Hello. It's Me. Again.

Maybe you're relieved to see this post.  Maybe you're irritated.  Excited?  Well, I'm back, in a way.

I needed time away from social media.  All in all, and initially as part of my church's annual January fast, I stepped away from all my personal social media accounts (I still maintained the church's sites).  In mid-February, I returned to Instagram.  About a week ago, I began commenting and liking n Facebook again, but I still haven't posted.  I haven't returned to Twitter or tumblr at all yet, save for posting from my Instagram account.

I have to say that I was shocked to learn that I didn't miss Facebook much at all.  Although my feed has come to be less about catching up with friends than it is about mudslinging, religious fervor, and cat pictures, it's still very addictive.  A great time-killer.  Likewise, though, it's a great way to avoid responsibility and face-to-face interaction with other human beings.  I realized that was not a healthy way to live, and found myself pointedly ignoring my phone for long stretches, or checking only e-mail or text messages.  

In some ways, I've emerged happier.  I don't get sucked into the abyss that is the comments section at the bottom of every Buzzfeed post. I don't mentally correct grammar or wonder what type of horrible education/recreational drug the comments were influenced by.  I don't waste time on finding out which celebrity my cat's personality most resembles (although, for the record, I think Freyja might be Adele).  

I've also been writing.  A lot.  I was entrusted with the huge honor of writing a program for my church's Good Friday service, which is something we haven't done in many, many years.  I wrote it, cast it, and we are currently in rehearsals for both the Good Friday service and the Easter Sunday service.  I'm incredibly proud of my actors, and more than a little shocked that my father agreed to play Caiaphas, the High Priest!

I've also, against my wishes, had to return to work full-time.  I do like my job - don't get me wrong, I really do - but leaving Ronen is not getting easier; it's getting harder.  Since January, he has been struggling - we all have - with separation anxiety and sadly, I get the worst of it.  He's displaying an over preference for Daddy lately, and I get ignored when I pick him up from my parents' house.  Daddy gets squeals of excitement, and I barely elicit a casual "Mum."  I know it's normal for his age (almost two, can you believe it?) but it's very difficult.

But the point of this post isn't really to tell you where I've been.  It's to tell you where I will be.  I'll be here, a bit.  I'll also be posting material on an online writing portfolio in the hopes of landing some freelance work (more information to follow).  I'm working on editing a collection of my church-friendly skits in the hopes of finding a publisher.  And I'm really hoping to work with some of the teenage girls in my church to put together a conference for tweens and teens about what it means to be a godly woman (hint: it's probably not what you think it is).

So I won't be online much.  I'll creep on Facebook here and there, and I'll still be blowing up IG with cat pictures and baby videos, but that's about it.  I'm not ready to slip out of the grip of social media altogether, but I've decided that I'm in charge.  Not my Facebook feed.  Not the links to those soul-sucking political articles.  I'll be using my accounts to my advantage - not the other way around.

Magic Mirrors, Pretty Princesses, and Daddy Issues

When it comes to the hottest TV shows, I'm frequently late to the game.  I didn't start watching "The Office" until a few years after the series finale.  (I missed a LOT of co-workers' show-related jokes during that time.)  I didn't tune in to "Doctor Who" until well into Matt Smith's reign (although I did start with Nine).  For most of our marriage, Ross and I never had cable, but we consider the monthly commitment to Netflix well worth it.  We've found some gems on there ("Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries" is a well-written and witty favorite, plus a costume designer's paradise).

So, it's no surprise that I waited until a few seasons of "Once Upon a Time" were available to stream.  I knew I'd like the show; I've loved the idea of "fractured" fairy tales for almost as long as I've loved the Disney treatment of them.  I wanted to share some of my thoughts on the way the series is going.  So, with that in mind, I'm going to be courteous and state right now that there are most definitely SPOILERS ahead.  I've just finished watching the third season, so if anyone hasn't gotten there yet, please don't read ahead.  Likewise, if you're into the fourth or fifth season, please respect my desire to be surprised and don't include any spoilers in YOUR comments.  Thanks.

First, this being a Disney production, I think it's fabulous that the star couple on the show are Snow White and Prince Charming.  That was Disney's first animated feature, and so it's perfectly fitting that the pair should be the power couple (at least in the beginning) on the series.  

Image from Amazon.com.

While I often struggle with anachronisms in historical drama (yes, "feminist" screenplay writers, I'm talking to you, because many of the sassily-written females contemporary audiences so admire are as much a myth as the Golden Fleece, due to their respective status quos), I think it's appropriate in the context of this series.  First, fairy tales themselves have evolved with the times in which they were shared.  It's no surprise that many of the female characters are as heroic as the males, as daring, as brave, and as smart.  I love that this does not demean the male characters, either.  One challenge I've seen with certain aspects of modern feminism is that men have the be put down in some way for women to rise up.  I hate that.  Hate it beyond belief.  I'm so sick of seeing the nuclear family portrayed with a beautiful, brilliant wife and a dopey, clueless dad.  In OUAT, Snow White can rescue her prince without emasculating him.  For his part, Charming can accept that rescue and not perceive himself as "less of a man" because a woman saved his life.  Yes.  This.  So much this.  I also love that the strong female characters aren't simply written as "sassy".  We see that a lot in film and television.  We are told that a series features a "strong" female lead, but why is she strong?  Is she written in a respectful way in order to explore her many complexities?  Is she physically or emotionally powerful?  Is she manipulative?  Does she have some type of gift or talent?  Does she have to overcome unbelievable obstacles, or struggle with a troubled past?  Does she grow at all during the course of the series or movie?  Or is she "just" pretty and mouthy?  That alone a "strong female lead" does not make, in my opinion, but I think that's what we are often told by the entertainment industry. 

OUAT has some very interesting and strong female leads.  While Mary Margaret/Snow White's driving forces are love and hope, she is called upon to make very difficult decisions that question her very nature.  Most often, she makes the "correct", selfless choice.  Sometimes, she doesn't, and we are left to watch her as she struggles through the consequences of her actions.  We watch Emma go from a physically strong but emotionally conflicted - and often scared - woman to one who begins to allow herself to be vulnerable, to love, and to admit to her fears.  Regina/The Evil Queen, too, is given a backstory that explains, but does not excuse, her actions.  We learn that the darkest characters are still capable of love and sacrifice, and the kindest ones still possess the potential for great evil.  

I was also pleasantly surprised with the way some of the other characters evolved.  When Neal/Baelfire was introduced as an adult, I really expected him to be a "throwaway" character, good for a plot twist or two, then not much else.  I love, love, LOVE how he got the chance to redeem himself as a father and friend, but that it was still a process for him.  It wasn't that he burst onto the scene like a hero and saved the day.  He tried, and failed, and fumbled around for some time before he got things right.  So, of course he had to die. The role of the good guy on the show is played by Charming, the bad-guy-turned-good is already being fulfilled by Hook, and the good-guy-turned-bad-turned-good-turned-bad is Rumple/Mr.Gold, so that really left no place for Neal.  It would have been too perfect a happy ending to have him permanently reunite with his precocious son and the mother of his child.  Even Snow and Charming's happy ending is still riding out some bumps.  Sorry, Neal.  I had really, REALLY gotten to like you.

Ruby/Red fascinates me.  We don't see much of her in seasons 2 and 3, but I love how the concept of the female as an unpredictable force/monster is addressed and played out. When you add the color red, the wolf, the moon, it's a symbolism-laden tale.  Her story is a coming-of-age one, and it also is an interesting juxtaposition of the original fairy tale.  Talk about a woman embracing her destiny!

Belle is a personal enigma to me.  I find myself both loving her relationship with Gold and wanting her to end it.  Which would show more strength?  Loving and supporting a deeply flawed and volatile man, or giving that up for your own safety and emotional well-being?  Belle is the character I always end up with in those online quizzes, you know - Which Disney Princess Are You Most Like? and so on - so I feel I have something invested in this character.  Her love is both innocent and pure - perhaps even more so than Snow White and Prince Charming's, but it continues to blind her.  I'm interested to see where this leads her.

I have always loved the question "what happens after happily ever after?" and I think that. most times, we don't want to know.  We like the idea of riding off with a lover into the sunset, or a neatly-packaged conclusion.  But, even as we in the real world find our true loves, or welcome a long-awaited child, or accept that coveted promotion, there is still life to live after that.  And life comes with challenges, consequences, fear, disappointment, and loss - even for beloved fairy tale characters.

One thread that has been woven carefully and continually throughout the series has been abandonment - specifically, abandonment by one's father.  I think it's a bold step to address, and keep addressing, something so relevant to society today.  It's one thing I see in common with many people I know, regardless of their race, age, sexual orientation, or religion.  MANY of them lack fathers or healthy father figures.  MANY of them have been left or abused by the men in their lives - husbands, fathers - for different reasons.  I won't speculate on them here, but I love that the ultimate statement made by the series is that yes, you've been hurt, and yes, it was by someone who was also hurt, but you can still CHOOSE to be happy.  You can CHOOSE not to hurt another person, specifically, your own child.  In particular, I love that Neal was able to act out that choice before he died; he forgave his father (and grandfather) and physically laid down his life for his family.  

(There's a Bible study lurking around in there somewhere, but I'm not going to root it out right now.  Just don't be surprised if someday I release a devotional about finding God in fairy tales...)

Something that I both love and hate is the phrase and concept that "There's got to be another way."  I love that it reinforces the idea that hope is a living thing that stirs in our hearts, that forces us to search for decisions that don't hurt the ones we love, but as a plot device, it's trite.  In every other episode, a character in an awkward or dangerous situation is given "the only way" to escape or remedy it, but decides immediately that the price is too steep.  By the end of the episode, or within a few more, we learn that there IS another way, of course, and sometimes its consequences are harsher than the first option.  It's a bit tedious.  

I love that magic always comes with a price.  As a Christian, I suppose I COULD condemn the show entirely, and in fact all fairy tales, movies, books, and media that involve magic or fantasy in any way (buh-bye Star Wars, Doctor Who, and probably 75% of what I watch and read).  But I'm not going to do that.  I think that it can be very healthy to engage in make-believe, and since the biggest part of make-believe is being able to do what we normally cannot do, it's only natural that we like to imagine we can fly and perform feats with our minds and understand the language of animals.  The reason that desire exists within us at all is because God put it in our hearts to want the supernatural - the things that we cannot do with our own minds or hands.  I'm not going to travel down the OMG HARRY POTTER IS THE DEVIL road because I'm hoping that most Christians who choose to engage in that (now quite hackneyed) debate are looking at the whole picture and not just what they are told by social media and conservative sources.  I'm also not going to get into a flame war about that right now either.  But as I said above, "Magic comes with a price".  Even the things that blow our minds - conjuring fireballs out of nowhere, locking doors with spells, enchanting objects - come at a cost to the user.  Power of any kind comes at a price.  Whether it's the training we put into improving our bodies and minds, or it's the loss of privacy and increased scrutiny as we enter into the spotlight, power is never really free.

What a thought.

Anyway, I'm probably going to binge-watch the fourth season this weekend. Actually, I think I'm going to go pop some popcorn right now...

The Bleeding Basement (and Other Homeowner Woes)

Surely I am not being too arrogant in assuming that at least some of my faithful readers have wondered where I've been these past six weeks?  Surely someone missed me?

Well, we moved.  It all happened rather fast, for something so big and dramatic and life-changing.  We weren't really looking for a house, but my husband was getting regular e-mail updates on local homes from his former boss, and now real-estate agent, Jan.  He wasn't reviewing them to move, per se, but was looking to purchase a possible rental property.  I wasn't keen on the financial risk, especially since we have a baby now, but he kept looking.

Lo and behold, a small house became available - on the same street as my parents.  Now, before we had the baby, I would never have imagined living so close to my folks.  Even though they are wonderful and I truly consider them among my favorite people in the world, I thought it was important to establish myself away from them.  I still do.  But a baby is a lot to handle, even a happy and relatively easy baby like Ronen.  

Long story short, it ended up being the perfect place for us.  Most everything is on one story, which is great because all of our parents are nearing that "limited mobility" phase in life, plus I don't want to trip down the stairs with my son ever again.  We call our new place the Hobbit House.  It was clearly built for short people (I can easily reach all the kitchen cabinets).  We love it.

Except...

Well, unless we started from scratch on a brand new home, there are always exceptions, right?  

The perks of the new place are many: recently redone hardwood floors, a galley kitchen (divine compared to my old "two-room" kitchen), two large and one small bedroom (which we turned into the TV room and are decorating with sci-fi posters and art), a slightly sloped yard, pleasant neighbors (kinda), and a huuuuuuge attic for storage.  The cats have already laid claim to their new spots - Loki sleeps upstairs, on the window ledge or atop the railing.  Freyja prefers the windows in the baby's room (the only grip I've got is that she leaves fur all over his changing pad!), and Thor likes to sprawl in the middle of the hallway between the rooms.  Which means I've already tripped on him 8,239 times since moving.  The basement is divided into several smaller rooms, one of which Ross has already claimed as his Man Cave, and another will be my writing nook (once we clear it of unpacked boxes).  

Oh, yeah...

The basement.

While it was absolutely a selling point for us, it's also let us in on some unexpected surprises.

Like the blood on the floor.

Well, it wasn't really blood, my hypersensitive olfactory powers determined.

It was balsamic vinegar.

And it was seeping up through the paint on the cellar floor.

If you go downstairs during a heavy thunderstorm, you will see "blood" drops glistening on the floor.  

It's terrifying.  And, yes, I had a "Telltale Heart" moment when I first saw it, oozing out from beneath Ross's gaming television.

Apparently, the elderly Italian man who had lived here was a homemade wine aficionado.  And apparently, he got rather clumsy when he imbibed.  So he spilled some.    We aren't exactly sure how that all worked out, but we guess that it stained the floor, dried up but was never cleaned, was painted over (with the wrong kind of paint), and now gets "rehydrated" during rainy days.  

So, yeah, maybe it's more Poe-esque than that, and maybe there's a horrible story associated with it.  I don't want to think about that, though.  Right now, we're just trying to figure out a way to dry out the cellar while keeping the litter-box smell from wafting up through the rest of the house.  The cats have their own "bathroom" downstairs, too, with a small window for ventilation and a door I prefer to keep mostly closed.  

Oh, and there's a bidet.

Did I mention the bidet?

I find Thor curled up around it, asleep, sometimes.  People, there's not a lot funnier than a cat wrapped around a bidet.  

Unless it's a cat in a bidet. 

(We're getting rid of the bidet.)

Mother's Day

My hands are smaller than hers were, and less calloused.  I can only wear her wedding ring on my right hand, my larger hand, and even then it is too big for my ring finger.  I have to wear it on my middle finger, the one reserved for insults

It is a simple, textured gold band with tiny diamond chips in it.  It is a sign of love lost, of a failed marriage, of hopes dashed.  My parents were married young, and I don't know if they ever completely figured out what marriage was supposed to be.  They were both stubborn and often selfish.  My mother's parents had been abusive, and her dad had cheated on her mom.  My father's parents were far more stable, but were "old-fashioned" by the cultural standards of the mid-1970's and their example didn't really work for my parents.

Over twenty years, two daughters, and countless pets later, my parents' divorce was final within days of what would have been their anniversary.

On my finger, the ring feels foreign.  Heavy.

Although I lost three children to miscarriage, I believe I have been a mother since the very moment the first one was conceived.  Still, yesterday was the first time I celebrated Mother's Day with tangible proof of that status - a chubby, giggling, happy baby boy.

I had a wonderful time - lunch with family, and a movie with friends, plus flowers and a beautiful card from my husband, but "Mother's Day" felt hollow.

Is it because I know that Mother's Day is a "Hallmark Holiday" designed for increased card and gift sales?  Is it because my heart still aches for the women I know for whom motherhood is not an option?  Is it because, despite all the incredible, loving, and motherly women in my life, I no longer have my own mother?

Yesterday, my Facebook feed was full of beautiful pictures.  Some were old and faded, photos from thirty years ago, or more, of mothers holding sweet-faced babies.  Some were black-and-white.  Some were laughable, as the hairstyles and clothing were so dramatically dated.  Some were more recent, a radiant, shining bride with her modestly-dressed but still-stylish mother.  Some were accompanied by wonderful thoughts about motherhood, thank-you notes to moms who sacrificed everything, to moms who were strong in the face of adversity, moms who accepted disappointments, moms who never gave up.

Memories of my own mother are fading from my mind.  The ones that remain are not kind and tender moments.  I know she told me she loved me.  I know she sacrificed so much so that I could participate in school activities.  She went back to work full-time after nearly two decades of staying home.  I know she was extremely proud of my sister and me, as we were great students and continually excelled at school.  Neither she nor my father had gone to college, so her endless refrain was "Get an education and a good job so you can take care of yourself".  It was as if she thought, if she said it enough, it would spare her daughters the pain, financial trauma, and heartache that her divorce had caused her.  (Poor lady, she didn't realize both her kids would major in the fine arts and end up on the low-paying end of the medical field.)

Almost more than I want my mother back in my life, I want those memories back.  Memories of laughter and silliness, memories of birthdays and parties and quiet times watching the snow fall, silent, in the backyard.  Memories of a fearless mother who came to the rescue every time a wasp hovered menacingly near a sunbathing child on the deck.  Memories of an indignant mother who went to bat for her bullied babies.  Memories of a creative mother who carefully piped frosting fantasies onto birthday cakes every year - no matter how ridiculous the request.  Those memories are still here, but they are hazy.  I want the full-color, glossy versions back.  Another year and these ghosts might be gone.

On my left hand, my engagement ring and replacement wedding band are a bit grimy-looking.  They are caked with hairspray and dish soap, and I don't get them cleaned as often as my husband suggests.  Yet they are still vibrant, the signs of hope after loss, the promise of working through trouble, the humility that comes with admitting a wrong.

Two hands - two choices.

Each time I pick up my mother's ring, I think of how she presented it to me.  I, the elder daughter, received her gold wedding band.  My younger sister got her silver engagement ring.  "I don't need them anymore anyway," we heard as she handed them to us with a shrug.  "Lotta good they did me."  I remember the sarcasm in her voice now more keenly than when I'd heard it the first time.

And I ache.

I still ache for the women who cannot become mothers.  I ache for those without mothers, who lost them or never had them to begin with.  But, perhaps, most of all, I ache for the fading memories I have of my own mother as a mother.  I can never make more, and the sweetness of them is slowly dripping away, a little bit each day.

In Search of: BFFL

In high school, I had a bestie.  Her name was Christin, and we loved science fiction and Indiana Jones and comic books and I never felt like it was weird to be a nerd when I was with her.  We wrote fanfic before fanfic was even called fanfic, and we were inseparable.

Then college happened.  We went to different schools, had different majors, and drifted apart.  It might have been a good thing, if only for the fact that I wanted to reinvent myself (like many of us do) in college.  

"Reinvention" didn't amount to much.  I was still a chubby white girl with a geek streak, but I dressed a little more stylishly and figured out what to do with my long, wavy hair (product, product, PRODUUUUUUCT).  Still conservative, although less so, being among theatre people.  Still didn't drink.  Still didn't have sex.  Still got good grades.  I had a good circle of nerdy pals, though, being a double major in English and Theatre Performance.  Few of them really "got" me, though, because another large part of my identity was and is my faith, and most of them didn't understand or share that.  

I maintain (mostly online) friendships with a lot of my college buddies.  Some, I've become closer to.  Some, I respect more because of the way they have handled life's challenges since entering "the real world".  We've all grown a great deal since then, through marriages, careers, parenthood, divorce, losing family members, facing illness, financial troubles.  Frequently, I feel more connected to them now than I did back then.

After college came work, which, for me, was Starbucks.  I think it's safe to say that I've stayed closer with my former co-workers from the coffee shop than from any other part of my life (the exception being church).  I still see many of them fairly regularly, and I feel like I learned more about life from working there than I did anywhere else.  I learned about constructive criticism, customer service, finances, kindness.  I learned about prejudice and bias (yes, believe it or not I was on the receiving end of it more than once).  I learned about responsibility.  Leading others.  Time management.

And I learned that Colombian coffee is totally my fave.

In my group of friends, the ones who are most like me, at this point in my life, are those I met at South Hills Assembly's young adults group, The Bridge.  Through associations with the people there, I ended up meeting the man I eventually married.  I met like-minded people who are now parents, to whom I often turn to for advice.  These people, like me, sometimes struggle to reconcile their faith with the craziness in the world.  But we don't see each other that often.  We all go to different churches now, and some of us work. Most of us have moved away from the ten-mile radius in which we all used to live.  It's not easy to pack up kids and haul them to visit friends.  I'm not a phone person; I'd much rather text or meet in person.  It gets sort of lonely.  Even with a nearby and supportive family and extended church family, it does get lonely.

As an introvert, I'm generally happy to be by myself.  My hobbies are usually solo pursuits - writing, reading, sketching.  But spending all day entertaining a very curious baby can be exhausting, even if he IS a generally easy-going little guy.  It's isolating.  But it's a catch-22 for me, because meeting new people is equally exhausting.  (Especially since people THINK I'm an extrovert and miss my nonverbals that day "please - I need to go be alone right now!")  But when something amazing happens to me - or when I just need to vent, or get advice, I've realized - there's no one "go-to" person I contact.  Other than family.

I realized I don't have a best friend.

I do have friends.  They are wonderful.  My step-sister is incredible and mature and wise.  My stylist Jaime is an awesome mom and energetic adventurer.  My former co-worker Jordan is an outgoing, brilliantly confident woman and mother.  There are more, of course.  I have friends at church, too, but very few in my age bracket and family situation.  (That is to say, there are a lot of women with whom I am close, but very few are young moms/wives.)  They have supported me through struggles and celebrated with me during victories.  Maybe I don't need just one best friend.

But then I see those "bestie" posts on Buzzfeed and Pinterest and I'm all like, "I want that."

But then I see the pictures of doughnuts and bay windows and tabby kittens and retro-styled kitchens and I'm like, "I want that, too."

Best friend or freshly-baked cruller.  Which do I want more?  

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Hour By Hour

Although my little peanut is approaching the nine month mark, some things are dawning on me just now.  As in, routine usually works really well for the baby's health and happiness...so why haven't I applied a regular schedule to my daily life, too?!

I'm one of those probably not-so-rare people who needs boundaries and deadlines in order to make things happen, because I'm exactly 0% self-motivated when it comes to most things.  However, for that very reason, I find myself unwilling to actually set those boundaries for myself.  It's a vicious cycle of laziness and anxiety.  But it's time to break it.

As things are, we've developed regular days and times for baby's bath, for example.  (He's doesn't get so insanely dirty yet that daily scrub-downs are necessary, and he might - like his daddy - be prone to dry skin, so why push the envelope?)  Regular feeding times are crucial for a baby, especially a formula-fed one, so I've become pretty adept at working my own life around bottles and naps.  Still, things fall apart.  Laundry piles up.  Plans come undone.  Photo and writing projects linger in purgatory, wondering silently to themselves if they will ever be complete.  Even this blog languishes, perking up like an old lap dog for its once or twice a month visit and petting session.

So, I think it's finally time.  It's time to spend a few extra dollars and go pick up one of those giant "mom" calendars.  You know what I mean - those ones with daily slots as big as an iPhone for you to write everything in.  Dinner plans, doctors' appointments, social events (ha, ha, ha - what are those again?), chores, etc.  

Part of the reason for this is, well, housekeeping and homemaking is kind of my full-time gig right now.  I'll probably end up having to work part-time once the baby is a little older, unless things change for us financially, but right now, why not do the best I can to make my house a happier place?  More welcoming for my husband, who works hard at a job he generally dislikes.  More pleasant for myself and my baby, who - at least until spring - spend the majority of our time here.  More organized, less stressful, more inviting, less cluttered.

I've always been that awful creative stereotype.  The one with clever and fun ideas, the one with half a dozen projects started and three or four more tumbling around in my head at any given time.  The one who finally gets that electric storm of inspiration and sits down to write/work/create for hours while the dirty dishes pile up and the curtains collect cat hair. (I mean, even more than usual.)  I'm finding now, after years of these fits of productivity mixed with months of sloth, that, well, it's not a great approach.

Slow and steady is supposed to win the race, right?  You don't lose weight from a single day of clean-eating after weeks of Egg McMuffins, nor does a novel come from an hour of frenzied, divinely-inspired genius followed by distracted musing.  So, what I have to do is create a schedule for myself.  An honest-to-goodness, real-life daily schedule with time for cooking, exercising, leisure, housekeeping, prayer, reading, and writing.  

Oh my gosh, just seeing that in black and white is terrifying.  How do I fit that all in a day?  Even without a baby, that would seem impossible.

I guess I'm going to have to start very, very small.  Like planning out the week's dinners.  And deciding which two weekdays I want to use as laundry days.  

Hey - writing this blog is a start, right?  Check one thing off my daily list.  Now, let's see...can I make two more posts this week?

...and still make sure the cats get fed?

Crappy New Year

I can't say it was my worst New Year's ever.  'Cause there was that one time I had the flu. But this one comes pretty close. Since before the end of 2014, I've been fighting bronchitis, which my husband also caught. Fortunately, the baby didn't get it. Unfortunately, the baby did end up with a stomach bug. Which I ended up getting, on top of the bronchitis. Now, a week after my son's first ever fit of projectile vomiting, we're still all recovering.  

There are a lot of "parenting secrets" my friends let me in on before I had Ronen. The ugly and awful and wonderful things that can happen when a tiny human comes to live with you. One thing that never came up was how ridiculously long the tummy flu can last in an infant. The fact that, no matter how secure that diaper is, things - horrible, terrifying things - will leak out of it, covering cute onesies and pajamas and blankies and sheets and pillows. 

Ohh. Myyy.

Yes, it's been very hard watching over a sick baby for whom I can do very little. It's been mostly cuddling and napping. Which I guess might sound like a dream to some folks, maybe those who don't get to see their kids as often as they would like. But even his physical therapy has fallen by the wayside, leaving me feeling guilty about - well, everything. I was in a panic yesterday because he isn't consistently responding to his name. Yet, even sick, he figured out how to sit unsupported and will now do so happily for several minutes at a time, looking around, or holding a toy. He likes his blocks.  

Yet I still worry. I think I'd worry less about his development if I hadn't gotten cabin fever lately. I could not believe how isolating it's been. The fact that the median temperature this week has been zero degrees and snowy has not helped. I also didn't realize he'd be contagious this long, and both of my parents are already in bad shape physically, so the thought of giving them the stomach bug was unbearable. So, although Ross has been an incredible help (even calling off work so he could care for the baby when I was too weak), it's still been lonely. Very lonely. I got out for the first time in over a week yesterday, and it was pretty much just to buy a new pillow. I'm eagerly awaiting the day that I can bundle the little dude up in his monkey suit (literally), strap him in his carseat and heat out without worrying about hosing things down when I get home.

I'm almost 100% better myself and looking forward to returning to a more physical lifestyle. My parents gave us their old but very nice treadmill, and two of my girlfriends and I are committing to a 5K in April. Not surprisingly, it's a superhero run, in which the participants frequently wear full masks and costumes - not just Green Lantern T-shirts. The three of us are going as the DC ladies - Supergirl, Batgirl and Wonder Woman. The proceeds go towards supporting abused children, and frankly, there are few more worthy causes out there, so it's a chance to be a real-life superhero for kids! As it is, though, I'll just be walking it unless I can get back into the swing of regular exercise. I've lost almost 10 pounds in the past 3 weeks, but I'm afraid much of that has been due to being sick and having zero appetite. The trick will be in continuing to lose as my appetite returns!

The hardest part of the past three weeks has been in feeling totally aimless. Yes, I've been sick. It's kind of an excuse. But I haven't written. Like, anything. I haven't gotten out of my pajamas most days. I just have a hard time believing this is what God wants for me. I know being a parent - an attentive parent - is about the most important task the world has ever seen, but is this it? What am I missing? I feel like I am forgetting to be myself. It's exactly what I was afraid of when I was pregnant. I need to regroup, do things that make me happy. I started this week, by re-reading Jane Eyre in two days while the baby was sleeping. Not only is it, of course, an amazing story, but it was a treat to have a real paper book in my hands again. It reminded me of who I really am. I'm at heart a reader and a learner. A scholar. A speaker, a writer, a performer, an informer, a teacher. Two projects - one promised, one potential - encourage me. On Tuesday, I will begin teaching our church's drama group, Troupe 4:12, again. (We had taken time off during the holiday, then because of the baby's sickness.)  I'm honored that my pastors have given me literally carte blanche with this group. It's not a Bible class. I teach theatre history. We rehearse plays. We work on improvisation. I'm excited to add more structure to the workshops this year and watch the kids improve their skills even more. I also have the freedom to write and perform my own work, and, frankly, for this control freak, being able to write and direct and cast my own pieces is a dream come true. Even if it's on a small stage and just for my church.

The other potential project is a reunion of sorts - maybe. A few college pals and I got the crazy idea for a staged reading of William Shakespeare's Star Wars. More on that as - if - it develops. It's something to hope for!

Me-vember

Yup, I signed up for NaNoWriMo again.  Yup, I gave up again.  My excuse this year was the five-day road trip to Iowa, during which I tried to write but found myself both uninspired and carsick.

We were there to visit Ross's family and enjoy and early Thanksgiving.  It was a very quick but pleasant trip, made even sweeter by my decision to drop NaNoWriMo this year.  No, it's not that I am proud to be a quitter.  Not by any means.  I've tried this three times and just haven't been able to discipline myself enough to stick with a daily writing schedule.  And yes, I know that I will NEVER be a successful writer if I can't do that.

But, while we were in Iowa, I realized a few very important things about myself - things I was unhappy with.  Things I want - and need - to change.  Things that are far more important than stringing together 50,000 words and patting myself on the back.

Don't think that I'm mocking those who are participating.  I think it's a super idea, but for me, right now, it's become low priority.

In two days, I will be 33 years old.  My baby just turned 5 months old.  I am very unhappy with my body.  With my general state of health.  I've been told that moms can't snap right back into shape, that their bodies take 9 months to change and grow a baby and that there should be 9 months for it to return to "normal".  Which is fine.  But that doesn't mean that when my baby is 9 months old, suddenly by body will magically drop these 25 pounds, that my lungs will return to their "running-friendly" state, and that I will be able to sign up for the next 5K that pops up in my Facebook feed.

I have to DO something.

Granted, for 3 months after the birth of my baby, I was under medical orders not to exercise.  I'd had an emergency c-section and frankly, dealing with a baby who couldn't nurse, dealing with my own emotions, and dealing with the choice to return to work - or not - after becoming a mom, well, all those things were more than enough for me to focus on.  I wasn't worried that I couldn't squeeze my still-swollen feet into my Nikes.  Who cared?

Well, now that I've had to invest in a new, "upsized" wardrobe...I do.

It's time to celebrate me by beginning to take care of myself again.  Eating healthier.  Cooking at home more often.  Hiding the Halloween candy from myself.  Walking again.  Refusing to put myself down with my own words.  Putting God first again.

So.  For the rest of this month - and hopefully, indefinitely, I have to focus on myself and my family in a healthy, God-honoring way.  It doesn't mean I won't write.  It just means that I need to plan my time better, to sacrifice some of it for my husband and my son, to work on healthier decisions, to improve my spending habits, to put a little more effort into housework, to exercise more, to pray more, to cook more, to love more, to connect more with friends and family.

And...yeah...to put down the smartphone more.  

So that's what I'm doing for the rest of the month.  To my Nano-friends: I salute you!  May success be yours!  I'll join you next year.  By then, I am hoping and praying, I will have gotten back into the routine of taking care of myself.  

In fact, I'm planning on it.

Surprises

As I continue to adjust to my role as a mom, I have to admit, there were a few surprises that no one prepared me for - even the wisest and most experienced mamas I know.  Some turned out to be pleasant and others, well...you'll see.

1. My skin grew up.  In a good way.  I suffered for a very long time with acne.  I mean - we're talking over twenty years of my life, trying Noxema and Clearasil and Pro-Activ and three different medications from the dermatologist and countless other treatments, and virtually nothing worked long-term.  The closest I came was with the oil-cleansing method, but even that wasn't fool-proof.  My skin was pretty clear during my pregnancy, which I knew isn't usually the case.  So I buckled down and prepared for the worst when the hormones shifted after the baby came.  Nothing changed.  I am insanely grateful, and now leave the house without make-up more frequently.  Of course, people still seem to think I'm "sick" or "tired" without it, but that's life.

2. Never change a diaper immediately after a poop.  This one probably is SUCH a no-brainer to most moms that they don't even think of it as useful advice.  I figured it out on my own, and we won't get into any details, but I have a 60-second rule now with changing a diaper full of number two.

3. Formula is freeing.  This one doesn't apply to everyone, but it did for me.  After several weeks of attempted nursing, and lots of emotional trauma, we finally elected to exclusively formula-feed our little guy.  In spite of the heated mommy wars surrounding this topic, we've found that it works best for our family.  In my case, nursing was such a painful and frustrating experience that I grew to dread it.  Heaven forbid I should be in public when the baby got hungry.  I felt forced to make a hasty retreat home, red-faced and shameful.  I didn't want to feed in public because it made me uncomfortable - not to mention, after seven weeks, baby still couldn't get the swing of things.  For us, formula has allowed the rest of the family to participate more in caring for the baby, as well as given us more mobility.  

4. It's okay NOT to worry.  Wanting a (cheap) date night, my husband and I planned to see Guardians of the Galaxy at a local cinema's $5 night right up the road from my parents' house.  We left the baby and a bag full of supplies with them and I am not joking when I say that not an ounce of worry entered my mind.  I knew my parents were going to shower him with love, and my step-mom's extensive experience with children and babies certainly was a comfort, too.  I felt guilty only because I thought I was supposed to wail and cry and mourn about my first time away from my newborn.  Nope.  See #3 above.

5.  Babies are noisy.  I'm not talking about the crying.  I mean, I had no idea that this dude was going to grunt like a billy goat and sigh and sniffle and growl and shriek and hiss.  The first few times these sounds erupted forth from my tiny infant, I just stood there with my head cocked to the side, assuming that one of the cats had snuck into the room and was making terrifying bleating noises.  But no - cats don't typically do that, either.  On the plus side: he's cooing now and it is the best sound in the whole world since the beginning of time.

6. Nothing can prepare you for the NICU experience.  Especially if you've gotten this far after dealing with infertility or pregnancy loss, you might think you're invincible.  The worst has already happened and no matter what, things will be okay once the baby is delivered.  Not true.  Even though our little boy was only in for nine days, and received wonderful care, those days were some of the hardest and most miserable we've ever experienced.  Not only was I in emotional and physical pain from an emergency c-section, but every time we visited the baby, the updates changed - not always for the better.  My heart will always go out to parents whose babies are in the NICU, no matter what the circumstance.

7. The first time someone questions a decision you've made, your heart will break.  And your world will dim for a moment, and you'll panic and you'll stumble and you'll wonder if you're a terrible parent and you'll re-evaluate every single plan of action you'd considered.  But then, chances are, you'll realize that you're doing the best you can in your situation, for your family.  And you'll learn to handle people sneering because you're not breastfeeding...or sneering because you are breastfeeding.  And, when your baby smiles at you, the haughty look you got from that random old lady at Sheetz after a misguided and awkward conversation about homeschooling...well, that doesn't matter at all.  Not.  At.  All.

Any other first-time moms get some unexpected surprises - pleasant or otherwise? - when baby was born?

Mommy Wars - I Surrender!

My baby will be two months old this week.  I feel like I've lived a whole lifetime in just these past eight weeks.  Late nights have been rough, of course, even with my husband helping to support me.  Diaper blowouts, crying jags, traumatic bathtimes - many of the challenges of parenthood have already reared their ugly heads.  I've got a good support team, though, so we're all getting by.

They say, however, that no two mommies are the same; nor are two babies.  Which means that everything - from how baby wants to be held to which brand of diaper works best, is up for debate.  The problem is, this mommy is also a perfectionist, which means that things must be done one of two ways: flawlessly or not at all.

That's not a good thing.  Especially when pretty much the next 18+ years of my life will be almost entirely trial and error.  *Cue panic attack.*

Although I'm not sharing every tiny little scrap of information about my baby with the world, I think it's important to at least chronicle some of my struggles.  After all, my readers have journeyed through miscarriage with me; now that my husband and I have our long-awaited child, we have a new set of challenges, and it's only fair that we're honest about those, too.  

Ronen spent nine days in the NICU, and although he received excellent care during that time, it severely limited my ability to bond with him, particularly in the area of breastfeeding.  That has been very difficult for me, and I've been quite hard on myself each time Ross or I mixed up a bottle of formula to supplement our little guy.  I wanted so badly to be able to breastfeed exclusively, but that just hasn't happened.  Poor latch,  ongoing pain, exhaustion on my part, or just plain discouragement has led us to turn to the (baby) bottle on occasion.  I've already run the gamut of ideas to make things more successful or easier, but most have failed for us, leaving me again condemning myself as a mother when I mumbled "yes, please", to my husband's offer of bottle-feeding the baby as I rolled back over for twenty more minutes of precious sleep when I should have been pumping, or feeding him myself.  

I've hated myself for losing patience with the baby when I couldn't understand his needs.  He was fed, changed, clean, warm, and swaddled.  Why was he still crying and WHEN WOULD HE STOP?!

Ross was concerned that I had post-partum depression.  I think the hormonal swings scared him, and rightly so - they scared me, too.  However, when I was honest with myself and did a little research, I found that the majority of the symptoms didn't match up with what I was feeling.  In fact, the greatest amount of my frustration was coming from one source alone: breastfeeding.

Or rather, my apparent failure at it.  

I realized that the times I struggled with the most anger, depression and anxiety were feeding times.  This might be linked with the baby's time in the NICU, where feedings were closely monitored and any time in which the baby consumed less than expected or took longer than expected was considered a failure.  Or, it could be a side effect of the self-imposed burden of perfectionism, since nursing has not been a happy, beautiful and successful experience from day one.  Probably a bit of both.

Still, once I isolated that part of motherhood, things got a little clearer.  I pinpointed the specifics of why breastfeeding was making me anxious, and realized that, while some are fixable, some really are not.  My son's high palate is something he has to grow into, and is causing latching problems which leave me in pain.  So I began to dislike nursing my son.

Dreading breastfeeding made me feel like a terrible mother, so the cycle continued.  I'd get upset about breastfeeding and it would frequently result in a self-fulfilling prophecy.  The baby would finally latch, but I'd be stuck in an awkward or painful position for forty-five minutes.  Or he would thrash about so violently that I'd have to literally pin his arms down to try to get him to eat.  And, yes, the little dude picked up on my emotions, and reacted accordingly.

So guess what?  He gets formula and pumped milk.  

I've read lots of comments in nursing forums online, and frankly, it's enough to make any mother feel that she is valueless if she cannot or will not provide a baby nourishment at her breast.  My girl Jaime, whom I frequently mention, was unable to nurse her twins and didn't learn until her fourth daughter was born that she actually had a glandular problem that prevented her from providing for her girls!  For four years she dealt with intermittent disappointment and shame because she wasn't a proud breast-feeding mama...and even now, after receiving the knowledge that there was nothing in her power she could have done, she sometimes has twinges of guilt.  Yes, breast milk has the upper hand on formula; mommies make it for each specific baby.  But, in my case, it was being provided with a heavy dose of stress, anxiety, anger, resentment, and dread.  That's not a cocktail I'd want to give any baby.

I frequently see it quoted that any woman can breastfeed if she tries hard enough, because it is "natural".  But that makes no sense at all!  It's "natural" to conceive children, yet thousands of couples each year find themselves truly unable to have babies, no matter how hard they try.  Some can be helped with medical intervention, some cannot. I believe breastfeeding is the same way.  I'm sure that the majority of women who have challenges can overcome them, but some cannot.  I'm not saying I cannot overcome my own challenges, but I'm slowly accepting that my son has had lots of my own milk these past several weeks - which is a great thing!  He gets lots of love and snuggles from anyone who feeds him.  The bottle has allowed my family to feed the baby, which has been spiritually fulfilling - after all, these people have prayed for us through each miscarriage and have been waiting to welcome this tiny one into our lives as anxiously as we have.  Why shouldn't I share him?  Plus, yes...it is immeasurably beneficial for my husband and I to share night-feeding duties.  Although I still take the lion's share (he works full time and I do not, so I try to let him sleep more at night and he lets me sleep in and nap on weekends and when he comes home), I definitely tag-team him sometimes.  "Your turn," I mumble as I roll over and steal another half-hour of sweet sleep.

I've had a few crisis moments over the past few days.  Moments when I am questioning my own decision to feed my baby both breast milk and formula.  Wondering if I'm denying him for my own comfort.  If Mommy being happy really does impact baby's happiness.  

But then I look at my sweet-faced sleeping son, happily snoozing with a belly full of milk, and I realize: even as a preemie, he is easily meeting his developmental milestones as though he were full-term.  He rolled over twice at 4 weeks (and lest that be a fluke, he did it again last week).  He is starting to smile and express pleasure.  He grabs at the bottle on his own.  He hold his head up for several seconds at a time.  He recognizes voices.  He has gained almost 3 pounds since birth.  He is beginning to sleep longer and longer stretches at night.  

He.  Is.  Happy.

And you know what else?

Mommy and Daddy are, too. 

If he scores two or three points lower on an IQ test because he consumed formula along with breast milk during his infancy, that's ok.  I will love him anyway, because he is my son.

The Cat is Out of the Bag...

...and I'm not talking about that time Thor and Loki had it out over an empty sack of Meow Mix, either.

I mean to say that, after months of genuine indecisiveness, I finally turned in my resignation at work.  I'm officially a stay-at-home-mom.

I feel relieved to have finally made my choice, but I'm surprised that relief is pretty much all I feel.  I thought I'd feel elated and overjoyed and a big rush of warm fuzzies as I hugged and kissed my baby.  I thought I'd feel proud, having made the decision that my husband and I agreed was best for my family.

Instead, I sort of feel a little bit...empty.  Like I cut the cord in a huge area of my life and I'm in kind of a freefall right now.  And challenged, like I'm standing at the base of a wild, snowy mountain and I've committed myself to climbing it but I really haven't packed enough supplies and I've never climbed a mountain before and in fact, I didn't even watch any mountain-climbing videos on YouTube or anything.

After just a few weeks of staying home with the baby (several of those days with family or friends visiting), I can see that raising children is not a job for lightweights.  When Ross got home from work yesterday, I was exhausted.  Nope, I hadn't finished three loads of laundry, gone grocery shopping, and groomed the cats.  I had fed and changed the baby and thought about what I would made for dinner (eggs, fried taters and turkey bacon).  And that was enough.

I can see how motherhood, which is supposed to be about family and community, can be isolating instead.  I can see how a mom, even a mom who is a good person and full of lots of love, can get frustrated and resentful towards a new baby.  Suddenly, your freedom disappears overnight; you're often expected to make decisions about returning to work long before you're physically or emotionally ready; friends and family and total strangers and the creepy staring lady at Giant Eagle all want to see your baby NOW and get upset because they weren't the first on your list to be invited over;  your timetable now revolves around feeding a little guy who, in our case, is still figuring out how to eat, which frequently makes mealtimes stressful and unpredictable (the bonding quotient there is pretty much zero); you begin to dread evenings because you're either afraid you'll miss a feeding if the baby monitor doesn't pick up his cries, or you'll stay up all night because his "self-soothing" pug-like grunts just. Don't. Stop.

I thought it would be easy to quit my job.  Maybe it would have been, if I despised my job or even felt indifferent towards it.  But I actually liked it.  I liked my co-workers.  I liked what I did and I felt like I did it well.  It was also hard to beat a 6-minute commute (which passed by a Starbucks).  Plus, the information I gathered from working in a pediatric office has been invaluable during my pregnancy and now, with a preemie in the house.  I had an amazing, engaged, compassionate supervisor and I had a good time working with some really fun, lively girls - going from that to being home with three suspicious cats, an often unreadable baby, Klondike bars and Netflix is a huge change.

We haven't been to church in a while because, well, yeah, we have a newborn and we've been advised to keep him out of crowds for a while.  Although we've got offers to visit and help from some of the church gals, it's not the same as being in the Word and enjoying fellowship with our spiritual family.  I thought I'd automatically feel closer to God after my son's birth, because, after all, I recognize God as the Heavenly Father, and now I was a parent, too, but that didn't happen, either.

I guess it comes down to expectations.  The same unrealistic expectations that drive wedges between spouses in the first few years of marriage can overwhelm new parents.  I didn't exactly expect the kind of rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed newborn so frequently depicted in movies and on television...nor did I expect to snap back into my pre-pregnancy body in a few weeks...and I certainly didn't expect to get a full night's sleep any time soon after his birth. But maybe my problem was that I really couldn't prepare myself for a new baby - especially the way he ended up coming into the world.

So, that's what I'm going to focus on these next few weeks - making realistic expectations for myself and my baby.  Just getting by, one day at a time.  

The anxiety of making The Big Decision is over.  I have no obligations to anyone but my God and my family.  It's okay for me to breathe.  And fail, sometimes.  And try again.  And ask for help.  And not take everyone's advice, if I don't want to.

Because really...the 17-year-old cashier at McDonald's might not be the most reputable source of infant knowledge, knowwhatImsayin'?

Multiple Choice

Today, my dad reminded me that I can choose fear or faith.

Not both.

The interesting thing about that statement is that it presents us with a concept that we don't often imagine.  Choosing something that is usually considered an emotion.  But faith, like love and forgiveness, is a decision we make.  A lifestyle.  Not a default reaction.  Not a feeling.

Which do you choose?

This week, I got some less-than-great news at my OB-GYN appointments.  It wasn't bad news; just disappointing.  Although the baby is developing just fine, he's measuring quite small.  I know that technicians can only imperfectly guess about the weight of a fetus, he's currently (barely) tipping the scales at just under 5 pounds, plus he's breech right now.  That, however, isn't my biggest concern - especially since I am only five feet tall and his daddy's on the short side of average, too.  My real challenge is my blood pressure.

Lots of you know that I was diagnosed with hypertension about four years ago.  I saw my PCP and a cardiologist, both of whom determined that my weight at the time, while high, would not have caused the numbers they were seeing.  After exams and bloodwork, the frustrating conclusion was that it was simply "unexplained".  Genetic.  Ugh.  Last year, I worked very hard to change my eating habits, exercise frequently, and reduce my sodium intake.  I was doing about 50 minutes of cardio four or five times a week, and I ended up crossing something off my bucket list that I didn't even know was on it - I ran in Pittsburgh's Great Race!

All in all, I lost a total of about 19 pounds from my curvy but small frame.  I wanted to lose another 10 more, but then (wonderfully!) got pregnant and put that goal aside.  Still, though, my blood pressure was high.  I was deeply frustrated.  I'd followed all the "rules" to reduce it naturally, but my efforts were met with the same ugly numbers every time: 140/100.

I was given medication during my pregnancy to maintain my blood pressure, which has helped thus far - especially given my 4-month stretch of doctor-ordered abstaining from all exercise.  After I was cleared for exercise, I found that I was so short of breath that I could hardly move without my inhaler anyway.  So it was basically a no-go, and I'm not thrilled to say that I've gained around 40 pounds so far.  Everyone insists it's "all belly", but I'm not so sure.  Still, that's another story for another time.

My doctor has been both optimistic and realistic with me.  He had celebrated every little victory with us along the way - hearing the heartbeat, feeling the kicks, passing the glucose test.  Yet he has also gently reminded me that, due to my chronic hypertension, I'd have to be closely monitored the further along I was.  No truer were those words than today, when my non-stress test results apparently disappointed the other doctor in the practice, who ordered two more in the next seven days.  The baby's heart rate is normal, but I guess he's not moving as much as they would like.  

Now, if you compare him to other babies, you're right.  However, since the beginning, he's been on the "lazy" side, if you will.  Unlike many babies, he doesn't keep me up at night kicking.  He actually sleeps at night and seems to wake up around 10 in the morning.  He has some flurries of activity around then, right before lunch, around 2:30, then after dinner.  That's sort of his schedule.  It has been since I felt him kick on Valentine's Day this year!  

My pregnancy hasn't matched up with "the norm" either, though!  The subchorionic hematoma I suffered happens only 10% of the time.  I'm eight months along after three unexplained, consecutive miscarriages.   I didn't break out in acne like most other moms-to-be.  I didn't have much morning sickness at all, and I never threw up once (except for a brief bout with the stomach flu).  So I'm different, I guess it stands to reason that baby might be, too.

Still, we're moving forward with tests for the dreaded but as-yet-unspoken diagnosis of pre-eclampsia hanging over my head.  I'll hear soon enough, as I'm pretty sure the technician at Quest drew enough blood today to keep Nosterafu fed for a week.  If I do have it, my already uber-flexible birth plan will just have to morph yet again.  They will likely have to deliver the baby early for his sake and mine, since pre-E, as it's called, can truly be deadly.  Even if I don't have it, they might want me on bed rest since the baby isn't doing much to impress them right now.   

So I'm left at a crossroads.  As I'm finishing packing up my hospital bags and determining what cute little onesie my baby will prefer to come home in, I can choose faith or fear.

It seems like fear is the more reasonable option.  It makes more sense, after all.  I should be afraid, shouldn't I?  Of an emergency c-section, of my baby winding up in the NICU, of having to leave him behind for testing once I am discharged. 

But fear won't get me through the next month.  It will cripple me, then trip me, then laugh when I can't get back up.  It will stifle my breathing and disturb my sleep and whisper "what if" in my ears a thousand times a day.  It will invite me to play out the worst possible scenarios in my head over and over until I'm convinced they are the unalterable future.

Faith, however, will give me breath each morning - just enough for the day.  Faith asks no more than to allow tomorrow to be tomorrow, and let today be today.  Faith reminds me that God has not abandoned me, that my friends are with me.  That my husband was by my side for all three of our losses, and he is here now.  Faith instructs me to do what I can and put everything else in the hands of my Maker.  And, with a shy smile, faith gently admonishes me that worry adds no years to my life and no strength to my journey.

I choose faith.  It's not a feeling.  It's a decision.  Even if I feel fear, I don't have to choose it.  

I won't let it speak for me.  Or to me.

Guilt-Trippin'

Here it is, boys and girls.  We're in the home stretch.  According to the cute little app on my phone, baby should be arriving in (give or take) 42 days.

And I'm feeling all the expected emotions: excitement, anxiety, impatience, fear, joy, concern, delight, marvel, worry...

...and guilt.

When my track record included nothing but miscarriages, I remember telling pretty much anyone who would listen (including God) that I would prefer the most painful, complicated pregnancy - so long as it produced a healthy, full-term baby - to remaining childless.  When my friends suffered through their pregnancies (ending up dehydrated, bed-ridden and/or fatigued to the point of hospitalization), I considered that preferable to having my children die within my womb.  That's not to say I was flippant and disregarded my friends' pain.  It was just something that, in a strange way, I envied.  It was a pain I hadn't been able to experience.  With that pain came a promise that I'd been denied this far.  It was like I was more than willing to trudge through the desert to get to the Promised Land; I just hadn't been liberated from Egypt yet.  (I wanted to make a Charlton Heston reference and a Moses one seemed appropriate.)

So why am I feeling guilty?

Because, other than the very scary subchorionic hematoma that haunted my first trimester, I've had a relatively easy pregnancy.  Instead of the acne explosion I was dreading, my face actually cleared up and became less sensitive.  Instead of day-long morning sickness, I had maybe a dozen bouts with mild nausea - I never threw up.  Instead of being battered all night long by tiny legs kicking nonstop, I've found that the baby actually has "quiet time" when I'm sleeping and is rarely active after 11:00 PM.  In fact, other than my weight gain (which has admittedly been a little excessive, although my doctor is not concerned), I've had practically zero issues.  Some back pain here, minor swelling there, and an insatiable desire for peanut butter in all forms, but really - nothing to write home about.

But...I'm done.  I'm tired of being a human incubator.  I want my figure back.  I want to wear cute clothes again.  I want to wear my impractical, beautiful four-inch snakeskin-print heels!  I want to hold my baby in my arms and not my belly.  I want to be able to sleep on my back again.  AND OH MY GOSH I WANT TO EAT SUSHI AGAIN!

So, I'm feeling guilty because I'm also feeling like I don't have the right to be totally over being pregnant.

These thoughts are probably not so different from any other lady's, six weeks from her due date, and yet they make me feel selfish.  I'm the one who swore a hellish pregnancy was still better than a lifetime of miscarriages, and I'm STILL complaining about my fairly symptom-less eight-month stretch.

I still have friends who cannot have children, or who struggle to get pregnant.  Even in these past few months, I've been contacted by friends who recently miscarried and wanted to tell me even before their own families, simply because they knew I'd been there and wanted my take on things.  It broke my heart to see them go through loss - sometimes more than once - but I was truly honored that they trusted me with their grief.

Which seems to complicate my frustration with this pregnancy.  I'm so very torn between keeping my mouth shut about the discomfort because I feel guilty sharing it, knowing there are people who would do quite a lot to be in my position - and being swept, via my experience, into the ranks of fierce, fabulous women who wear their stretch-marks like tiger stripes and who have no shame in being mothers.

Of course, worrying adds neither days to my life nor health to my baby.  I'm just going to have to go with what I know - keep things honest - and diplomatic - and public.  That seems to work for me.  

So, to summarize: it's the Final Countdown and, even if I'm not emotionally ready for baby - my body most definitely is.  Let's do this, Baby Godlove.  Not too early, but please don't be tardy, either!  Making people wait for you is soooooo rude!