True Confessions of a Mormon Mother

Dear Eden

2012-01-22T10:27:00.001-07:00

Dear Eden,

It finally snowed today. You and your brothers were delighted. The boys put on coats and gloves and hats, ran outside and started throwing snowballs at the door where you watched them. You stood with your nose pressed to the glass, silently begging to join them.

Joseph helped you put on your snowsuit and boots, and then held you by the hand down the icy steps. He and Elijah ran out into the snow, heaping it into their arms and playing, but you hesitated. You stood on the edge of the concrete, your small feet slipping around on the ice, unsure about all that white stuff. You turned around, reached out to me and I said Go ahead, Try the snow. Don't be afraid.

You turned around, stood at the edge again and held your arms out to Elijah. He gripped your hand in his and helped you onto the snow.

This is not the first time you have been carried into new experiences by your brothers and I pray it won't be the last. You were the missing puzzle piece in our family. Your brothers need you as much as you need them.

You are loved.

Mom

..but I got a flu shot.

2012-01-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

Well, that's one way to do a colon cleanse.Ugh.

The Writer's Dilemma

2011-09-27T12:48:00.001-06:00

Okay, folks, I'm going to tell you exactly why you never want to be an unpublished writer. It's long and boring, so I decided to use my amazing technological and artistic skills to spice it up a bit.

At the most basic level, written communication is a message sent from one person to another person.

Or maybe from one person to a group...

Or from a group to an individual...

But this is what productive communication does NOT look like:

Without getting into a philosophical debate about trees and forests, we'll just say that if there is no recipient, deliberate communication is, by definition, a failure. (And you may disagree on some theoretical level, but just stick with me here, okay?)

So here I am, someone who likes to write. I'm also very sociable and I love it when my writing is received well. That's validation that my communication is productive and valuable. On the blog, the social interaction is easy. I always post a link to my blog entries on Facebook and people leave comments on that link. Sometimes people even go to the extraordinary effort to leave a comment on my actual blog. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside when people do that. Either way, I can gauge immediately if my communication was successful or not.

However, I'm also trying to become a fiction writer, which is fabulous if you're published:

But it's really crappy if you're unpublished:

That's me, right there. The lonely, unpublished author, creating messages that will probably never be read. And the worst thing about this is that I can only get feedback about my writing from other unpublished authors. So we're really the blind leading the blind, trying to figure out where the dang light switch is. I can go to writing conferences, which are something like this:

I actually love writing conferences, workshops, classes, etc. They're very motivational. I'm even organizing one for next March. But do they help me become a better writer? No. I already know, theoretically, how to write a story. I need somebody to read my stories and tell me exactly what things I'm implementing properly and which things need more work. It's called feedback.

My frustration with this simple concept--feedback--is killing me right now. I have a writer's group, but we are all in different genres and we're all unpublished. Blind, meet the blind. We can certainly help each other improve, but none of us can guess with any confidence what it would take to actually get published. There are critique groups out there with published authors, but I have yet to meet a group of bestselling authors that want to invite a newbie to their exclusive club. Still holding my breath.

I'm so frustrated with the blindness of the whole process that I want to just kill my ambitions and take the easy route: stick with goals that I know I can smash every time. Like baking a good batch of brownies. I make pretty decent brownies. I could just throw 100% of my effort into the world of Mom-ness. I'm not an awesome stay-at-home Mom, but at least I get plenty of feedback.

And being a dedicated stay-at-home Mom is a very worthy purpose. I'm proud of my efforts with the little monsters. But sometimes I want to use my brain a bit. And I've been told I have some talent for writing. And I enjoy it ... for the most part. But I've hit a brick wall and I have to step back sometimes and ask, is this worth it? I want to say "yes" because that's the mature and responsible thing to do. It shows a character of resiliency and determination. But is that a good enough reason to keep bloodying myself against a brick wall as I stumble around blindly in the dark? I don't know.

Some people have said, "If you're a true writer, you HAVE TO WRITE." I say: BS. Because that's ambiguous. I am composing sentences, ideas, and stories in my mind CONSTANTLY. There is this constant play-by-play in my brain that is analyzing the world around it. I am constantly "writing" in my mind, but do I have to put it on paper? Even if nobody is going to read it? How is that different from just forming the ideas in my mind? It's not.

So will I keep composing ideas and stories? Yes. I absolutely couldn't stop if I tried. But do I have to put them on paper? If a tree falls in the forest and nobody was around, who cares if it made a sound?

This isn't meant to be an announcement that I'm forfeiting all my writing dreams--just an expression of the frustrations that every writer faces. Because I think it's important to understand that raw writing talent is never enough to be a successful published author. It takes a lot of something--I'm not sure what--that I'm still trying to find.

Aspy-ism

2011-09-07T09:17:00.000-06:00

Endearing thing #29 about my boy with Asperger's: inherent honesty.

"Aaauuggghh! But I didn't know you'd catch me doing that!"

A Gift from a 6-yr-old

2011-08-17T11:13:00.000-06:00

Tommy: "I need to throw something away."
Me: "That candy wrapper?"
Tommy: "Yeah."
Me: "Hand it to me and I'll throw it away for you."
Tommy, after handing me the garbage: "Thanks ...... I also used it as a kleenex."

Ewww... thanks, kid.

Cupcake War

2011-08-09T19:44:00.000-06:00

Battle Cupcake is heating up in my home right now. The competition is fierce: my lack of skill vs. my overabundance of ambition.

A Place of My Own

2011-07-26T11:45:00.000-06:00

I was a landlord for about eleven years--until last Saturday evening, about 9:00 P.M. mountain time. We rented out a 1200-sq-ft, two bedroom basement apartment.

That's in the past. Way, way, way in the past. Days ago.

The benefits of having my entire home to myself are still sinking in.

Like being able to look at the plants along the back of my house without making my tenants feel like they're being watched.

Or like being able to scream at my kids, "If I am on the toilet, then LEAVE ME ALONE!" without anybody downstairs hearing me.

Life is good.

Leap!

2011-06-30T23:00:00.001-06:00

I just entered a prestigious writing contest.

It took three days of emotional blood, sweat and tears to write this story. I gave it 100% and, even though I know it has some flaws, I'm proud of it. I wrote about family and friendship ... and an ominous intergalactic agency whose mission may or may not be evil.

I may have said this before, but bear with me since my memory is about as long as my fingernails (and I keep them cut short for piano, guitar and handling small children):

I've invested years of my life training my singing voice. Not because I wanted to improve upon a talent but because I had no musical talent to begin with. And I love music. And singing makes me happy. So I wanted to be able to do it better. So I invested a lot of money and time and effort into learning how to sing. I consider myself somewhat capable now, but I lack things that can't be taught.

On the other hand, I have always had a natural aptitude for writing. I wrote poetry through elementary school, took AP English classes, acted as editor-in-chief for my high school yearbook, attended young writer's conferences, devoured literature voraciously, and majored in Communications in college. (I've also been blogging since 2003, folks! I had no idea it had been that long!) It's the one natural talent I think God gave to me. And I have completely neglected it.

I put it up on a shelf, scared to death of what would happen if I ever took it down and dusted it off. Why? Because if I put my heart and soul into the one thing I do the best, and it's still not very good, where does that leave me? Feeling pathetic, that's where.

So when I wrote stories in the last few years, I said proudly, "This is just therapeutic. It's for me, because I love to write." Kind of like, "See? I don't care if you don't like it, because it's not for you anyway."

At some point in the last year, though, that wasn't good enough anymore. I am ready to put myself out there, open to criticism and rejection, because I believe in myself. And I am sick of burying a talent in the sand. Yeah, it might not be much of a talent, but it's all I got so I should make the most of it.

So today marks the first day when I open myself up to real, legitimate rejection. And I fully expect to get that rejection letter in the email box a couple months from now. It'll sting a bit, but it's better than never trying. The real triumph here is me choosing to take the leap.

Am I Magic?

2011-06-15T21:52:00.000-06:00

I put Eden in her crib with a cup of milk, closed the blinds, turned on the lamp, twisted up the music box to play its broken melody and then prostrated myself to find a pacifier under the crib. After pushing aside two (probably moldy) bottles and a torn canvas toy cover, I found the prayed-for pacifiers against the far wall. Wriggling under the crib and reaching as far as my T-Rex/5'4"-personage arms could, I barely reached them.

Success was, literally, within my grasp and I was backing out from under the crib when something happened. I had no idea what it was; the unexpected rarely announces itself in comprehensible bullet points. My nervous system informed me that there was sudden and severe pain on the side of my head. Just like that: pain. It's interesting to me that the pain registered first and then I became aware that I was being pummeled by some unseen object. Wouldn't you expect yourself to mentally register the impact and then subsequent pain?

I screeched out in high-pitched girlie mode, grasping the side of my head where I had been attacked. After bravely yelling, "Owie! Owie! Owie! Owie!" so loudly that my son upstairs came running down in a panic, I looked around for the aggressor. There it was, lying on the floor: a tattered unicorn. Yes, the same one that I blogged about last week. The unicorn of youthful sentiment. It attacked me harshly from its precarious perch up above.

"What happened?" asked my husband, running in from the other room.

With eyes pinched shut in pain and hands pressed to my bleeding ear, I said, "The unicorn fell on me. It hit me on the head." I pointed at the fallen unicorn.

Apparently the whole pity-me-because-I-just-got-attacked-by-a-unicorn bit was unimpressive to my husband because he immediately replied, "Oh, are you magical now?"

"No," I replied. "This is my blood, not the unicorn's. The unicorn is fine."

I'm not really sure of my logic with that last bit, so I'm secretly hoping that I actually am magical now. If so, I hope I have some really cool ability like being able to finally grow taller than 5'4" so I can reach behind the crib without hurting myself.

The Music Box

2011-06-07T11:31:00.001-06:00

Years ago, or so I am told, my father gave my mother a small bronze music box. A unicorn atop the box twirled to the strains of Fur Elise. As a child, I was completely entranced by the music box. I sat with knees hugged to my chest, staring at the unicorn's dance. More often, though, I would take the unicorn from its throne and stare at the mechanical inner workings. Simple technology creating art. Wind, wind, wind, play, play, play.

Though my parents divorced and the music box lost its shine, it never lost any of the enchantment. Over the years, the inner workings have broken. A broken melody, at best. A piece of the base is chipped away forever. It is half an object, but I still keep it for sentiment.

As I put my daughter to sleep just now, I wound up the tired music box and let the unicorn dance to half a melody. My daughter stared at it, lost in the beauty of such a thing, as she drifted off to sleep.

My life is abundantly blessed.

Girls vs. Boys

2011-04-26T12:38:00.002-06:00

Disclaimer: I don't really hate women. Women aren't horrible ... but we can certainly act that way at times ...

~ ~ ~

I found it funny when my shrink accused me of being a man-hater. Okay, he didn't use those exact words. He said he thought I had a "deficit view" of men in general.

I was like, wait, excuse me?

"I have always been more of a man EATER," I corrected him. "Of course, that was years ago." (Two of my boyfriends dedicated a couple choice songs to me--I'm sure I've blogged about how I've always loved Duran Duran's Femme Fatale since then.)

I am not a man hater. I have always gotten along better with men than women, ever since I was a child. Why? Because women are horrible.

Horrible. Mean. Malicious. Gossip-mongering terrible creatures*.

I mean, we're awesome, too. Don't get me wrong. But days like TODAY, I am ashamed to have that feminine side deep inside of me.

So here's what happened. My little Thomas, the one who was recently diagnosed with Asperger's (Autism Spectrum Disorder), has been asking to have a play date with a little girl at school for a few weeks. I thought they got along great and was relieved that Tommy found a friend. She even wrote down her phone number for him to call her, but we never got a chance.

Then today. He came home and said, "Me and ---- are going to have a play date today!" Then he said something about her not knowing her house number, but something-or-other. I told him I'd have to call her Mom, and then a couple minutes later I found a piece of paper on the table that said in little kindergarten handwriting, "I hat you Thomas."

I stared at it, trying to take it in. I held the paper up and said, "Thomas, what is this?"

"That's ----'s house number," he replied.

"But it doesn't have an address on it. No numbers."

"That's her address."

So apparently Tommy wanted to get together to play and asked for her address. She wrote down, "I hat you Thomas" on a paper and gave it to him. It's one thing to write down a fake phone number to get rid of a creepy guy in a nightclub, but this is different.

Who could hate my little boy? He is the brightest ray of sunshine in the whole world. What kind of person would pull a prank like that on a sweet little six-year-old, telling him that they'll get together to play and instead telling him she hates him? I am just glad he never looked carefully at the paper. I am trying to restrain my Mama Bear instinct--that little Mean Girl inside of me that wants to say vicious things in return.

Shame on you, mean little girl. Shame on all mean girls everywhere.

Man hater? No. No man would pull a trick like that on a sweet little boy like Thomas.

* Okay, women are awesome. But we are also passionate creatures, and I am passionately sad right now about the way this little girl treated my son.

Bigger Problems

2011-03-24T10:52:00.000-06:00

Why, yes, those are my children wearing flip flops on a snowy day. With socks. Flip flops and squished-up, pinch-toed socks. Cold toes are clearly not an issue here. We have bigger problems to solve. Problems like...

(1) Soaring levels of geekiness, accompanied by plummeting levels of social awareness
(2) A Mom who is wondering how much she should encourage her children to abide by societal norms, and how much she should encourage them to embrace their own personalities
(3) A Person who is wondering how everything turns into an internal philosophical debate, even her children's daily shoe selection (or her deliberate choice to refer to herself as a "Mom" in #2 and a "Person" in #3, thereby exerting her right to define herself as something more than just a caretaker of young children; or her deliberate choice to continue referring to herself in the third person)

Yep. Just another typical day at home.

Fears Resolved

2011-03-23T22:06:00.000-06:00

I learned as a teenage not to overdose on my favorite music. I'd listen to the same song overandoverandoverandover until I couldn't stand it anymore--my relentless affection was ruining all the good stuff. I've learned since then to always listen to a variety of music so that I don't get sick of it too quickly.

The same principle, I was afraid, might apply to books. When I finished reading The Book Thief, I was head-over-heels in love with it. So much so that I have never been able to open it up again. I was afraid that it would somehow be different, less than I remembered it, or that it would become soiled by being over-read. I bought several copies and eventually gave them all away as gifts because I wanted to share this beautiful thing with other people.

The author, Markus Zusak, is coming into town this week, so I ordered a new copy of the book to get signed. I cracked it open, hesitantly, just to read the first page, and let me tell you something: it was pure love again. It was even more gripping, like coming home to the most magical and transporting words I've ever read.

Twenty-three minutes later, when the train stopped, I climbed out with them.

A small soul was in my arms.

I stood a little to the right.

The tone of this novel is brilliant. Serious, poignant, and humorous all at the same time. It's narrated by Death.

Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

I've been thinking about my own writing, how incredibly shallow it is in comparison. And that's fine, for now, because I have a specific project I'm working on for a young audience. But reading these words stirs something in me--a fear, a courage, a longing to be more true to myself as an author. I love this discomfort, because I know it will push me to further introspection and, hopefully, more self-understanding.

So again, Mr. Zusak, thank you for this 550-page gift. And thank you for reminding me how beautiful words can be.

Sensing Darkness

2011-02-23T08:20:00.000-07:00

An invisible darkness suffocates
Blinds
Nauseates
Burns
Deafens

Too much to be ignored

Rookie mistake, Wormwood

I see you for what you are.

The darkness lifts as a lightness fills me up.

Staying Up

2011-02-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

I was starting to worry a bit about Baby Girl when she hit the eight-month-old mark and still wasn't crawling. I was worrying, oh yes, but not complaining. I cherished that calm before the storm. Mobility blew in just a little later and it was a full hurricane.

She mastered crawling (awwww) and then took an appraising look at the world around her, wondering what to conquer next. Within days, she realized that UP was the direction everybody else was taking, so she crawled over to the couch and clawed her way to a standing position. Yipes. And crawled to the edge of the crib to stand up. Yipes. And crawled to the edge of every precariously top-heavy item in the house and tried to stand up. Yipes.

There is nothing more wonderful in her world than standing. Yes, just standing. It is a glorious accomplishment and she does not tire of it. There is only one downside to this new "up" side of life: She has no idea how to get down. She will usually accomplish the "down" portion by simple falling to the side, legs straight, and hitting the floor. She cries, I comfort her, and she crawls back over to the couch to stand up again.

I have spent much of January feeling like I am falling down a lot in my life and trying to find the strength to stand up. I'm stuck feeling down, Eden is stuck standing up. Together, we make things work. She lifts and comforts me when I'm feeling down and I break the fall when she's been up for too long.

The lessons she teaches me are endless. Her inborn wisdom is immense. Parenting is an honor that I cherish.

Twice Exceptional

2011-01-28T11:13:00.001-07:00

I never comprehended the depth of the phrase "Parenting is Hard."

It is hard. Exceptionally hard.

Especially exceptionally hard when you have exceptional children. And boy howdy are mine exceptional. Between two of them--just two--we have ADHD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, anxiety, depression, and ... we are taking one of them in for an autism assessment today. He is not autistic in the Rainman sense, but his social awareness is perpetually low. We're talking about the "Aspergers" end of the Autism spectrum.

Don't you wish you had exceptional children, too? Maybe you do.

My children, though, are "twice exceptional," which is a buzzword, or buzz-phrase, to mean they are dealing with the issues above and are also intellectually "gifted." I think many gifted children are dealing with other issues because of the nature of higher perception. The world is more complex through the eyes of a higher-intensity, higher-sensitivity child. It is more dangerous, more frightening, and definitely more lonely.

I have steered away from discussing "giftedness" on this blog. This was deliberate because people become uncomfortable with this idea. "Are you saying you're smarter than me? Better than me? You better not be saying your kids are better than my kids..." No. I'm not comparing my children or myself to anybody else. I'm just looking at the whole picture of what makes these kids tick.

I went to a conference for parents of gifted children yesterday and this is what I learned: they are average... but with gifts. They may develop asynchronously, meaning their intellectual and analytical capacity may be that of a 12-year-old while their emotional capacity may be that of a five-year-old while they are living in a seven-year-old's body. They are complicated and intense. So, so intense. So wearyingly intense and so difficult to parent effectively.

Parenting these kids makes me feel as smart as the concrete foundation on my house. I always feel that I'm not doing enough (I'm not!) and there is always so much more to do. It's hard. It's tiring. And now we're throwing the possibility of autism into the mix. I hate labels, but I want to understand my kids better. If that means we have to slap a label of "autistic" on one of them to comprehend how his mind works, fine.

And you know what else it means? If this is what Asperger's looks like, I wouldn't trade it away. This child of mine is full of sunshine and joy and tells me, "Mom, I love you" about two dozen times a day. He is a delight and I love him exactly as he is, even when he's driving me around the bend. If this is what autism looks like, other parents would be lucky to have a child like mine.

Love Love Love

2011-01-06T12:04:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting for that moment to come--that moment when I realize I've started taking my baby daughter for granted. That moment when she has simply been assimilated into the madness that is my family. That moment when I have had it Up. To. Here. with Yet. Another. Poopie. Diaper.

Still waiting.

I still cry when I look at her. I still can't believe any person could be this sweet and this loving. I still tiptoe into her room when she's asleep to just make sure she's still breathing. She is still the most beautiful thing in the world. She still makes her brothers smile, even when I've made them frown.

She is magical.

And I love her.

~ ~ ~

Speaking of love love love, I went to the store today and bought some adorable little Valentine's Day items. A rug for our entryway, heart-shaped erasers, stickers, an owl-shaped Valentine's Day apron that Eden will adore when she's a bit older, and little $1 mailboxes that are irresistible! I'm going to decorate the mailboxes, fill them up with treats and a love letter from Mom and surprise the kids with them on February 14th. Kind of like an Easter basket or Christmas stocking ... for Valentine's Day. I can't wait!

Last year, we did homemade valentines for the kids to give their classmates and it was lots of fun! Err, well the design process was fun--cranking out 80 handcrafted valentines during the week my Obstetrician told me I better "take it easy" because my blood pressure was going up was ... not really very fun at all. But I've mostly forgotten the details of how not-fun it was. There is just a vague sense of, "Hmm ... Wasn't that stressful? I'm sure it wasn't THAT bad!"

So I'm going to do it again. Designing valentines can be so creative. Last year we did little bags of candy with a paper topper stapled to it:

This year, I found some cute little heart-shaped boxes at Target that are 8/$1. I bought one package (8) and will try to talk one of the kids into that idea after school. We can put a little customized sticker on top and treats inside. Voila! Easy and unique! Still mulling other ideas over and I'll definitely let the kids make the final choice. It should be fun! (By which I mean the design process will be fun...)

I'm feeling a bit addicted to Valentine's Day right now. I love that it is about the whole family when you have kids. It's always been overlooked in our family because it's the week before all three of my boys' birthdays. This year, though, we're doing things right so I need more ideas. What are your family traditions for the big day?

Three Things

2010-12-30T12:32:00.000-07:00

1. Grr. Insurance companies. Grr. That is all.

2. I told my kids they could have screen time ALLLLL DAAAAAY (!!!!!) for this special holiday day ... as long as they get their work done first. Clean their bedroom floors. Put away their laundry. Tidy the toy room. 20 minutes of homework.

So, basically, they probably won't have any screen time all day. But they are very upbeat about the whole thing, because I've made such a generous offer.

Yes, I am an awesome mother.

3. I traveled down the main road in town at about seven miles per hour yesterday and felt like a totally reckless driver. The roads were pure ice. Is it March yet?

I'm Dreaming of a Painfree Endodontic Surgical Pre-Christmas

2010-12-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

... or, if the title doesn't express my feelings perfectly, I'm dreaming of all the things that could potentially go wrong during my endodontic surgery today. Elijah said to me, "Mom, it sure would be sad if you died after your surgery was done."

Yes, Elijah, it would be very sad. We will try to avoid accidental death caused by unanticipated side-effects of an oral surgery gone wrong. At all costs.

I'm pretty sure people don't die at the endodontist's office nearly as often as they feel like they're dying. If you follow me on Facebook, you already know that I actually screamed in the endodontist's chair last Saturday, and here is a hint for you: if you are at an endodontist ... on a SATURDAY ... you will probably scream in pain before you leave. I'm just sayin'.

And if you are then scheduled to go back and see him two days later for a surgery, you might just dream of how you'll probably die before the day is done, too. If you have a good imagination, which, unfortunately, I do.

At this point in the confusing narrative, I'm thinking this blog has become Downersville, USA. My last blog entry was titled "BLOOD" and talked about how I see my son's silent screaming face of pain every time I close my eyes.

I know, I know. Merry *#%& Christmas from my family to yours.

It isn't all that bad. Other than the overwhelming anxiety of whether my choice to do oral sedation was brilliant or just one more complication that will probably lead to my early demise, I'm feeling pretty good! Lots of little Christmas blessings:

(1) My new dentist, whom I have never even met face-to-face, is a really decent guy and talked me through two days of trying the conservative approach before we gave up and had to do an emergency endodontist visit. He was a real life-saver.

(2) After two days of pure agony, the pain medications and steroids and antibiotics and oral rinses and ice packs and prayers and the endodontic visit-from-heck to drain my face really got me feeling like myself again. Just in time to sing with the church Christmas choir, which is important to me. Six Christmases ago, I was so set on singing with the church choir at Christmas time that I pushed my pregnant-with-twins body too far and ended up on bed rest. It would have happened sooner or later anyway, so it was worth it.

(3) I'm inclined to think this is God's way of forcing me to take care of my dental problems because this is the perfect time to do this. We haven't used any of our dental benefits much this year, so they should pay close to their full portion on this. We have a $2500 max that they will pay, and in two weeks that will reset so I can address any other dental issues. Yea, hooray? Also, I've already hit my out-of-pocket maximum on our health insurance so they are covering my multitude of prescriptions 100%. So this little emergency might end up costing me less than $1,000. Maybe. Better than the alternative. Also, because of Christmas break, there are lots of people available to help me with child care and driving the drugged lady around.

So there you have it, lots of little silver linings. I'm going to be feeling grateful for these things while trying to tame the anxiety beast and while sucking a liquid diet through a straw for the holidays.

I still have my sense of humor intact, so life must be okay.

Blood

2010-12-06T10:05:00.000-07:00

Blessed with as much "creative genius" (aka anxiety disorder) as I am, I can never guess what my nightmares will be made of.

Until today.

Now, every time I close my eyes, I see the same thing: blood.

And a hole in the side of my oldest son's face. And a look of horror on the rest of it.

Blood. Hole. Pain.

This is not how I wanted my week to start: my son running downstairs in hysterics, blood streaming down his face, covering his hands. I tell myself I'm exaggerating, that it wasn't that bad. After all, there isn't any blood on the carpet--just a few wide swashes on the staircase where he steadied himself as he ran down to me.

I am trying not to lose my cool over the fact that I had repeatedly told him to stop what he was doing, get his socks and shoes on, and come down to breakfast. I am trying to forget the way his teeth chattered and his eyes screamed out to me when he was getting pricked over and over with a needle to get numbed up. I am trying to forget the look on his younger brother's face when the emergency room nurse uncovered the wound so we could all see it.

I am trying to block all of it out, but there it is every time I close my eyes.

One game of "tag." One sharp table corner. Five stitches (or seven, depending on who you ask). One Mom who hates blood and is still feeling faint. One impulsive little boy who may have, but probably didn't, learn some constructive life lesson from all of this.

Miscellaneous 11/2010

2010-11-18T21:51:00.001-07:00

(1)
Dear Utah drivers,

I've heard a rumor that it's bad manners to speed up and close the gap when somebody turns on his or her turn signal. In fact, I witnessed this a week ago. In Colorado, they actually SLOW DOWN and MAKE ROOM for you. Crazy, huh?

XOXO, a disgruntled driver

(2)
The good news about my trip to see my physiatrist was ... wait, I had it. Let me think.

Oh yeah, the good news was that there is no permanent nerve damage yet. The bad news, though? Pretty bad for me. The carpal tunnel surgery two years ago was a failure and will have to be re-done. And the left wrist is much, much worse now so it needs to be done as well. Nobody does the endoscopic (easy to recover from...) kind of surgery anymore. It's all the horrible kind that I had done. The recovery was so bad. So bad. I am almost in tears remembering it and knowing I have to do it all again.

But hey, no permanent damage yet, so there's that chance that maybe the next surgery will take and I'll have my hands back.

(3)
Sorry, not in a super positive mood right now. Try me tomorrow.

(4)
This was not the best week for me to set goals for a healthier lifestyle. I'm stressed and I want me some chocolate.

But I want me some less body fat, too, so too bad.

(5)
First ever attempt at wontons? Pure awesome. Think this is not in line with #4 (healthier lifestyle)? Nope. The way I will lose weight is by having a larger variety in my diet and having delicious foods at meal times so I don't binge all day between meals. I refuse to feel guilty about the wontons. Or the sesame chicken. (Yum.) I ate it with brown rice instead of white rice, so ... good? (And I don't fry the chicken. I just use chicken breast strips or shredded chicken and put the sesame glaze over it...) The Asian salad was amazing. We're doing this meal again next week. Fo sho.

(6)
I think I'm getting sick. I had a headache all day and my eyes hurt. Allergies? A cold? I don't know. But I feel bone tired and only about 50% present mentally.

Not a good time to blog.

A perfect time to blog.

(7)
People say that it's all about the pictures on the blog, ya know?

I know, right?

Have you ever thought about how to punctuate that phrase:
* I know. Right?
* I know, right?
* I know! Right?
It makes no sense when it's written down. I know, right?

Oh yeah, so pictures. Here you go. To appease the yearning masses longing for, err, I don't know. I'm tired. (Can you pinpoint the moment in this blog entry where I turned off the computer for a couple hours, then picked it up to continue later... tired-er and loopy-er? Betcha can.)

Here is something even goofier than my current writing mood. Twins are the best:

No, they're not identical. But they're both adorable.

(8)
I'm pretty sure society is going to heck. I just opened up CNN and their main headline reads, "What do dogs think about?"

Down below, really small, reads a headline, "Scientists capture antimatter atoms."

Argh. We don't need to read novels about dystopian cultures. Just gotta check CNN for proof that we're living in an age of irrationalismness. Uhh... Yes, did I mention I'm ti-red? Tired.

Breaking the Cycle of Codependent Behavior

2010-11-11T22:12:00.000-07:00

All shades of drama/trauma at my house tonight when our eight-year-old had a total meltdown. He's so sensitive. So fragile. So tender. Life just breaks him down so easily and he cracks into a million pieces.

Everything turned out well for the little guy eventually with renewed self-esteem and hope for the future.

...and yet...

I noticed something slightly alarming.

In his big, big heart, he exclaimed, "I wish I could just give the whole world something!" He also bemoaned how sad it is that there is war in the world and he wish he could make it all go away. This kid really feels like he has the whole world on his shoulders. All the pain hurts him personally. And he wants to make everything all better.

...which kinda reminds me...

Being co-dependent is kinda something he's been surrounded by his whole life, and I am starting to worry that he's looking outward for validation, rather than inward. We had a huge talk about self-worth and how it never changes even if we get a little banged up and bruised. (Thanks, Studio 5, for the great segment about that!) And the next thing he talks about is ... serving other people. Which is cool. It's great. He has a huge heart. But the goal of our conversation was to get him looking inward at the amazing person he is, not looking outward to ways he can get that validation from other people.

How do you tell your little guy that if he doesn't start looking out for #1, he'll never be able to serve other people? How do you tell him that he's got to be more self-reliant without becoming more selfish? That he needs a better sense of self-preservation? That he can't depend on serving other people to create an identity for himself? All that without turning him into a narcissistic little toad?

Seems like such a "cute" little problem, doesn't it? It's not as harmless and endearing as it sounds, though, and it breaks my heart. I need this little guy to look inside and love what he sees instead of trying to see his worth reflected from other people's opinion of him.

Ack. It gets complicated. Quickly.

Service: thumbs up! Hooray!
Co-dependent loss of self while trying to control other people through seemingly-innocent acts of service: Boo! No!

It was probably in my mind. The kid just has a huge heart. But I fret and want to make sure that heart doesn't get broken. My head hurts. Time for bed. I'll make sense of this morning.*

* Forget about all this during the rush of getting kids to school and driving the carpool, only to remember it next time there is a self-esteem meltdown.

Like Today

2010-11-03T16:08:00.000-06:00

...and then there are days like today.

Clean the house? Nope.
Take time to write? Huh-uh.
Exercise? Yawn.
Sing? La-la-la. There you go. That's all I got.

Have trouble sleeping last night? Check.

Priorities

2010-11-01T14:39:00.000-06:00

Write.
Sing.
Exercise.
Clean the house.

I can choose two, or, on a good day, three before I melt into zombie mode.

Today, I finished chapter six of my chapter book ("Fight for the Galaxy!" ... named by the son for whom I am writing it) and did a bunch of research so I know where the next few chapters are heading (to the asteroid belt, naturally, which will be emotionally trying for all the characters). I exercised for 45 minutes. I did a bit of singing.

Zombie mode, here I come. It's not even 3 p.m. so I may have time for a bit of cleaning later on. (Eden is just stirring from her nap, so it won't happen right away!) If so, I am super woman. If not, I welcome exhaustion with open arms.

Halloween! Hmph!

2010-10-30T19:33:00.000-06:00

A group of kids came to my door, yelling "Trick or Treat!" Treats were duly dispensed. Then out of the back of the crowd, a kid came forward and yelled, "Gimme candy!"

I pulled the bowl back and said, rather good-naturedly, "Nope! You have to say 'trick or treat' first!"

The kid turned his nose in the air, made an angry noise and stomped away. What??

That pretty well summarizes my complaint with the rising generation. And I'm afraid my kids are probably not immune to the disease of Modern Americana Entitlement. Heaven help us all.

The Right Person.

2010-10-21T11:15:00.000-06:00

My family is a jumble of personalities, strings that get tangled up in chaos.

Somehow, Eden is the person who takes all those strings and ties them together. She is the perfect personality to make our family a cohesive whole.

I'm still in awe.

She can handle the loud, in-your-face adoration of three older brothers. She hardly blinks as they maul her with kisses and hugs and "burping," which is little more than hitting her on the back. She just smiles at them, coos and takes it.

When it's quiet and she has somebody's attention, she loves to coo loudly and be heard. But when she's in a group of people, she prefers to sit and listen. She doesn't (usually) interrupt to be heard. She already inherently gets the idea of listening, talking, listening, talking.

Yeah, she's pretty chill. But still she enjoys life. She does more than enjoys it. She savors it. When you hand her a toy, you'll see that she brings her hand together oh-so-gently. Each finger is manipulated with thought and deliberation.

Her brothers DEVOUR the goodness of the world. Eden savors it, gently and joyfully.

She is an example to me and I learn from her every day. I want to grow up to be just like she is right now.

My favorite time of the year

2010-10-06T13:59:00.000-06:00

January is delicious. After all the excitement of the holidays, it is nice to have the children back in school and recover my daily routine. My home becomes my kingdom again. The snow on the ground is still crystal white and I can dream of cross-country skiing.

The winter wonderland becomes a cold, hard winter by the time February comes around. But that's okay because February is birthday month. Three birthdays to celebrate, three cakes, three flavors of ice cream, lots of presents and many smiles. February is lovely.

The comes March. The sun peeks out of from the winter haze. The bravest flowers awaken to say hello. March is heavenly.

April, April, April. You gave me a daughter. My paradise on earth. My Eden. You gave me my marriage. You give me sunshine and perfect weather and tulips. April is my delight.

May is Memorial Day and the first barbecue of the summer and the opening of outdoor swimming pools. May is a happy month.

June brings smiles to my children as they begin their summer vacation. It is flowers and flags. June ain't half bad.

July! My birthday, 4th of July, Pioneer Day, snow cones dripping down my chin. Children with sticky popsicles and ice cream cones and lots of red, white and blue. July rocks.

August. Deep breath. School is in session, folks, and Mom can breathe again. Summer was fun--no doubt--but there is more to life than fun. Like having time to be me: writing, exercising, reading and nibbling chocolate while the baby sleeps. August is divine.

Those months are all wonderful. But they got nothin' -- nothin' at all -- on Autumn!

SEPTEMBER! I peek out my front door, wincing from the memory of heat that baked my skin a month before, but there is only the gentle kiss of cooler weather. I smile. All is well in the world. A rainy day, clouds in the sky, red leaves and pure heaven. September, I love you with all my heart.

OCTOBER! You are a celebration of perfect weather! You are a celebration of imagination as Halloween time nears! You are the beginning of the holiday season and I think I just might have a cup of hot cocoa before the month is done. Ahhhhctober.

NOVEMBER! I could itemize my Thankfulness but wouldn't that be so cliche for this month? I am grateful for November, nonetheless.

DECEMBER! Sleigh bells ring, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Snowflakes keep fallin' on my head. I'm dreaming of a White Christmas.

And it's a Wonderful Life, folks. Every month. Every year.

I woke up this morning and exercised my body and fed my spirit and felt the Autumn chill in the air and fell in love with life all over again. Then Eden woke up and smiled and cooed and I put a book in her hands and I swear she pretended to read it. She would look at the page, then coooo goooo laaa baaa, then look at me and grin, then do the whole thing again.

And I said a prayer: "Dear God, thank you for giving me one more day with this sweet child."

Every day is a gift. Go outside and enjoy your Autumn.

Photo courtesy of Heather Clark Photography.

More fabulous photos to come!

Homework

2010-09-23T20:38:00.000-06:00

It's the Eve of Destruction, by which I mean my son has a huge homework assignment due tomorrow .. and he has barely started. It's past his bedtime and he probably has a couple hours of work to do. He couldn't fall asleep until after midnight last night and had to wake up early.

One of us is tired and cranky about the situation. And it is not him.

I am wondering if he is learning anything while I bail him out and hold his hand through this assignment. Probably. He's probably learning things like ...

"If I wait long enough, Mom will do my homework for me!"
...or...
"Gosh, Mom really does get cranky in the evenings..."

My oldest is in an accelerated learning program this year and the learning curve is steep for both of us. I just hope we learn the right kinds of lessons. And soon.

In Which I Am Profoundly and Irreversibly Screwed Up

2010-09-17T11:36:00.000-06:00

It all started several years back. It had been one of those days and I vented my frustration the way I normally did: blogging it out. I took pride in the honesty and rawness of my blog. True Confessions. That summed it up.

Then it happened. One of my neighbors posted on her own blog, ranting about people who are weak and can't handle their emotions and ... I don't remember the details but it was clear she was talking about me. The things she said could not be coincidental. She seemed to avoid me at church from then on and when we talked, she didn't look me in the eyes anymore.

I wanted to scream: "Just because you're so strong doesn't mean everybody in the world can be, too! You should be grateful for the strength you have instead of ridiculing those of us who are depressed and unhappy and profoundly screwed up!"

But I didn't. Because I was completely traumatized by the fact that she was probably right. I should be stronger. I shouldn't complain. I should buck up, young camper, and stop being negative about life. But I was lost, oh so lost, at that point in my life.

One of my friends recently said, "Wow, you really put it all out there on your blog." My reply was: no, no I don't. I don't post anything that would embarrass or harm those I care for. And the things in my life that matter the most are locked away so deeply inside that nobody knows about them, not one soul.

Years passed. The anxiety increased over how I was presenting myself to the world. Is this an accurate representation of who I am? Do I present a fair view of my life? Yes. No. I don't know.

I resolved to stop whining and being negative and cut the snark in half. This is slightly unfortunate because the original readers of this blog enjoyed the snark. They liked how I made them laugh and how they could say, "Yeah, that's exactly what I think ... but I'd never actually say it." I was their Mormon Housewife Sitdown Comedian of sorts.

But that had to stop. The snark was unhealthy. It was negative. And really, I'm actually a relatively happy and optimistic person deep down. I hate negativity. The snark was my way of flushing the negativity out of my system so I could return to the happy-go-lucky Juliana. (As my friend Josh once said, "You're like the drunk chick that everyone wants to hang out with ... except you never drink." That's me, all right. Idiotically cheerful and clueless. At least that's the social part of me. When I'm left alone with my thoughts, I am another beast altogether, which is why I enjoy socializing so much.)

I still stand by my reduction of sarcasm here on the blog because I'm a very kind person and mocking human frailty just doesn't sit right with me. But there were other things that went by the roadside, foremost the honesty, little by little. I was freaked out about all the various people reading this blog: family, friends, neighbors, people from high school that I haven't seen in almost 15 years, ecclesiastical leaders, professional connections, that random guy from Mormon Bachelor Pad--how in the world did he end up here?

Holy moley! How could I write anything that would please all those varied connections? Somebody was bound to be bored or confused or embarrassed on my behalf. So I wrote less and less often. I hardly wrote at all during my pregnancy because I just didn't have a lot of upbeat, cheerful things to say and I didn't want to be accused of ingratitude.

I miss my blog. I'm trying to write a novel right now and it's just not satisfying to me like blogging is. This, to me, is so much more creative for some reason. No rules. No "you can't do that in that genre." No worries of whether or not an editor will agree with my stylistic decisions. Just my voice and my life, through the lenses of my creativity.

The solution is obvious: stop worrying about what everybody else thinks, Juliana! Just be yourself! You're great just the way you are! Be true to who you are, deep down inside, or you'll never be happy!

The problem is, I don't actually like being laughed at. Ridiculed. Looked down on. And sometimes, as important as it is to "be yourself," life is more complicated than that. Other people's opinions matter, and if you make a bad impression, you miss out on cool things. You don't get invited. You are overlooked. People laugh you off as too socially awkward. And that hurts.

Still, I'm pretty much guaranteed to be a social outcast anyway, so I may as well enjoy myself here. This blog entry is proof of my commitment to be more honest, heaven forbid. I'm not really sure I have the nerve for it. But we'll see what happens. If it doesn't work out, I'll polish up my social networking skills, create a new identity for myself and start a new blog elsewhere while this one gathers dust. Because being honest is not just telling the bad stuff--there are a lot of amazing things about me that I never blog about because I don't want to appear full of myself. This blog is, and will increasingly be, a work in progress. Much like yours truly.

Inner Debate

2010-09-10T09:53:00.002-06:00

You call yourself an author?

Yes, yes I do.

What kind of writer are you? The kind that doesn't write?

I furrowed my brow.

She continued mercilessly. Yeah, that's it. An writer that doesn't write.

I write, I muttered angrily.

299 words per week? And every week is the first chapter of some new project? That's not writing. That's just playing around.

She was baiting me and I resisted the temptation to give her a snarky response. Snark is my specialty. She wasn't going to let me off the hook, though, so she pushed me. She reached her arms out and pushed me.

I stumbled.

This is the funny part: the stumble. Because the entire conversation was an inner dialogue with me and my Writing Conscience. It began about 30 minutes ago when I could have sworn I saw Brandon Mull (the NYT bestselling author of the Fablehaven series) dropping off kids at my elementary school. Impossible. Is my brain playing tricks on me? Or is my inner writer demanding attention?

Fine. She had my attention. She started arguing with me. I wanted to go shopping. She wanted to get home immediately to get in some time writing. She won that debate but she knew I'd get distracted with housework or crafting or blogging ... ahem.

So she pushed me. Taunting me with maliciously accurate insults first. Then she reached out her arms and pushed me. Granted, my writing conscience is made of Imaginary Friend (err, enemy?) Vapor and an inner shove should be painless. So why did I stumble?

This is getting ridiculous. Tripped up by my own imagination.

There's a lesson there and I'd love to stick around and learn it, but I gotta go. I have some novels to pen.

Water's Embrace

2010-08-29T21:27:00.000-06:00

Preparing food. Cleaning the house. Preventing fist fights. So many responsibilities as a stay-at-home mother. Most of my time feels like a whirlwind of children demanding and needing and requiring and asking and pressuring and begging and whining. I carry them and their needs in my arms. They are young. They are fragile. They need me in so many ways.

... but sometimes I want to be carried, too. I want to relax and let the burdens slip away. Last night, after a very long day of children whining and demanding and needing, I slipped away for a couple hours to have a date with my oldest son. We went to a swim party where he went down the water slide 15 times and I floated around the lazy river.

Carry me, lift me, support me, water.

I needed that.

New School Year's Resolutions

2010-08-20T11:28:00.000-06:00

So here's where we are right now.

I'm a writer who doesn't write.

I'm a singer who doesn't sing.

I'm a lover of the outdoors who spends all her time inside.

I'm an organization freak whose house is pure clutter.

In other words, I'm a lady with an anxiety disorder that is spinning out of control. My life is chaos. I've tried my hardest to make all these problems go away by consuming chocolate, but for some reason that isn't helping. I'm baffled. I'm going to have to try something else.

Deep breath.

I realize that I'm scared of commitment. Yesterday was a big day for three of my friends. They committed to things and it was strangely coincidental that all three of them reached huge milestones on the same day. It has forced me into some painful introspection about my own lack of ambition.

Both of my writers' group colleagues finished their novels yesterday. It's either an amazing coincidence or proof of what a good, supportive writers' group can do. Then I woke up this morning to realize that another friend of mine reached her 365th day of blogging every day. She committed to write on her blog every single day for a year and she did it.

And I immediately felt inadequate: "What have you done in the last year, Juliana?" Luckily, the self-pity lasted about a nanosecond as I remembered what I've done:

I can't complain about my accomplishments, and yet ... yet, I know I'm not doing my best. I waste time, I lose my temper with my kids and I'm eating myself to death, literally. This isn't the person I want to be and next week is time for me to shape up.

Let's be honest, folks: January 1st isn't the time for New Year's Resolutions. The time when mothers everywhere can get their lives under control is the first day their kids go back to school. We love 'em. We adore 'em. But they take a lot of time and energy and that makes other things difficult. Things like writing. And exercising. And cleaning. And cooking. And not pulling our hair out.

So I'm making some New School Year's Resolutions and I think Moms everywhere should join in!

The pregnancy is over (holy crap, I'm glad--that was hard). I'm almost four months postpartum so the recovery from the c-section is over. The summer is almost over so I am resolved to spend every morning doing the things that are most important before doing the fun stuff. (Fun stuff like blogging.. ahem.. As I said, starting next week...)

I have a list of chores to do before the kids get off to school (empty the dishwasher, start a load of laundry, clean a bathroom, make the bed) and I am adding in some new items: I will write every day. Preferably working on both my creative writing and my blogging every day, but we'll see what happens. I will keep singing even though I'm not taking voice lessons right now. I will exercise, ermm, many days. Most days? I'd love to say every day, but see above comments about fear of commitment. It's hard to commit to things you've failed at in the past. But I'll try to figure this thing out.

I think that if I can keep up those commitments, I'll be able to deal with the other things that are really bothering me, like how hard it is for me to keep my cool with my kids. The anxiety will go down and life will be happy again.

What are your New School Year's resolutions?

Cloudy, with a chance of rain ...

2010-08-19T16:58:00.000-06:00

I love rain. And I live in a desert. So when I see storm clouds brewing, I hope for rain but don't expect it to materialize. It usually just blows over. It's happened so many times that I have started to just assume that is what would happen.

Ha.

The weather, we reasoned, would be perfect for a trip to Thanksgiving Point Gardens. Last time, the thermometer hit 100 degrees and I was parched. So today, weather in the 80's and a chance of rain sounded great ... assuming those rain clouds never materialized.

I packed up the kids, grabbed a couple nephews and my Mom (who is going back to work tomorrow, so it was a sort of last-minute, last-chance fling) and headed to the gardens. This'll be great, we thought, as long as it doesn't rain.

We got out of the car, paid our admission and stepped into the splendor of ... dropping temperatures and ominous clouds. I really wanted to show off how beautiful this spot of earth is. It's a true untapped treasure in my valley and I just love this place.

Here is what we learned: outdoor gardens are best-suited for dry weather. We were about 10-15 minutes from shelter when I was faced with a choice: head farther into the gardens and hope for good luck or turn back and head for safety. I was so sad at the thought of spending money and seeing nearly none of the gardens and coming all that way for nothing, but the responsible mother in me sighed and said, "Let's turn back."

Just in time, too. The first fat raindrops were already falling and by the time we hit shelter by some restrooms, I was pretty drenched. We crowded onto a big bench and held two umbrellas open in front of us. Thank heaven for those umbrellas!

The fat raindrops turned into a steady stream of water. Then the hail started dropping at our feet and wind blew water in sheets before our eyes. In a matter of minutes, the cobblestone pathway in front of us was flooded with an inch of rain water and my son was making comments about God promising not to flood the earth and kill everyone again, right, Mom?

Taken from my cell phone

We should have been miserable, but I couldn't help laughing. This is what we looked like: eight drenched puppies sheltered behind two huge, rainbow-colored umbrellas in the middle of a flood. We made quite a picture, I know, because a few minutes later a truck appeared out of nowhere and rescued us.

I hopped right into a truck with a strange man and felt no qualms about it. He drove me to my van and led me back to my little group of stranded children. It was a grand time. When I returned the umbrellas, I heard the staff asking each other if those crazy people by the bathrooms had been rescued yet. Yes, yes they had.

We drove over to the deli and had lunch with a bunch of other soggy folks. We had ice cream. Then we went back to my car to find blue skies and warm weather. We decided to try the children's area at the gardens and headed back that direction. When we got there, the kids stomped in the water and got more drenched than they had been in the storm. And that seemed just about perfect to me. A wonderful farewell to summer.

Timing

2010-08-09T17:18:00.000-06:00

Timing is everything.

We saw a car show and made an impulsive decision to stop and walk around. I got my thrills staring into the pristine interior of a Jaguar E-type, a car which makes my brain go gooey and my knees go weak. If I could have a crush on a car, it would be the Jaguar E-type. We saw a Model T. We saw a Lotus, which I'm not sure is cool but is lodged in my brain as "interesting."

We had a grand time.

And then, only then, did I notice my five-year-old walking around in only one shoe.

Classy, Juliana. Really classy.

All in all, it's probably good that I didn't notice Shoeless 'Lije until halfway through the car show because the kids had fun and I got a thrill of pleasure seeing the Jag. The cars were classy, even if I was not.

Threee Months ... and Still Crafting

2010-08-06T10:41:00.000-06:00

I'm becoming a girlie girl. Apparently it was in me all along, just waiting to appear at the right moment. Of course, my version of girlie is still based on blue jeans and white t-shirts, but we're adding a bit more style to them now.

I blame it all on having doubled the amount of estrogen in the house. Eden is just so gosh-darn cute in her girlie stuff. She needs it because, really, all babies just look like babies. Not boys. Not girls. Just babies. Until you put them in boyish or girlish clothing and make them look the part. And I've waited so long to have another girl in the house, she will look like a girl, thank you very much.

Here she is at three months wearing last night's project, an organza flower headband. Who knew it could be so much fun to burn fabric?

Wouldn't I?

2010-07-20T06:42:00.000-06:00

Dear children,

There are certain things you should never say to your mother.

Yesterday, we learned that one of these things is: "YOU WOULDN'T DARE!!!" when your Mother threatened consequences for your slovenly habits.

You learned that Mom does dare. She dares to take away your favorite clothing, pack away all your toys that were strewn about the floor, unplug the Wii, change your passwords on the computer accounts, and give you each one bowl of dry cereal and a cup of water for dinner.

Oh, yes, children: Mother dares.

What lesson would you like to learn today?

Love, Mom

hand and soul

2010-07-08T21:33:00.000-06:00

eden :: delight

my hands
brown, dried out, cracking and weather-worn

your hands
white, smooth, pure
open palms learning to reach and grasp with meaning & intention

my soul
broken and repaired, scratched and healed, happy yet weary

your soul
innocent, pure, unscathed
open heart learning to reach with love & hope

together
two hands united in loving touch, gripping one another, simultaneously soothing
two souls lifting each other to a higher, better place

Fallin' to Pieces

2010-06-27T22:38:00.000-06:00

My friend Karen--who is much more than a friend: a role model, a support, a rock--records a new song every week and shares it on her blog every Monday.

This week, when I'm feeling stretched in too many directions and worn thin, her song choice was very appreciated. Music can be so therapeutic.

Breakeven

Thanks, Kaz.

Days like today

2010-06-18T13:25:00.000-06:00

I could give you two dozen reasons why I ought to be annoyed, unhappy, frustrated, depressed and generally giving up.

Some days are like that.

But there is one reason why I can't give in to the bitter feelings that are knocking on the door: I want to be happy and if I don't choose it, it won't happen.

So today we choose to switch into survival mode and breathe deeply and laugh, laugh, laugh at how life can be.

Location, location, location

2010-06-17T10:27:00.000-06:00

The week Eden was born, my husband received an email from a fabulous company, inviting him to interview with them. Unfortunately, although the company is considered one of the best in the world to work for, they don't have any offices nearby. It really got me thinking about life, especially about convenience vs. deliberate action.

My life right now is very convenient. It's comfortable. Is that a good thing? Or am I missing out on personal growth by sticking with the status quo? I feel like the time for adventure and relocating is probably pre-children. Especially pre-grade school.

My oldest son overheard us talking about what life would be like in southern California or Silicon Valley or Seattle or Colorado and was not happy. He has made it very, very clear that he doesn't want to move anywhere. He is comfortable. Life is good for him. He has friends and just got accepted into a great new school program for 3rd grade. Would it be selfish to take him away from that? Would it make his anxieties and worries (which are already an enormous burden for someone so young) unbearable?

...or....

Would it be like "coming home" when we never knew what we were missing? Would it be like finding that comfortable little niche of the world that makes our hearts feel happy? As much as I love the convenience and comfort of my life in Utah, I don't really love my area itself. Our "main street" is a stretch of one-story, grey cinder-block buildings with enormously ugly marquees in front with large power lines overhead and no greenery in sight. Ugh. It would be nice to live in a city that was planned out and had great character.

It's too much for me to think about. I have a newborn baby that won't let me sleep until midnight and three crazy, wild boys who are awake at 6:15 a.m. every morning. Life is so tiring right now and I am NOT thriving.

...but would I thrive somewhere else? Or just drown completely?

Life is confusing.

Cherished Moments of Youth. (Ha. Ha.)

2010-06-04T11:28:00.000-06:00

Ahh those moments of youth, so cherished, so remembered. Those mistakes that we look back on fondly and chuckle over--moments of mortification turned humorous anecdote.

Like the time I put on lightweight khaki pants that were a wee bit snug and, when I heard an ominous stretching sound and looked in the mirror to see if they'd torn, saw only a slightly worn seam but no tear. So I kept wearing them for hours. Went to the store. Saw family. Then at night took them off, turned them over to inspect and discovered a ripped seam that was many (many) inches long. I had been wearing pants torn open and exposing my undies to the world for hours.

So humorous.

Or at least it will be someday. Not today. Because that happened yesterday.

But yes, someday I'll have a good, long chuckle about my struggles to fit back into normal clothes after my most difficult pregnancy. Some days I feel so young, so childish, so unpolished. Still so much to learn.

Ha ha?

Words words words

2010-05-29T22:11:00.000-06:00

Words are wonderful things. Tonight I am not "sad" but woebegone, lugubrious and melancholy.

By definition, these words are synonyms, yet each word tastes slightly different on the tongue. Of all the flavors of sadness, tonight belongs to melancholy. I am not depressed. Nor am I despondent. I am melancholy. You can throw in a touch of somber and a hint of glum. Stir them together and you can taste the exact flavor of my mood.

I spent far too many hours reading the cheapest kinds of words while I was on bed rest recently. Cheap words are flat, lifeless ... like stale white bread, they have no flavor or substance. I like words that cost me a moment's hesitation--processing, feeling, understanding the subtle implications of why that particular word may have been chosen.

I love old, boring, slow-moving novels because they spend more time feeding my soul than stuffing the greedy tastebuds of a bored mind. I couldn't help myself when I was on bed rest--my brain took a 10-week vacation and refused to process anything but the simplest of words, so I read the simplest of books.

Yesterday morning, I sat staring through the light and dark contrast of my window blinds, wondering if I would ever rediscover my love of literature after feeding myself on the sugar and spice of young adventure novels. I thought sadly that perhaps there are times in life when we discover we have simply changed and lost a taste for what we previously valued. I thought perhaps I'd never truly enjoy E. M. Forster or Charles Dickens ever again.

Then, as I sat brainlessly scanning the saved programs on my DVR a few hours later, I settled on a recording of Hamlet that my husband had recorded. It was brilliant. Beautiful. Emotional. The flow of Shakespeare's words filled me up and awakened something that had been lying dormant.

I feel as if I'm coming home to myself after months of mental drudgery and cognitive coma. And even if I'm feeling mournful and melancholy right now, it feels good to be able to express it with just the right words.

The Momifier

2010-05-16T15:53:00.001-06:00

Fell asleep after a couple hours of baby tears. Realized this little easy-to-soothe baby is actually an easy-for-MOM-to-soothe baby. She refuses to be soothed or fed by her father, which we figured out after I tried to go to bed early to catch up on some lost sleep. Around midnight, I realized in tears that this little girl will accept no substitute for the Momifier. (See, it's like Mom + Pacifier....)

I'm half flattered to finally have a child who is a real Mama's Girl and half terrified that I will never leave the house alone ever again.

Woke up this morning to the sound of Elijah throwing up in the bathroom. Second time this week. No symptoms of illness other than a first-thing-in-the-morning vomit. Huh.

So has it been a bad day? Baby getting more difficult to soothe and a barfing five-year-old?

Nope.

Someone near and dear to me underwent surgery today in a crucial step in the process of in-vitro fertilization. As I read about all the shots and medicine and doctor's visits and expenses, I cried for her. Parenting is so hard--even before you are a parent, for some people. Pregnancy is so hard--even before you are pregnant, for some people.

I want to get in the car and drive away from here to be with this person, just so I can buy her flowers and show up on her doorstep with a great big, tangible symbol of my love. But I can't, so I sit here and send text messages and positive vibes. And I hug my slightly-more-temperamental-than-before baby and feel grateful for all the goodness of life, especially the hope that the IVF will work and there will be another new baby to love sometime next year.

Baby Love

2010-05-10T10:00:00.000-06:00

~ My new baby, Eden, arrived a couple weeks ago on a date that was void of mathematical poetry or numerical beauty. The day was, however, one of the most beautiful days of my life. ~

Watching my husband's car pull out of the driveway into the rain. My emotions flood me.

I'm not ready for this. Just me and four children. Four children. Four.

And now my husband is pulling away from the house, leaving just me and my surgery incision to care for the kids. I'm not sure which is flowing faster--the raindrops outside or my tears inside. The decision to become a parent is always a scary one, one which overwhelms me and turns my world upside down.

So I guess you could say the whole nurturing and mothering thing has never come to me automatically. It's an acquired skill. I adore my family with all my heart and I am--finally--really, truly happy to be a stay-at-home Mom with ambitions that swirl all around raising a happy family. Amazing that I've finally gotten there, left previous ambitions along the roadside and winked at the possibilities of other ambitions that are waiting down the road. Right here on the journey, I am happy.

I'll tell you a secret: happiness is not always independent of being really, really scared and overwhelmed. Happiness does not preclude being totally freaked out.

I have learned for myself that we are sometimes closest to God when we are in way over our heads. And we cannot grow spiritually bigger unless we are stretched. And I am happier when I am growing and becoming a better person. That doesn't mean the process is comfortable, though. It hurts.

So right now I'm home alone with my kids for the first time since baby arrived a couple weeks ago. It's finally hitting me that a year ago I was really THRIVING in my life. And now I'm back to SURVIVING. It's really painful to realize the full impact of what that means--the sacrifices, the family upheaval, the emotional ups and downs. It's pretty heavy.

It's pretty exciting, too. And miraculous. And it's taking all my willpower to not run into the bedroom to go stare at my new little baby, Eden. She's a delight. A heaven on earth. I cry every day as I stare down into her innocent face.

In the middle of the night, I awoke to her hungry cry and thought, "I cannot sit up. I cannot feed her. Too tired. Too hard. I can't do it." Of course, I did it. And then my husband swaddled her up to go back to her bed and I should have been grateful to get back to sleep, but I asked him to hand her to me. Just to say goodnight one more time. And I couldn't let go. We just stared at each other. I smiled at her inquisitive eyes and tiny, pursed lips. She stared at me and I told myself she's liking what she sees. I hope that's true.

So that's the story of my new life. My old life is buried behind months of bed rest and sleep deprivation and pregnancy blah. I haven't been Juliana for a long time, now. It hurts to miss the old me that had freedom to go shopping without kids or visit friends or do paper-crafting or, of course, blog more regularly. Now those things are the precious little bits that I have to fit into a world of baby chaos.

And somehow, as I type this, it's okay. It's okay to be overwhelmed by my crazy life and it's okay to feel inadequate--that's all part of the process.

Four kids. Wow. I'm taking a deep breath. Here we go.

The Wrong Reason

2010-04-23T11:26:00.000-06:00

There are good, healthy, normal reasons to want to deliver your baby. Things like going into labor. That would be a perfectly rational reason to say, "Gosh I hope the baby comes soon."

Then there is me. My other children have birthdays that are, for lack of a better phrase, mathematically beautiful. The numbers all line up with numerical harmony oozing out of them. They almost bring a tear to my eye.

I was hoping this baby would come on 04/14/10 because it has a beautiful rhythm to it when you say the numbers in procession. No luck (and all for the best.) With time running out, I am trying to find more dates filled with mathematical poetry. 04/26 would be acceptable. I'm sure you know where I'm going with this because you're all as OCD about numbers as I am, right? Of course right. 0+4+2=6. Voila! Not too bad. We can make an equation out of it. Just disregard the year.

On the same note, 04/31 would also be acceptable since 4=3+1. 04/28 is acceptable since 4x2=8. I wonder if 427 or 429 are prime? It wouldn't be much, but it would be okay.

05/05 would make me cry geeky tears of joy since we could add the year into the equation: 5+5=10. How marvelous!

But there is one number that is inescapably beautiful: 04/24/10. It just sounds nice with the repeating four. Zero-four-two-four. Nice! But this birth date can also be an equation (including the year!) because 0+4+2+4=10! Doesn't it make you want to just stare at those numbers all day? (If you're not sensing a large dose of self-mockery, please ... please ... please readjust your expectations of this blog.)

However, that's only a day away and the chances are that my numerically poetic day won't be The Day. But I can still wish and hope. It's completely the wrong reason to wish myself into labor, but I challenge any of you to sit around on bed rest for nearly 10 weeks without your brain doing funny things to you. Perhaps this proof of mental boredom alone is a good reason to wish this baby here sooner rather than later.

Remembering

2010-04-17T09:33:00.000-06:00

I think I forgot a lot of things this week. I am grateful to be pregnant, but I think I forgot exactly how miraculous it is for me. It happened naturally and exactly when I wanted it to happen. That's never happened before. I was incredulous and excited and nervous and shocked when I saw that positive result. I was sure that it wasn't real. I was certain I was going to miscarry. It was too good to be true.

But it was true. It's still sinking in because it is so surreal.

And then there's the whole issue of gender. I mean, I really wanted a girl. I said it didn't matter... but it did. I have always known #4 was the end of the pregnancy road for me and I really, really hoped I'd finally have a girl. It was my last chance. The first time the ultrasound tech said it was a girl, I was ecstatic ... but wary. When I had an ultrasound a few weeks later, I asked, "Is it still a girl?" I still couldn't believe it.

This whole process has been a gift from heaven. Like manna... a miracle.

And then I got miserable. And ungrateful. And took it all for granted. And just wanted to be done with pregnancy so I could see this child and hold her in my arms instead of my abdomen. I spent an emotional week cursing everybody in sight for how miserable I felt.

Then four things happened that eventually, slowly, progressively broke down my ingratitude and helped me find my happy place again.

(1) My husband reminded me that things happen for a reason. He reminded me that maybe the obstetrician wasn't trying to ruin my life but may actually be inspired to let my pregnancy last a little longer. (I cringe to actually talk about religion on my blog because I don't want to open this space up to anti-religious sentiment in the comment section, but that's a fear I need to get over. My religion is an integral part of who I am and I hope people can respect that.)

When he said that, I was still feeling hurt and angry about how my OB had treated me earlier in the day but it resonated true and I admitted that to myself ... if not to my husband.

(2) My nurse, who is coincidentally a neighbor and co-religionist and somebody I now consider a friend, sympathized with how miserable I was and told me she'd experienced some similar feelings. Then she said quietly, "I just needed to remember who was in control and let Him handle it." I cried because I clearly wasn't feeling all faithful and close to God and willing to let Him be in control.

I WANTED CONTROL. And I was in tears because my OB had just taken it away from me.

Again, her words resonated true, not only on a religious level but on a "Hey, Juliana--remember how you have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and worry too much about everything? Why not be all c'est la vie and Qué será, será and Let it Be?" I needed to just let go and find trust.

(3) I started to think about what my obstetrician had said to me (cruelly and insensitively as it seemed to be phrased.) "You're just driving yourself crazy and you need to be ecstatic about going to 39 weeks." I was so mad. I am not choosing anxiety attacks and unhappiness.

Right?

Well, yes and no. I can't control my anxiety level right now very well. It's a physical thing for me that is a part of my genetic makeup. I can keep it well reigned-in when I'm not pregnant with exercise or, if it gets bad, medication. Both are out of the picture right now so my coping strategies are very limited.

But on the other hand, yes. I'm a grown adult and I can take deep breaths and at least cope better than I have been coping. I can't make it go away, but I can at least limit how much it influences me.

That's one thing I do have control over.

(4) Most importantly, fate gave me the spiritual guidance I needed in the form of this week's Gospel Doctrine lesson. Since I haven't been to church in two months, I've been trying to stay current on our Old Testament study from home. This was the perfect lesson for me this week.

After being freed from slavery (not a minor blessing--a major one), the Israelites were starving. So they were sent manna--a gift straight from heaven. Again, not a minor blessing. A major one. (You know, not starving.) After eating this nonstop, however, the people grew tired of it. They wanted something more. They started lusting after a change of meal plans. I can't blame them. Honestly. I think I'd probably go a little crazy, too. I probably relate well since I haven't cooked my own meal in two months and I am lusting for my own style of food a little bit, too.

The Lord was displeased. It reminds me of a scripture in the LDS Doctrine & Covenants: "And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things, and obey not his commandments." The Israelites had lost sight of the fact that they were eating MANNA FROM HEAVEN after being FREED FROM SLAVERY.

Kind of like how I am EXPECTING A BABY GIRL after being FREED FROM INFERTILITY.

You know, not a minor blessing. A major one.

And as much as I hate to imagine the wrath of God kindled against me... I had to admit, He was probably displeased with me under the circumstances. For a good reason. My attitude started to change. I stopped worrying about when things would happen. I stopped feeling sorry for myself. My Braxton-Hicks contractions started getting stronger and I realized I might get to experience some parts of the Female Experience that I'd never experienced before. Like real contractions. Or my water breaking. Or actually going into labor. Or feeling my baby settle down lower into my abdomen. Or a dozen other little things that are not usually considered "blessings" unless you're a woman who has always wondered what those last few weeks of pregnancy are like and never known. Or a woman who has actually been a little sad not to know what a real contraction feels like. (Just one or two would be fine... and THEN we can do the c-section, a'ight?)

The coming weeks are no longer this crazy, unhappy thing to be endured. They are a time of wonder and excitement, not knowing what will happen next because anything is possible. I might get pre-eclampsia and deliver tomorrow. Or I might go all the way to end without experiencing any labor pains. Or my water might break or I might actually go into labor on my own. Wouldn't THAT be strange?

And now that I've had time to process everything and digest and get a little more perspective, I'm thrilled to go to 39 weeks because it'll be a time of endless possibilities. And I'm grateful (again) for my gift from heaven.

ecstatic.

2010-04-12T13:10:00.001-06:00

It should be illegal for an OB to tell a patient, "I won't make you go past 38 weeks" and then tell her two weeks later, "Oh, we can do an amnio before that if you want to deliver sooner" and then tell her "It'll be a real victory to get one more week out of you" and then after the week from Hades tell her, "No, no... you are going to 39 weeks unless you become toxemic." [Toxemic read as "deathly ill."]

I was up in the middle of the night with such a severe anxiety attack from my elevated blood pressure that I told my husband in tears, "I just can't do this anymore. I can't make it another week. I don't know how I can make it to tomorrow..." When I lay in bed, the room is silent except for the sound of my blood rushing in my ears. I can feel my entire body move with every thump-thump-thump. I know it is melodramatic (sorry, see previous wording about anxiety attack) but I just feel like I'm going to have a heart attack and die any moment.

I feel sick. I'm scared. The baby has the cord around the neck--but only once, so I am not supposed to worry about it. My amniotic fluid level has gone from 19 to 15 to 8 in the last few weeks. But I'm not supposed to worry about it. My blood pressure is really unstable, but instead of giving me a prescription for a BP medication, I've been told that I now have to spend most of my time in bed. Doing what? Other than having constant anxiety attacks? For weeks?

Last week, he told me I'd have an ultrasound [edit: oops, I mean amniocentesis] this week and now he says the specialist I see tomorrow "might be talked into it."

People keep telling me there's a light at the end of the tunnel, but this tunnel is evil and magical and keeps growing longer the farther I walk into it. Don't tell me "it'll be worth it" or "hang in there, it's almost over." I know that. I've done this before and it was worth it. That's why I am doing it again even though I'm pretty sure I'm going insane.

After my appointment, I decided to give in to those feelings of depression that started building, because, as I told my husband, "Depression is far preferable to anxiety at this point." Unfortunately, I've become too **** emotionally resilient in the last few years and the depression started to lift almost immediately.

I wonder if anybody has invented depressant medication. Not anti-depressant .... I need stuff that'll make me depressed because when I'm depressed, I don't care about anything. When I'm anxious, I care about everything. EVERYTHING. Last night in the middle of the night, I told my husband I was tempted to have him go find a large rock and just knock me unconscious because it was unbearable. Today the doctor told me I'm "driving myself crazy" and I need to stop it. Yeah.... I'm TRYING to have constant anxiety attacks because they're so ****** fun. He told me I need to be "ecstatic about going to 39 weeks."

What do you think? Is this blog entry ecstatic enough?

Happy Easter

2010-04-04T11:18:00.000-06:00

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Nice People Rule/Dear Iceberg

2010-03-26T11:09:00.000-06:00

Dear Iceberg Drive Inn,

It is refreshing to meet somebody who does customer service right. I am stuck at home 95% of the time on pregnancy bed rest, bored and frustrated. Last night, the frustration became unbearable and I decided I'd succumb to a little sugar therapy. I sent my husband out to buy me a large Iceberg shake (cookies & cream, of course) while he was running errands.

You can imagine how I waited anxiously to hear him return with the silky, sugary goodness. You can also imagine how sad I was when he came home and said, "Apparently the car before me in line was the last one before they closed for the night." He got there right at 10:00 p.m. and was one car-length too late. He offered to go find me something else, but it was 10:30 p.m. and time to give up... reluctantly.

I awoke this morning feeling chipper and optimistic... but still craving that shake. The only problem? I'm stuck at home on bed rest. Alone. I had a medical appointment at 9:00 a.m. and when I left at 10:00 a.m., I thought I'd check out the hours on your drive-thru--just in case you opened early. My hopes were not high and I felt frustrated when I couldn't find any hours posted on your front door.

Feeling embarrassed, I swung into the drive-thru anyway to see if anybody was there. Nope. Not a sound. But as I swung around the corner, I spotted a cheerful employee leaning out of the drive-thru window to talk to me. He told me they opened in 10 minutes and I was welcome to wait a little while.

"I'm not sure if I should wait," I explained. "I'm on bed rest and really need to get home as soon as I can. I'm just on my way home from an appointment..." Then I told him about my husband coming by at 10 o'clock the night before and he cheerfully and sympathetically offered to get me my food early, even though things weren't all set up yet. I placed my order and he filled it quickly.

As I drove home with the sweet taste of ice cream in my mouth, the universe turned itself right-side-up and I relaxed. Sugar therapy is dangerous, but sometimes it's worth the extra calories.

And it tastes even better when it's served up with a kind smile and thoughtful gesture from an accommodating employee.

Thank you.

Juliana

Preparing

2010-03-17T12:18:00.000-06:00

I remember my first pregnancy. The insomnia really took me by surprise. After baby was born, somebody said, "I think the insomnia in pregnancy is God's way of preparing us for the shock of not sleeping after baby comes."

It made sense on some level and I realized that pregnancy on a whole is nature's--if not God's--or is there any difference?--way of preparing us for parenthood. The sleepless nights, the bad health, the emotional ups and downs--they're just one big reminder that your life is no longer your own. You've made the decision to lay down your life for your child and hope to some day come out of the chrysalis of parenthood as a stronger, more beautiful person. Some day.

Strangely, I didn't have insomnia while pregnant with the twins. You'd think I'd need all the preparation I could get for the transition of going from one child to three children. In retrospect, my biggest problems the year the twins were born had nothing to do with the twins. They had easy temperaments and were very forgiving, even if the logistics of feeding and diapering two newborns was overwhelming.

So what is up with the insomnia this time around? It makes my first-pregnancy insomnia seem insignificant. It was an annoyance, but this is just unbearable. I worry that this is a sign. A sign that this baby will not be mellow like the twins were. That my life is about to get its' biggest shakeup yet. That the challenges of raising three children are insignificant compared to life with four.

I can't help it. I am telling myself that God is not trying to send me a warning. Right? I mean, that would just be cruel, right? Unless... unless... unless I really need to be prepared for the maelstrom that is about to touch ground in Juliana-land. Like... a baby with Down Syndrome? A baby with severe physical limitations like, I don't know, no mouth? A baby whose personality brings new meaning to the term "a child only a mother could love"?

I think about how I already love this little child and cannot wait to gently touch my finger to her soft, newborn cheek and hold her tiny, fragile body next to my shoulder. I think about all the promises of the future--seeing her mature and become a beautiful girl, a young woman, a bride, a mother of my grandchildren. And I think I would do anything for her, whatever her limitations are. But what if those limitations immediately send those dreams crashing to earth?

I don't dwell on this often. It's just a passing thought and gives me little anxiety. But it reminds me to be grateful for everything around me now--not just the solid blessings of health and prosperity and three beautiful children that make me laugh out loud every day, but for the hopes and promises that make the future worth facing.

The skies are blue and it's going to be a beautiful day.

One Perfect Day

2010-03-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed that today is a perfect, beautiful day?

I noticed when I drove AWAY from my house for my doctor's appointment. I noticed it when I saw the blue skies and the silky, white clouds and smelled the clean air. I noticed it when the air around me was just the right temperature--not hot, not cold.

I noticed when I laughed with the nurses and told them how grateful I was to be out of the house. I noticed when the doctor waited patiently for my questions and gave me all the answers I wanted. I noticed when he said I won't go past 38 weeks (hooray!) and I realized that's less than two months away!

I noticed how today is perfect when I asked my OB if I could go to Sunday dinner at my Mom's house this week and he said YES! (He hesitated only slightly before answering.) I noticed again when I asked if he'll let me go for a car ride once a week and he said YES! I noticed when I told him my frustrations of how random things seem to make my blood pressure go up and he said reassuringly "that's just the nature of the disease" and to just keep doing my best.

I noticed when I had an ultrasound done right after my appointment with the obstetrician and I was startled to see a little, blurry face peeking at me from inside the womb. A face! Eyes, nose, beautiful little lips... and little fists curled up next to that beautiful face. I noticed when I felt her suddenly kicking me and then saw the little legs moving on the screen. Perfection!

I noticed when they measured her and all the measurements were exactly on track for my due date.

I noticed how beautiful today is as I walked the few feet into the hospital for my non-stress test and saw that beautiful blue sky again. I noticed my legs moving and working and I thought, "Hey, some day I'll be able to exercise again and I won't feel like a cripple my whole life." Optimism made the day beautiful.

I noticed how beautiful life is when I laid down in labor and delivery and my baby's heart rate was great and my blood pressure went way down as I laid in the hospital bed--no cares, no responsibility and in the exact place I want to be if anything is going wrong.

I noticed my beautiful nurse's smile and happiness and then an image flitted through my head and I could see her face with red, swollen eyes. I remembered that dreadful night before the twins were born and I somehow had to say to her, "You know, being here reminds me of the night before my twins were born. The woman before me died."

The recognition was instant and she said she remembered me now. "I was your nurse that night," she said. She told me that she had gone to my doctor and asked him--pled with him?--to delay my c-section until the next morning. It had all been too, too much for them already that day.

"Usually our job here is so wonderful," she said. "So much happiness. But then sometimes..."

I apologized for bringing up a bad memory and she said sincerely it was fine. She had been thinking about that night recently and wondering if it had been four years ago? Or five? My twins are five now. Enough said. I noticed how beautiful life is when she and I realized we're neighbors! She lives only a few houses away from my first house, which is just a quarter mile from where I live now. We chatted about common acquaintances and felt connected.

I noticed how beautiful life was when I considered how fragile life is--and how lucky I am to be alive and have a new life growing inside me. A beautiful little life about to begin.

I noticed when I took the long route to my car, walking around the doctor's office instead of through the building. I noticed the green, waxy tops of tulips that will grow, bloom and wilt while I am on bed rest. Once every week, I can leave my house for my weekly appointment and see the change. How beautiful.

I noticed when I sat in the driver's seat of my car and felt that gentle vrooom of acceleration that reminded me of how alive I really am. I smiled and remembered how much I love acceleration and speed, even though my life now is all about taking a break and slowing down. Next Monday, I'll feel that thrill of acceleration again as I make my way back to the office. How divine.

Life is beautiful. And today is a perfect day. Do you feel it yet?

Dreams

2010-03-07T10:11:00.000-07:00

I dreamt that I was in the car with my Mom and somebody else who I can't remember--it was an ex-husband of somebody I know and I just remember feeling like he was creepy. We were on our way to Salt Lake and hadn't made it to the freeway when I remembered I'm on bed rest and shouldn't be going anywhere. I expressed this concern to my Mom, who disregarded it and told me she had to run some other errands while we were there.

I realized this would require considerable walking and demanded in a fit of passion that she stop the vehicle and let me out of the car. She refused, so I waited until a red light and hopped out the door. Realizing that walking up the long hill we were at was equally bad for my blood pressure, I proceeded to go up the street anyway until I came to a hospital.

I went in and found a phone outside labor and delivery. I called my in-laws and regretfully told them the story, feeling guilty about putting my Mom in such a negative light. They agreed to come pick me up. A nurse then came out and asked what was going on, so I told her my story. She walked away and then came back a few minutes later with a dressing gown, telling me they were going to admit me. I argued with her and she explained all the reasons why I ought to be seen.

That somehow fizzled out, however, and I found myself wandering down the hall, which was filled with children. There was some activity going on, because women were in all the rooms doing fun activities and handing out cookies to people who walked past. I thankfully ate a cookie, watching all the children around me. Eventually, my mother-in-law found me and I realized I had forgotten that she was coming at all.

The dream changed and I as entered her car, my Mother was driving again. She shush'd me and took me to her house, where they had planned a surprise baby shower. Only about five people had shown up and I felt guilty that they had planned a baby shower for my baby girl that nobody wanted to attend. It was awkward, especially realizing that my Mom's earlier shenanigans had been some prelude to trying to surprise me with this party. The dream ended. Thankfully.

I wonder why I remember some dreams. This one was so strange, but realistic, that I felt there is something I haven't figured out here. Something to do with my fears and anxieties. My insecurities. I wondered what Freud would make of it. Then I wondered what my brother-in-law, the psychologist, would make of it.

A few hours later, I was sitting here at my spot on the couch watching "Music and the Spoken Word." I was thinking about how cluttered my house was and had one of those thoughts of, "How would I feel if the Savior walked in and saw me like this?" I thought about Mary and Martha and realized I would just listen. My house is what it is right now through nobody's fault.

Then, in my imagination, I was asking Him what I need to be doing. Asking for direction. Guide me.

He told me I already know what my sins and weaknesses are and I should work on those.

This was all my imagination--nothing more at all--but I was surprised at how quickly that list of sins and weaknesses came to mind. I realized that I don't need visitations or dreams or anything else to remind me of the direction my life needs to be heading. It's all right here, ready to be understood, as soon as I open my mind and close my pride.

Happiness Now

2010-02-27T10:18:00.000-07:00

As I started to drift into the I'm-in-solitary-confinement blues yesterday, I realized I needed to get a grip. So I latched onto the memory of my plane trip home from Berlin last summer. I was so anxious to see my children that it almost hurt. Every moment I was away from them started to feel unbearable and I thought that there was nothing in life that would matter if I could just be with them again.

I know, crazy. I spent the previous four and a half years desperate for a chance to get away from the little darlin' ones. Sometimes your wish has to be granted before you realize you actually want something more.

Since then, I've been on a mental voyage to a place that has changed my life. I have finally arrived: I'm happy to be a stay-at-home Mom. Thrilled, in fact. Who would have thought this of me?

My husband asked me last night if I'd like to get back to school to start my graduate degree in the next year or two, if I could find a program that let me take things at a slow pace. No way. I could change my mind, of course, but I think I'd rather wait five or ten years. My heart is here. I'm satisfied to spend time staring into my kids' eyes (true love, every time), baking cookies and spending hours paper-crafting valentines that are really not that much better than the store-bought ones.

So as I laid in bed feeling imprisoned and restless, I remembered how it felt to be somewhere other than home. It felt great and I'd go again in a heartbeat, but it also hurt to be away from this crazy place called home. This is where I'll come back to. This is where my heart will always be. And even if I'm stuck here for two more months without so much as a peek at the encroaching spring, I would rather be imprisoned here than anywhere else in the world.

Safe in the arms of those I love. Safe in the laughter of my children. Blessed with happiness from above. This is where I belong.

Friendships

2010-02-22T09:34:00.000-07:00

Friendships.

Some start with a great whirlwind of discovery, shared secrets and the comfort of mutual understanding. These seem to leave in a whirlwind, too, but of mistrust and disappointment.

Some start with a mutual warmth--but patience. Sometimes these fade slowly and easily away, no pain and no regret. And sometimes these build day by day until you realize that you have built a solid foundation of shared experiences and understanding. These are friendships to treasure.

Some start with a wariness that is almost tangible. I think this is how one of my greatest friendships started. We were thrown together and the tension was sometimes palpable. Sometimes we would work side by side without speaking to each other. And when we were around other people, you would assume we were total strangers.

Years later, I realized that if we had seen each other at our worst and learned to be friends, this was a friendship that would last. And it has, through ups and downs and good times and bad times. Sometimes we are sarcastic and cutting to each other--and it genuinely hurts. But I know that we'll get over it. We'll move on. Because we have faith in each other to stand back up when we fall down.

I've learned to be cautious of friendships that start with heat--they will likely go down in flames. (Of course, I might surprise myself one day with a Phoenix Friendship--out of the ashes, so to speak.) So I treasure friendships that are warm and comfortable and just right. And I've learned to be patient with friendships that start a little chilly. Patience before rewards.

Memories of Pregnancies Past

2010-02-17T22:30:00.001-07:00

1. Going in for a routine checkup at Labor & Delivery. The nurse took my BP, her eyes got huge and she rushed from the room, grabbed the supplies she needed and stuck an IV in me immediately. I wonder what the number was. I felt annoyed.

2. My doctor showing up unexpectedly at another of those L&D appointments after I'd been waiting hours to be released. "You're gonna have a baby today!" Shock. The whole world turned upside down in a good, but very stunning, way.

3. "We'll take you in to the operating room for your c-section in about an hour. They're just finishing up another patient right now." An hour passed and the nurse returned, slightly agitated. "It'll be a little longer." An hour later, I started to wonder why any woman would be in the operating room for 2+ hours for a routine c-section? Another hour later and the nurses eyes were red and swollen. My feelings of elation and happy expectation were suddenly gone as I worried about the stranger a few rooms away.

My obstetrician eventually came in and said gently, "Can we do it in the morning? Everyone here is emotionally frayed and I can promise you'll get better medical attention from them tomorrow." Later he told us that a medical student, who had been there to observe, wanted to choose a new career after what he had just seen.

We read the news article the next day about the woman who had died in childbirth with unstoppable hemorrhaging. The baby survived.

I was the next patient in that operating room at 8:00 a.m. There were no signs of blood anywhere. I tried not to think about it.

4. The first--very loud--cry and my doctors both saying, "It's a boy!" simultaneously. The most beautiful sound I have ever heard since we knew his lungs weren't quite mature.

5. The silence that followed the birth of my twins. "Are they out??? Are they okay???" I asked nervously. "Oh yeah, everything is fine." So much personality in that lack of crying. In retrospect, that silence was as beautiful as the first reassuring cry from my first child.

6. Staring at my tummy--trying not to stare at my tummy--and thinking, "Staples? Seriously... staples? What am I? Some kind of office document?"

7. Wondering if laughter or crying would tear my stomach back open. I tried so hard not to move at all, because it all felt so wrong to see that gash across my mid-section.

8. Despite that, loving the simplicity of c-sections.

9. Holding my newborn son in my arms.

10. Holding two newborn sons in two arms with nobody in the room to help me put them down again. The first of many, "What in the world do I do now?" moments as the mother of multiples.

Bed rest

2010-02-16T11:20:00.000-07:00

My whole life revolves around pregnancy right now. When do I ever blog about humorous day-to-day ironies anymore? I feel that I'm becoming dull in more ways than one. Oh well. People ask how I am and, as much as I prefer my blog to be a creative outlet rather than a simple information-spreading tool, here we go again.

According to the CDC, "Preeclampsia and eclampsia comprise the second leading cause of pregnancy-related death in the United States and the leading cause in many developing nations."

I do not have pre-eclampsia. Yet. But I have been telling people I am "dealing with pre-eclampsia." I realize now that this is completely misleading and I will explain. I have pregnancy-induced hypertension, meaning that my blood pressure is going up as my pregnancy progresses. This is one of the main symptoms of pre-eclampsia, but must be accompanied by other symptoms such as protein in my urine (which I also have, but not at "diagnostic" levels yet.) However, both of these symptoms are controllable right now if I lie down and limit my activity.

So I am living in the shadow of pre-eclampsia. It is looming over me, sneaking up from behind and I while I cannot see it yet, I know that it will eventually grab hold of me and refuse to let go until we deliver the baby. That is what PE does. There is no cure except getting the ******** placenta out of my body. With good care, PE will not progress to eclampsia (seizures and possibly coma.)

However, the blood pressure alone can harm the baby. According to the March of Dimes, "Hypertension may narrow or tighten the blood vessels in the uterus that supply the baby with oxygen and nutrients. Hypertension during pregnancy can create severe risks for both mother and baby, including:

"Health problems for the mother, such as heart attack and stroke
"Slow fetal growth and low birthweight

"Increased risk of preterm delivery

"Placental abruption"

(Sorry for the bad formatting. I know it's wrong, but give me a break. This isn't a school report, I'm emotionally exhausted and have other things to do than fiddle with proper format in a blog entry.)

So here is the update. I saw the doctor today and one of my main questions for him was, "Am I over-reacting by laying down all the time?" I mean, he just said, "Watch your activity level and definitely no more exercising." I interpreted that to me I could still have a life... just a very slow-paced life.

Apparently I was wrong.

I was about to tell him how I'd checked my BP at the grocery store after dropping the twins off at preschool and he interrupted in frustration, "You're taking your kids to preschool??? Why are you doing that? You shouldn't be leaving your house!"

I then had to admit that I'd also taught Primary on Sunday and felt sicker than a dog by the evening. He said I shouldn't be going to church anymore. That is out. I shouldn't be doing grocery shopping. I shouldn't be cooking meals. I shouldn't be doing housework. I shouldn't be OUT OF MY HOUSE at all (except for appointments with him) and that I'm just lucky that he'll still let me sit up to watch TV instead of laying flat in bed for the next few months.

I started crying. I couldn't help it. I said, "I try so hard to be a compliant patient. I thought I was over-reacting by being down so much. I didn't understand!" He knows this about me and told me that I am a smart person and that if I have any other questions, I know what I should be doing even if it isn't spelled out for me. He's right. I've been through this twice and I have to get over my insecurities about "over-reacting."

My doctor, who is very chill and non-communicative most of the time, was very honest with me today. No, there's basically no chance I will deliver this baby in May. It will be April or sooner. He said he has no way of knowing right now how early the baby will be. Yes, we will be doing blood work regularly to watch for danger signs. (This is why I had to deliver Joseph early: the blood work.) Yes, there will be regular 24-hour urine collections. (Ugh.) Yes, I'll probably be spending a fair amount of time in Labor & Delivery to monitor everything (and I better just get used to it now.)

Yes, I'll probably have a magnesium sulfate drip, which alone brings me to tears. The mag sulfate made me so dizzy and delirious that I don't remember anything about Joseph's first 24 hours except the frustration that I had no idea what was going on with my newborn son, had only seen him for a few minutes and when they tried to put me in a wheelchair to visit him in the NICU, I couldn't even sit up in bed for more than a few seconds. I missed it all. The oxygen hood, the beeping machines that kept the nurses hopping over him constantly, the first bath... everything. It's a memory I'll never have with Joseph and probably not with my little girl.

I'm in a whirl of emotions right now. If I'm lucky enough to keep this baby inside me full-term, I am staring at over two months of bed rest. I've been "taking it easy" for one week and I'm so bored and lonely and stir-crazy and frustrated that I want to scream. If you think it's "relaxing" to not worry about housework or cooking, you haven't been through this. Is it relaxing to watch my husband come home from a long day at work and have to immediately start making dinner, cleaning up, getting kids ready for bed, cleaning up more so he never gets a break at all? Seriously? No, I feel like crap that he suddenly has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The kids are already getting tense and high-strung without the normal routine of Mom taking care of things for them. Is it "relaxing" to MAKE my children spend hours every day in front of a computer screen or TV screen because I CANNOT referee creative play? No, it feels like crap. I know I signed up for this and it's an important thing and will be WORTH it, but I still feel like such a failure when I can't give my children what they need. They need stability, discipline, boundaries and routine to feel safe and cared-for. I can see the craziness in their eyes already at being given so much responsibility and so much freedom.

I asked the OB if I could go to my son's baptism in March. He thought about it and said, "Move it to May. This baby will definitely be here in May and it'll be okay to wait a couple months. Move it to June if you're worried about it." Is that relaxing to tell my son, who has been looking forward to baptism for years, that he can't be baptized? No, actually, that is a burden that I don't want to have right now.

I read two books yesterday. Two. Entire. Books. That's fun, but honestly, it gets boring to sit and stare at a book all day for TWO OR THREE MONTHS. My wrists hurt from holding the books. My back hurts from staying in one position for so long. I can't sleep anymore because I'm not being active. My OB says not to worry about it, because my body doesn't NEED that sleep while I'm lying down. But no, it's not relaxing to wake up at 4:30 a.m. on a regular basis and stare at the ceiling for hours in hopes that I'll fall back asleep. That is one of my own personal hells. I hate it.

Okay, deep breaths. We'll summarize.

I'm frustrated.

I'm scared.

I'm nervous.

I'm bored to tears.

I'm so lonely from being alone all day long, even after my husband comes home (because he has to be taking care of the children and housework.)

I'll get over it.

In a couple hours, I'll be embarrassed that I was so worked up over something that is temporary, manageable and being carefully overseen by an excellent physician.

My feelings are perfectly valid, but I wish I wasn't so emotional. I wish I was like my sister-in-law, Tiffani, who is so stoic and upbeat about having dangerously low amniotic fluid levels and her baby having the cord around its' neck (twice, I think). I'm sure she has concerns and frustrations, but she quietly manages them alone and never stops smiling when she talks about it with me. I want to be her when I grow up.

And that's the update. I would go back to check for typos (which are frequent with me... I think "there" and type "their" instead, or leave out entire words, or phrases or.) But I'm tired. And I have to go lie down. And read a book. Or watch TV. And try to feel lucky that I am not doing housework or cooking meals, even though that's all I want to be doing right now.

Phew!

2010-02-11T21:54:00.000-07:00

x 18

+
x 18

+
x 35

I did it! My first attempt at homemade valentines has been super fun, although I forgot how exhausting it is to force my children to write their name that many times. That alone took forever.

The twins were fairly compliant at taking suggestions from Mom but Joseph was extremely picky and we had to compromise a lot to make his more "manly." We ended up with red and tan (which doesn't show well in the photos!) instead of the pastel colors I used for the twins.

The pictures don't do them justice because I know *nothing* about how to take good photos indoors when there is no light. Bleh! I can't wait to go make some for teachers, family and friends. I took a few to the nurses at my OB's office today because they put up with a lot from me. My OB says I am not a difficult patient, but I feel like a pain when all my third trimester woes start stacking up.

So now I'm done with the compulsory valentines and anything else I make is just for fun fun fun. Family, friends, visiting teachees, etc are just icing on the crafty cake. Hooray! (That means probably one more crafty entry and then back to life as usual for this blog. This many pictures in one month is just shocking, don't you think? You can see why when you sample my photography skills above.)

(Want to see someone who does this right? See my inspiration for Elijah's valentine gift.)

Valentine's

2010-02-10T11:27:00.001-07:00

Why yes, I am in paper crafting mode.

And yes, it does make a bit of a mess. But it keeps me entertained and off my feet.

And the results are well worth it. My kids will have lots of fun helping me make these simple little Valentine's for their classes later today ... I hope! Time to go get back to it. I'll take pictures of the final design later, if I think of it.

February Wind

2010-02-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

I chose to go without a coat today, and when that bitter February wind hit my cheeks I wondered if I had made a bad decision. Only a moment after the shock of cold, I was shocked into recognition. I know this wind, I thought. This February wind.

"I would recognize that wind anywhere," I said aloud to the twins as I closed my eyes to savor it. It felt exactly this way when my children were born. They were all born in February and their birthdays are just days apart. It rained while I gave birth to all my children. That's how I know the Groundhog was wrong--the snow always turns to rain during this month and then each snow storm is merely a fluke, at least in my mind. There is no turning back once we hit mid-February because Spring is just around the corner.

However, I am hoping this February wind is not a signal that my last child's birth is mere weeks away. I'm not ready for that. Baby's not ready for that. She needs a few more months, not a few more weeks. And I think we'll get there, but it's not going to be easy-peesy-rice-and-cheesy. I've seen the writing on the walls for a couple weeks now, but I wasn't ready to talk about it. Now I am.

A few weeks ago, I was out shopping--buying baby's first little pink and purple and green dresses for church next Spring--when I started feeling really shaky. I held my hand up in front of my face and I couldn't see it shaking, but I felt jittery all over. By the time I got home and laid down, I thought I'd be feeling better. Hours later, I was starting to feel nervous. I still felt really sick. I called the nurse to ask her if people felt this way with gestational diabetes, maybe? I had done some research and it seemed like I was exhibiting some symptoms of hypoglycemia actually, which is opposite, but... I just needed to talk it over.

She ordered my glucose tolerance test right away (which later showed very healthy blood sugar levels), and then was ready to hang up when I nervously told her how sick I'd been feeling all day. Nervously because, given my history, I know that the answer to most problems at this stage of pregnancy equals, "Go into labor and delivery and make sure everything is okay with baby" and that just seems like such an over-reaction to feeling sick.

The nurse said, "Go into labor and delivery and make sure everything is okay. Better safe than sorry." I kind of whined and said I'd go in if I still felt sick in a few hours, hoping she'd let me off the hook. After all, they can't arrest me for ignoring the nurse's orders, right? Just the doctor's. Right? She urged me again to just go in. I said I'd wait and see how I felt when my husband got home, because I couldn't very go in with three crazy children. Right?

She could tell I was trying to refuse. Her next words hit like an overused metaphor. Or simile, to be more precise. "If this is pre-eclampsia, it can sneak up really quickly. You really need to be careful."

Ouch. She hit me where it hurt. My first son was born early because of pre-eclampsia. Something to do with my liver, which my research later suggested was very serious, if I was guessing correctly. I was on high blood pressure medication for months while pregnant with the twins--and I was on bedrest for two solid months. In other words, this is serious stuff to me because of my history.

I went in to the hospital. My blood pressure was just slightly borderline and plummeted to ridiculously low/healthy levels as I laid in the bed and relaxed for a couple hours. The baby was fine. I was fine. Everything was fine. I felt incredibly embarrassed that my complaining to the nurse led to hours of being in the hospital for apparently no reason. Ugh.

I went home, depressed, and went to sleep. The next morning, thinking everything was peachy keen, I noticed something troubling that brought all the worry back. I suspected something was up and thought I wasn't so paranoid after all. After a quick trip to the OB's office, my worries were doubled. I was right. I wouldn't have even noticed this with my first pregnancy--the pregnancy-induced hypertension and pre-eclampsia really took me by surprise. Luckily, I had my regular OB appointment the next day so I knew I'd get some answers.

...but I didn't. My doctor, who tries to keep his hormone-infused, freaked-out pregnant women as calm as possible, just told me it wasn't necessarily pre-eclampsia and that he'd just see me more often now to make sure we didn't miss anything.

NOTE: At this point, I was not even in my third trimester. To deal with these issues this early had me incredibly freaked out. The baby would have a 50% chance of survival, and "survival" would probably mean living with major handicaps her entire life. Like being blind. Or deaf. Or having an IQ of 3. Point being that I was really freaked out.

Anyway, my freaking out subsided gradually as I remembered that I have trusted my doctor with my life more than once and I have total faith in him. If he's not freaking out, I shouldn't be either. Deep breaths. Happy thoughts. All is well.

I had another follow-up appointment today and those pesky symptoms that bothered me a few weeks ago are still holding strong. And my blood pressure was, officially, way too high. 150 over something. However, after laying down for five minutes, it dropped to 120/70, which is totally fine... except that it proves that chilling out is really important right now, and I have a lot of work to do.

The doctor ordered a very annoying hospital test (Gack) and told me I need to really watch my activity, and definitely no more exercising.

To a woman who has been on bed rest for the two previous pregnancies, this sounds like: "Take it easy ... OR ELSE." In other words, I can try to manage this carefully and still have some freedom or I can push my limits and be forced into inactivity.

The writing is on the wall. There is so much that still has to be done. So much to purchase, and clean and organize and prepare! I think, "QUICK! Go get the shopping done! Don't delay!!" Then I remember my orders to "take it easy ... OR ELSE!" and I feel trapped. Slow and steady? Prioritize? I would ask for help, but I'm really the only one who can do a lot of things like tidying my office, filing away papers where they belong, etc.

And ain't NOBODY gonna buy all that cute, pink, girlie stuff for me. I have been waiting for YEARS to buy frilly little stuff. That's my reward for surviving pregnancy again. I demand my reward!

...but baby needs me to chill out, relax, not worry...

Wow, I think I feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about it.

Thomas' favorite scripture story

2010-01-31T21:37:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, Joseph came screeching to me, "MOM!! MOM!! Thomas said *hell*!!!"

I went into the other room, where I found the twins giggling and yelling at each other, "HELL!" "HELL!" "HELL!" It's hard not to laugh when you see two four-year-old twins screaming at each other like that, but I felt it was my parental duty to act serious. Hiding away a smile, I explained to them that certain words are not okay to use like that and they would be in trouble if I heard them saying it again.

Naturally, I had to explain that the word "hell" is used in the scriptures and it is okay to say it when you are reading the scriptures or talking about it that way. The next day we had a little "hell" to deal with again, but we moved swiftly past it and I thought it was behind us.

Score one for Mom's cool and collected parenting awesomeness.

Then came yesterday.

The twins were at a Primary activity with Joseph. When my husband returned home from picking them up, he plopped Thomas down with an angry/embarrassed/aggravated look on his face and related the following:

During the activity, each child filled out a "spotlight" page with all their favorite things so that the other kids could get to know them throughout the year. One of the Primary leaders was helping Thomas with his spotlight form and asked him, "What is your favorite scripture story?"

He replied immediately, "Anything with HELL in it!"

She paused and asked again, "I'm sorry... what did you say your favorite scripture story is?"

"Anything with HELL in it!"

After a little negotiation, they wrote down "Daniel & the Lion's Den" but she stopped me in the hall at church today and told me it totally made her day. I have to admit it made my day, too. I could choose to take it as a great, big parenting FAIL ... but I don't. I'm just grateful to have a kid with so much personality that I have great stories to share on my blog.

Love you, Thomas, my little Sunshine!

Mondays

2010-01-25T09:43:00.000-07:00

I have been cleaning the house with vigor, planning special projects with the twins and feeing optimistic about everything I'll get done this week. It must be Monday.

By Tuesday, I'll be trying to maintain the progress I made on Monday.

By Wednesday, I'll be feeling good about my efforts and feel like I deserve a break.

By Thursday, I'll be tired and my good habits will have been replaced by lethargy.

By Friday, I'll be looking forward to having an extra set of hands to help out over the weekend.

By Saturday, I'll be overwhelmed while looking at our impossible "to do" list next to the impossible laundry pile and dirty dishes.

By Sunday, chaos will reign supreme and I'll be trying to catch up with everything that didn't get done the day before.

And then will come another sweet Monday. Monday is the day that I am queen. Josh has gone back to work, meaning that there is only one set of opinions regarding when to do chores, how much Wii time the boys are allowed, how to handle discipline and what constitutes a "meal." My word reigns supreme and I am once again in control of the household.

TGIM.

Decision. Serious stuff.

2010-01-23T14:36:00.000-07:00

I love baking.

I hate making phone calls.

Josh's aunt made a delicious cake a few months ago and I finally decided to beg for the recipe. So I emailed her.

She emailed a reply, telling me to call her for the recipe.

Which do I feel more strongly--my love of baking or my hatred of phone calls? Time will tell.

Unattainable

2010-01-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

To love something unattainable is hell.

That's what I decided today after breaking down into tears on my voice teacher's front porch. I quickly had to mentally edit the sentence--not to exclude the word hell, which I don't think is meant in a profane way here, but to clarify the thought.

To love something unattainable is just part of life. We can love the sight of a distant mountain peak with the sure knowledge that it will never belong to us, and that type of love causes no pain.

To love and desire something unattainable is hell. It's a mental contradiction that should never be toyed with, to want something that you know you can't have. This is a lesson we learn when we're toddlers--accept the limits of what you cannot have and don't throw a temper tantrum about it. The hard part is to recognize when your desires are unreasonable so that you can bring your feet back to earth and adjust your attitude.

In church last week, the discussion turned to the talents that we develop. It is the belief in my church, for those who don't already know, that we are born with some talents that we began developing before we were born. Some people just seem to be born patient or artistic or good with words or musical. I wondered vaguely is some might mistakenly guess that music is a gift that I was born with.

The answer is a resounding no, but it is worse than that. I was born with an unflinching love of music--but no natural talent for it. Hence my initial sentiment above. I cry when I hear beautiful music because of the way it reaches inside and echoes deep within me--but also because I want so badly to create that beauty for myself instead of depending on others for it.

(I have to pause here to apologize to those who have read these frustrations of mine before. They are on my mind a lot and blogging about them is a good way to work through them.)

If I didn't love music so much, it would be so simple for me to accept my own limitations (which are many) with regard to singing. When I listen to women with ethereal, lyrical voices I am absolutely enchanted. Those are the voices that people want to listen to. There is nothing ethereal and lyrical about my voice. It's more of a train running at full speed than a canoe lifting gently on the waves of a river. This is why I broke into tears as I was leaving my voice lesson today. I was waffling about whether or not to enter the annual singing competition again. I said to my teacher, "I don't know why I have such a hard time singing in front of other people, but it's just really, really hard for me."

Then it hit me suddenly. I knew why I'm scared to death of performing. "I guess it's because nobody tells me they like to hear me sing," I said to her as the tears started forming against my wishes. It's not that I want people to fawn on me and shower me with compliments. That would just embarrass me. A little encouragement, however, is always appreciated. After all, I've devoted a lot of hours to voice lessons over the last 10 years--and a few thousand dollars. I have done it for my love of music and not because I expect any greatness, but frustration still creeps in when I feel like I cause other people pain when I'm doing what I love.

My voice is overpoweringly big. I cannot make it small except when I sing in a very small, comfortable range. I have heard people often mock "those women in church who show off and think they're the only ones in the room." This kind of comment is always met with the nodding of heads and murmurs of assent. Apparently those of us born with big voices are legitimate targets of ridicule--we ought to know better than to sing loudly. It's just that I never asked for the Great Big Voice--and I would have to be really, really GOOD to rein this voice in. I try to blend in--I really do--and sometimes I give up and just close the hymnbook in frustration. Ward choir is a bit of a travesty, especially when the numbers are small. Every mistake stands out with a capital M.

I have anxiety that others think I'm showing off when I'm just doing what I love.

I have anxiety that others hear my frequent pitch problems or know that I'm breathing exactly where the choir director told me NOT to breathe or that others hear me break on the high notes because I just don't blend in.

I have anxiety that others expect a lot from me because my voice is so big and rich, not knowing that you need a certain level of skill to make the most of a voice like this. The Great Big Voice + a lot of talent produces opera stage prima donnas, not ward choir blender-inners. The Great Big Voice without a Great Big Talent is just a train wreck.

I just feel scared when I sing most of the time, but I keep doing it because of that unforgivable love of music. It is so much fun when I can quiet the anxiety. It is so relaxing when it's not the opposite. It's so rewarding when my insecurities are not overwhelming my every thought like they are today. I keep thinking, "Someday all this frustration will result in something wonderful" so I keep on singing. And I keep hoping. I keep thinking that maybe someday a miracle will occur and I will actually like the color of my singing voice. I'll listen to it and feel at peace because I really enjoy that sound I'm creating. Is that such an unreasonable desire?

After all, there are magical moments in my singing when the hair on my arms stands on end and the room is spinning because everything came together so well and I know I had a Moment. A beautiful, magical Moment that makes me giddy and dizzy. I clearly remember having one of those Moments when I sang "Memory" last year and knew I had absolutely nailed it. It wasn't good--it was great. I remember once having a Moment singing "I Dreamed a Dream." It wasn't amazing except that I knew I had sung it as perfectly as I ever could sing it and who can really ask for more than that?

Today, however, I'm struggling against one of those "I GIVE UP. NOW AND FOREVER!" moments. I am feeling so fragile and so frustrated. It was hard to write the check that enters me in the singing competition next month. But I made a promise and I want to stick to it. Even if I feel apologetic about unleashing the Great Big Voice on unsuspecting listeners. Even if I'll be 6 1/2 months pregnant and my heart will absolutely go CRAZY when I'm on stage and then I know I won't be able to breathe. Even if I'm so scared that I keep bursting into tears at the thought of it.

Because I want to respect myself, and I'm not ready to accept that my dream is unattainable. Not yet. I'm willing to live with my own personal hell just a little bit longer.

Winter Rain

2010-01-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

Winter rain

Refreshes
Freshens
Brightens
Cheers
Renews
Cleanses
Uplifts

We pray for rain
Not only to nurture life in the soil
But to overcome the death in the air

The grey lifts?--
Or falls?
It is conquered.

We give thanks.

Hearty

2010-01-12T17:43:00.000-07:00

My heart was pumping quickly all the way to the cardiologist's office. Stress. I didn't even want this appointment, but in the wise words of my obstetrician, "You don't mess around with the heart."

What I expected from my cardiologist: an hour-long wait followed by lots of questions, no definite answers, and a round of excruciatingly irritating tests.

What I got: a warm and personable receptionist who told me I'm her hero for having four kids (she only has one), an empty waiting room and brief wait, a reassuring doctor who only ordered one test (yippee! ... even if it's the one I dread the most) and who told me to relax and try not to worry about it.

You know how they always say, "Consult a doctor before starting a new exercise program?" I've always thought that was kind of unnecessary in most cases, but discovered today I am one of those exceptions. No new exercise for me right now. If my heart rate is 120 just loading the dishwasher, I guess training for a marathon is out. (Mwahahaha... like I'd ever train for a marathon. I crack me up!)

When I was scheduling my follow-up appointment, the adorably happy and friendly receptionist suddenly stopped and said, "Oh! Do you want brownies?" Then she looked over her shoulder a little and said, "Ooh, but you can't tell the heart doctor I said that!"

So I came home with a clean bill of cardiac health (pending results of the upcoming test), instructions to relax, not worry about it and live my life. And on top of all that, I brought home brownies.

That was so much better than I expected.

2010 : learning the fine art of consumption

2010-01-09T06:00:00.052-07:00

As I drove my kids to preschool this morning, the whole city seemed to be drowsy still. Cars moved quietly along at five miles below the speed limit and nobody seemed to mind. By this afternoon, people will be zipping along at heart-stopping paces and everything will come alive.

That's how 2010 started out for me: slow and lazy but gradually awakening to new possibilities. I was embarrassed to think that an entire week of the year had passed (that's 1/52nd of the year wasted!) without that One Perfect Resolution that would change my life. Then it came to me in one of those moments of clarity that inevitably follow moments of confusion or unhappiness or introspection.

I've spent the last two days doing something I love: paper crafting. (Photos later!) I went to the library to check out some books on the subject and suddenly felt burned out. Why? Why? Why was I feeling this way just when I was starting to make some progress?

Simple: I was burned out. Just like I was totally burned out from Christmas music by December 1st because I'd been listening to it nonstop since the start of November. Yes, Virginia, that really is "too much of a good thing." By the time we finally tore down our final Christmas decorations (two days ago), I wanted to shove them into the box and scream, "GOOD RIDDANCE!!!"

Too much of a good thing. Burned out.

Just like when you eat too much candy, you get nauseous. Or when you go shopping and impulsively spend too much, you feel guilty. It's like that with time, too: if you consume too much of it with "fun" and ignore the important stuff, you get burned out. You feel emotionally nauseous. That's how I felt today.

So my 2010 Resolution is to be more moderate in my CONSUMPTION in every little corner of my life. I need to consume money carefully because my husband brought up graduate school with me again this morning. That will require some savings. I need to consume calories more carefully because I've fallen into some very bad habits while pregnant and I don't want to be defined by obesity the rest of my life.

I need to consume time more carefully because I do not relish the inevitable guilt that comes from letting the laundry pile up or listening to my son say to me, as he did yesterday with a sad look on his face, "I wish you would spend more time playing with me, Mommy."

I live in a culture of waste--consumption gone wild. What does the rest of the world think of Americans? Fat. Lazy. Overindulged.

Yep, they pretty much got it right and it's not something we should be offended by. It's something we can listen to and ask, "Do you mean there is another way?"

Yes! When I was in Germany last year, the entire lifestyle that my relatives lead was appealing to me. They savor their time with family. They savor their food. They savor every square inch of their property by planting flowers and shrubs and trees all throughout their yard. They savor life by consuming the right way.

Here are my initial thoughts on how to be a better CONSUMER:

SAVOR!
Close my eyes and savor the taste of my food instead of just robotically chewing and swallowing. Breathe deeply when the air is heady with the fragrance of spring roses. Pull over to the side of the road and just stare when that perfect sunset is in the sky. Sit on my front porch and just enjoy the autumn weather. Slow down. Pay attention. Be happy.

PRIORITIZE
Enjoy my hobbies after the kitchen is clean. Do the hard stuff first--and be grateful for arms and legs and health that make it possible to fold laundry and sweep floors and dust furniture. Stick to schedules, look at the calendar, don't complain about the boring stuff. I know myself well enough to know I will never enjoy the good stuff if the important stuff hasn't been completed.

GET CREATIVE
Think about the phrase "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" in every facet of my life. Can I reduce the amount of time it takes to get this done? Can I make this food do double-duty somehow? (Like make it both nutritious and really delicious? Or add something to the meal so that it will fill daily requirements of calcium and protein? Or protein and fiber?) Can I multi task so that I'm having fun and doing important stuff at the same time? (Like practicing my singing--fun--while doing the dishes--not fun.)

Suddenly the year ahead of me is looking bright and happy! Though seemingly vague, this goal is achievable. There is no way to measure whether I have succeeded or failed, but that's okay. It's what I need right now.

2009 resolution revisited, and coming tomorrow ...

2010-01-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

2007 resolution :: Stop saying, "I can't" and start saying, "How can I make it happen?"

2008 resolution :: Discover confidence from within.

2009 resolution :: Create joy in my life, instead of waiting for it to happen to me.

Last year, I wrote the following about my New Year's Resolution for 2009: "I'm used to stealing happy moments when I can, not actively seeking them out or planning for them. This will require a complete mental reboot for me. If I can pull it off, this will be, hands down, the best year of my life."

I'm happy to report that although 2009 began as one of the most emotionally tiring years of my life, it ended as the BEST YEAR OF MY LIFE! I can hardly believe all that morphed, solidified or resolved itself during the past 12 months. It's been amazing.

It all started to change in the middle of the year and made it possible for me to (finally) feel ready for one last baby. As I feel her doing kick-boxing moves in my tummy, I have a tangible reminder of how far I've come and how good my life is.

I am at such a happy place in my life right now, despite bouts of hormone- and pregnancy-induced moodiness. Those things don't define me. They are just things that I "get" to deal with occasionally.

TOMORROW: My 2010 resolution revealed, a principle that might just change everything.

Moody, with a chance of cheer

2010-01-06T11:10:00.000-07:00

I was awakened by loud, stomping footsteps over my head. This is one of the things I don't understand about the Y chromosome. Why do my boys (yes, all of them) have to be so loud about life? Why can't they walk quietly or close doors quietly or speak quietly? (Okay... Yes, it's a bit hypocritical of me to want them to speak quietly, but I can dream.)

The loud, stomping footsteps were, predictably, followed by loud knocking on my bedroom door. At 6:54 a.m., I don't take well to this. It makes me grouchy. I was dreaming that I was in Disneyland and the lights were on inside Space Mountain and then suddenly I was awake and dealing with Male Loudness. Who wouldn't be grouchy?

When I'm pregnant and I wake up grouchy, it's hard to shake it off. I don't know why, but no matter how much I try to choose happiness, it all ends up as grumpiness instead. It's very annoying. A while later, when I was contemplating the inevitability of a day filled with guilty grumpiness, I had almost lost hope of cheering up. Losing hope by 8:55 a.m. is a bad sign--a sign that the day is, indeed, not going well.

Then something strange happened. I was in the car, driving my kids to preschool. I was staring off into space ... err, at the road ahead of me ... and a new mood flew in through the window and blanketed me with hope. It may sound strange, but the cheerfulness was tangible and came from the west. It just plopped itself down and decided to stay a while.

I laughed out loud. Who wouldn't laugh out loud when happiness flies in the car window from the west and settles in for a stay?

It's been a few hours and I feel as chipper as ever. Life is good. Life is great. And the greatest thing about it is the great gift I've been given: happiness when I least expected it.

Depression

2009-12-29T09:09:00.000-07:00

If my recent post about the Pit of Despair wasn't enough of a clue, I'm seriously fighting off some depression right now.

It started about two weeks ago and I told my husband I could feel that depression blah setting in. The tiredness. The listlessness. The feeling that no matter how happy your life is, you can't be happy. You just look at it analytically and say, "I should be happy. Life is great. There is no reason to be unhappy, but there is no way to feel otherwise." If you haven't experienced it (or if you aren't currently experiencing it), it's hard to understand how real this is.

I'm not in some catatonic depressive state where I can't get up in the morning or brush my teeth. I'd call this mild depression. It's just that constant, nagging feeling of unhappiness and lethargy that I can't shake. It's annoying. I am living my life in black and white instead of color--but I'm still alive and kicking. I'm still making plans and getting things done and being a (pretty) good parent.

But there are little troubles that irritate me. My oldest is constantly dragged down by my mood. His mood is very dependent on mine and he is really bothered that I'm not being fun and cheerful and laughing with him. In other words, he's bummed out that I'm bummed out. I feel for him and I'm bummed out that I'm not being more fun.

The other thing that is really irking me right now is that I see myself entering a more serious stage of depression. This one I like to call the "Push Away Anybody Who Cares About Me At All" stage. This is the self-pitiful, moody stage where I make myself so incredibly unpleasant that nobody wants to be within a mile of me. I frown. I complain. I am a Piece of Work.

I look at myself logically and wish I could get away from myself, but I'm stuck here living inside this Piece of Work that I don't recognize. She's a stranger to me--so foreign to my naturally sunny and optimistic temperament.

Four more months and the baby will be here. My heart will recognize its' biological speed limit again and slow down so I can fight this with some exercise. And if things are getting worse, I at least have the option of an anti-depressant. I don't like to pop the pills but I'll do it for Joseph. He deserves to have his Mom back.

***

Why, oh why, do I expose myself to the world this way? We've gone over this before. I'm not ashamed that I was built this way: overly anxious and occasionally prone to depression. That's not a choice I made. It's something that was dealt to me in my genetic deck of cards--the same way some people are dealt diseases or handicaps. I know how to fight this and I always do. I'm proud of how thoroughly I've made this a non-issue in my life (except when I'm pregnant... and getting pregnant scared me to death for that very reason) ... but I remember the first time it hit and I was unprepared. I felt so alone, so misunderstood, so ashamed of who I was.

This is a common, but mostly unspoken, problem and I want others to know they're not alone. I want to shout down into the abyss that others have fallen into and tell them there is hope. Maybe that will be enough of a rope for them to cling to that they can eventually climb out and find normality again.

That's why.

Lights Out

2009-12-21T14:10:00.000-07:00

I am dreaming and the world looks so black, so cold.

There is a void ahead of me and I am swirling in closer, closer. It is a pit. A blackness. A never-ending shiver that I have tried to shelter myself from.

I turn away, only to fear that I will lose my balance and fall backward. I must face it, stare it down, back away. But it is calling me.

I am tired. I don't want to fight. I just want to fall, fall, fall ...

Now I am standing on the brink, staring into black oblivion. A haunting voice without words calls to me from the depths. It is waiting to welcome me. It says that I am home.

The only string holding me upright is the truth that I will one day want to climb out of the darkness and it will exhaust every reserve of fire inside me. Would that fire be extinguished if I fell down, down, down...?

I awake to discover I've never been asleep.

Confirmation!

2009-12-17T19:19:00.000-07:00

I've known for three weeks, but wanted to wait until after my 20-week ultrasound to put it on the blog. Now I can really, truly, officially state:

IT'S A GIRL!!!!

I can't even begin to describe what this is like for me. We'll just say that I've found myself standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, water dripping from my hands as tears form in my eyes at the realization that I'm finally having a baby girl.

It feels like an enormous responsibility all of a sudden. I don't know how to raise a girl. What do I do with a girl, for heaven's sake?

But for heaven's sake ... thank heaven for little girls.

Flowers & Clueless Employees

2009-12-17T11:36:00.001-07:00

Flowers
I bought myself flowers today. Why shouldn't I? Do flowers have to be symbols of romantic love, friendship, sympathy or best wishes? No! On the most basic level, they are not symbolic of anything. They are beautiful and, occasionally, fragrant. They are pleasing to the senses.

As I walked past these flowers, I was first struck by some large, peach-colored roses. It is my mother-in-law's birthday and I knew they'd be perfect for her. Then my eyes wandered toward some beautiful stems of unique, white flowers. I don't know what they are but I know I adore them. I have a thing for white flowers. I found some beautiful rust/red flowers to accent both of the other bouquets and took them home.

I snipped them to the right length under some warm water, gave them their flower food and arranged them admirably. Maybe I'll tell my husband I bought them "for him" to make him feel appreciated. He needs to be more appreciated around here. I'm not easy to live with when I'm pregnant. True story.

Clueless Employees
I am one day shy of 20 weeks pregnant and loving it. This is a crazy journey and I felt like an absolutely inhuman monster during my first trimester. I'm human again now (but still hard to live with) and looking forward to May with excitement and trepidation.

Those who know pregnancy will know that "20 weeks" means more than just a halfway stepping stone to delivery. It means an in-depth ultrasound to see if baby is growing the right way and to make sure everything looks healthy.

It's hard to explain this amazing experience to somebody who hasn't witnessed it. It's the point at which the blob of seeming-fat on your front side is suddenly a living human being. It's proof that two individual cells can come together and miraculously turn into a variety of specialized cells, tissues, bones, blood... It's one of those amazing moments that just floors me.

Today is my 20-week ultrasound. I've been looking forward to it for about 18 weeks now and didn't want to miss a moment of it, so I went to the store to buy a DVD-R to record it for my children and family. I was stressed because the ultrasound tech told me a very specific type of DVD to buy. I think she said a "DVD minus" (DVD-R as opposed to DVD+R) but called the office to confirm. The receptionist sent me to an answering machine. Dang.

An employee was next to the DVDs, stocking shelves, and I hoped he might have something to shed on the subject. (Really, I just wanted a little reassurance but wasn't hoping for much.)

I asked, "Do you know the difference between the two types of DVDs?" [Edit: My actual words were, "Do you know the difference between the DVD-R plus and the DVD-R minuses?" but I was too lazy to type that out until a comment made me realize I was being ambiguous....]

"There's no difference," he replied. "They're made by the same company, but some of them are made in a different factory." He looked at as if he was letting me in on a big secret and shrugged. "They just package them differently. Stupid, really."

I squinted my eyes at him just a little in disbelief, dropped my jaw and tried to control the facial expression that I knew I was about to form. I am a big believer in being straight-forward with people and this guy was clearly way off in left field. I appreciate honesty in others so I don't have to second-guess myself or them. But there are times when it's just not polite (and completely unnecessary) to clue people in to your mental process. This was one of those times.

I tried to adjust my face to appear thoughtful for a moment*, smiled at him and quietly said, "Thank you." Then I wheeled my cart away and hoped I was buying the right thing.

* Like Steve Martin in the movie "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" when he is being hit in the leg that he claims is paralyzed, is in terrible pain but trying to mask his pain by looking intensely thoughtful. Great stuff.

The Pit of Despair!

2009-12-15T23:11:00.000-07:00

No, this is not about the Princess Bride. That would be funner.

I was sick. I couldn't sleep last night. I was extremely irritable when my 7-yr-old son came pounding down the stairs around 6:30 a.m. (one of the rare times I was sleeping instead of tossing or turning) to tell me he was "scared." Mentally, I knew I should be supportive and loving. Emotionally, I didn't feel like it.

My husband jumped in and took him out of the room so I could rest a little longer. Then my husband left for work, leaving me alone with three loud, rowdy boys who naturally needed their Mom. I didn't want to be needed. I didn't want to take care of anybody else. I wanted to curl up under the covers, cry myself back to sleep and have somebody else take care of me. Hmph!

This was selfish. I was in a very rotten state of mind. I yelled at my son and when he demonstrated a very bad, rebellious attitude, I sent him to time out. That took about 30 seconds from start to finish. He slammed the door as hard as he could and things escalated. Eventually, he left the room and I sat in my bed in tears, feeling like the worst Mom in history of Bad Momness

My son poked his head around the corner timidly, asking what was wrong. I told him I was sick and tired and just not feeling well, which was true. Like the little codependent he's learning to be--sigh--he immediately assumed this was not true and that I was crying because he had misbehaved. He apologized and told me he wanted me to be happy. I tried to reassure him that (a) this wasn't his fault, and (b) that's not his responsibility. A few minutes later, we were sitting across from each other with bowls of cereal in front of us.

My son had completely forgotten the prior trauma and remarked, in response to something I'd said, "I think you're the perfect Mom." I wanted to snort milk out my nose and scream, "HA!" because I had just demonstrated the worst character traits imaginable a few minutes before. I didn't, though. I thanked him and tried to remind myself how innocent and vulnerable my children are--making it that much more important to grow up and stop blaming my children for my misery when I'm feeling ill.

We'll see how that turns out. If I could turn off all my negative emotions with a switch, I'd do it. I'd love to be purely compassionate, reasonable, kind, supportive, and validating all the time. It's just not that easy when life is swirling around me crazily.

I felt depressed the rest of the day until a surprise phone call jolted me out of my self pity. It was somebody who I hadn't talked to in over six months--somebody that I had a "professional" relationship with, meaning she was under no obligations of friendship to keep things positive between us. She was calling to say she was so sorry that she had missed an opportunity a few nights ago to hear me sing. She wanted to make sure I understood that she was very disappointed that she had to leave before my turn came. I thanked her and felt immediately buoyed up. She reminded me that she had heard me sing a few years ago, thought I had a real talent and hoped I would continue my progress there.

I hung up and smiled at my rambunctious children. It didn't make everything all better, but it was a nice little shot of optimism to keep me going. That's the kind of thing my kids need in large doses to counteract the crazy world they're growing up in: optimism. What am I thinking when I yell at them and make home a miserable place to be? That's not good for any of us. I need to practice patience and compassion 100% of the time--not just when I'm feeling healthy and well-rested. And I better practice fast because soon there will be a new baby in the house and there will be no more sleep for a long time.

Sweet Surprise

2009-12-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

Cinnamon. Ginger. Cloves. Molasses. Add in some flour and butter and you're pretty close to my favorite Christmas-time snack: Gingerbread.

Only one caveat: it can't be cooked. That ruins gingerbread. Gingerbread cookies are meh. Gingerbread cookie DOUGH is divine. I don't know why this is true, but it is irrefutable in my mind.

Yesterday, as I promised my son that I'd make gingerbread people with him, I tried to tell myself I had to be well-behaved. Raw cookie dough is a risk--one I'm willing to take most of the time, but not when I'm pregnant. Everything is riskier and more serious when I'm pregnant, so I was mentally steeling myself to stare at the spicy goodness without indulging even one little bite.

This morning, I got up and mixed the dough together. When I was all done, it hit me: no eggs. This recipe has NO EGGS. That means no raw eggs... no fear of poisoning... and that means the cookie dough is perfectly safe!

I stared at the recipe in amazement. I stared at the tantalizing bowl of deliciousness and let my Pavlovian instincts take over: time to salivate. I washed my hands carefully and reached in for the tiniest pinch. Pure heaven! I mentally congratulated myself for having the forethought to make a double batch. That means that I can indulge without taking away the sugary delight of fresh-baked cookies from my children.

I sat down and played board games with my twins for over an hour. I stood up and reached into the fridge for another pinch of dough.

Life is sweet. Oh, so sweet.

On My Mind & Neighbor Gifts (Part II)

2009-12-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

A few things on my mind today, plus a bonus(!) Lengthy Commentary Probing the Psychology and Interpersonal Implications of Neighbor Gifts, the Lack Thereof or the Substitution Thereof for Other Ideologies.

Let's begin.

* The "Ranch Rolls" at Maceys Supermarket are surprisingly good. They have a little chew on the exterior and softness on the interior that sent me thousands of miles away to the homes of my cousins in Europe. Good rolls like that belong in Vienna or London or a small home outside Kassel, Germany. Not Maceys Supermarket. Perhaps it was a fluke. Maybe the next one I bite into will just be another bland, American-style, squishy excuse for bread. Let that happen as it may. The last one was heaven.

* I have entered a new stage of pregnancy: the "I Can Look at Raw Meat Without Gagging Violently" stage. I am very excited about this and I am celebrating by cooking some chicken for enchiladas. I am wondering why I still gag when I see dried-on bits of cereal in my children's unrinsed breakfast bowls. I hope that stage comes soon.

* I think my random blog posts (like this one) are my favorite.

* I think that it's time to break down and go buy some new maternity clothes. (1) My old ones are not only hideously unattractive, but also a tad on the big size. I've lost some weight since my last pregnancy ... which was a multiples pregnancy. (2) My current favorite non-maternity pants are so threadbare that they finally developed an unsightly and immodest tear in them two days ago. And I've worn them for two more days anyway.

* On to my Lengthy Commentary:

I blogged about neighbor gifts last year and here I am feeling flummoxed yet again, so this is an issue that I am clearly not at peace with. My dilemma stems mainly from three sources:

(1) My neighborhood has developed a sort of "tradition" of asking people to give food to charity or donate to a cause or some other High And Worthy Purpose instead of spending money on neighbor gifts.

(2) But I like cooking. And I like giving gifts to people. And I give money to charity year-round, including supporting a foster child in Cambodia.

(3) I always come back to The List. Whom do I skip by with a guilty conscience and whom do I give to, even though I know they haven't given anything to me for five years but I saw the plate of goodies they gave to my neighbor sitting on her counter so they're clearly doing more than the above (#1) High and Worthy Purpose?

This is not a major source of stress for me, but it keeps my brain more active than I usually care to admit. Last year, I made photo cards and added a message that I was donating food to charity for every card we handed out. This felt wrong for several reasons:

   (a) Doesn't a card like that say, "Look at how noble and good and charitable and admirable I am! Admire me ... from a distance, please."

   (b) My husband accused me of never following through on donating the food. Ahem. Who does the grocery shopping? Who does the budget? Thank you very much, Mr. Doubter, but I did so.

   (c) It felt like a cop-out. Like taking the easy way out. Like cheating. Which is what I needed last year, which was a very stressful time for me. But times have changed since then so I don't need a cop-out this year. (See above #2.)

So this year I printed up my Christmas cards and addressed all of the out-of-towners and then sat back to wonder what I'd do about the neighbors. I have fabulous neighbors that I adore and I like to drop a little something on their porch every year, but then the stress started creeping in. I started doubting myself. I decided to just buy something this year--maybe some Anna's Cinnamon Thins. I was all set on this plan but didn't make the trip to IKEA that day and started doubting myself again.

Then I thought, "Bah. I don't need to spend that money--I'll just give everyone a card with a few candy canes tied up with ribbon. It's the thought that counts!!" I walked into the grocery store this morning, determined to follow through on this plan. Then came the secondary wave of self-doubt. I realized that my insecurities are to blame for my hesitancy to bake ... after all, what if the cookies I give them sit on the counter for two weeks, get stale and then they think I'm a terrible baker? Harsh! What if I give everybody a certain treat just to find out that Mrs. Better Baker made the same thing and mine are suffering by comparison? Oh no!

Then came the moment of truth. I laughed at myself. How silly! I love baking and I love giving gifts, so I am going to bake something for my neighbors this year. Even if it turns out badly and everyone knows how human I am. Even if it takes two weeks to get it done. Even if it's not cool and now everybody else thinks I'm not into High and Charitable causes because I brought people cookies instead. I'll still give to charity. I'll still be generous. I'll just do those things AND make silly little plates of cookies for my neighbors too.

Plus, I'm not sure how High and Charitable it is to beg off the neighbor gifts to donate $20 to a Better Cause. It's great and socially conscious and all that, but don't you think there's just a teensy, tiny, little hint of laziness involved, too? Oops, did I say that publicly?

If I get burned-out, I have a backup plan: three dozen candy canes sitting on my counter in case life just gets in the way.

Skeezix

2009-11-24T11:18:00.000-07:00

Skeezix. That's what we call babies who are still chillin' in Mom's tummy. I'm going to tell you about Skeezix today.

On Sunday morning, I clearly felt Skeezix moving around. I felt it again Monday morning and I've got to tell you: this kid is ACTIVE! Skeezix is doing aerobics inside me. Or karate. Or kickboxing. Probably kickboxing. I'm only 16 weeks pregnant and baby is already doing kickboxing! What will Skeezix be doing at 8.75 months? Gulp.

I've been feeling strange lately. I won't go into details, but it's probably harmless. My OB sent me in for an ultrasound this morning just to make sure all was well with Mom. (We already knew all was well with baby with all that movement and an audible confirmation of the heartbeat.)

There is nothing--absolutely nothing--like seeing my baby on ultrasound. Skeezix was moving constantly, wiggling little arms and legs. We got to hear the heartbeat and, yes, determine the gender. We're 90% sure, but I have my 20-week ultrasound in three weeks so we'll confirm it then.

All I can say is: I'm in love with that tiny little soul that is already a mover and shaker. In my mind, all that movement is saying: I'm happy. Life is good. I can't wait to see what is waiting for me! Hey Mom, look what I can do!

All is well.

Wake-up Call

2009-11-22T16:15:00.000-07:00

I was having a lovely dream around 3:00 a.m. when I awoke suddenly to the sound of my telephone ringing. In my supreme mid-dream drowsiness, I reasoned that either (a) it was important and they would call back or (b) it was unimportant and they would not call back. They didn't call back (wrong number?) and I fell asleep again quickly.

The real wakeup call came later in the morning when I met with a member of our Bishopric. I was recently released from a calling and knew that something new was in the works. As we sat down together, I hoped for something that would be spiritually invigorating and mentally challenging.

In particular, I hoped I would finally be called to teach in one of the classes. I come from a family of teachers and spent a few brief months teaching at a private school before my oldest son was born. Teaching is in my blood. I enjoy it and look forward to it. It's a real treat to me when I'm asked to substitute teach a class. Yet for some reason, I've never been called on to teach regularly in church.

I'm generally called to do very organizational types of things. This makes sense because I am extremely organized--or at least I can be and prefer to be--and because I have no trouble keeping track of several "loose ends." I'm a natural-born secretary, but pardon my indignation while I state that I am good at plenty of things non-secretarial. I'm intelligent and well-educated and I love a challenge.

You can imagine my inner reaction when I was asked to fill the easiest calling in the entire church--"church librarian." This involves making photocopies and taking pictures off a shelf. That is all, in its entirety. Making photocopies and taking pictures off a shelf. (I mustn't forget that I have to take our paper out of the machine at the end of the day to keep supplies in their proper places. Heaven forbid I forget that detail!)

I had all the enthusiasm crushed out of me, but we never say no when we're asked to serve in the church so my husband (who was released from a calling he loved for this) and I are now librarians. Every other week.

I'm still wrapping my head around how to humbly and gratefully magnify this calling. I'm trying to forget my impression that this calling is generally given to people who seem to be spiritually unprepared for more important things. I'm trying not to feel like this is a waste of my talents. I'm trying to remember that we were told this calling is highly coveted and we were chosen, partially, because we are being released from time-consuming callings. It's our reward, I guess, for serving well in other ways?

I'm trying to remember that callings come from a Higher Source and He knows better than I do. I'm trying to remember that I am pregnant and probably not fit for the most challenging calling right now. I'm trying to remember I could end up on bed rest again, just like with my other pregnancies.

I'm trying to remember that humbly serving anywhere in the church is taking the burden off of somebody else. I'm trying to remember a lot of things. I'm trying to be like Jesus and accept humble service without complaint.

It might take a few days to sink in, but I will be there next Sunday morning with a bright, cheerful smile on my face to make photocopies, hand people pictures and put the copy paper where it belongs at the end of the day. I will find out why everybody else is congratulating me on the best calling ever ... and then my gratitude sincerely overflow.

At least, that's the plan.

Hills and valleys

2009-11-19T21:30:00.000-07:00

Life has been superb lately. I've been happier and more productive than ever before and I think I will be able to say, when it is over, that 2009 has been the best year of my life.

Some days, though, still knock me down and kick me in the gut. Today was one of those days. I realized that all "wrong side of the bed" mornings start out with a child making loud demands at ridiculously early hours. I grumbled (forcefully) to Joseph that I was going to come into his room screaming and turning on lights some time to see how he liked it. He informed me after school that he didn't scream. I told him that in my sleepy state it sure sounded like screaming.

Around 10:30 a.m., I decided to pen a blog entry that I've been considering for a long time. It was about rejection and friendship and deep-seated pain that I have to word very carefully to share publicly. I found that emotion took over and I wasn't up to the task in the end. The writing was lousy instead of meaningful and I couldn't express what I really wanted to say. So I hit "save" instead of "publish."

The emotional effort of rehashing past hurt left me bankrupt. I felt hollowed out and depressed the rest of the day. As I remembered some of the things I had written about, I kept fighting back tears. I bought ice cream for lunch, felt guilty the rest of the day for the splurge and skipped dinner in a misguided attempt to make up for lunch.

Around 3:30, I just collapsed on a couch while my kids snuggled around me watching television. I slept until almost 5:00 and woke up feeling even lousier. I never made dinner. I just laid around in a tailspin. My husband came home and had to leave almost right away for a scouting meeting. He ate a leftover hamburger from lunch but the kids still hadn't eaten a thing. Josh finally fed them dinner around 8:30 p.m., half an hour after their bedtime. I sat around feeling helpless and guilty and continuously on the verge of tears.

That's when the craving started. I haven't craved emotional eating like this in a very long time--months, probably. I used to feel this way constantly, like I had to eat until the pain went away. That's how I ended up at my current size. It hasn't been like that lately. I may be overeating, but it's for other reasons (not the least of which is a very hungry fetus inside me.) I hate that feeling.

As Josh got the kids ready for bed, I got down a package of marshmallows and resolved to make some Rice Krispy treats after the kids were in bed. I still haven't made them. I decided to try a little therapeutic writing instead.

Why do days like this happen? Life has been wonderful! Peaceful! Calm! Organized! In control! Optimistic! Happy! And then comes along a day when something is just not right with my pregnancy hormones or seratonin levels or spirituality or ... ? ... and the world is crumbling.

I don't write this for pity, though. Nor is this a cry for help. I write this knowing that tomorrow will be a fresh and happy day. The past will be past and the future will be gleaming brightly ahead. I have a game night planned with some good friends tomorrow night and a Girl's Night Out planned for Saturday afternoon. Thanksgiving is next week, which means that I will bask in the love of friendship and family ... and good food!

That keeps me buoyant right now. I know I'll float instead of sink. I just need to get to bed--preferably before I follow through on the marshmallow plan--and remember that tomorrow is another day.

Parallel Parking

2009-11-13T15:34:00.000-07:00

I was in a lazy mood. When I pulled into a parking spot at Megasupercorpget, I knew I had parked a bit crooked but shrugged it off. I got out of the car and saw that it was one of my better BAD parking jobs. The front tires were on the left side of the space and the back tires were just kissing the yellow lines on the right side. The car wasn't too close to the ones next door, though, so I went into the store and did my shopping. I may be finicky about certain things in my life, but perfect parking is not one of them.

When I came out of the store, I was surprised to see that the car to my left had driven away and been replaced by a new car that had parked perfectly parallel to mine. Their front tires were on the left side of the space, with the right tires just kissing the right line.

"That's amazing parallel parking," I thought humorously to myself. It got me thinking. If a third car arrived a little later, would it follow suit and ignore the nicely-painted, perpendicular yellow lines in favor of the trendy new angles?

More importantly, it was a reminder that all our lives are interconnected. We may not be responsible for the way others react to us, but it's good to remember that our actions are influential. Like a finger touching the still surface of a lake, we create ripples of influence, sometimes fading into the obscurity of eternity and other times becoming tsunamis that destroy others' serenity.

During this season of Thanksgiving, I want to express my gratitude for the goodness of life by creating ripples of joy and laughter ... and by laughing when the ill effects of other people's choices wash over me.

Pie Time!

2009-11-11T21:37:00.000-07:00

The women at my church got together last night to listen to a great speaker and eat pie together. Sounds like a winning combination, don't you think?

Part of the evening was a pie contest and women were allowed to vote for their two favorite pies. This seemed like a slightly flawed system to me since most of the women only sampled one type of pie. If you only try one slice, how can you compare to decide which is best? Is the decision based on which pie looks the best? Or do you just vote for your favorite flavor?

As I said, a flawed system. However, that was all forgiven when I won 2nd place for my "Pecan Pie Tartlets." I came home and told my boys facetiously that I'm now an "award-winning pie maker." Joseph's eyes got huge and his jaw dropped. I need to be careful how I talk to him because he was way prouder of me than he should have been.

In his and my defense, the pecan pie "baby tarts" were really adorable and delicious! While I prepared them, the boys groaned about how disgusting they looked ("Fine, don't eat any.") but when they came out of the oven, they devoured them.

Tonight, Josh and I made pumpkin pie with the other pie crust dough. It may not win any prestigious awards, but it'll win the most important one: the looks of delight when I offer my boys pie for breakfast!

Bonus Geeked Out Factoid: I read on Google Reader this week that if you write 3.14 on a paper and look at it in the mirror, it spells PIE! Whoa! I can't describe how happy that made me. Stop laughing. I already told you I'm a geek.

Wrong Side of the Bed

2009-11-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

I think I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, which also happens to be the side of the bed where a four-year-old boy is screaming and demanding that I get out of bed NOW to go fix the computer, which incidentally isn't working because we set up parental controls which limit the hours that the computer can be used.

Sunrise o'clock ain't one of the approved times.

A Home for the Holidays

2009-11-03T11:41:00.000-07:00

The clutter in my house has been slowly reaching its hands out to me--not in a plea for help, but in an effort to wrap around my neck to suffocate me. That's what it feels like.

As I was cheerfully thanking the pharmacist for a prescription last week, it dawned on me that I felt extremely peaceful, charitable and kind there in the grocery store--but never at my house. In fact, I feel fairly chipper and peaceful anywhere else--hotel rooms, friends' houses, department stores. But when I step into my house, I become a stressed out, mean, anxious *****.

This is wrong and deeply troubling. I realized that I always feel more peaceful when I am not at my house. Why? I love my family and I love being with them. I have a beautiful house with lots of space to stretch out.

A house, however, is not a home and I am craving a home. A few years ago, I spent New Year's Eve at my friend Craig's parents' house and felt more at home than I have ever felt in a house of my own. When I saw that house go on the market a few years later, I wistfully thought about buying it until I realized that without the people who lived there, it would just be a house. It's better to make my own house into a home.

When I contemplated having another child this summer, I asked my husband out to dinner and we sat on the grass next to Chili's while we waited for our table. I told him how much I wanted to have another child but worried that I couldn't handle the stress unless I got my house organized and decluttered. I don't know why this has to happen before I have another baby, but I feel it stronger than almost anything I've felt in my life.

Then I got pregnant and fatigued and nauseous and knew it wouldn't happen right away. The stress grew and grew and grew. That all changed when my friend Kathy posted a challenge to some of her friends. She said, "Would you like to have a beautifully clean and organized home during the holiday season? Let's start now!"

In my mind, I envisioned the HOME I've been craving with red and green garlands on the staircase, the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air and the sound of relaxed laughter ringing through the halls. I wanted that more than anything I've wanted in a long time. I need it. I crave it. I must have it!

So I am taking Kathy's challenge and running with it. My goal is to declutter the main problem areas before Thanksgiving, in addition to making some major organizational changes that have needed to happen for years. I made a list of all my goals yesterday and decided which days I'll tackle which rooms. I called for help--asked the in-laws to help with some projects, asked my Mom to keep me company while I deep clean my entire kitchen and asked my husband to help me with some of the weekend projects like putting together new bookshelves, installing shelves in a toy closet and ... well, I can't say more because he reads my blog and I haven't sprung the other ideas on him quite yet. Ahem. (Don't worry, dear. It'll be easy.... or at least it'll be worth it.)

As I started in to my piles of gunk, I kept finding things that elicited this reaction: "Ugh.. Stress.. I don't know where to put that or what to do with it. Can't I just put it in a junk pile somewhere else until I get around to cleaning THAT pile up...? I don't want to deal with it."

That's when I realized where this anxiety I'm feeling comes from: little pieces of ignored stress that I've allowed to literally pile up around me in my house. There are little things in every room that haven't been dealt with because there is stress and anxiety attached to them. When I let those things hang out and stare me in the face, they mock me! They reach in to my chest and twist my heart around until I feel like I can't breathe. (Which may seem like a strange illusion since the lungs have more to do with breathing, but.... that's how I feel, whether it is logical or not.)

After 24 hours into my challenge, I've accomplished a lot and wanted to throw in the towel several times per hour. It is painful to confront the stress that is piled up around me--Where can I store that beautiful paper that I bought in Berlin? Will the kids hate me if they find out I threw this away? I don't have a box big enough to store this so I guess I'll just pile it somewhere else?--but with each small accomplishment, I am triumphing over the anxiety in my life.

I am such an anxious, depressed mess during my first 18 months postpartum that I have to do this for survival. We'll worry about "thriving" again in about four years when the baby is older. For now, I need a plan to just survive the chaos that comes when I get no sleep and have to deal with baby poop and spit-up and screaming and temper tantrums. Nobody in my family is built for the years of young motherhood--that's just the way it is when you're raised by a working Mom who was raised by a working Mom (in the '50s!) We may feel lost with the challenges of motherhood at times, but we're strong and we're smart ... so it's time that I start acting like it. Time to make my house a HOME for the holidays.

Thanks, Kathy, for the inspiration!

I Love Reading

2009-10-31T22:05:00.000-06:00

I love reading.

Tonight I cried when I saw that the next page in my novel said, "Acknowledgements." In other words, "That's it, folks. The end." I didn't cry because it was a sad ending to the novel. I cried because I just wanted to keep reading and stay immersed in a world I loved with characters who had become dear friends. When I really love a book, I hate getting booted out on that final page, back into reality. Not that reality is bad--I just really love reading.

I have read the following books since I got pregnant three months ago:

October
The Help, by Kathryn Stockett (464 pages)
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #10), by Alexander McCall Smith (212)
The Miracle at Speedy Motors (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #9), by Alexander McCall Smith (224)
The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis (175)
Strong Women Stay Slim, by Miriam E. Nelson (Okay, I only read about half of it, I admit.) (336)
Middlemarch, by George Eliot (1,024)

September
The Winter of Our Discontent, by John Steinbeck (304)
The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch (206)
Fablehaven #3: Grip of the Shadow Plague, by Brandon Mull (487)
Fablehaven #2: Rise of the Evening Star, by Brandon Mull (456)
Kissing Doorknobs, by Terry Spencer Hesser (160)
Forest Born, by Shannon Hale (391)

August
The Kitchen God's Wife, by Amy Tan (416)
Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert (334)

Total: 5,189 pages and hours of delight

I bought "The Help" on the same day that I checked out the latest two Alexander McCall Smith books from the library: Wednesday. Today is Saturday and I feel depressed because I've finished all three and I have nothing to read on Sunday afternoon. If this is an addiction, I don't want to recover.

I love reading.

The strength to try

2009-10-21T22:18:00.000-06:00

Conversations with my Mom today, and what they really mean:

Me: "Mom, I'm starting a new strength training program and I think you'd love it, too."
Mom: "That sounds great! If you buy me some free weights for Christmas, I'll use them and let you know how it works." (Meaning: Give me a few months to think about it. This is new. It takes time to warm up to new ideas.)
Me: "That sounds like a great idea!" (Meaning: There is no way you're chickening out on me. I'm starting today and I want somebody to suffer with me. I'll be over in 25 minutes with new weights from the store.)

...25 minutes later...

Me: "Hey, Mom, I'm on my way over..." (Meaning: You have five minutes warning instead of five seconds. Think quick!)
Mom: "Oh, umm... I'm really busy." (Meaning: Go away.)
Me: "I'll be quick..." (Meaning: No. I'm determined.)

...five minutes later...

Me: Okay, here are two chairs to do this first exercise. It looks really simple. Sit down.
Mom: No, no, dear. You just show me how to do it and I'll do it tomorrow. (Meaning: Go away!)
Me: Two chairs. Two people. It takes the same amount of time to do it with me as it does to watch. Sit down. (Meaning: Have you ever noticed how the name "Jillian" sounds similar to "Juliana"? I'm channeling her influence. This is for your OWN GOOD!)

...five minutes later...

Me: Okay, I've done this next one before and I love it. Of course, I do this one lying down instead of sitting, so let's see how we do this. Okay, go like this... {GROAN}... UGH... Uhh, holy crap, these are heavy... {GASP}... See? {Pant pant} Easy!" (Meaning: Don't think you're superior to me just because those 5-pounders are easy to lift. These 10-pounders are a tad harder for this particular exercise... groaaaannnnn....)

I've done some strength training--simple, simple stuff--on and off for the last few years and my OB gave me permission to keep it up while I'm pregnant. So I'm going to try to commit myself to doing these simple things more often. I'm not going to the gym. I'm not doing anything fancy. Just a few simple things with free weights and the weight I'm blessed to carry every day, which is not insignificant. I wish I had people to do this with, but my neighbors are all light-years ahead of me, getting strong at the gym, and I'm a social chicken anyway. I'm a bit too timid to show my flab and weakness at the gym just yet, but maybe I'll grow into my confidence a little at a time.

(Meaning: I remember how weak and sick I felt after being on bedrest, having a c-section and caring for twins. I'm still terrified of feeling that way again. I'm so incredibly scared of feeling that sick again that I'll do whatever I can NOW to get my body a little healthier so I can weather than time when it comes... Or that's the plan, at least...)

A Letter to GE HR

2009-10-19T10:10:00.000-06:00

  Dear General Electric Human Resources,

  No amount of sugar coating makes the introduction of a deductible palatable. My husband joined your company, in large part, because his former company's health plan included a deductible and yours did not. We hate deductibles that much. They are evil and they encourage loving parents to dismiss their children's sicknesses as "not important enough" because it costs $50+ just to be seen for five minutes. Ten minutes if I bring a list of questions.

  A deductible ensures that you collect our premiums every two weeks but pay nothing in return. I can see how that is a benefit to you. I can see how that is a great business model and lowers your increasing costs. The only down side? It does not provide your customers--who depend on you to provide what they need--with what they need and want.

  I would like to congratulate your propagandists, however. It almost sounds nice when you tell me that my new insurance plan will "expand preventive coverage, provide [me] with tools to be healthy, and will protect [me] financially in the case of severe illness." Almost. Let's break that down.

  (1) Expand preventive coverage. So you will be happy to cover doctor's visits when I am not sick. Okaaaay...

  (2) Provide me with tools to be healthy. Like a glossy brochure full of marketing pitches about how I need to eat more fruits and vegetables and exercise regularly? Gosh! What would I do without THAT?!? I mean, that's really earth-shattering stuff. Seriously. When you want to pay for my gym membership, let me know. Until then, I'm not impressed.

  (3) Protect me financially in the case of severe illness. So if I get cancer, you've got my back? That's good to know. Seriously. I'm not even being sarcastic. I understand that this kind of "insurance" is what you'd like me to focus on. I just wanted a lot more.

  (4) Make routine sick-child visits affordable so I can have my children seen before minor problems turn into major ones. Oh wait.. you didn't SAY THAT, did you?!?

  In closing, I'd like to thank you for making this change while I am pregnant. It's so nice to know that paying the HIGHEST premiums this year, in exchange for the lowest deductible which is $300 MORE than the deductible I had with our previous company, will be the right choice for me. It's great to be in charge of my own health choices. I feel so empowered.

  Sincerely, Juliana

  p.s. Please don't offer my husband a pay increase to help pay for this, because then we might be in the higher bracket of salaries and have to pay even more for our bi-weekly contributions. Oh wait. You didn't offer.

Sidelined

2009-10-16T16:29:00.000-06:00

Thomas and I are sick.

It might not be H1N1, but the doctor didn't want to refer us to a place where we would find out. We're on vacation, people. The flu is the flu.

Or, technically, an "upper respiratory infection" is an "upper respiratory infection." It could just be a common cold because nobody's barfing ... yet.

What this all means is that we're supposed to be in Disneyland right now, but we're not. We're quarantining ourselves for most of a day and letting Thomas and I sleep, sleep, sleep... Elijah is always up for a good nap and Dad is happy to be out of touch with reality, too, since he did an emergency Ibuprofen run at 3:30 a.m. Only our oldest is at the happiest place on earth.

I'm just happy not to be doing dishes and laundry while I'm recovering from whatever-this-is. I'm also happy to be at a hotel that serves up Milano cookies with the nightly turn-down service. I've been swimming twice and I haven't cooked a meal since Monday. Who cares about some measly coughing and skyrocketing fevers (poor Thomas!) when I have so many great things going my way?

Rather (Rah-thuh)

2009-10-09T11:12:00.000-06:00

I just finished a great classic novel, Middlemarch by George Eliot. It was quite an impressive epoch and I am glad I discovered it. However, I worry that it has had a negative influence on my speech patterns. I find myself using complicated, pretentious-sounding phrases because that has filled my mind so completely of late. (Ahem.)

Did it rub off on Joseph? He wanted to write me a little letter this morning and I told him to just write whatever was in his heart. The result:

"Dear Mom,

I do hope the baby will function."

I laugh every time I think of this phrase. I think, "Rather, dear!" with an overly dramatized stuffy, old English gentlemen accent. Rah-thuh! I do hope the baby will be perfectly functional, indeed!

Frail

2009-10-08T13:54:00.000-06:00

I'm still unsure of how this happens. All is well. All is good. Then I wake up from a nap and uncertainty has overcome me. All my mistakes, all my blunders, all my imperfections are carved in front of me. I stare at them and feel so weak, so helpless.

Maybe I expect too much of myself, or maybe I don't expect enough of myself. I feel that both are true and that knowledge makes me wince.

Sometimes my words echo after they are spoken and I say, "I'm a nice person. I have a gentle voice and pleasant manner of showing others that I care for them." Then I think of all the proof that this isn't true and my words sounds harsh and unforgiving.

I want off this emotional roller coaster.

When I think about the so, so, so many imperfections that define me, I can't help but feel like the video below, which makes me cry every time I watch it. (Surprise, surprise.) If it was easy to perfect myself, wouldn't I do it? But life is not easy. I am bound and trodden down by how difficult it is to be something that I am not, that I want to be.

I know that I am progressing every day to the person whom I will some day be. I think I feel this furnace of imperfection more than many people. Now I will sit and mourn my humanity. Tomorrow I will resolve to see my own divinity.

Islands of Awake

2009-10-06T11:23:00.000-06:00

Naps are like little islands of sleep in the middle of an ocean of wakefulness.

What do you call those little islands of wakefulness in the middle of sleep? Shouldn't they have a convenient, little word to describe them? Insomnia refers to a recurring problem and not to the little island itself, so I need something else. Let's see. Wakefulness. Wakeful times ...? WAkeFul Times? WAFT?

I'm sick of WAFTing. I wafted so much last night that I actually came up with the ridiculous little term "WAFT." That tells you how tired and groggy I was. When I waft, my brain goes around in circles and I feel grumpy. I was awake for about two hours last night and felt very grumpy about it. Charity was lost and all I could think about was those pet peeves that drive me crazy about people. How could he...? Why should she...? Why can't they...? I realized what I was doing and tried to rationally call a halt. Then I mentally revisited all the greatest mistakes and disappointments of my life and let guilt and regret seep in for a while. That seemed equally unhealthy and I tried to focus on breathing in and out... in and out... That lasted about two breaths.

I eventually fell back to sleep. I awoke to the sounds of my children talking in blurred excitement. I tried to be nice about it, but I snapped. "I didn't sleep well last night. PLEASE GO DO SOMETHING ELSE!" It wasn't too harsh, but I hate to make my children feel unwanted ... which they were, but I didn't want them to FEEL that way.

I forced myself awake 15 minutes before my oldest left for school, made him two pieces of toast and sent him out the door. Five minutes later I looked at the calendar to plan my day and realized I had missed school pictures. This is not too big of a deal, except that I can imagine my son's hurt confusion when he realizes everybody else has money for pictures, slick hair and a nice shirt. My son left for school with hair poking up in back and lying flat in front (sigh) and a 4-H t-shirt. That's high-class. This will be the class picture to be buried and never remembered. The class picture that Fox News will latch onto when my son is a famous something-or-other. This will be the class picture that his fiance looks at and says, "You certainly did end up looking nicer than you looked in 2nd grade. Isn't it marvelous that we grow up?"

So now I prepare myself for the grumpy little face that will come home. There will be accusation in his eyes and he will be holding back tears as he screams, "YOU FORGOT ABOUT SCHOOL PICTURES!!" Luckily for him, I have a Plan B. I'm going to make sugar cookies for a church activity tonight and they will be sitting here warm and ready to be frosted. I know I shouldn't bribe away anger with sugar, but sugar cookies are very therapeutic. At least, that's what I'm betting on.

Heart palpitations

2009-10-02T19:13:00.000-06:00

I'm so disappointed. And scared.

I took a nap and woke up feeling disoriented and sick. Nothing new there. I laid down and watched "The Biggest Loser" feeling like a total loser of the wrong sort.

I forced myself to get up and prepare some semblance of dinner for the kids. I couldn't figure out why I was out of breath. I put my head in my hands and breathed in and out, in and out.

Oh no. Please not this. Not yet. It's only the first trimester and my heart is healthier than it was with the other pregnancies. Please, please, please ... not this ...

I walked over to the clock and put my fingers to my pulse. 128 beats per minute.

128 and I had just been standing in the kitchen. Just standing there, trying to breathe. For my age, a heart rate of 128 is right smack dab in the middle of my target exercise range. Right about where I should be if I'm doing a good cardio workout, which is the way I felt.

No, no, no...

Maybe 128 isn't bad. Maybe that's normal. That's normal, right? Is the breathlessness normal, too?

Although they do not currently specify any particular number, the American College of Obstetricians & Gynecologists used to recommend keeping your heart rate at under 140 when pregnant and exercising. At this rate, I'm getting in a great workout without doing anything.

To be honest, 128 isn't bad for this kind of episode. When I was pregnant with the twins, my pulse would spike to over 200 unexpectedly. It didn't matter what I was doing. It often happened when I was lying in bed. It scared the crud out of me every time.

It started when I was pregnant with Joseph. The doctor told me to go into labor & delivery if it happened again, so I dutifully went in but the episode had passed. This started a long line of heart tests and cardiologist visits. Sitting in the waiting room where the average age appeared to be 92 or so, I felt old and scared. What was wrong with me?

The cardiologist couldn't tell me. They never could pin it down right when it was happening, but my heart appeared to be working just fine. And after the pregnancies were over, the heart palpitations faded away. I've never forgotten, however, when my cardiologist lightly mentioned that my heart was having trouble doing what it needed to do and yes, technically, he could classify that as heart failure. Maybe the term "heart failure" to him is a broader, less "I NEED TO FREAK OUT ABOUT THE WORDS YOU JUST USED" kind of phrase than it is to me.

So I've been exercising since I had the twins. I've been losing weight. I swore to myself that I'd be healthier during my last pregnancy and if I worked hard enough, this wouldn't happen. I really, honestly, truly, sincerely believed it. Until it happened. Until I was standing there and couldn't catch my breath and my heart was suddenly racing and it wasn't until it had been going on for several minutes that I realized what was happening and got that magic number: 128, and I knew that it had probably been higher than that a minute before and all my best intentions and hopes for a palpitation-free pregnancy had just been blasted apart with a shotgun. And I knew that the tears that were starting to form were not going to be the simple "single tear on cheek" kind of tears. These were going to be big, sobbing tears of disappointment and frustration and if I tried to call anybody to talk about it, I'd fall apart faster than cotton candy that's been thrown in the toilet.

There were only two things left to do:

(1) Text my husband and ask if 128 seemed normal to him?

(2) Blog it away and try to cope

I'm still feeling a little, tiny bit out of breath and freaked out. But I need to move on. I'll call the OB on Monday and just let him know that "they're baaaaaack!" and pray that he doesn't make me stop exercising or start wearing one of those danged uncomfortable EKG holsters that I suffered with twice before. Maybe I should just not tell him...?

There's More to Life Than Pregnancy

2009-09-30T10:51:00.000-06:00

* I understand why people call the wind "biting." As I stepped out into it today, jacket-free by (stupid) choice, it felt like a thousand little goblins were chomping down on my skin. I stung all over and thought, "Ahhh... the biting wind... I get it now..." I tried to think of how else I could describe wind that was slightly less cliche. Numbing? Cliche. Stinging? Cliche. I thought up a good one, but it's gone by now. Such are all opportunities in life: if you don't grab them, they'll flit away.

* At the last writing conference I attended, Jeff Savage taught a fun class and I had to laugh at myself for all the wrong things I'm guilty of. (Of which I'm guilty?) If I couldn't laugh when he pointed them out, where would I be? Crying? It's better to laugh than cry. One of the things he scoffed at was "Purple Prose." Umm... guilty! However, in my defense, my ridiculously metaphorical writing is not for show. It's not because I want to impress anybody. It's just the way I think! Similes and metaphors are the bread and butter of my imagination. (Wow, I did that without realizing what I was doing. Honestly. Do you see what I'm saying? I can't help myself.) I honestly imagine little goblins biting my skin when the wind whips around me. I honestly think the mountains are lazily sleeping when I look up at them. My brain functions in metaphor.

* When I dropped the twins off at preschool this morning, we heard a fire engine's sirens blaring nearby. We stopped and turned around to watch it pass, but suddenly the lights went off and the engine was silent. I watched the students across the street, waiting at the crosswalk, turn their heads together to watch the approaching engine. It came crawling through the street and I didn't understand why. Was the emergency suddenly cancelled? Never mind, folks. Let's head back to the station! Or.. what? Just as I started entertaining these questions, the engine roared back to life with a whir of sound and flashing lights.

It hit me suddenly: this is a school zone. Flashing yellow lights by the "20 MPH zone" trump the flashing red fire engine lights any day. Those kids all waiting innocently across the street could be my kids: my impetuous little Thomas or my speedy little Elijah. I don't know why it affected me so profoundly, but I cried as I walked into the school. Children are so valuable. Children are so innocent. Protecting the children is important enough for the blaring fire engines and ambulances to slow down and watch carefully. Am I slowing down in my life to protect my children emotionally?

* Winter popped its head around the corner this morning to say hello. "Hi! Remember me? Just wanted to check in and let you know I'll be home soon!" I'm delighted. The plunging temperatures are nothing but good news to my overly-hot, pregnant body. And the rain! Ahhh, if I were ever to compose a very Purple Prose sonnet, it would be about the rain. I love the sound, the smell, the clear air and even the swampy lake that develops in my back yard. (I could choose to be bitter that the contractor of the home behind us didn't put in a retaining wall to keep their bloomin' water where it BELONGS (thank you very much) but I try to enjoy the seasonal pond instead.) The kids put on rain boots and go stomping in the temporary marsh. What fun!

* Could there possibly be a more lovely season than Autumn? To me, Autumn is the time of year for falling in love. Perhaps it's because it was Autumn when I realized suddenly that I was in love with the man who later became my husband. What a shocking revelation that was to me! Now I fall in love with the whole world each Autumn: the red and orange leaves, the warm pumpkin pie, the apple cider, huge apples from the Farmer's Market. Ah, Autumn!

Night-time visitor

2009-09-29T13:09:00.001-06:00

"Sometimes I wish I knew the nature of night thoughts. They're close kin to dreams. Sometimes I can direct them, and other times they take their head and come rushing over me like strong, unmanaged horses."

--John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

I know the nature of my night thoughts. They emanate from a tiny demon that likes to laugh at me when I'm too drowsy to fight off irrational anxiety. Perhaps the demon is not real, but that is how I picture my anxious brain. I think somebody somewhere must be laughing hysterically as I try to wade through the desperate illusions in search of concrete reality.

Which is to say: I've been having trouble sleeping. When I awaken in the darkness, my brain plays out all the irrational (and rational) stresses that are plaguing me just below the surface during the day. I struggle toward wakefulness to cast out these fears, but my body resists: Sleep! Sleep!

My inner demon has lately been whispering to me all my fears about this pregnancy. It alternately made me terrified of miscarriage and terrified of having FOUR children! I got out of bed grumpy and past my breaking point. My morning was scheduled to the minute until my first obstetrician appointment. I was sure that they'd have to give me terrible news.

When I arrived, the nurses welcomed me by name and told me how excited they were that I was pregnant again. My doctor put his arm around me and told me how much he loves being my doctor. I told him he must have forgotten my last pregnancy and he assured me that it is difficult patients that get under his skin and never difficult pregnancies.

I vocalized all my fears and anxieties and my doctor reassured me that I had all the right symptoms of pregnancy and my uterus was measuring at just the right size. They took me back to the ultrasound room and within moments of starting the procedure, the nurse exclaimed, "There is the heart!"

And then I heard it. I was unprepared for that little thumpa-thumpa-thumpa that means life. I couldn't help it: I cried.

If I cry when I watch "The Biggest Loser" or "The Apprentice" (for heaven's sake!), you can bet I'll cry when I hear my baby's heartbeat.

If I cry when I drive past a traffic accident and think about how somebody's life just got turned upside down, you can bet I'll cry when I realize there is a living creature, with a heart independent of my own, that has just turned my life upside down.

That little heart beat, coming out of a little tiny human bean, washed away all the anxieties and fears. Life is good.

Zen Forgotten

2009-09-23T11:18:00.001-06:00

A few weeks ago, I mastered the art of handling Paper Cut Pain. It was swell. Now the pregnancy hormones are running wild and I feel like curling up in a ball and crying myself to sleep. Not so Zen.

This is why I approached the idea of another child with trepidation. Perhaps trepidation is the wrong word. The correct word would be something closer to fear, horror or sheer terror. When I become pregnant, I lose myself. I try not to. I sincerely try to stay grounded and tell myself that I am still in control, but I just don't believe it. There is this tiny, tiny bundle of cells that has made itself at home and has completely taken over my body. It's like the steering wheel has been stolen from my rational brain and been placed in the hands of an eight-week-old embryo.

This new driver, which I can't help but think of as an invited parasite, has switched the "appetite" lever from the "Let's Try to Lose Weight" mode to "If You Don't Eat Every 20 Minutes, You Will Be Severely Punished" mode. It has also wreaked havoc with the immune system (sniffle, sniffle), the bladder, my emotions and my sleeping patterns. And just last week I remembered with horror how the third trimester will bring me heartburn. That alone is enough to make me shiver in fear. I think that my Halloween costume should be an over-sized t-shirt that says PREGNANT on it. If that doesn't make the women in my neighborhood scream in terror, I don't know what will.

I still haven't decided, however, if I handle physical or emotional pain better. Pregnancy hormones make my emotions incredibly messed up. I was just relaxing in my bathtub--seemingly a perfectly happy situation--when the blues sneaked in through the window. I must have breathed them in unaware because I was suddenly crying. Life is terrible. Everyone hates me. I have no friends. I have no talent. Even my children would reject me if they had anywhere else to go. I'm totally inept at everything I try. I'm a lousy writer and people cringe when I sing. Loser. Loser. Loser!

Whoa. That was a fun emotional roller coaster. Thanks, pregnancy.

I couldn't decide if that was better or worse than the dry heaving I experienced after dropping my kids off at school. Being in the car makes me so nauseous, and I'm terrified of the road trip we have planned for two weeks from now. If I can't go 10 minutes to preschool without almost tossing my cookies, how am I going to handle that constant swaying motion for 10 hours?

I was wondering last week why my anxiety level had risen so dramatically--I can feel my whole body tense and on edge--and I think I'm slowly coming to grips with the answer. Happy life of "Mom with kids in school so she has time to herself" is gone. My life is changing every single day as the impact of pregnancy hits harder and harder. The tiredness has turned to fatigue and the queasiness has turned into dry heaving. It's just getting worse and worse every day. My first appointment is in less than a week and I'm thinking that if I get bad news, I'll be devastated for a while but that I'll find peace in ending my family at three children. I just don't feel like I could start this over and do it again.

And I know that even one minute with a newborn baby would offset all the pain and discomfort and crying. Even one breath would be enough for me to say, "It was all worth it. I'm so glad God gave me this one moment." That's how amazing it is to give birth. And that's why I decided to do this crazy thing one more time.

Pregnancy Q&A

2009-09-18T16:06:00.002-06:00

Now you don't have to ask. But you can, just to make small talk, if you'd like. These is a fairly faithful re-creation of the reactions I've gotten from most people I've talked to about my pregnancy. The questions crack me up. Especially this first one:

Q: You're pregnant? How did that happen?
A: Why yes. Yes I am. The way it usually happens, thank you very much. Sheesh. Oh, do you mean was I on fertility drugs? Oh, well that makes more sense. Nope. Totally natural this time.

Q: Umm ... congratulations?
A: Thank you for your enthusiasm.

Q: Was this ... planned? Or was this a surprised?
A: Both. The time felt right, but with my history of infertility, it's still an exciting surprise. (I'm amazed with the number of people who think I could have gotten pregnant accidentally. I'm fairly certain that I can manage to not get pregnant if I don't want to be pregnant. It ain't rocket science, people.)

Q: So when are you due?
A: Early May. I am starting my eighth week today.

Q: Isn't this a little early to be telling people?
A: I've known for an entire month and kept my lips zipped. I call that the Accomplishment of the Year. Yes, it will be very unfortunate if I miscarry and have to actually change my header logo again, but I would have told people if I'd miscarried anyway. This blog is about being real and trying to let other people find solace in the inevitability of imperfection and trials. It's what I do here.

Q: So what do you want? A boy or a girl?
A: Yes.

Q: No. Seriously.
A: Okay, fine. I'd love to have a little girl. I'm already outnumbered FOUR to ONE in my household and I find myself staring at the pale pink, shabby chic home decor wistfully when I'm at the store. This is not natural. Plus, it would help the boys learn how to treat a lady right. Right? If it's another boy, I'll be fine with that but I will be bitter for a few years whenever I see my neighbors dressing their daughters up in those cute dresses with hair bows and matching shoes. Mildly to severely jealous, too. But I'll get over it. I adore my three boys and wouldn't wish them away. The same will be true of the next baby. I will love it because it's mine, whatever it is. Gender is only one part of the genetics.

Q: How do you feel?
A: Pregnant. By which I mean, I have the nine month flu. I'm hot, uncomfortable, dead tired 24/7, and I find myself longing for the days when I actually had the flu and could throw up to ease the nausea. I just feel like I'm gonna puke all day long but I never do. Riding in the car makes me feel so queasy that my twice-daily drive to the twins' preschool makes me seriously consider hiring someone to pick them up. I can't sleep through the night and my toilet is my new bff.

My house is becoming more and more cluttered and icky because I can't bring myself to clean for more than about 15 minutes at a time, and the smell of cleaners makes me ill. I have to eat something at least once an hour or I feel like my stomach is going to crawl out of my body and yell at me to hurry up and FEED IT. All of that while I am developing serious food aversions and can't even look at most of my favorite foods anymore. I bought water crackers and saltines today and nearly tossed my cookies while looking at raw meat and sugary cookies. Oh man. I think I'm gonna be sick just thinking about it...

Q: Sounds like fun.
A: I hate pregnancy. I'm super excited that it happened and I can't wait until I have another little member of the family but there will be SERIOUS divine intervention involved to make me ever go through this again. Ever. If I miscarry, which would be both devastating and heart-breaking, I honestly don't know if I'd have the courage to start over. That's how much I hate HATE HATE pregnancy. It's evil. Every time I'm pregnant, I have this recurring daydream where God is laughing at me. Laughing really hard. Because pregnancy seems like a cruel joke.

Q: Ummm, okay then.
A: Sorry. I'll get to the rainbows and roses and cheerful banter again really soon. I can't tell you how excited I am. I'm just also scared to death. My emotions are whirling around in circles faster than I can think and ... well, just give me a little time. The day after I found out I was pregnant, I thought, "God, have you seen how I'm managing with the other three you sent? Are you sure this is a good idea? Because I'm not so sure. I'm happy about it and I wouldn't mind having twins again, but... You know how inadequate I am, so.... are you sure about this?"

Q: Do you think you'll have twins again?
A: No, because I'm not on fertility medication this go around. However, I feel like I'm bulging at the seams already and I'm extremely annoyed with my body. I'm not gaining much weight (which is a miracle with the way I can't stop putting crud in my mouth) but my shape is already changing a lot. If I found out it was twins, I'd feel slightly less embarrassed about the way I look. And terrified about what was coming. And thrilled to get two for the price of one. (Which I learned last time is actually more like "two for the price of three pregnancies all rolled into eight miserable months.")

Well, that's it, folks. If you haven't learned way more than you wanted to know, I'm not sure what more I can do for you. One last note:

YEA!! I'M PREGNANT!! WOOHOO!!

... I'm gonna go take a nap ...

Sepia Sunset

2009-09-17T19:39:00.002-06:00

The setting sun has cast the world in sepia tones. A reddish-brown aura infuses the world around me and I ponder my day.

12:15 Elijah runs happily toward the car. He slips. I see him falling. His knees hit the unforgiving concrete first and my knees start to sting in sympathetic pain. His momentum isn't spent and his nose is going straight toward the ground. I cringe in pain and then my palms burn as he raises his in time to protect his face. He cries all the way home and I speed, trying to get him to his placebo/bandaid as quickly as possible.

1:00 I meet a new friend. We both have twins. We both have dark hair and dark eyes. We're both ridiculously short but adorable anyway. We talk and sympathize and laugh together.

5:30 Thomas decides to do his best Zidane imitation and butt his head into mine while I watch a soccer game. It hurts and I sweep him off my lap as I cry out in pain. My neighbors gasp and turn to see the spectacle. I'm embarrassed that I swept Thomas away protectively. They tell me I'm really patient and that I handled it really well because I didn't lose my temper. My stake president is standing about 15 feet away. I wonder whether or not he thought I was patient.

7:30 My upper lip is still numb and my gums still hurt from the impact two hours ago. I'm developing a serious headache and I've informed the children they will all be in bed VERY SOON. Mom's had enough. Mom is tired. Mom's feeling sick and can't take any good pain relievers right now because ...

For those who don't know the Zidane reference, take a moment to enjoy one of the most unexpected, shocking and memorable moments in soccer history:

Spa Day?

2009-09-15T22:29:00.000-06:00

Surprising conversations happen regularly when children are involved.

Today:

Joseph, as we round the corner near the pizza joint: "Are we going to Little Caesars?"
Me: "Yes. I need to grab some stuff from Grandma's house and I figured we could just grab a pizza on the way."
Joseph (whining): "Why do we always go to the same old places? You know. Little Caesars. Wendys. Burger King."
Me: "Ummm, last night I got you guys Greek take out. Chicken souvlake. Lemon rice."
Joseph: "I know. I just... I just want to try something totally NEW."
Me (mumbling under my breath): "If you weren't so picky, maybe we could get fast food that didn't taste like cardboard....."

A minute later Joseph is apparently still processing this conversation. He had picked up on my somewhat testy, not very sympathetic, what-kind-of-entitled-bratty-kids-am-I-raising? tone of voice. The conversation continued.

Joseph: "Mom? I wish you could just have a day to relax."
Me: "Umm what? You mean so I'll be more relaxed and fun? Sorry I'm in a cranky mood. You know it's not your fault."

As I start to gear up for my bi-weekly "It's not your fault when Mom is in a bad mood. You can choose your emotions and so can I. Remember that nobody else can define the way you feel...." lecture, Joseph cuts me off. His voice sounds kind of unstable and I look in the rear view mirror to see tears welling up in his eyes.

Joseph: "No, Mom. It's just that I know how hard it is to raise three boys and I want you to be happy. Couldn't you go have a day for yourself like... like... like a SPA DAY?"

What? Where has he even heard the term "spa day"? And how did the entitled complainer turn into my favorite little sweetheart on the whole planet? Sometime in the last two minutes apparently.

Me: "Oh, sweetie, that's so nice but I don't need a spa day. I have lots of fun with you guys every day. You make me really happy!"

Joseph wouldn't let it go. He brought it up again later and I said that we have a nice whirlpool tub and he gives great foot massages, so what more could I want? His reply: "You know. MORE whirlpool tubs. And cucumbers! We need more cucumbers."

Man, I love my kids.

Favorite Recipes :: Costa Vida Sweet Pork

2009-09-15T12:35:00.019-06:00

I cannot claim to be (a) a talented chef or (b) a great photographer. So for me to side step into food blogging is a bit frightening & embarrassing. However, there are a few great recipes that I can't resist sharing! So we will take a break from our regularly scheduled rambling to bring you a brief culinary, domestic distraction.

As I said, I am not a talented chef. I am fairly adept at baking desserts, but I rarely find a good dinner recipe that I adore. It has to both taste great and be easy to prepare with three young ones demanding attention. Being inexpensive is always a bonus! Given those guidelines, my latest discovery is my favorite! It's a simple, 3.5-ingredient recipe for making Sweet Pork like you might find at Costa Vida or Cafe Rio. I am fairly certain that Costa Vida's is one thousand times better, but this is pretty dang sweet. (Pun intended.) It tastes great, was cheap and was a snap to prepare. Give it a try and let me know what you think!

Sweet Pork ala Costa Vida/Cafe Rio

Pork butt roast (mine was 99 cents per pound, 4-5 pounds, bone in, marbled with fat all through it. Ick. Yum. Ick.)
Enchilada sauce (I used two cans to cover about 1/3 to 1/2 of my roast in liquid. Adjust as needed for the size of roast you have.)
Brown sugar (This ain't science, so you can do this "to taste." I used about 1 1/2 cups of brown sugar, which is a ton, but... see title of recipe.)
(Oil for browning roast)

Method:

In a large pot (or crock pot), combine enchilada sauce and brown sugar and set aside.

Bring a large frying pan to medium-high heat and drizzle in enough oil to create a thin sheen on the bottom of the pan. Using tongs, lower the roast into the oil and let it sizzle and pop until a medium brown color. Use tongs to turn it and repeat until all sides are browned. Transfer the roast to the large pot (or crock pot) and make sure you have enough liquid to cover one-third to one-half of the roast in the liquid.

Set over low heat and let it cook all day (turning occasionally to let it cook evenly) or until the pork shreds easily with a fork. I allowed mine to cook for probably 8-10 hours, but this ain't rocket science. You don't want to under cook this, but a little extra time on simmer won't do damage too quickly. Give yourself plenty of time and experiment!

Note: I was VERY skeptical about this as it was cooking because it smelled overwhelming like plain old enchilada sauce and that wasn't what I wanted. Be patient. The final product won't really taste like that at all.

To finish it off, pull the pork out (piece by piece, because it should be falling apart) and let it sit for a few minutes to let the juices settle. Take the bone out, discard any fat you can find, and shred what is left. At this point, it won't be terribly flavorful so don't be disappointed if you pop some in your mouth and it tastes overwhelmingly like plain old pork.

While you are shredding, deboning and taking out the fat, turn up the heat on the sauce and let it reduce down to approximately half of the original volume. This is the trick to turning something so-so into something ooh-la-la! I also skimmed off any floating fat or gick that was left in the sauce.

Once your sauce has reduced and thickened up, put the shredded pork back into the sauce and simmer it together a while longer until you like the meat to sauce ratio.

Mine was better the next day, so I would recommend making it in advance, refrigerating it for a day or two and then re-warming to serve, but that's your prerogative. Mine just seems to taste better each time I try it. It's gone from "not too bad" to "pretty good" to "I know I shouldn't have another serving, but dang!" in four days.

Total cost: approximately $7 for many, many servings and more to freeze!
Active prep time: 10 min before cooking, 20 minutes to shred and prep sauce after cooking
Serving suggestions: taco salad, sweet pork tacos, quesadillas

Bonus recipe to go with this:

Corn ala Deliciousness
Do you love that corn they serve with your food at Bajio? Me, too! Try this as a super fast at-home alternative!

After you sear your roast and add it to the larger pot, drain off as much oil as possible from the pan and then set it over medium-high heat again. (Hey, why dirty two dishes, right?) Add a little* butter and let it sizzle until it melts and starts browning a few seconds later. Throw in a couple cups of corn kernels, chili powder, garlic and onion powder, salt and pepper. Stir it all together and let the corn get toasted a bit but not dried out. Dump that into a bowl and do the same with some precooked rice if you like! Add these spicy two-minute side dishes to your meal later on and turn up the heat a bit!

* By a "little" butter I mean a lot of butter, like a couple tablespoons! But don't cook this too often 'cause it ain't heart healthy!

Acknowledgements: I used the following resources to put this recipe together and you might find some great tips to make this recipe work better for you:

1. Methodology: the executive chef of Costa Vida, Dave Prows, braises his sweet pork, so I had to do it the same way. Here is some more info, which makes me already want to do things a bit differently next time! (I really debated whether or not to use two separate pans... I decided on two to minimize oiliness, but next time I might just use one for reasons mentioned in that article.)

2. Recipes: famfavoriterecipes, suite101, epicurious, recipezaar, bellaonline, mealsmatter, dinner-inspiration. Note: almost all the recipes use canned soda pop for making sweet pork, but I just refused. Why should I? It just seems gimicky, like you really want to have that "secret ingredient" to tell people. But it's just not necessary and it's not the secret to yumminess! One site I read said that the soda is for tenderizing, but if you're using the braising/slow cook method, that shouldn't be an issue. Mine turned out great without soda, but do your own thing if you want!

3. Other resources I browsed: Alton Brown's "I'm Just Here for the Food" and the Culinary Institute of America's "Professional Chef"

Under Construction

2009-09-10T10:41:00.003-06:00

Things are under construction here at True Confessions. I am so sick of this pink crud that I could scream. It's just so... so... 2008, you know? ;)

So if you visit the blog in the next little while and things look screwy, I apologize for being too lazy to do this all in the dead of night when people aren't as likely to be surfing.

California Dreamin'

2009-09-07T21:50:00.006-06:00

Joseph wants us to move to Nevada.

"Why???" I asked. Yes, there were at least three audible question marks after the question. Nevada???

"Well, if we live in Nevada, we're only one state away from California!" he answered seriously.

This was after Josh and I making up snarky songs about Nevada all along I-80. Almost heaven, West Nevada...

I informed Joseph there is no way in Nevada that we are moving to that hell. Well, I did not word it that way to him, but seriously folks: Nevada??? It's like one big hill of sagebrush interrupted only by casinos and never-finished highways. (I-80 in Nevada is a deep, gleaming black with sharply contrasting yellow paint. Large sections of this are being torn up, seemingly at random, and rebuilt as if they have to justify all the taxes they collect from gamblers. Once we hit California, the roads were in constant disrepair. I couldn't help turning to Josh and asking, "What the...? Is this state bankrupt or something?"

All the above is my long-winded way of saying we had a great family vacation. I was so shocked/thrilled by my children's lack of complaining during the 12 hours of driving each way that I wasn't even bummed by the vomit that erupted all over the car yesterday afternoon. We just dealt with it, thanks in part to some serious serendipity involving air fresheners.

I wasn't bummed when I asked Josh ten seconds too late, "How much gas do we have left?" and realized we had less than a quarter tank right after passing the last gas station in seven billion miles. (That's one more lovely thing about that scenic stretch of I-80 between Salt Lake City and the California border.)

I wasn't even bummed when Josh developed an allergy in our hotel room in San Mateo and we had to deal with the uncertainty of where that would lead us.

I was a little bummed about the Labor Day weekend traffic in Marin County that made my internal Mommy Clock cut our trip to Muir Woods short so the kids wouldn't be up too late. Josh was even more bummed. My internal Mommy Clock is a force to be reckoned with.

I think my favorite part of the trip was realizing that bad things could happen but it didn't affect my mood. It could have made me a screaming, stressed out banshee but... well, there was only a hint of that. In general, I was just thrilled to be with four cool boys who were so incredibly chill and funny and easy to get along with.

Who would have expected that from my boys? Seriously. Raise your hand. You know what I'm saying. They're cute. They're funny. But they're also wildly energetic and loud, and that doesn't usually translate well into a good road trip. Stepping into that car was a huge leap of faith and my boys shocked me with how awesome they were. Yea!

So now for the travelogue portion of the blog entry. We drove to scenic downtown Elko Wednesday evening and stayed overnight (just to get a jump start on the next day of driving.) We stretched our legs at the Salt Flats on the way, which is a family tradition. The boys got salt on their fingers and touched it to their tongues, which didn't gross me out. Then they went into the rest stop bathrooms and Elijah decided to lick the wall. That did gross me out. Enormously.

On Thursday we drove into California and drove straight to Emeryville (via a rather frightening "detour" in scenic downtown Oakland, which is not known for being a haven of well-behaved non-criminals). In Emeryville, we got to visit a friend at Pixar and give the kids a tour. The kids have never been there with me and they were incredibly stoked. We took pictures, stared at concept art (which I could do all day), played video games and got a special treat in the form of an open door.

An open door is not very intriguing, but an open door with a sign stating emphatically, "THIS DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED ABSOLUTELY ALL THE TIME NO MATTER WHAT..." is vastly intriguing. Out of respect for whoever left that door open, I won't comment on what I saw. We'll just say it was concept art for something that looked completely foreign to me. Josh said he thought it was connected to Toy Story 3, so we'll see if it looks familiar when that movie is released.

After Pixar, we went with our friends for dinner at Fenton's, which is featured in Pixar's latest movie, Up. It seemed appropriate. The Bay Bridge had just closed hours before, so we missed out on the treat of going over that anxiety inducer. (Does anybody else think of the San Francisco earthquake when they see a bridge with a double-decker design like that?)

On Friday, we took the kids to the Exploratorium for four hours. I had pencilled in two hours but the kids were really enjoying themselves. Afterward, Joseph said it wasn't what he had expected and thought it was totally boring. Yeah, kid, that's why I had to drag you out kicking and screaming. Because you were so bored. The highlight for me was the nauseating demonstration of a cow eyeball being dissected. Who would have guessed it looked like that inside?

Then we went to Ghiradelli Square, ate at Lori's Diner, got ice cream at Ghiradelli, walked across the street to the beach and cursed the freezing cold, windy San Francisco weather. Then we hopped in the car and drove up to Muir Woods, which I totally missed out on because the twins both fell asleep and my Inner Mommy couldn't wake them up, even for Redwoods. Josh and Joseph went for a 30-minute hike and then that mean old Mommy Clock made us drive away into two-inch-per-hour traffic. Ugh.

On Saturday, we met up with my sister and brother-in-law for breakfast and then drove down to San Jose for a memorial service for my Uncle who died recently. He was only my Uncle for a very brief time, and it makes me hurt inside to think about it, but it is what it is. The kids had a great time with my Auntie and we had a nice afternoon at the park. Then we drove to Half Moon Bay and let the kids run and splash in the ocean for a while. The water was a totally agreeable temperature after my feet went numb.

For dinner, we went to the most amazingly delicious restaurant I've been to in a long time: BJ's Restaurant & Brewhouse. Their pizza was... well, I'm almost crying right now just thinking about it. Some food is just that good. Why do they not have any restaurants in Utah? They would be wildly popular and packed all weekend long.

On Sunday, we drove around trying to find a church for 40 minutes and then enjoyed 30 minutes of the church service. Then we packed our hotel room up, cleaned it out (sort of), packed up the car and headed to Sacramento. Here comes the bittersweet portion of the blog entry.

We drove past my Dad's childhood home, 2700 Northrop Ave. This was where we came to visit my grandparents. This was our vacation destination when I was a kid. This was where I was wrapped up in a fresh-out-of-the-dryer sort of undeniable love that I'll never forget. Then we went to the cemetery where those grandparents are buried next to their daughter who died before she was 30 years old.

But that's not the bittersweet part. The bittersweet part was visiting another grave in that cemetery, a little distance off, in the children's section of the cemetery. A little gravestone bears the name of my parents' first child, my older brother than I never knew. I knew I'd cry. Obviously. This is my brother.

When I looked at his birth date and realized I was visiting him one day before his 40th birthday, the crying was much harder to keep respectable. We didn't have flowers so we sang him the song that was sung at his funeral: "Give, Said the Little Stream." It was his favorite, and it might be an odd "over the hill" birthday sort of present, but it came from the heart.

I wish I could have seen that mature-beyond-his-years, blonde-haired, blue-eyed two-year-old become a man. We would have been throwing him a crazy big birthday party today and ribbing him about his age with black crepe paper and "RIP" napkins. The RIP bit doesn't seem as funny, now that I think about it.

The drive home was uneventful except for the vomiting that started right after we left the cemetery, the numerous potty stops and the questionable hotel arrangements in Reno. The kids were amazing and never complained at all about the drive. Or maybe they complained so much that I was traumatized and blocked it out of my memory, but I don't think so. I'm stoked to do this all over again next month for a family reunion in southern California.

So much to be grateful for. All is well, all is well.

Google Fail

2009-09-07T21:43:00.004-06:00

Apparently (and surprisingly) my love of irony is even stronger than my love of Google.

Screenshot of Gmail failing to load on my browser of choice, Google's own Chome. The instructions state, "Please try using Gmail with a supported browser."