasted 8 houses. Charlotte (Madonna) did fine--she overcame the bug on Friday, and Olivia (The Vampire Queen) made it far enough to fill half her bag before the stomach cramps set in.

I locked myself out of my house, broke my window to get in, which thankfully was fixed by our guardian angels across the street while we cleaned out puke bowls and passed out candy. (Yes, I did turn off my porch light and put a "gone trick-or-treating" sign on the door, but kids--especially the obnoxious older ones--are ignorant and persistent.) *Dear God, sorry for being a germ vehicle on this Halloween night. Also, send more soap. And toilet paper.*

In other news, I need to meet with my webmaster to finalize some things before I launch my own actual website. It will be a nice, "neet" home from which to visit the blog, photographs, and scrapbooking endeavors. Coming soon!

2010-10-05T16:02:00.001-04:00

Fall is here early (but finally!) weather-wise. Let the coziness return, let the candy corn out of the bag.

A Peace of Cake

2010-10-05T14:46:00.006-04:00

Charlotte really did something to me, man. I have spiraled into some kind of parallel realm where I'm me, but a different me. I'm pretty sure it's better, but it's so noticeable that it makes me uncomfortable. That's the part that makes me think it's actually a better version of myself--the uncomfortable part. Real change is never comforting.

In tandem with the major life upheaval she caused (well, it's not her fault. Maybe it's a God thing, or a Universe thing, or just an unplanned shit-happens kind o' thing.), I've also experienced a slide back in time regarding all things technology-related. First, my breastmilk consumed and spit out my beloved Macbook. Then I split from Facebook. And then I tried to pick up my iPhone when it was tethered to the charger and the wall won: it slammed to the floor with such force that it coughed lightly and died in my arms. Tragic, I know. But these occurrences all led me to a decision. A brave decision, I think. Having no access to phone numbers (because, after all, who memorizes them anymore?), I decided that the only people who will go into my new phone are those who call me. I will not go in search of anyone. And here's why:

When Charlotte was in the belly/in the belly in the hospital/in the hospital, I had many hits every week on the old blog here. I had phonecalls. I had e-mails. I had Facebook madness. I had people coming out of the fucking woodwork showing genuine interest in our story. And support. And compassion. And great energy that I think pulled her through. But now? I've had a dozen hits since July. Literally 12. And several of them were from Finland. (Are they trying to tell me I'm Finnished?!) There are, one month later, 6 contacts entered into my phone, and they are those I talk to practically daily--husband, best friend, mother-in-law, dad, etc. Not one "friend" of my 96 friends on Facebook besides the same type I just mentioned have come looking for me since I left back in July. This has all brought to light a very interesting revelation. Most of the relationships in my life only exist because I maintain them. That's true for everybody, and it might seem like a "duh," but try erasing everybody from your phone and see who's there after a month or two. Probably not as many as you thought would be. Oh, and Facebook, mySpace, Twitter and the like? Those are not places! Those are not conversations you're having! It's all just distraction, and none of it really matters.

I know, this sounds very cynical--and it is--but the cynicism's just the icing on the cake. I've been waiting around for about 3 months for some proof that I'm wrong. More and more, though, I see that I'm right about this one. While it relegates me to seeing that I wasted so much time over the past several years putting energy into activities and people that got me absolutely nowhere, the "cake" of this massive change in my life is knowing--the absolute deliciousness of really, totally knowing--what matters.

*Enter peaceful classical music*

So I'm changing this blog. I know I'm writing in a vacuum right now. Nobody's going to read it, so what am I afraid of? Not a damn thing. Earlier today, being inspired by reading an unabashedly proud artist's blog, who's art wasn't actually that appealing to me, I pushed the laptop across the table and put my head down. And cried. Why not me? What am I waiting for? Why can't I just do what I love for the sake of doing it? Nobody has to like it. Nobody has to care. If everyone were gone tomorrow, would I still do what I love to do? Then I asked Addalie, my precious and brilliant 5-year-old to tell me something. Anything--just say something to me now, I implored. So she did. She told me the perfect thing: "I was trying to make a smiley face out of my fries and I couldn't. So I just ate them."

It's time to eat.

Every Then and Now

2010-08-25T20:23:00.007-04:00

It's been a rough couple weeks because I've been ruminating over the anniversary of my water breaking three months early--it's been one whole year now. So every day I think, this time last year. . .I know, I know: but it's over! She's fine! Be happy! Be present! Yeah, yeah. That conflict got me to thinking about how hard I've tried to find my spiritual path, my divine purpose.

(Purpose \ˈpər-pəs\: noun Something set up as an object or end to be attained, or transitive noun A subject under discussion or an action in course of execution)

At dinner the other night, we discussed the beauty of being a monk--you sit around and work to think of nothing, study works of literature, eat healthy, in some cases you don't even have to talk! Ah, the infinite peace of such an existence! And my husband, philosopher though he isn't, made a good point. "What do they know about life?!" Well, let's put it this way: my struggles are not similar in literal terms to those of monks. And, in other words, I'm going to live my life and not avoid it no matter how much reading Eat Pray Love has inspired me to run off and "find my inner whatever" (Elizabeth Gilbert is awesome, but as is of note in the book, she did NOT have three children at the time). Ergo, if I want to dwell on the miserable time I had last year as an anniversary present, sure it may do me no good, but then again, maybe it will. Retro- or Introspection is my vehicle to why, to how--my course of execution--to purpose.

Lately I've lost interest in so many things I used to feel passionate about, or even like. The news, politics, gardening. After I deleted my Facebook account, it became easier to just cut stuff out. So much of what we do is clutter. I'm zeroing in on what matters by trashing all the distracting stuff. Or I just have delayed-onset postpartum depression. Eh, whatev.

Let's see. . .Charlotte has slept well two nights in a row. Apparently she's conditioned us not to 'cause we still were awake a lot, but I will take it! Very happy. Only took 11 months.

Addalieisms of the week: 1. (speaking for Charlotte, who had a puzzled look on her face at the dinner table) "Heh--she's like, 'who are you? Are you my family? I don't remember your shirts!'" and 2. (when told that her room is too messy) "Well, you have to know I'm not the cleaning child!" And Olivia is talking on the phone with her friends about boys and she made me put her hair up this morning because, and I quote, "OMG, like, I'm having such a bad hair day!"

Wait 'til the teenage years? Right. Like they're not already here.

Beauties!

What a summer that was! My first summer with three kids, and it about wore me out. I really try to overdo it. My valuable sentence of the month has been: "I have to be careful to parent the children they are, not the child I was." I can be so brilliant that way; now if I can only remember it on a daily basis, I'll be good.

Dad's Life

2010-08-01T13:38:00.004-04:00

My Husband:

My Soccermom counterpart, the bourgeois cliche. We even have the same exact popcorn bowl. If I weren't so happy with it, I'd find it positively depressing.

(Because. . .A man must consider what a rich realm he abdicates when he becomes a conformist. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson)

I Burned My Pancakes For Lady GaGa

2010-07-11T10:41:00.006-04:00

I fell in love with the Material Girl when I was 8. Black jelly bracelets up to my elbows along with lace gloves and banana clips--oh yeah, I was all about Madonna. The lyrics of her songs were not so appropriate for an 8-year-old to be singing now that I look back on it with mom-eyes. I remember belting out Like A Virgin on a daily basis. . .touched for the very first time? (See my post about Olivia singing "I Kissed A Girl" for my "uh-oh, it's my turn" moment: http://neeterstuff.blogspot.com/2010_01_01_archive.html)

I would like to get all kids-these-days! and what's-the-world-coming-to? here, but it's just recycled limit-pushing. Lady Gaga is Madonna of the early 21st century. She gave a concert on the Today Show last Friday. I hesitated to let Olivia watch it, but being that it was daytime TV, LG was fairly subdued. So we stood there, mouths agape, intrigued. And the daily chocolate chip pancakes the girls can't live without? Oh, they were smoldering in the pan. I was. . .distracted.

Which leads me to the point of my post: I've completely deleted my Facebook page. I woke up one morning about two months ago and, coffee in hand, logged onto Facebook to view my newsfeed. There was really nothing interesting about it. A couple "yay! It's Friday!"s and "what's for dinner?"s, was all there was. Yet I spent a half hour on there. With three kids, a half hour is really my free-time limit for the day, and *!POOF!* it was gone. Just like that. Time-sucked away by a pointless distraction. In fact it occurred to me in that second that Facebook is not bringing us closer together or connecting us with eachother; on the contrary. It's totally sucking true intimacy out of our lives. Sure, you can schedule a get-together easily on there, but for the most part, the interaction I've had with others has been completely shallow and unneccessary over the last three years. The people who really care about me are the ones I talk to anyway. And folks, it's really not that much trouble to call someone on the phone. Yes, you may be "stuck" talking, but that's either because you talk too much or you can't grow a pair and say, "I don't want to spend much time on the phone, I just wanted to say X, Y, and Z."

Most of my Facebook "friends" weren't really on there that much. There's a place for it; and un-abused, it's fun and relaxing. But it occurred to me that if I checked it everyday like I check the mail, it had crossed over to chore. I had to check on whether I'd been "liked" while I was sleeping, or if someone had initiated commentary on the status of my life. It's like your own mini-reality show. And suddenly, sitting there with my coffee glimmering in the stripes of sunlight pouring through the blinds, I was just done. . .much like Forrest Gump when he stopped running.

(That's me and the Facebook crew behind me ; )

So the Facebooks and Lady Gagas of our time have officially lost my attention. I'm going to try to focus more so that I don't burn my pancakes. Or my kids.

2010-07-01T17:05:00.002-04:00

More fun with digiscrapping--even more addictive than hands-on, although that can't be beat! Something about playing with all the paper and stickers that the computer can't fulfill. On the other hand, this is less messy and still pretty cute.

Mini-things, Like Charlotte and Canteloupe

2010-06-30T14:26:00.004-04:00

Charlotte is 9 1/2 months old and working on crawling. She's up, in position, but still hasn't coordinated all arms and legs in such a way that she doesn't end up on her face. No, her hair looks more blonde than red, although all my babies threatened to have reddish hair at first. This looks most like Liv hair, and thankfully, her shaved spots have filled in.

I was filling in her baby book yesterday. They really should make a preemie baby book--the experience is not very similar to a regular-baby experience. Well, I will scrapbook one, yes, but our friends bought us a beautiful little pink girlie one I'd like to complete for her. So I was completing pre-written sentence starters that went like this: "When I came home from the hospital, my room was full of cute little things like. . .diapers. And after we came home I ran out to Target to get you a bassinet to sleep in!" and "the outfit I came home in was. . .who cares?! I just wanted you home. I have no idea what you were wearing." So I realized what a great luxury it is to have a "normal" baby, a "normal" delivery, because it allows you to focus on all the "normal" things--an indulgence I think everyone deserves to experience. And we had it twice, but took it for granted. Yet another way Charlotte is a gift. Now that she's more "normal" (except for that freakish non-sleeping thing), we notice.

And speaking of cute, look at my little canteloupe! It's only about 3 1/2 inches in diameter because it fell off the vine a bit too soon (a running theme?), but it was very pretty and sweet!

2010-06-30T14:19:00.002-04:00

Having said all that. . .

Here is one of the beautiful things about Florida summers: the evening cloudshow. It's as close to purple mountain's majesty we get!

Home Is Where The Heart Is, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, I know.

2010-06-29T21:58:00.008-04:00

I know from the very core of my soul that I do not belong where I'm living. I've known this for 20 years. I can't say with certainty where, exactly, I do belong. I just know it's not here.

I was moved here when I was 13 and I missed my opportunity to get out just about the time I met my husband. He likes it here (I think--he just goes with the flow, so I can never be really sure). There's water, and where there's water, he's good to go on surfing and fishing. His family is here. We have friends. I know my mailman's name. I have a great mechanic. My neighbor's kitchen is my emergency convenience store. We run into people from high school. That's all well and good--I would miss that if I left. But still, deep down, this place is not the place.

I want to rake leaves in November, not January. I want those leaves to have been beautifully red, orange, and yellow. I want tulips and hydrangeas. I want hills, at least. I love the ocean, but a sunset over a mountain or a meadow for a change would be nice. I want character in the buildings--I want to know life happened there before the industrial revolution. I want to picture a guy in spectacles reading by candlelight as I pass by Georgian-windowed homes. Those images give me butterflies.

Here, though, people tell me I would hate, hate, hate winters up North. It's gray. You can't go out. You always have to adorn yourself in layer after layer when you do. I always think to myself how is this any different than Florida? For three months in the summer, I could make exactly the same argument with opposite excuses. It's painfully bright here. You can't go out. You can put on a coat in the cold, but there's only so much you can take off in the heat. When you walk in a store up North, you may be taking off your coat, hats, and gloves. But when you walk in a store down here, you look like you just stepped out of a steambath, complete with frizz-limp hair and pores so open you might consider having them fitted for little diaphrams before your next romantic encounter. I mean seriously, no makeup can endure this crap.

I took my girls to the mall today so they could enjoy the play(germ)ground in air conditioning. Outdoor slides would just burn their little buns, anyway. We wandered around, looked for some school clothes, I said no to more silly bands (yay, me!)--basically avoided the heat. Went up, went down, and out to the sweltering car. That's when the work begins: turn car on first and hope the a/c can overcome the 120 temperature that's built up in there. While holding baby, pack up carseat carrier and stroller. Load everybody in. Nurse baby a little ('cause I still have to stop at the grocery store with three kids in tow), change baby in lap. It's a ridiculous production after which I need my second shower of the day.

(*bitchfest alert*)
Side note about the mall: People, please! Why is it that so many adults have not yet figured out elevator etiquette? The scenerio is always the same: several individuals are nose-to-door and waiting for the grand opening. Doors open. "Oh! There are people in there! How will I get in? Oh! They have to get off! Oh! Maybe I should back up! Oh!"

STAND BACK! What are you afraid of? Are you afraid that I, lady-with-a-stroller will run your ass over and make sure I get on that elevator before you have any hope in hell of making it downstairs in the next 10 seconds?! Really? Is Bath and Body Works closing forever RIGHT NOW?! Holy God, people. You must wait for the occupants of the elevator to exit before you can
get on. I promise I will wait for the next run if the box gets too full. I totally get why you don't want to take any one of six flights of stairs surrounding the elevator.
(*bitchfest concludes*)

So anyway, summer is here again in Florida. I'm dying to sense the beginning of the sun's slant to the south come September. It's not much cooler by then, but I know autumn is on it's way. I will soon be able to go to the pathetic little fake pumpkin patch and pay $15 for some Wisconsin pumpkin that's dumped in the carpet of straw.

I try to remember what one of my signs says (I have lots of signs/reminders around my house). "Home is where they love you." I hope that's true, because if home is where I love myself, I'm still on my way there.

2010-06-28T15:05:00.001-04:00

(Can you see how much they're loved?)

2010-06-28T15:02:00.001-04:00

2010-06-28T14:57:00.002-04:00

These girls. . .they are (nearly) as perfect as they look. Incidently, we had our first big blowout over clothes the other day. They were fighting over a shirt. At 4 and 8. (Yes, they're nearly the same size--Liv is shrimpy, Addalie's normal.) There were tears, even. All I can say is, poor Daddy. Crying? Over a shirt? Just wait, right?

2010-06-28T14:55:00.000-04:00

2010-06-28T14:42:00.002-04:00

Jason and his girls~for Father's Day, I framed this picture. The mat says "My heart belongs to Dad." The next day, Olivia brought home a poster someone had given her at school. Plastered across the guitar-laden, curly-haired teen guy are the words, "my heart belongs to Nick Jonas."

2010-06-25T09:55:00.006-04:00

Drawing a line in the sand. If she can do it, so can I.

Avowal, But Only To Keep My Fingers Busy

2010-05-25T21:35:00.006-04:00

It's not that I've been trying to hide the fact that I've been smoking for (*pause*) awhile. Okay. I've been smoking since I was 18, alright? That would be, as indicated by the fact that I turned 33 last Thursday, 15 years. Almost half my life. But I'm sure this is news to some of you. Most of the time I was not a heavy smoker, and I easily took years off during pregnancy, but still. I think I was in denial--is every smoker in denial, or was it just me? I thought, well, I'm young, and I'll quit by the time I'm 20, 21, 25, 3o, 32. . .the problem there is what happened before I started smoking.

(Parents? You wanna lay down and wait for the bus, or should I just go ahead and boot ya'll under it when it speeds by?)

I grew up in a smoking household. Everybody smoked. I hated it. I look back now and realize I was one of those kids who went to school with stringy, smoky hair. It's so sad! (Paging Mr. Bell, Joshua Bell, please dial extension p-i-t-y.) I used to sabotage efforts to smoke by replacing Bic lighters with water-squirting look-alikes. I'd hide packs. I thought it was entertaining. They? Not so much. But it was because I knew smoking was bad, and I wanted the people I cared about to stop doing it. I knew it could kill them, but now I wonder if it will kill me.

So lung cancer risk already higher, I went to work in a nursing home at the age of 17. I worked 3-11pm. At about 4:30, you had to squeeze in a break before serving dinner to the ladies & gents of Shady Pines (Golden Girls reference). One day shortly after my 18th birthday, I was about to go outside to socialize with the other break-takers when a funny thing happened. I got passed over so that Jen-with-cute-red-hair could take her break because she really needed it. Translation: nicotine withdrawal.

I said the only thing I could think of, "well I smoke. I'm totally (say it! saaaay it. . .awkwardly) like, sooo having a nic fit. Totally. Like."

"Oh, well then," they said, "go ahead. Why didn't you say so?"

And soon I was sitting with the smokers, you know--the cool people--and asking if I could borrow a cigarette. Bumming cigarettes, I realized quickly, was an undesirable act, so soon after that, I was buying my own first pack. Virginia Slims, 'cause that's the kind I had borrowed.

So I started smoking in order to take breaks. Ergo, the basis of my addiction became doing something while actually doing nothing. Justifiable inactivity, if you will.

Okay, so I decided to quit, completely, once and for all for my 33rd birthday present to myself. Well, to my girls. I don't smoke in the house, I don't like them around smoke, but I see the look in Liv's eyes. I know she knows smoking could kill me. I know when I acknowledge that it's bad as I stand there doing it, she's learning to do what I do, not what I say. And lately, the burning question is, if I love her and Addalie and Charlotte so very much, why is it okay to kill their mother? So I quit.

For four days.

And then I smoked, while being social and drinking wine, of course, because evidently I can't talk without simultaneously inhaling toxic chemicals.

And then today I didn't smoke again.

*Sigh*

I'm that commercial for "re-learning life without cigarettes." I want one right now--I often have one when I'm the last one up. There's no reason I can't go outside and breathe fresh air and look up at the stars for five minutes. But say you drive by a woman who's standing in her driveway and staring straight up at the sky. "What the hell's she doing?" you might wonder. Insert cigarette, though, and it becomes a non-issue. She's obviously doing something. She's smoking! That's something!

What are my alternatives? Replace the behavior, right? Food? Ugh, no. Go for a walk? Yeah, okay (not). Sex? My husband wishes, but I don't think so. Meditation? Tried that last week and will do that just as soon as I can figure out what blackness and silence mean.

On the bright side, at least a little angst is back. That's always inspiring.

(Dare I Say) Hello Happiness

2010-04-30T16:14:00.008-04:00

Today I realized why I haven't been writing: I'm happy. Since forever I am most inspired when in angst. I figure nobody wants to read how life is perfect, or at least how I'm focused on the good things and barely concerned about the banalities of ordinary problems (ie, ran out of dog food or had a headache). Ever since Charlotte--as in, "Charlotte: The Event" not Charlotte herself--I feel guilty complaining about anything. But complaining is fun. It's especially fun when other people are doing it. Other people's problems are a pervasive component of our society. Socioeconomic status aside, whether it's Jerry Springer or Nightline, soaking in the warmth of outside-ourselves bad news allows us to minimize our own problems, while finding out that so-and-so's mommy reads to him for 30 minutes every night and bakes her own preservative-free goldfish feels like getting hit in the gut with a garden hose set on blast. Calgon is now Brian or Katie or Diane. Silence is where we often hear truth. Truth is scary. Our own truth is often the scariest.

So my dilemma, since I feel compelled to put it that way, is how to make "happy" relevant. How can I say that my imperfect husband, kids, body, and home are currently perfect without feeling the burn of a thousand eyes rolling in my general direction? Well, it's the truth of the moment, I guess. This is what that saying means, the one about how "life's not about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain."

The Shittiest Tooth Fairy Ever

2010-03-23T10:21:00.005-04:00

"Mom," Olivia said this morning, barely awake, "the tooth fairy didn't come."

Oops.

"And my tooth is still there."

Oooops.

You think "The Rock" made a bad tooth fairy in the movie? Yeah, well. Jay and I actually suck worse than that.

A time or two ago when Liv lost a tooth, I went to bed and woke awhile later in a panic. "Jay! Jay! Did you put money in Liv's tooth pillow?!" He took care of it, he said. It's done. Don't worry.

Imagine my surprise--hell, imagine Liv's surprise--the next morning when she found FIVE DOLLARS in her tooth pillow ALONG WITH HER TOOTH.

He took care of it, alright. Our explanation for that was that the tooth fairy was a new hire and had forgotten to grab the tooth due to first-day jitters. Hey, the good news was, Mommy would finally get to keep a tooth! She bought it. Don't know how, but she did.

I think we've successfully accomplished the "fairy removes your tooth for money" charade once or twice in between then and last night.

You'd think I would have remembered--I pulled her tooth. Besides birthday parties and bratty friends, the only other thing I've found to hate about parenting so far is bloody teeth. Blech! So I pulled the tooth, told her where her tooth pillow was, and she went to bed. Of course, since my brilliant husband set a $5 precedent here, I secured my money and planned to make the exchange as soon as she fell asleep. And by the way, 28 teeth x 3 kids? Yeah. Brilliant.

Too bad I completely forgot about it immediately after kissing her goodnight.

Our excuse du jour? "Well, they make sure they get here the first night when it's your first tooth, but after that, you may have to wait a night or two. They'll come. Don't worry."

My friend told me once--and this is advice I really should have taken--that she nipped the tooth fairy story in the bud when she told her daughter she'd pay her twice what the little winged bitch would give her for her tooth. Why didn't I think of this? I guess it's not too late. Maybe I'll start that with Addalie.

Swing

2010-03-16T08:18:00.008-04:00

This is my grandmother and me on her porch swing c. 1982. I used to call her Grandpama. They said they would tell me, "Grandpa and Grandma" and I would say "Grandpa and GrandpaMA!" It stuck for awhile 'til I learned to speak well, I guess. Her name was Grace, and I named my second daughter after her. I remember sitting on this swing with Grandma and everyone else in the family at some point. I think we all had peace on that swing. Across the way you could watch the Musselman girls, adorned in their prayer veils and long skirts, hang laundry or pick veggies from their garden. There were crops planted in the fields, usually corn in my memory. Straight ahead you could see Grandma's purple lilac bush and the end of her clothesline. The old schoolhouse-house was beyond that, inhabited now by Mrs. . .Mrs. . .hmm. Can't remember her name. But the air was crystal clear and smelled of the seasons; probably of lilacs and cow poop in this picture.

FAST-forward almost 30 years (ugh) to last November when Dad and L finally came down by car, in part to deliver a certain large package. When Grandpa died (preceded by Grandma), I made it known that I wanted the swing, desperately. Actually, I think I told Grandpa himself before his death because he had stored it in the basement one winter and never gotten it out again. But not 'til a few months ago did it finally get to me; to my porch. Dad hung it. Must have found some damn-sturdy studs 'cause it can accommodate all of us, no problem. We use it constantly. We use it. . .generationally.

I love this piece of furniture. Despite it's unstable nature of back and forth, back and forth, it was and is always anchored. It was always there for me--for all of us--in the same place. A place, as I remember, where solace lived.

The Missing

2010-03-14T13:52:00.010-04:00

Good and most wanted news first: the girls are great. They are happy, active, and well--Charlotte is growing much loved and long anticipated fat rolls. She's six months old now, and developmentally somewhere between her actual age and adjusted age of three months. She's not fond of sleeping, she loves it when I lick--I mean smell--her feet (I have a babyfoot fetish), and I think she's teething. Already. Time flies when it's safely in your rearview mirror.

I can't believe it's mid-March. I can't believe I haven't written in over a month. If you've missed me at all, you're not alone. I miss me too. My soul is achy from a lack of creative energy expression, and it's starting to show. I remember having a conversation with my therapist a few years ago about having a third child. I told her I wanted to, but wasn't sure it was the "right" thing to do. I worried that Olivia and Addalie would suffer from a decrease in my attention and a decrease in their net domestic product levels due to less money per household member. . .basically I was worrying about how it would affect THEM. That's what a good parent is supposed to consider, right? And the therapist said to me, "they won't notice any of that because you'll make sure they have everything they need. There won't be less of you available to them, there will be less of you available to YOU."

Dear Lord, was she right.

I'm an only child. I had to entertain myself a lot. I grew accustomed to it. Introspection and creativity were my favorite toys. I need, need, neeeeeeed my alone time. And I'm never. Ever. Alone. So then I think back to my five weeks of hospital bedrest. And since guilt is my favorite emotion (apparently), I feel guilty for thinking I want to be alone when I got bolus-dosed with castaway-ity during that time, and I hated it. Granted, I was terrified for my child's life at the time, so I can't really count it as a vacation per se, but I shudder to think that I'd ever be in that position again. So I'd better not will it into being by wishing for a moment to myself. I just want a few hours, Perspective, so don't beat me up about it. Oh and by the way, going to the grocery store doesn't count.

I have a fabulous, thoughtful husband who reminds me all the time how supportive he is of my hobbies / fantasies of hobbies: scrapbooking, reading, photography, writing. He's cute. When I drag out all my necessary tools for said hobbies, guess who wants to participate? Or nurse? Or have a snack? Or get an injury? Or listen to a Hannah Montana song? In short, I'd love to see how much surfing he'd get done with three kids in his sole care. I guess I'm just not getting this whole "find balance" concept.

Ah well. At least, if I have to be out of balance to one side or the other, I'm knee-deep in pretty awesome kids. Whether singing "All the Single Babies" (you put your hands up! Uh oh oh ooh, oh oh ooh--all the single babies! If ya like it than ya shoulda put a diaper on it!) or declaring that Charlotte needs her own "hula poop" (that's what Addalie calls it), or bringing home a Guiness World Book of Records dog-eared to the page of the woman with the world's biggest augmented breasts (thank you boy-who-sits-next-to-Liv-in-class), they keep me laughing. I'm pretty sure they don't have a clue how devoted I am to every detail of their lives, but every once in awhile I know I exist--at least in mom-form.

Coming Out About What It Means To Be Gay

2010-01-30T15:31:00.002-05:00

There are several conversations I've been anticipating having with my kids. Always in terms of how I'd break all the big news stories to Olivia, since she's the oldest, I've gone over them in my head again and again. I like to be prepared, and I think it's wise to prepare them as well.

While I was pregnant with Addalie, Liv was four, so other than "there's a baby in there," she wasn't too interested in how such a thing could happen. While I was pregnant with Charlotte, however, a few more questions arose. She was aware that I had a scar from which she and her sister had been removed. But one day the camera wandered a little too close to the action on A Baby Story while she was in the room, and I had to break big news story #1: Babies "naturally/normally" Come Out of Your Vagina. As I braced myself for the expected follow up question "how did they get in there?" she ran from the room, horrified, grief-stricken, and holding her crotch. That was the end of that conversation. I'm still waiting on that one.

There are others. In no particular order: Santa. The Leprachauns who manage to sneak in, clean her room, and leave green tinsel in their wakes. God and how the world can be so askew if he supposedly makes all things perfect. War. Where we go when we die. Algebra and why I flunked it. And what it means to be gay.

Last week when she came traipsing up from the school bus singing, "I Kissed A Girl, And I Liked It," I asked where she'd heard it. Thank you neighbor-girl who has it loaded into her iPod. Well, she thought nothing of it. After all, she kisses girls everyday! Me. Her sisters. Maggie. But, catchy tune that it is, before long our whole household was humming it. Then it suddenly hit me on her 84th rendition of the chorus, she's going to sing it at school.

Now in our home, judgement and hatred isn't practiced. I realize that people tend to pass down prejudices to the next generation. I really realized that as a middle school teacher. I was astounded to see how many pre-teens are racist, homophobic, and downright extremist at such a young age. But I didn't even know my daughter's teacher is black until I met with her for the first conference of the year, despite hearing a detailed description of what she looks like from Olivia within the first week of school. I was delighted to realize my daughter doesn't think the color of a person's skin is important enough to include in a conversation. So how to approach sexuality was a challenge. I want her to be aware--I want her to be culturally intelligent as well as emotionally and intellectually. But I don't want it to matter. Does that make any sense?

So I realized that if she sang this song at school, some kid is going to laugh at her--I've seen it happen in my classroom--and taunt, "oooh, you kissed a girl?! Are you gay?!" Like it's a bad thing. At which point, she wouldn't understand why she's seemingly being made fun of.

Oh boy.

I had to go there.

"Liv? Do you know what it means to be gay?"
"No."
"Well. . ."

Yes, "it means happy" did cross my mind.

"Well. . .um. . .uhhh. . .it. . .if. . .say you. . .um. . ."

Yeah, well I haven't really practiced this one as much as Santa.

"So you know how Mommy and Daddy are together and we love eachother?"
"Yeah."
"Well, some boys love boys and some girls love girls."
No response.
"And that's actually what that song is about--a girl who kissed a girl and. . .well. . .liked it. Sooooo. . ."

Oh dear Lord, help me now.

"Sooooo. . .if you're "gay" it just means you're attracted to the same gender. And you're born that way, just like if you're attracted to the opposite gender. And at school someday, you might hear somebody say it's a bad thing. But it's not."

When I explained to her that back in the day it was illegal for black people and white people to marry, she looked puzzled. When I said that today, some very dear friends of mine and some of my family members were not able to marry the people they love, her response was, "that's CRAZY!"

So I pretty much stopped there. Because, just like anybody who passes down their beliefs to their children, I want my kids to believe in HUMAN rights. Not just the rights of humans who happen to be like them. I'm pretty sure this world isn't going to work well until we all feel that way.

One down. Countless to go.

Thankful(,) for 2009 (is gone)

2010-01-02T09:07:00.011-05:00

Happy New Year!

Post-Festival of Greed

MaggieRuby's Christmas Present

Matchy-matchy (note Addalie's Reefs. Kid lives in flip-flops).

Sisters

Santa came through on the guitar for Liv (and G-Mur came through on the guitar for Mama--more on that later).

Uncle Chris, Aunt Marissa, Olivia, and Addalie playing with the loot.

My big gift

Pretty girl! Charlotte; growing.

The holidays are over. I took a breath--the Waiting To Exhale kind--the second that ball hit the roof in Times Square, and knew immediately that I was on a sort of a vacation. That's what it feels like when you love your work, so I hear. This is the Year of the Family, and now that things have calmed down, I'm thrilled to get started at my new job: full-time mom of three. Sounds simple compared to my last positions: miscarrying, pregnant-again, hemorrhaging, bedresting, hospitalized, in-NICU-living, paranoid, sleep-deprived, tear-streaked, and near-breakdown-having, and other things that can't be told in a public forum, teacher.

Mom, complicated though it can get, sounds easy right about now.

Hello 2010. I barely know you, but I love you.

Paying a "Preemie"um for Joy

2009-12-11T09:43:00.008-05:00

This time last year my body carried two hearts, mine and that of the baby I never knew. On a Saturday morning one week before Christmas, my husband and I were stopping at the doctor for my 12 week check up and then going out to finish up shopping for our girls. As the doctor glided the ultrasound probe over my belly, I watched his eyes. And I knew. He stepped out and said he'd be back, and I told Jason that he couldn't find the heartbeat. That was it. Just like that, the pregnancy was over with nothing to show for it.

We waited a week so that the girls could have a normal Christmas, and a day after that, I took the pills that would cause the miscarriage to proceed. It ended up being a week-long process, but when it was over, I was empty.

Slow forward to this Christmas. It is big tradition in our family to hang the ornaments on the tree and watch Christmas Vacation. I collect ornaments, and no two are alike. I've never counted them, but 14 years after I put up my own tree for the first time, I've amassed quite the storybook of memories. There is usually one of two angels on top of the tree, and Olivia was looking forward to seeing her choice top the finish of our kickoff to the annual festival of greed. But something changed this year. I had forgotten--about the ornament, not the baby--that I bought a Willow Tree angel ornament. "Bright Star" is it's title. Written on the tag: "For my angel baby, 2008."

I held it up. Five inches. Angel. Baby. As Charlotte lay ~~sleeping~~ breathing on the couch, I hung that ornament at the very top of our tree. It was not lost on me in that moment that if not for the loss of that baby, Charlotte would not be here. Who was that baby? Was it Charlotte? Was it someone else? Did Charlotte just have that hard of a time coming through? Was it all just a colossal accident of nature? why, why, why?!

"I think we should put the red angel on top," Olivia said, "No, wait--the green angel. . ."
"This is the tree-topper, Liv."
"But it's too little!"

And the whisper shot through me and ran into my eyes--just because it's too little doesn't mean it's not really, really important.

I don't know why I had to miscarry. I don't know why Charlotte had to be born so early. I don't know if there's a reason for any of it. I'm not sure why there has to be so much pain if not to boost the sensation of joy when it finally comes. But joy is here. The price was high, but joy is here.

Olivia and Charlotte

2009-11-24T15:49:00.000-05:00

Still The Me Of Old

2009-11-24T09:40:00.006-05:00

Oh, the horror.

I'm traipsing across the swinging, disintegrating rope bridge between gratitude and reality. After emerging from the tunnel of life and death still on this side, one feels a certain sense of obligation to be happy for the rest of eternity. One negative thought--one "Calgon, you ass, take me away" moment--and there you stand: stripped of any right to be overwhelmed in your pearls and your apron. This moment, after all--this jumprope and stilt-cup tornado of a moment--is what you've prayed for all year. How dare you think it? How dare you let that steely spine of yours slip? Chin up, ma'am. You asked for it.

I don't want to be one of those people who streams sentiments of "it could always be worse." That's no fun. Events like spilling breastmilk all over your computer (just as a random example) are catastrophic. When I--or, IF I--did such a thing now, I'd roll my eyes and say, "oh well, that sucks." But that's in Gratitude World. In Reality, it's momentarily devastating. Just because this baby miracle fell into my lap doesn't mean I won't meander into Reality at times and get really pissed because somebody ate all the Mr. Goodbars out of the Halloween candy basket (for another completely random example).

So I'm hereby giving myself permission to go on being normal me. Changed for the better in many ways since kicking butt in the Priorities 101 class I took this year, but still me. Still over-analytical me, silly me, bitchy me, empathetic me, at times melancholy me. . .you know. Me. Who I am. Just more of it.

Finally Home

2009-11-14T11:25:00.003-05:00

. . .beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will. ~Sandra Bullock, Hope Floats

Our pot o' gold has been found. We brought Charlotte home from the hospital yesterday, Friday the 13th (who says it's unlucky?). She's 35 weeks, 4 days old in gestational days. She's (I cannot believe it) two months old, actual. And tiny! 4 lbs, 13 oz. In most ways, she's a newborn, but her milestones will happen as a catch-up game throughout her first year. I'm going to try not to worry about that, barring anything major, because I've done enough worrying recently. My heart is spent, so I have to pick my battles wisely!

The girls are thrilled and can't leave her alone. On one hand, she just needs to get used to it. On the other hand, she's a special case--any energy used burns calories, and for her, every calorie counts. Weight-gain is extra important right now. So the girls get their "sister time," but I have to limit the happy hysteria a little.

It feels great to have her home, though. A huge relief amidst huge fear. We have to get a grip and trust ourselves to know what's what with her. This isn't our first go 'round, after all. Special circumstances, yes, but still something with which we have experience. And success : )

Patti's Key Lime Pie (w/Special Sauce on a Graham Cracker Crust)

2009-11-03T19:52:00.002-05:00

As stated in a previous post, I'm having a bit of an over-production problem. More supply, less demand. So I've invaded my neighbor's deep freezer where there are now several gallons of my milk stored. We think it seems a shame not to put it all to good use. Charlotte will use some of it, but hopefully she'll be nursing and we'll have leftovers! Lots, and lots, and LOTS of leftovers.

So here's the first recipe. Want to try it?! What? It's pasteurized. And you consume milk from a cow. What's the difference?

Key Lime Pie à la Boob

Take 2 cups of neighbor's breast milk out of freezer. Bring to slow bubble over medium low heat (trying not to gag). Reduce by 1/2 leaving 1 cup concentrated milk. Add 1 cup sugar and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Stir in 1/2 cup key lime juice and temper in 2 beaten eggs (the kind you get from the store not ovaries). Remove from heat when mixture coats the back of a wooden spoon. Chill mixture for 1-2 hours. When completely cooled fold in 1 cup Cool Whip and pour into prepared graham cracker crust. Refrigerate 4 hours then cover entire pie with Cool Whip.
Smile sincerely when serving this delicacy to your most cherished friends knowing you are keeping them healthy with this free-range delight: )

Challenging The Deep End

2009-11-01T16:17:00.004-05:00

So the grieving process seems to take one step forward and two steps back. (I'm grieving the dream of "perfect baby-having," just so you know.) The five stages of grief are 1) denial and isolation 2) anger 3) bargaining 4) depression and 5) acceptance. Denial and isolation, mixed with depression, was me in the hospital. Bargaining creeps in all over the place, as does anger. I'm spending several days in anger, but I think I may have stuck my toe in acceptance today when I informed the rounding doctors and nurses that I no longer had any questions because, "what is the point, really? I never get the same answers twice, and this baby is no more than a bunch of lab results and educated guesses to you people." Oh yeah. I went there.

I'm not trying to be a bitch about it, you see. It's just that I was in the medical field for 10 years, and I know just enough to be dangerous to myself. Charlotte is in a giant, inner-city teaching hospital, and they don't know her. I know every detail about her and only her since the day she was conceived. They know about her condition: prematurity. They don't hold her in their arms and smell her head. They don't see her sisters' attributes blending beautifully into a unique new person. Her gas-induced smiles don't remind them that life is worth living. But I know that a blood infection can kill her. I know what it means to grow resistant to antibiotics. And I also understand that medical professionals develop an emotional distance in order to be logical in their proceedings.

I'm not the average dumbass for whom ignorance is bliss.

But okay. I give. Under the circumstances, I will give you people your space, and let you save my daughter without being constantly in your faces with my questions. I get it. You know what you're doing when it comes to treating her condition. Just keep in mind that I am the Ultimate Fighter when I have to be, and this child is not going to slip through the cracks on my watch. I see that I'm wasting energy on micromanaging her medicine, so I'm going to instead focus on her life. I, unlike some people, see the big picture. And she's in it. And it's really dorky, like hard-core Olan Mills-style. SO THERE!

No, the stages of grief aren't a linear progression neatly ending and beginning. They are pooled in a devoted heart that beats out a little of one or another in each moment. The little temper-tantrum in my last post (which was sooooo overdue) was just my mommy heart passing a clot. I feel better now. For the moment.

Lost

2009-10-29T16:23:00.003-04:00

Charlotte's doctor (one of the many) said today that "it's usually around week 6 when parents start to lose it." Well guess who's in week six. Interestingly, it was my (fabulous, awesome) doctor who told me amidst my hysterical "I want to come home!" meltdown that it's usually around the end of week two on bedrest when preggos begin to lose it. That was on day 14 in the hospital. We (our family combined) are now on day 74. Lose it? Mother F*#$%&@, we lost it long ago.

Now let me give you fair warning. I'm in no mood today to extract tact from my brain. No one can ever say I'm not honest, and my truth is painful in this moment. So pop a Prozac before you read on if you're comfortably rooted in a manic episode.

I wondered on my way home from the hospital this afternoon if I would dress my girls in black for a funeral. "Why," they would ask, "do we have to wear black?" "Because we're sad," I would say. "Because we can't see our way out of the darkness." And of course, "because I said so." And then: stop it. Pull yourself together. Get a grip.

Do you realize how much of your life is dictated by a sense of control you have over it? Every decision you make gives you the pretense of power. What you really control is your reaction to what happens. But what if you can't control your reaction? What if pain or fear or whatever has a grip on your soul finally wins? What then? I think that's what I was most afraid of. Until today. Today I see that I lost control over my response to this situation weeks ago. And that brings me to the power of a good vent.

Our support system is outstanding. Our family, our friends, even strangers have stepped in to help us cope in ways I can't explain. Or repay. But there are a precious few who have scooped me off the floor just by listening. People, I cannot emphasize enough what a gift you give when you listen without judgment, without advice. PSMC (especially), LACS, LMHC, TRB, thank you for not only giving me this gift, but for always being on my side at the time. You are the fountain from which I drink my strength. When you are in need, you must call on me to be your mirror, to show you the powerful, compassionate, beautiful women you are. I love you all so much I could puke.

So here's what's going on as concisely as I can put it: things were rolling along smoothly and the baby was gaining an ounce a day. Then last Tuesday morning, we received a phonecall in the middle of the night from the doctor. Baby's showing signs of infection including increased apneas and a bloated belly. Must run tests. Blood cultures, urine culture, CSF culture (lumbar puncture to rule out meningitis), and she needs a blood transfusion. Well, three days, 8 IVs, several negative cultures and a chemical burn-level infiltration in her foot later, they have no idea what happened. "She may have just needed blood." "Maybe a virus." Maybe we'll never know. But her feeds were restarted and increased quickly because they were running out of places to put the IV. As her fluid intake increased, the IV need decreased. Since Saturday, she had been doing well and continued to gain weight. She was taking the bottle three times a day, although she pooped out before finishing the whole thing. They called all that torture a sepsis work-up to rule out infection.

Enter today, and we're starting from square one. Bloated abdomen only this time, x-ray showed that it was just expanded, gassy, but otherwise unremarkable. She threw up after her bottle feeds. Last night when I went in, the nurse who was responsible (and who the doctors admit was negligent) for her severe foot infiltrate was in charge of her. I freaked and micromanaged everything I could while I was there and asked them to change her nurses and to NEVER assign her to my baby again. Since no one was willing to switch their assignments, I had the doctor and the nurse practitioner oversee Charlotte for the night. Some good that did. It was never charted whether she tolerated her feed at 2 or 5 am. So did she throw up once this morning? Or did she throw up all night?

Now I'm just in shut-down. The me who's walking around maintaining daily business is just screen-saver me. I could rock this computer analogy into oblivion (viruses, log off, fatal error). I will try to bring good news in my next post, but as for this one, well. . . blame it on system overload.

Got Milk?!

2009-10-13T17:43:00.002-04:00

I officially had to bag up my milk and schlep it across the street to P & E's Milk Bank for deep freezer storage. I'm out of room. It's really hard to believe that I produce so much dairy. Wait. . .DOES human milk qualify as dairy? If so, why doesn't the government subsidize it? Just last night, Jay was telling me that when he filled out forms for Charlotte's birth certificate, he had to answer questions such as, "have you ever accepted government cheese?" Boy, is that a loaded question.

Did you know that donated milk costs families and insurance companies (the few that cover it) five times more than formula? Ridiculous.

When I was nursing the other two girls, whenever I'd drive past a cow, I'd always say, "Hey Sistas!" Finally another way to relate to the bovine!

Off The Deep End

2009-10-12T15:39:00.006-04:00

Baby Charlotte will be 4 weeks old tomorrow. I think we hit the big winnings as preemies go because we've only (so far, knock wood!) dealt with the "typical" preemie issues like apnea and bradycardia. She's now up to 3 lbs. 6 oz. and has been moved to the third row where the growers and feeders dwell. Her bradys, though still present, are decreasing in frequency, she's able to maintain her own temperature which means clothes can be worn (starting this week), and she's tolerating her feeds well and gaining almost an ounce per day. She amazing, fighting, feisty, determined and sweet.

I'm pretty sure she got all this from me, 'cause I'm all out of all of it. So much so, in fact, that I started back to therapy today! She's not the only thing we're going through--she's just the most important thing. Suffice it to say, my life has officially jumped the shark.

Focus. And breathe. That's my mantra of the moment.

2009-10-04T19:21:00.002-04:00

Charlotte is 18 days old now. Wait. . .no, 19 days old. Wait. . .yeah, 19.

This is your brain on motherhood with a preemie.

The CPAP is off and she skipped the nasal canula altogether, so she's breathing entirely on her own. She's gaining weight--only two ounces to go before she hits 3 lbs! She's sucking on a pacifier and breathing simultaneously, so it's soon time to start trying a bottle (or breast, but they're going to have to try both because she eats every three hours and I can't be there 24/7). She opens her eyes, her little brow furrows, and she gives a look of what I can only believe is a thought of what in the hell is going on?! Oh yes. She's a feisty one, and that's what I love about her most so far. There's no sad or helpless about this little one.

Her family, however, is not so energetic. The adrenaline of the first week is long gone and we're quite the exhausted bunch. AG is having PTSA (Post-Traumatic Separation Anxiety) (made that up myself, thank you), so she's crying on her way to school or when I'm on my way to the bathroom. I found out Liv had a boyfriend LAST YEAR, and I knew nothing about it. Don't mention it if you see her--God forbid anyone finds out. The reason for the secrecy, she says, is that it's "unreasonable to have a boyfriend at (her) age." She's seven. And I would really like to know why wrapped disposable nursing pads come only in packages of one. The nurses in the NICU don't run over when the baby has a brady anymore 'cause they know I've got it under control. My brakes "went out" (became loud and scary) just as I arrived at the hospital on Thursday. Our new closet construction was shut down by permitting issues and it will take two weeks instead of two days to complete. And Liv's diving classes start again tomorrow. None of my clothes fit me. None of Charlotte's clothes fit her. And none of my fits improve the situation!

So today for the first time, I stayed home while Jay went to the hospital. I promised Addalie I'd spend the whole day with her and with Olivia. I got up at 6:30 to pump, and as usual, couldn't go back to bed (if I'm up for a half hour, it's hopeless). This wouldn't be bad except I finally had a mom's night out--my first of 2009--and went to sleep at 1:00 am last night! So when Addalie got up, I took her to Cracker Barrel for breakfast. We made Halloween cupcakes. We hugged a lot. And I drank two pots of coffee.

Wait. . .what was I saying? Oh yeah, I'm tired.

And soon, I'm going to have a "newborn" baby in the house. I do wonder if I will ever feel alert and oriented again. Hmm. I wonder if I will ever feel alert and oriented again.

; )

Dad Kangaroos Too

2009-09-27T22:05:00.005-04:00

Charlotte is 12 days old, and Daddy held her for the first time tonight. She's weaning from her CPAP machine and is off for two hours out of every six. This is the best time to hold her, of course. He said it made him feel better--until she had a few bradys toward the end of the hour. Then he was stressed out. When you hold her on your chest, you can't see her. All you can see is the monitor that tells you her heart is slowing down. It's terrifying. But it's worth the terror because she's so soft and sweet and good for the soul. She's simultaneously fragile and tough, tiny and enormous.

Day 10 of "Life"

2009-09-25T11:00:00.002-04:00

My cynical self thinks, "if you can call it that," but the truth is, I couldn't be more thrilled that Charlotte is where she is. Would I rather have her in my belly, where she belongs until December 12th? Of course. But she's here and it is what it is. So, looking at it that way, she's having a wonderful life. She has excellent medical care. This is happening to her at a time in the history of the world when she can be saved under these conditions. She's faring as well as anyone could under these circumstances. So as terrifying as this is, and as much as something is missing in our home every minute of the day, I'm really grateful that we get the privilege of having a new baby.

So I'm back to nesting. Not the ideal situation, but I'll take it! It's better than some of the alternatives.

She had her PICC line taken out last night because she's tolerating feeds so well. Mommy's milk overfloweth, and it's making her chubby. (Okay, not so much chubby, but she's back to her birth weight before 2 weeks of age--this is great!) I was concerned that they were taking it out because should she have feeding issues and need to rest on feeds for a day or two, I didn't want her having to go through getting another one. She only had it in for 5 days! They're supposed to be more long term. They didn't expect her to do this well with her eating/pooping schedule, so now it's just a portal for infection, and there's no need for that! (You were right, Patti ; )

We were "assured" (as much as you can be in the NICU) that she would not be likely to need another, and they'd use a regular IV if she needs additional fluids.

They're going to begin weaning from CPAP and expect her to be using a nasal canula for oxygen within a few days. After that they will try nuzzling during Kangaroo Care http://www.prematurity.org/baby/kangaroo.html to get her used to the idea of breastfeeding.

So that's where we're at. It's a good place to be for the moment. I'm trying to relish these positive days. I know they may not always be this good--it IS a true "roller coaster" after all, but I want to take advantage of the few moments of happiness. After this year, I deserve that much! We all do.

Brick Wall Day (or Mother Flattened By Bus)

2009-09-20T20:51:00.004-04:00

I think I hit a wall today. I have been pushing hard and running on adrenaline, probably, since Charlotte was born. We've been out of the house all day for three days in a row now. I want to be with the baby all day every day, but the hospital is an hour away and we have two other kids! So I'm trying too hard in all directions, and then we have a day like today.

We had feeding issues Friday where she had "greenish residuals" in her belly after a feed. Could be nothing. Could be deadly. So that was a nervous night. After several x-rays and resting without feeds, it was determined that she was full of gas and poop. She hadn't gone since the day she was born and was constipated, basically. So after an enema, her belly went back to normal and she was started on breastmilk again after 24 hours. I think they increased her feedings too fast, really, so I hope that doesn't happen again. If it does, I'll have to put on my big girl panties and fuss about it I think.

Then with that hurdle down for the moment, she needed to get her PICC line today (Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter). It took hours to have done and her arm looked horrid afterward. Not to mention how wiped out she was. I don't think it's supposed to take so long usually, but they kept having to do x-rays to determine if it was placed correctly and when it wasn't, they had to work on it some more.

The PICC line (it's just an IV that doesn't have to be changed every 4 days, and it goes up her arm almost to her heart) was stressful enough, but the moment that completely ruined my life--seriously, I don't think I'll ever recover--was when she had a bradycardic episode. Jay was holding her hand and all of a sudden the beeping started. We thought she'd just lost one of her many leads or lines or sensors, but no. She'd stopped breathing. I looked at her and realized it was a real alarm, and that my daughter wasn't breathing. Her heartrate plummeted and the nurse came over to stimulate her by rubbing her back. I've never seen stillness like in that moment. Her heart kicked back into gear. I don't think mine did. It happened again before we left. The next time I was washing my hands I glanced in the mirror. I'm older now. I look like I know too much.

This was our first experience with bradycardia and apnea. They are very common components of prematurity. They are the dreaded "As and Bs" and apparently preemie parents get used to them. She will grow out of it. It's just that her little body forgets to breathe. Just forgets. It shouldn't have to be worrying about it yet. She's cramming for an exam she hasn't taken the class for. She's my little hero.

Oh and I had major surgery five days ago. That does tend to be the last thing I remember. That and that I'm pumping milk for invisibaby. I have her little hat to smell in case I have letdown problems. . .which I don't. At all. I'm over-producing by hundreds of mLs per feeding. But I have to keep it up so that I can breastfeed her when she comes home. I'll start trying to breastfeed her when she is able to suck, swallow, and breathe simultaneously but I will have to perfect it when she gets home. I just can't be there enough to exclusively breastfeed while she's in the hospital. I'd have to live there. Oh wait. I did live there. And it was impossible.

So I just called to check on her and she's doing okay. Hopefully she's better than I am. I knew while I lay in that bed for weeks that every day I did that was another day (or two or three) that she wouldn't have to do what she's doing now. I'm trying to be grateful for what I got, but oh that I could've had some more time.

That which does not kill us makes us stronger, ay? The hell you say. Can I get a time-frame on the stronger part?

And Baby Makes Five

2009-09-19T22:33:00.001-04:00

Parenting in NICU

2009-09-18T18:31:00.006-04:00

Well, we're trying to be parents of a NICU baby. I feel bad that I'm not there 24/7, but that's the problem with the hospital being an hour away and not being able to drive! I was discharged less than 48 hours after having Charlotte, and I was happy to be after having spent so many weeks in the hospital. I knew I'd be there every day, so I jumped at the chance to get out. But on the way home it hit me that I was leaving without her. I just had to focus and repeat "I'm going back tomorrow. I'm going back tomorrow." And so we did. And I got to hold her! She's doing so well. She's such a feisty little girl, and I'm so grateful--so, so, VERY grateful--that she's in such good shape. That we got that extra month with her in the oven is absolutely a miracle. It made all the difference in the world for her.

I'm wiped out. Physically. Emotionally. Lactationally. . .my body really knows how to make milk. And the official "milk" hasn't even come in yet. Once this afternoon I pumped 120 mL in one sitting. Perspective? They're feeding Charlotte 5 mL every 3 hours. Think I'm making enough? I could feed the whole nursery if they'd let me! She's tolerating the feeds well, and she's gained back 35 grams of the 135 she lost the first day. They started feeding her 1 mL every 3 hours, went to 3 mL the next day, and 5 now through the weekend. We just want her to keep gaining.

And what they say is true about NICU nurses and doctors: absolute saints. They are wonderful about giving information and letting us participate in the baby's care. We've changed her diapers, taken her temps, now held her--they know family interaction is good for the babies, and they facilitate it so kindly. We've been lucky to know some staff at the hospital. One of our friends is a pediatric pulmonologist there who, I found out today, is Charlotte's doctor's advisor. She had wonderful things to say about her (Dr. K. . .we can't pronounce her full name without messing it up). She also said Charlotte looks great on many levels, which makes us feel so much better. Also, I got to know the nursing supervisor of the NICU while I was on bedrest. She is a friend of one of Jay's co-workers, and when she found out about our situation, she came and gave me reassurance and lots of information. When I saw her the first day, it was such a relief to hear what positive things she had to say about the baby's condition. She also "talked me down" because that was the first time I saw how tiny Charlotte is and it was, indeed, overwhelming.

It's hard to believe someone so small can be so perfect.

Charlotte's Arrival

2009-09-16T16:32:00.004-04:00

Here she is, tubes and all: Charlotte Alice. She weighed 2 lbs, 10 oz and was 14 1/2 in long. I am so overwhelmed, I have difficulty saying "she's fine," but at the moment, she's fine. I've heard of the dreaded "honeymoon phase" that preemies go through. And though I so want to believe she'll be okay, I'm numb with fear for her. But all I can do is sit and stare at her. It's amazing how perfect she is. She's a mini-baby.

I woke up on Tuesday morning, the 15th, to find that I'd been bleeding. A whirlwind of activity ensued and before long, I was in labor and delivery, waiting. Baby still looked good on the monitors, so we were just waiting to see what happened next. I was having some contractions. Soon, more frequent contractions, followed by hemorrhaging. I called my husband. You'd better come. Don't know what's happening. Consult with Dr. So-and-so to determine our next step. . .and in minutes, I was being prepped for surgery.

Operating rooms, in case you may not have seen this comparison lately, look exactly like an alien spaceship's exam room. The light is so bright in them that it's actually purple. Then there's the masked people, equipment, etc. It has to be nearly as scary as being abducted and studied! I just couldn't wait for them to knock me out and put me out of my terror. Which they did. And I woke up, gratefully remembering nothing.

I asked if Charlotte was alive more than once. The anesthesia began to wear off. Eventually I was moved back to my room with a stop by the NICU and her incubator. I thought she looked great. Small, but great. The night was long, and I avoided my morphine drip. Not a pleasant drug; didn't do much for me. I was allowed to get up around 5 am and at that time I had the many tubes removed. The nurse was good to me, and then Jason took over and helped me go back and forth to the bathroom and use the breastpump. By now, 29 hours later, I'm nearly back to self-sufficient.

This morning we went and sat with the baby for awhile. I held her little hand. Touched her little toes. I was relieved to see that her hand is too big for the wedding-band-on-the-wrist preemie photo. She is so tiny and fragile-looking. Yet her little fighter spirit shines through when the nurses try to adjust her CPAP tubes or temperature sensor; she kicks and pushes and wiggles to be left alone. (She was on the ventilator for one day as seen in this photo, but has now stepped down to continuous air pressure instead.) So as comfortable as they look poking and prodding at her, I'm terrified to barely touch her little hand. I feel like I'm going to burn her fragile skin. As torturous as it is to not be able to hold and kiss her right away, I feel more significantly that she's here. She's just here, and that's good enough. We almost didn't get that much.

At almost 28 weeks, she has a full head of black hair, just like Olivia had. She looks like her sisters. She looks like one of our daughters. It's just so hard to believe that she IS ours, and that after everything we've been through, she's here. So soon and at last.

Going On 28 Weeks

2009-09-14T20:11:00.003-04:00

I really can't believe it, but I've passed the 27 week mark. I'm in week 5 of hospital life, and I can't believe I haven't officially gone crazy yet. I also wonder if I will get a PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) diagnosis out of this. I've gotten that diagnosis once before, during therapy for my childhood issues. I'll never forget when my therapist, in passing while discussing insurance coverage, stated that my diagnosis was PTSD. I laughed hysterically for about 20 seconds. I thought that was something only suffered by those who've suffered trauma--like seeing someone get blown up for example. Well, emotional trauma comes in all shapes and sizes apparently. After that 20 seconds, I burst into tears. "How could that be?" I asked. Well, it totally wouldn't surprise me after this experience! How could it not be?

I dare you to disappear from your own life for a month. Or two. Although I can't imagine why anyone would do this at will, it is quite the life lesson. I do have some warped, underlying gratitude for having to go through this, and I hope the benefits of overcoming such a scenerio will last more than a few minutes after I get home. If they do, I suspect I'll be better than I was before. Perhaps so will those around me. I have to believe that's true. We have to believe things like that during times like this because it's what holds us to our existence. To believe that it's all for no reason whatsoever, well then we're more pointless than we can bear. Or to rise beyond id and ego and just be a spirit. . .that would be nice, but my quest for enlightenment is currently complicated by wakeful nightmares of the NICU and the ability to fit my wedding band over my daughter's hand.

In other news, when the nurse asked me if she could bring me anything this morning and I replied, "a whole milk. Oh, and a sharp object," I think I scared her. So she was in here constantly today. I really was kidding, but my sentiment was real: I'm over this place. I had a Non-Stress Test (NST) or fetal heart monitoring done this morning, as usual, and Charlotte had a decel and I had a contraction the monitor didn't pick up, as usual. Well, it is now 10 hours later, and they're sending me for a BioPhysical Profile (BPP) tonight yet. It's an ultrasound during which they measure baby's practice breathing, muscle tone, amniotic fluid level, and heartrate with movement. Why?! Why must this be done tonight? If her decel was so concerning, why is it being done 10 hours later? If it could wait 10 hours, can't it wait 'til morning? Of course, I want to do what's best for the baby, but I know that my treatment is subject to the over- or under-reactive whims of whichever resident is on duty each night. The last time this happened, I got moved to L&D for 24 hours of constant monitoring FOUR hours after the decel was picked up. When the older, experienced, published, rock star MFM specialist rounded on me the next morning, he said, "that's just reactive. It's fine. Send her back to antepartum." So now you may understand my need for a sharp object. It's not necessarily for use on me. : )

So, Charlotte, my dear: you stay put. You're doing great and I don't blame you for staying in there, fluid levels aside. Everything just gets more complicated the minute you come out. Life is like that: complicated. But wait 'til you feel love like I feel for you. That's when you'll really be born.

Addalie Grace, Sweet Little Face

2009-09-10T19:06:00.004-04:00

Well, It's all about Charlotte these days, but I need to take a minute to brag about my 2nd daughter, Addalie. She's the sweetest thing, so sensitive, so cute. Her smile lights up my heart and being away from her is horrible, although she seems to be handling it fairly well. She started preschool two weeks ago and to our surprise, loved it from day one. We knew she'd love it, but she's so shy we thought it would take her a good week or two to acclimate. Not so!

Last night they came to visit, which of course, made my day. While she's here, she's into drawing pictures for me, mostly of her funny people. They're the ones with a big head, eyes, ears, mouth, arms, legs (coming off the big head/body combo) and various hair features depending on who the person is. I especially love when she draws my husband and his goatee. The newest addition to her people is a belly button. But she is also evolving from the "tadpole people" and getting into letters. So I was excited--very excited--that she wrote her name very coherently (with a little overkill on the E : ) for the first time.

You're a big girl, AG! You make it easy to be proud of you!

Love you forever and forever, love you with all my heart, love you whenever we're together, love you when we're apart!

The Little Troublemaker Continues To Behave

2009-09-06T17:48:00.007-04:00

26 weeks, 1 day (soon 2 days!). Entering 4th week of hospitalization. Charlotte Alice is still in her mother, probably because she's heard us talking to the NICU people about everything she would have to go through if she came out now. Though there would still be challenges and no guarantees, having come this far, it's a comfort to know her odds have dramatically increased over the last three weeks she's stayed put. Still showing no signs of labor, and my AFI (Amniotic Fluid Index, which measure the largest vertical pocket in centimeters in the four quadrants of the uterus) is at 8! I was at 2.5 last week, and 1.3 the week before that. I was told anything over 10 is considered normal. I guess she's peeing as much as I am. Yes, for any of you who don't know, amniotic fluid is in large part baby pee. Which. . .baby then swallows and re-pees. I know. It's always shocking when we first find that out.

Being in the hospital continues to suck badly. I'm on complete bedrest with bathroom privileges, so not only do I not leave the confines of these dull institution-green walls, but I stay in bed 99% of the time. I do get up and take showers and go sit by the window sometimes. But it's torture. I have written much about what I'm learning. When you spend so much time alone with yourself, you find out a lot. In a way, it's a gift to be able to reflect on your own life without the distraction of being entrenched in it. So I have a list of things I'd like to be different when this is all over. Healthy baby-cooking aside, not taking the opportunity to explore my inner Hermit (http://www.acumind.com/Joe/tarot/hermit.html) would have made this a complete waste of time. And wasting of time is one thing you won't find me doing very often in the future, now that I know there's no time to waste.

<------Speaking of torture, by the way, here's proof.

So I'm trying to keep it together. It's very hard, and though I hope to keep her in there 'til the latest possible time (34 weeks is the limit) I don't know how I'll make it through another 8 weeks. I really don't know how, considering how up and down it has been already.

2009-08-31T15:49:00.004-04:00

Hey, good news:
I figured out why I'm so screwed up. Bad news? It doesn't make
me unscrewed.

Two Weeks and Counting

2009-08-30T20:28:00.002-04:00

Day 14, moving into week 3.

Well, we've made it to over 25 weeks. We're on our way to 26 weeks where statistics are prettier and hope becomes more opaque. I'm trying to stay busy with distractions--this, for example--magazines, crocheting, eating everything they bring me and then some. I'm determined to fatten this child. I'm even devouring fish. I hate fish. But Omega 3s are something I can do, and I'm game for any control I get to have in this situation!

I had visitors this weekend (thanks GMur, Cindy, Papa, and Grammy!) including my man and my girls. I got to spend several hours with the girls yesterday, and it did me a world of good. "The light of my life" is not some cliché. I believe their presence actually improves my vitamin absorption. It's nice to finally feel better after the past week, during which I've felt absolutely helpless and imprisoned. The ups and downs are torture, expecially in the absence of my husband, who is the only one I can let go and freak out around. His equal stake in our situation allows me to relinquish the fear, if only for a moment, and allow myself to be cared for. When he's around, he truly convinces me it's all going to be okay.

So the bottom line is that today is good news. She's still in there and things haven't changed. She's moving around A LOT, and I don't know how she does it, but she chooses sides. Her entire body seems to move into one side of my uterus while the other side is soft and vacant. I remember that happening at the end with my other two pregnancies--I think they need to run out of room to make that happen--but with low fluid in there, that point has already come for this one. I'm trying to remember that this is all for a great reward. When the reward requires so much patience and sacrifice (and sleep loss), it's easy to forget that it's all worthwhile.

Views Change

2009-08-26T11:34:00.004-04:00

When I first got transferred to this hospital, I had a view of the river and buildings lining the city's edge. It was bright at sunset, but the light was there for me all day. I was attached to wires from every direction and wasn't allowed to get up even to use the restroom. It was a scary three days. Not any scarier than the three days before it, mind you, but all the beeping and looks of concern never set my mind at ease. Then suddenly, I was disconnected and moved. Now I'm monitored intermittently and watched for signs of infection. Nothing else. I'm just sitting here. Thinking. Using the television for company I don't have to communicate with. The computer too. And magazines. And writing. But not a single thing I can do to pass the time feels as nourishing as one minute spent with my daughters. And I long for their little arms around me and the smell of their soft hair.

So here's my new view: a brick wall. It's as if the universe is closing in on me and systematically dismantling my distractions. I was grateful every day for the life I was living, but perhaps it wasn't enough. Obviously we're meant to understand how great we usually have it, but every time I try a little gratitude--as a last-ditch effort at hope--that thing gets taken away. My river view is just the latest casualty.

I dare to remain grateful that this baby is sitting in there with each passing minute. I'm having a hard time keeping my wits about me, but I want her to take as much time as she can. I know it's temporary. I know "this, too, shall pass." But that's all just brain. What the heart knows is less patient. The heart needs more attention and nourishment. And I'm learning exactly what that nourishment is for me.

Ruptured

2009-08-23T08:53:00.004-04:00

My water broke. Along with it, other things, like hearts, hopes, and definitions of normal. At 23 weeks 1 day, my amniotic membrane ruptured, and the fluid that sustains my little girl just poured out.

It is now 8 days later, and she's still in there--still doing well, in fact. My fluid level wasn't too bad at first; I hadn't lost every drop. Now it's lower, so here I sit, hooked up to monitors and tied down to the bed trying to build up more water with lots of IV fluids. The hope is that the more I pee, the more the baby pees, hence more fluid!

I spent the first week at our local hospital, which has a level III (the highest) Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. But at 23 weeks, we were not opting for extensive measures to save her if she had been born. It was a terrible decision, but thinking of our family, thinking of what it would do to Charlotte to be born that early. . .we just wanted to let nature take its course. We were being told her chances were not good.

At 24 weeks now, her chances of survival are better, especially since she's a girl--females fare better in this situation than boys, a subject which I could expound upon at length another time. She weighs the average weight of a 26 weeker. And we've had the steroid shots to promote production of surfactant in her lungs. So we opted to move to another hospital about an hour away from home that has the most advanced neonatal technology in the region. We were urged to do so, actually, by my OB for many reasons. The most convincing was that here, they see a higher volume of these babies and would be more experienced dealing with her challenges. Our local hospital could've handled it (and it was much closer to home!) but we wanted to give her the best chance now that we feel she has one.

Our ultimate goal is to keep her in there until 34 weeks, and we're assured that it is possible. Probably not likely, but possible. Enemy number one is infection, so we're trying to ward that off with the hospitalization and antibiotics. I'm showing no signs of labor: no contractions, no dilation. I am, however, showing signs of intense fear and major life disruption! This is as terrifying as it's ever gotten for me. The thought of losing a child, the thought of living with and caring for a disabled child and the effect that would have on my other two daughters. . .it's nearly mind-dissolving. Being away from my family, away from my life, compounds the fear and stress. Of course, "it's only temporary" and I'm grateful for that, but as I hope to be stuck in here for another 10 weeks, I think of what I'm missing of my life and wondering why this was necessary, spiritually speaking. The girls start school this week. Diving lessons may have to stop for now. Our happy home thrown for a loop. Worth it if Charlotte survives and thrives? Of course. I make that sacrifice willingly and so does my husband. But our kids didn't have a say. Charlotte didn't have a say. So the guilt sneaks in.

So in more than one way, I am ruptured. We are ruptured. Our friends and family want to help, but there's hardly anything they can do and assigning jobs is not something we have emotional time for. I know this is strengthening our little family of four--soon to be five--and I'm learning through the time I've taken to go within and search my deepest truths that our last addition is the necessary glue that will permanently bind our little family's ties.

The process is cruel, and strength comes and goes. But so far, it hasn't run out.

Thanks, V

2009-08-14T12:35:00.003-04:00

So when I'm seriously considering it, I call God, V. For others, God is God.
Why that is is a "V"ery long and personal story, and I'll spare you the details for now as it's not the point of my post.

I've been craving breakfast. My favorite meal to go out for is breakfast and when I go home to Pennsylvania, my breakfast orders are out of control: 2 eggs, over medium, homefries (hopefully with onions), scrapple doused in syrup (if you haven't tried ground pig leftovers pattied and fried, you haven't lived), and because I can't decide between sweet and salty, I also throw in a belgian waffle with whatever seasonal fruit is available at the moment. And coffee, of course. God (or V, as it were) forbid there are potato pancakes with applesauce or sour cream on the menu. Then I'm in serious decision-making hell.

But I digress (easy to do when you're this pregnant and you think of food).

After Liv's diving class was canceled by rain this morning, I decided to stop for breakfast with the girls. Addalie and I had a nice time eating and listening to Liv talk (nonstop), and after our several games of tic-tac-toe on the kids' menu, we went to pay the bill. By the way, I don't let my kids win, and they can both kick my ass at games now because they know how to! I always thought I was just mean, but I actually think I did them a favor.

In line at the register, a tall gentleman, probably in his mid-to-late 60s, came up to the line and commented on what "cuties" the girls were. I glanced at him, smiled and measured his remark. To a mom, you see, a comment like that lands you on a spectrum somewhere between Gentle Grandpa Figure and Child Sex Predator. And then he said, "I never had children. I regret it. Now I have no kids, no grandchildren. What a mistake." I placed him more toward Gentle Grandpa.

"Awwwww," I said, "I'm so sorry you feel that way!"
"I have a cat," he said.
I shook my head in sympathy and commiserated with the stranger.
"I'm sure they're a major pain at times, but it's worth it," he said, "it must be so worth it."

I moved up to the counter thinking how being a mother is one of my life's purposes, and how worthwhile I already know it to be. I felt utterly devastated for this man. Of course lately, with school beginning again, I've been slightly conflicted. Should I really be doing this stay-at-home-mom thing? Should I be going out to work AND mothering to prove I can "do it all" to my daughters? So the lady behind the counter says, "how was your meal?"

And that's when I looked at her nametag.

Oh boy, was V at work for me today.

"Charlene Allison," it read.

"Your name!" I said, startled.

I have almost single-handedly decided on the name for our third daughter. I even went so far as to write it in our heirloom family name book and draw out the family tree showing how many times part of her name has shown up in her ancestry. But I'm getting a tepid reception from others about her name; not everyone loves it, or even likes it. So I have been asking for a sign to show me I'm on the right track.

"What about it?" the lady replied, kindly hoping for good news.

"My next child," I said, pointing to my big old belly, "is Charlotte Alice."

She was very gracious, almost flattered (because it was almost her name), and the man behind me said to the girls, "so you're having another sister? Wow, your dad has his work cut out for him!" (of course, because all the burden of child-rearing is after all, placed on the DAD *eyeroll*)

I left there thanking V out loud because it was exactly what I needed at a time I least expected to get it. Also for the ability to GET IT. Not so long ago, this was one of those things I wouldn't have recognized. It would've just been another strange, passing coincidence, but now I have the gift of tuning in.

So Charlotte Alice it is, with no regrets. And staying away from a "legitimate workplace" to be a full-time mom. . .well, V could have thought of no better way to say, "yes, my love, it's exactly the right thing," than by having a total stranger tell me "it must be so worth it." He's not my friend; he has no reason to tell me what I want to hear. He's speaking his own truth, and I know my path crossed his (and Charlene's) via deliberate, divine intervention.

Thanks, V. TYFT, xoxo.

With This Ring. . .

2009-08-02T17:09:00.003-04:00

See this ring? We used to have a pink one just like it. I bought it for Olivia at Limited Too before she was big enough to fit into their clothes, but well after I'd begun fantasizing about covering my child in all the cool duds I didn't have as a child. She's my little fashionista. The kid has taken quite a liking to all things girly and en vogue. She has a hunger for it all, you might say.

Last night Addalie Grace was playing her little fishing game. The "pond" rotates and pushes the wee fishies up at which time their mouths fall open. You stick in your bulbous-ended pole, wait for the mouth to close back up, and voila! You've caught a fish! Well, she put one whole fish in her mouth! I freaked! "Take that OUT of your MOUTH!" I snapped. "You could CHOKE!" "You could INHALE it and not be able to BREATHE!"

She then began to slink into her room and I stopped her to apologize. She almost started bawling, but I caught her at the pass and told her I was just scared and being paranoid. After all, she's a big girl at almost 4, right? She knows better and I shouldn't have yelled.

Crisis averted.

Act I, Scene II: Olivia's room, later the same evening. Events leading up to dialogue a mystery to the audience. Father enters room and asks what happened.

Olivia: (shrill, as if witnessing bloody murder) AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chorus: (stares at Olivia, in shock)

Olivia: (shrill, as if still witnessing bloody murder) AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm DYING! MY--I SWALLOWED MY RING!!!!!! I'M--MY HEART--I'M DYINNNNNNNNG!!!

Now, seriously--we were trapped between utter hilarity and the urge to call an ambulance. I'm not proud of my initial reaction. It involved a hard-core swear word. Something along the lines of an inquiry into why, at almost 8, she would place a ring in her mouth. But she swears it was never in her mouth. Still, she swears she didn't put it in there, so I may not know until I get a drunken confession from her years from now. Nonetheless, I gave her some water so we could tell if it was stuck anywhere in her esophagus and to shut her up briefly. Father went straight to Dr. Google because we can so believe every piece of medical advice we get from Joe Schmo at parentalneglectnet.com, or whatever. And I consoled Addalie, who was hysterical and repeating, "she's freakin' me out! She's freakin' me out!" I, by now of course, was laughing uncontrollably.

Jason looked at us all. "You're all crazy! You, and you, and you. You're CRAZY!"

He was serious. I told him later that if not for a few distinct choices in his life, he could've been surfing on this night. But here we are, discussing the ways in which we're willing to sift through our child's poop to find a ring.

A little pink one. Thank God she didn't swallow the brown one. Maybe we can get by with just eyeballing from a distance.

Of course I posted something about this on my social networking site status, and received a flood of "been there, done thats," but I wouldn't dare tell Liv that anyone knows. She'd be mortified. As she said, up 'til now, this was "the WORST night of (her) life!"

It does beat the last worst night of her life, when we wouldn't let her watch her movie in the livingroom.

Bedrest Bandwagon

2009-07-28T09:06:00.002-04:00

Well, the obstetrician suddenly went from "just try to take it easy" to "DO NOTHING!" last evening at my appointment. It seems as if he's disheartened to know that I'm still bleeding, although I'm not sure I can effectively communicate what I mean by that. I'm bleeding, but not like full-on bleeding. It's hard to explain: there are lots of colors, textures. . .basically gross stuff I don't want to write about (and nobody wants to read about), but I've been feeling somewhat stable lately actually. I think I might be getting used to the bleeding and cramping. I feel the baby moving, and as long as that's the case, I don't panic. But I came home in a weepy state and told my husband that "he said I need to take bedrest more seriously."

With two little girls, full bedrest is not possible for me, and I truly believe--and will tell the docs this--that the only way strict bedrest will happen for me is if I'm in the hospital. I don't want that, of course, but for example, after last night and the discussion we had about how to accomplish a better bedrest practice, my husband left for work (early) without feeding the girls. Well, voila! See what I mean?! It's simply NOT gonna happen.

My OB and the perinatologist both have said that if there's still bleeding at 24 weeks (3 weeks from now) I should be hospitalized for constant monitoring. So, to avoid that, I need to stop this bleeding! Now let me concentrate and see if I can heal my broken blood vessel or placenta or whatever is causing it. . .yeah. . .and hmmm. . .where do I start?

Anybody have some duct tape?!

Dear Pregnancy Gods

2009-07-26T08:36:00.006-04:00

Seriously?! This is starting to feel a little cruel of you--granted, I'm thrilled to have a healthy baby in there--but why the torture? You've given me an almost irresistible urge to tweak (okay, overhaul) my nest, yet you inflict pain the moment I move! How rude!

And I'm puffy. And crampy. *{*sigh*}*

I feel guilty for complaining, but I so desperately wish I could enjoy this more. I am starting to get tired of worrying, and I think I could take the achiness if it weren't associated with all the worrying! Now I truly understand the meaning of "heart-ache"--despair from the core. It's my friend Worry again, at your service.

In other news, I'm crocheting a little pink and white afghan. I believe that's my version of knitting booties. And to completely brighten my morning, my Addalie Grace (sweet little face) said to me, "I have to tell you 'sumping': (whispering into my ear) give me moolk (milk)." Oh the fabulous and allowable selfishness of childhood! Wouldn't it be great if we could self-advocate that way as adults?

Signs of Summer

2009-07-22T12:49:00.003-04:00

There are some things I don't get, like why the bald guy I saw walking along the highway this morning didn't have shoes on, or why my husband cannot put clothing IN the hamper instead of around it. But one question I guess I can answer is, why, if I only have TWO children, are there always at least SIX bathing suits drying in the bathroom?

I have a bathing suit problem. There's just something about those bright, cute, ice cream-colored symbols of summer that I cannot resist. Then, slap them onto little coppertoned baby butts and it's bliss! Imagine, it won't be long before we have another little baby butt to clothe in a swimsuit. So next summer, I'll bet there will be NINE suits a-dryin' on the shower curtain.

Olivia has started diving lessons. She looks beautiful performing the walk up to the edge of the board, appropriately, like a butterfly. Today she started trying the actual dives and came to me later complaining that the backs of her legs were red. Can you guess why that is? Her dives were almost turning into flips! But she's not afraid to try and try again. I'll get some pictures up of that soon.

Meanwhile, Addalie and I hang out in the family pool during Liv's lesson and it really entertains her and keeps the pressure off my aching body. I'm only 20 weeks along, but I feel like I'm well into the third trimester already! Either I'm too old for this, or more likely, baby #3 makes a body go "hmmm." Throw in the fact that I'm not supposed to exercise at all, and it's a trifecta of misery.

But technically, I'm not complaining. As long as this baby is kickin' and happy in there, I want her to stay. I want this bun overcooked : )

You Are (ANOTHER) Girl!

2009-07-08T19:58:00.002-04:00

Well, we're going to have three daughters! Three of them. That's. . .3. Wow. I never thought for a minute this baby was a girl. I was convinced she was a "he" because I kept saying "only a man could make a woman this miserable." I suppose now I can attribute all my motherly torture to the ladies!

The subchorionic hemorrhage (SCH) is there--looks bigger to me--but the perinatologist doesn't seem to want to get too hung up on size. The baby is looking good; has all her parts and is the right size. The only way to tell if the SCH is causing problems or not is to monitor the baby's development. If she's growing and her heart is beating, then there's no problem. If not. . .well, unfortunately it seems to be that cut and dry. It's VERY stressful. He said if I'm still bleeding at 24 weeks--the baby's earliest viability--he'd "like to see me in the hospital," so that they can save her if she's born early.

I certainly hope THAT doesn't happen! So be positive, I keep thinking. Now that I'm 18 weeks, every week is a better and better sign of good progress.

Three girls. What are we going to spend on toilet paper?! Man!

First Trip To The Dentist

2009-07-02T12:46:00.006-04:00

Ahh, the first trip to the dentist. What fun! They were a little apprehensive at first, but the staff was well-versed in dealing with scaredy-cats, and they had 'em in the chairs in no time. Simple cleanings and x-rays showed a bunch of perfect little teeth coming as they should be. Yay!
Only problem was one little cavity on one of Liv's back teeth. So we had to go back for a filling and to have some sealants applied to her molars. There were tears when that news came out, along with the profession that she would never speak to me again "for the rest of (her) life!" But it's all over now, and she was speaking to me within 10 minutes (I could've lived with a quiet half hour).

I'm completely convinced that my oldest was scared because of the movie Finding Nemo. The dentist in that movie acts like a buffoon and mindlessly babbles as his patients suffer at his hands. There really is no other way they could have become afraid--they've never heard horror stories about going to the dentist! Oh well. It's over for the next 6 months.

I tried to take a picture of her swollen, saggy little cheek-full of novocaine, but she wouldn't let me. Too bad. She's still cute, even when she's drooling.

2009-06-27T19:01:00.000-04:00

From Scrapblog builder--awesome, user-friendly digiscrapping site.

Dear Baby,

2009-06-27T18:52:00.002-04:00

I saw you on another ultrasound today, and you are measuring 6 days ahead of schedule. You're closer to 18 weeks while we're only workin' on 17! I will take a fast-growing baby right now--oh yes, oh yes! I feel you move, though not consistently, and until the doctor placed the probe on my belly and I could see you swash your little hands around on the screen, my doubt was lingering. I felt excited that I may get to fold baby laundry again (as IF! I HATE that job, yet for you, I'll do anything : ) and hold a warm, wiggly little baby against my heart. I'm still scared to let myself get too excited, but it's there. It's building. I can feel it!

I still can't make out what's going on next to that thigh bone of yours, and the doctor is uninterested in whether you're a boy or a girl, but I and everyone else just feels all blue and rambunctious. I'm still saying "boy." Only a man could make a woman this miserable and yet still be so wanted!

Dear Liv,

2009-06-26T16:29:00.003-04:00

You are an angel from heaven sent straight into our world to make our lives divine. When you came up to me today and hugged me, your cheek pressed to my ever-growing belly, I realized that I'm not the only one who's worried. You're such a great big sister. You are yet another reason for this baby to be born healthy and happy. No one should be deprived of knowing you!

Dear Baby,

2009-06-24T08:17:00.002-04:00

Today is another day when I don't know if I'll get to keep you. I felt you kick yesterday, but each moment I doubt whether you're even alive in there. You have been with me for 16 weeks now, and I am just so terrified that you won't be staying. I don't know how to get excited because I'm too scared to get hurt if you go. Everything was fine until 12 weeks when I began to bleed. The doctors have been unable to tell me if you'll be alright. To them, you're a clinical entity, and we together are just "a case." To me, you are a million possibilities, 10 sweet toes on two sweet feet, and someone for whom my presence is the biggest comfort, at least for awhile. You are the person who will complete our family, who will steal your big sisters' Hannah Montana paraphernalia and babydolls just to torture them, and who will surf and fish with Daddy.

But I don't know if you're staying. I don't know if this is just a dream or if it all ends--a tragic nightmare.

Where ARE The Cops When You Need Them?

2009-06-24T07:57:00.003-04:00

Finally, I can say that a cop was exactly where I needed him to be for once in my life! It was awesome. I was driving probably about 10 miles over the speed limit on a local street--45 in a 35 zone. I would likely have been going 40, but there was a jerk on my tail and that tends to speed me up because I want them to pass me and get away from my kids who are seated in the back!

So he swerves out around me and then quickly back in front of me to avoid hitting the car that was in the other lane. All in all, a total hazard on the road. I mumbled to my passengers, "what an ass! Where are the police when you need them?"

Low and behold, as we descended the small hill and the jerk accelerated ahead of me, I spot him! The cop! A speed trap! "Please, oh please, please, oh, please, getim-getim-getim-"

Just once I would loved for the bad guy to get captured in real life. And he did.

As we passed the police car, the jerk slammed on his brakes in vain. It was too late. I watched in the rear-view as the officer made a u-turn and turned on his lights. Suddenly I had a pang--I had been speeding too, after all, but no. He got the right guy.

We all cheered as we passed them, pulled over. For once, justice worked in front of my eyes. It was such a gratifying experience.

Overdone

2009-06-24T07:41:00.002-04:00

My cousin-by-marriage and her two "kids" (22 and 19) are visiting this week, which is fabulous because I love them so much and they don't feel like houseguests. This, because they do everything--like dishes, laundry, play with the kids, the dog. . .it's like being on vacation myself.

We went to the beach yesterday. I hadn't felt the baby kick regularly, and I felt nervous that I would begin "the bleed" again. So here I was under a big sturdy umbrella in a comfy chair while my kids were happily playing in the sand and surf, and I just couldn't fully enjoy it. Finally, I thought I felt a little kick in there, and my world cracked open. I felt so relieved; so happy. I just felt great yesterday. But I must have overdone it. And the bleeding started again around 10 pm.

Not much, not heavy, not painful. . .but annoying and terrifying all over again.

To get through it, I have to go back to surrender. It keeps coming up. Surrender. Can't control. Go with the flow. What is with this theme!?

My fabulous daily affirmation from Tian Dayton (I wish she had a blog!) about surrender included this:

The concept of surrender runs contrary to the Western mind. We have been
taught to aggressively go after what we want, to make things happen. But
surrender asks us to allow events to unfold at their own pace, to get
out of our own way and to let go of our desire for control. Surrender is
an act of trust in the universe, an acknowledgment that there are forces
beyond our own will at work. Most people ask for happiness on condition.
Happiness can only be felt if you don't set any condition.
Arthur Rubenstein

Update

2009-06-20T08:48:00.002-04:00

My check up yesterday revealed that the blood clot hasn't grown. Or gotten smaller. But not growing is good--I'll take it! Baby looks good. I almost allowed myself to be hopeful yesterday. It's hard to do. I'm just so terrified that staying detached is safer. When will that feeling subside?

Meanwhile, I bought my husband a father's day gift--desperately needed workshirts--not exciting, but at least I remembered. As opposed to remembering my actual fathers (there are two, a biological and a step-). Considering how things have been going lately, I'm hoping a phonecall will be acceptable! When things calm down, perhaps I'll feel the urge toward more thoughtfulness. Hell, perhaps not.

I'm starting to wonder.

I Have a Diagnosis!

2009-06-14T08:51:00.002-04:00

I went in for another ultrasound yesterday, and he finally found a Subchorionic Hemorrhage of approx. 2 x 3 cm. This means there is a pocket of blood between the outer membrane of the baby's sac and the wall of the uterus. It's nice to have a reason for all the bleeding I've been doing. Not knowing was more stressful than knowing--although I still feel like a time bomb. The reason this is a bad thing is that it can weaken the membranes and cause premature rupture of membranes (my water to break) early. So since baby is doing so well at this time, the big worry now will be having a preemie.

There are lots of positive stories about this situation, so it's not time to give up hope. Hope is a lot of work, though! (see previous post)

Hope is a Stick of Butter

2009-06-11T10:53:00.001-04:00

There are moments in my days when I just say, "fine. Get it over with!" If I'm going to miscarry, I'd rather deal with it now than 10 weeks from now or 20 weeks from now or whatever. The tragic and graphic picture of myself and my husband, who cried inconsolable tears of joy at the birth of our first baby, appears in my gut: we're holding our deceased child, now inconsolable tears of misery and despair wash over us. . .a scene I demand I get out of and then I scold myself for even feeling it.

But at my core, it's the truth about my terror. It's the worst case scenerio, barring the case that I could die too, and leave my girls. But part of me would die, and I wonder if that is the real center of my fear. Not that the child would die. Not that my family would be heartbroken as well. But that I would lose this piece of who I am that would never return. A death with a known afterlife--possibly more terrifying than the alternative.

I try to be positive; to not lose hope. But I'm grasping at it as it slips and drips through my fingers. This is how I know, this is how I finally come to understand why a person surrenders; why a person "turns it over to God," or "lets fate handle it." I thought of this almost two weeks ago. I even said I was surrendering. But I wasn't. I wasn't ready. No, not until a few more moments when I was shown how much worse it could get, and how little control I had over it.

And then my friend sent me this today. Perfect timing.

"The Journey of Release: When we become overwhelmed and things are not going as planned, it is natural to hold tighter to our goals and try to force things to go our way."

So yes, hope is not easy to hold onto. It is our way of trying to control our thoughts, our hearts, our outcomes. The fact that it is so difficult is what makes it so human and so full of ego.

Today, I am going to rise above hope. I will dwell in the moment--real moments full of Play-Doh and Polly Pockets--and not waste time on hope. I just know that the Divine is at work in my life and I will accept the outcome.

Strange Invaders, No Diagnosis

2009-06-08T14:01:00.002-04:00

Well, the bleeding had almost stopped and I was thrilled to be one of the possible "happens once, then never again" cases I have heard about. Also looking forward to sex again since I was coming down the two weeks, post-bleed stretch. (TMI? Sorry, but soon the belly will make things less. . .sexy).

And then the pain. Then the spotting. Then the gush. So I wanted to go to the ER. It was Sunday, so there was no other way for me to know if the baby was alive or not. Plus, I hadn't had the pain as much the first time.

So they took me right back (bleeding during pregnancy qualifies as an emergency! Yay!), and started an IV. Why? Don't know. Then, they inserted a catheter. Why? Don' t know. Took blood, but not from the already started IV because they had to use a butterfly for that, due to my way small veins. No, they took it from my only viable vein--the basilic--which also happens to share space with a very pesky nerve. Ow.

After an ultrasound that DID NOT warrant a catheter's presence, and after the ultrasound tech told me that the buckets (okay, multiple tablespoons) of blood could be "implantation bleeding," (not) they made me wait two hours before telling me "you can go. We don't know."

I will be requesting, if not automatically offered, a referral to a perinatologist--one of them-there high-risk doctors. Yay.

If this kid is always going to be this much trouble, I'm really nervous!

He's Seeing Other Women

2009-05-30T19:43:00.003-04:00

My appointment was canceled. I had a follow up with the OB to find out via ultrasound if the bean is still kickin'. But, turns out, he has other patients. He had do deliver a baby, damn him. I had the feeling he was seeing other women! So now I don't get to find out 'til Monday. Oh, I hope I find out SoMeThInG!!!

Meanwhile in my crazy life, I was laying in bed at 11:00 am like a good bedrester, when I heard a ding at the door. Jay goes to it, opens it, says "hey, man! Long time no see."

This would be my cousin from Alaska. He has, as a surprise, shown up at my Florida door while I'm still in bed in my jammies at 11 in the morning! Awesome.

I did know that he was in the state, visiting his mom, my aunt. But she lives 5 hours away from me, and it never occurred to me that she'd drive down here. I wouldn't drive up there and back in two days. So I thought I'd miss him on this trip.

Not so.

So, despite my being on bedrest, I got up and took a shower, first thing. Then we went down to the beach and at lunch and let the kids play in the sand and sun (yay, sun is back!). I had a fake pina colada or two. . .not the same, but at least the idea feels similar. And it was good.

It was nice to get away from the bed where I just worry, mostly. Hopefully it didn't cause any wear 'n' tear on The Olde Placenta. (Would that be a good name for an establishment of some sort? Hmmm. . .)

Nothing BUT time at the moment!

2009-05-29T11:25:00.004-04:00

"Gee. I wish I had more time and I really would like to focus more on blogging. It's fun. But with two kids, a full time job. . .y'know. It's hard to fit in."

**!poof!** I am your fairy godmother (otherwise known to you as 'your voice' or 'V') and because you won't do it on your own, I will push you off the cliff. You'll thank me later. **!poof!**

So here I sit, on a kind of a modified bedrest. Big announcement (on a blog, kind of tacky, yes): I'm 12weeks 3 days pregnant with our third child. Well, I actually count it as the fourth after the miscarriage in January. But nonetheless, because of the miscarriage, I thought if I could just make it to twelve weeks, I could breathe a sigh of relief. And I did. For 24 hours. Then on Wednesday, while at school, I felt it. The gush. I had another teacher watch my kids and when I stuck my head out of the bathroom, she was standing in the hall. I said, "you're not going to believe this," (meaning, I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS) "but I just dumped a ton of blood." So she absorbed my class, bless her heart, and I went straight to the doctor. Okay, I came home and took a completely not-appropriate-during-pregnancy Xanax .25 mg. THEN I went straight to the doctor.

He looked inside, confirmed I wasn't crazy and that there was indeed blood, and rushed me into the ultrasound room. I turned my head away from the monitor and looked out the window. His office is on the 4th floor, so I was closer to the clouds, closer to a focal point, closer to possible peace, I guess. I knew he'd be telling me momentarily that the baby's heartbeat was absent, followed by a bunch of clinical mumbo-jumbo. As I prepared with a deep breath, he hit the sound button on the keyboard. woosh-woosh-woosh-woosh. . ."Baby looks great!" he said. I know he was surprised too. What?! WHAT?! How?! But. . .there was so much blood!?

This was the conversation:

Me: "But it was a LOT of blood!"
Dr.: "I understand, but. . ."
Me: "No, really. A LOT. Much. NOT spotting."
Dr.: "I hear ya, but. . ."
Me: "no, really. A bowlful! With stuff in it!"
Dr.: "Okay, but. . ."

He's really very patient with me. I couldn't believe that the baby could be alive, muchless doing well, after seeing what I saw. I was practically argumentative with him, and all he was trying to say was that, "yes, I recognize that it was a lot of blood, but I've seen this happen before."

He didn't officially diagnose me with anything, just said to take off work--which is not easy to do the last week of school!--and keep my feet up as much as possible.

So, the bleeding has tapered off very much and so has the cramping. I go back in tomorrow for another ultrasound. Although this could get scarier, I'm really hoping it doesn't.

I gotta tell ya, V, I wish you'd trust me with small whispers at this point. You're beating me up.

The Death of Cute

2008-01-13T19:52:00.000-05:00

They were out back. I could see them doing what little girls do in the dirt (if you have a mom like me)--digging in without getting it on themselves, or at least trying. All of a sudden, "Mama! Come look! Look what I found!" Olivia found a roly-poly, a pill bug.

She comes running in with it in her hand. She has a way with roly-polies. Their instinct is to roll up in a protective ball when they sense danger. But not when Olivia comes near. She can pick them up and they wander around her gentle little hands. She said in a way that reminded me of Dory in Finding Nemo, "He is cute. I shall call him Cute and he shall be mine. He shall be my Cute!" She flitted happily away, a petless child now content.

And then they found a lizard. "A Redhead!" Olivia said, "The kind that bites!" Honestly, redheaded (or -throated, actually) lizards aren't any more dangerous than other lizards, and none of them are dangerous to humans. If you're a roly-poly, though, our little lizards are T-Rexes.

I hear a shriek. I hear an "Oh NO!" I hear, "bad lizard! You ate Cute!" I hold back my laughter and put on my funeral face. In she comes running. "Mama, that horrible Redhead ate Cute. I accidentally dropped him and he ate him right away!" She was on the verge of tears. This is the child, mind you, who still cries over her dead butterfly from the Discovery Kids Caterpillar Kit. Four beautiful butterflies completed their lifecycles in her room, and one had a deformed leg. There must have been more than that wrong with it, because when we decided to release them, the one with the bad leg never flew away. Olivia decided it was because he loved her and didn't want to leave her. And then he died later that day. She was devastated.

So I had a flash of fear that now we'd be killing Redhead and burying him so that Cute could have a proper funeral. I never know what she'll come up with, but I always try to buy into her imaginative and caring plans. Fortunately, she found the humor in this tragedy, and got over it pretty quickly.

Poor Cute. May he R.I.P. . .(re-emerge in poop).

Why Are People So Stupid?

2008-01-12T17:24:00.000-05:00

I'm having a "people are stupid" day. Ever have one of those? I know we're social creatures, unable to attain that happiness status we all strive for without the others (notice they're the mysterious killers in the show Lost). But there are days I'm sure I'd be much happier NOT knowing many of the people I know. (Now, now. Don't be negative. . .)

There's a book by Laurie Notaro called We Thought You Would Be Prettier. In it, she goes off on other people in a very unreasonable (yet utterly hilarious) way. It's shocking. But the reason it sends you out of your comfort zone is because you know damn well you've thought of others that way. You know you've made the occasional nasty judgement on some innocent woman in the grocery store, and you know nothing about her. Maybe she's having a horrible life, and maybe she didn't feel like matching her purse to her shoes or whatever, but you judged her unnecessarily. We all do it.

Well, I'm the person who gets pissy about the people who do the judging. I know, this doesn't elevate me to a superior judgement level. It's the same thing. I just come from a different angle. When I was younger, my mom used to slam people for no apparent reason. Maybe some overweight person would walk by, and mom might turn her head to me and start laughing. This was always super-embarrassing to me. I think when you slam other people without reasonable cause (or full knowledge of their situations), it says far more about you than it does about the person you're slamming. It says you're too lazy to find out all the facts before you start your formal assessment. Or, it says you're mean.

Grrr, this is me ranting. And then, I read my horoscope. For the first time in forever--I NEVER read my horoscope.

If your plans are too rigid, they may need to be shaken up a bit today. Something might happen that rattles your nerves, awakening a sense of insecurity. And although your emotions could be on edge, don't wait around for the storm to hit. Take the initiative before the lightning strikes and reality forces you to react.

Now, in proper form, I shall go over-analyze why all the judgement I've witnessed today might have "awakened my insecurity!" Fun!

My, aren't we a timely little Karma?

2008-01-11T19:10:00.000-05:00

Did I write that last post at 6:33 am, Thursday morning? Why was I blogging at 6:33 in the morning? As punishment, the world decided to give me what for and sent me home that day with hours of work.

Be an underachiever. Ha. Easy to conceive of during the weeks my lesson plans aren't due, I suppose. But because I thought it--put it in writing in fact--Karma got a bug up her ass and made my computer crash. This rendered me completely impotent, in the most technological sense possible, of course. There's your underachievement! Unable to do a thing for three hours. So, home I came with my happy little wheelie cart and happy little meals to replace actual food for my children.

I truly have the most instant Karma on Earth. A few weeks ago, my neighbor with the Harley, who starts it and revs it in the driveway for 12 minutes before pulling away (I know, it's necessary for some reason that has not been coherently explained to me yet) performed his usual noise serenade during the naptime of my two-year-old. Of course. Because, even though I have asked more than once (nicely) and more than once (not really nicely), he insists on making sure she doesn't sleep between 1 and 3. So I was standing behind a chair in my livingroom looking out the window. I watched him pull away. I thought, I hope you wreck. I KNOW! Mean. I know. But don't worry--this is where Karma does her thing.

I walk around the chair and instantly get cut off at the knees by my daughters' much-needed third dollhouse. I fall like a tree flat on my face in the middle of my livingroom. As I lay on the carpet-covered cement, I only bother to turn my head to effectively breathe. I remain still otherwise. And I think, I have the most instant Karma on Earth. She wastes no time. Retaliation is swift, and fairly effective. As proof I will state that I now, instead of wishing him death, merely plug my ears and chant lalalalalalala. It's not as gratifying, no, but it doesn't cause me residual consequences!

Good news, though. I did not bring home any work this weekend! So perhaps the underachieving will be possible after all.

Will The World End If I Stop Stressing?

2008-01-10T06:33:00.000-05:00

I have decided not to be an overacheiver this week. I've decided to procrastinate whenever possible. I've decided to be that person who never looks stressed or overwhelmed. I just want to see if I can do it.

Now doen't get me wrong--I've messed up a couple of times already, like when I looked at my middle school students and proclaimed my intent to go back and teach Kindergarten. "The kids may still act like babies, but at least we get naps and playground time!" I snapped.

But it has become obvious to me that many people get through this life not stressing. I'm practicing this week. I will then assess the situation (as lazily as possible) and really give it a go next week.

Report to follow. . .

Out Of The Mouths Of Paranoid Moms

2008-01-06T16:00:00.000-05:00

I'm just trying to prevent her from becoming a tragic 5:00 news clip about a beautiful child whose life was cut short by parental negligence. I probably just look like a mean mom.

So I'm on the street with my six-year-old. She's on her bike, (not the one Santa brought her for Christmas mind you--no, she's on the old one with training wheels. This becomes important shortly) and I'm pushing my two-year-old, in the stroller. Her same-aged friend speeds ahead on her motorized scooter with no helmet, no arm pads. "Stop!" I scream. "Stop!" I scream again. She pulls over--to the left--and turns around looking at me. You are about to prescribe me my first trauma which I will spend my entire adulthood trying to overcome, she says to me in a glare that reminds me of the way I look at people who pull out in front of me in traffic.

"Liv," I say, "see that intersection? There is no stop sign there. A car comes careening around this corner and what does it hit? What does it hit?!" Her friend looks at her with intense sympathy. "YOU!" I state firmly. "You. And I am not letting you out of the house by yourself until. . ."

Now I didn't mean it the way it came out. I really didn't.

". . .until you learn to work the streets!"

Gee. I wonder why my kid refuses to try to learn how to ride her brand new bike. The one without training wheels.