You Are Not Pro-Life If You Don't Care About People

You are not pro-life if you don't care about people.

You are not pro-life if your compassion for people stops once they are out of their mothers' bodies.

You are not pro-life if your focus in life is on making your life healthier, your country safer, your education better.

You are pro-life if you are pro-Christ. That doesn't mean some vague concept of "I honor the Bible and vote republican and freak out if public schools ban prayer." It means "I sacrifice myself for the glory of God. I sacrifice my comfort and my possessions and my abilities to help others." Many people do this who are not Christians, simply because they are in tune with Christ's love and agonizing passion for those who are hurting.

There are so many things I don't understand, and this is one of them: how a person can shed crocodile tears for unborn babies, yet not give a second look at a baby who has grown up into a 24-year-old single mother imprisoned by debt or a 12-year-old boy separated from his parents while being deported.

Don't misunderstand: I hate abortion. But you know what I hate more?

    - A society that creates situations where abortions are desired or needed. 

    - Devaluing human life to the point where our gender or race or sexuality becomes our identity and people become objects to satisfy our lust.

    - When babies grow up into children and teenagers and adults, and are abused and oppressed...not just because of our politicians and our laws, but because of US, the PEOPLE, who would rather look at one aspect of humanity, the fetus, and not the whole.

All people matter. I don't know how to convince you that people matter beyond the labels and the generalizations. You are pro-life when you seek out those who need help and then offer them your soul.

A Thankful Mom

 I haven't updated this blog for THREE YEARS.

I'm not sure what made me turn to it now, but part of the reason is that I was working on preparing for my classes next week and realized I have some free time. The only reason I have free time is because of my friend, Anna, who is playing with the older kids while Lucy is napping. This made me realize how much help and support we really have in our lives, not just in friends and family, but in government funding.

There is a lot of genuine failure in government, as you can tell from any glance at the news or public opinion, but there is also so much that goes unthanked. I felt a nudge to give a more public "thank you" for all of the help we receive that makes it possible for me to do things like teach online even though I have three young kids, one of whom has many special needs.

When we first received Esther's diagnosis of Rett Syndrome, we were already enrolled in various therapies, which were covered through a Medicaid program. Thank God for that, because just one 60-minute physical therapy session runs about $70. 

Her equipment also is covered. It takes a loooong time to receive any equipment, but we are still grateful for all of it. She first got a stander that helps her (you guessed it) stand, was a critical piece. It helps her legs stay strong and gets her in a different position. She has also gotten an eye gaze device, gait trainer, stroller, bath chair, and activity chair.

Anna is able to help me a couple days a week by taking care of Esther while I do various things, like mow or clean or work on class or whatever. She gets paid for this through a waiver. I'm still amazed that is even an option. I had no idea how much was available for children like Esther.

For about a year, Esther attended the Wonder Center a couple days a week where some wonderful nurses took care of her. They fed her, played with her, she received Speech therapy, sometimes got to play with a therapy dog, etc. This was also covered by the waiver.

Specialists are covered through Medicaid, such as the geneticist who diagnosed her, the neurologist, and orthopedist. She needed ankle braces and special shoes for when she stands or practices walking. Both were given to us at Shriners Hospital.

Now, Esther is starting up at a school for special needs children. She'll go two half-days a week and this is part of the public school system. Her teacher and aides and therapists there are fabulous. 

She receives in-home therapy once a week (OT and PT). She has speech once a week.

And I think, how is all of this help just GIVEN? How do so many people make it their life's work to help children like Esther and their families? I wish we didn't need it all, but man, since we do, it's amazing encouragement.

So, thank you to everyone who advocates for the funding and support for Esther. Thank you for seeing her value and giving of your time to make sure that she lives her best life. Thank you for understanding how hard it is as a parent, for giving us help in our homes and in our schools.

My Second Dad

Someday, I will have lost my dad three times. The first time was when he suffered a head injury in 1986, the second time was when he started having seizures in 2004, and the third time is yet to come.

Isaac's second birthday party was on Saturday and this was the first time I realized that I missed my second dad, the one I knew growing up. After his car accident, but before his seizures began, the fear of a "tantrum," or a violent outburst, always lurked in the shadows. However, Dad was the best dad he could be. And I miss him. As we got ready to leave for the party at Heritage Park, for the first time I realized how much I ache for the dad I had growing up.

Dad was active and DID stuff with me and my sister: swimming, mall trips, ice skating (he couldn't skate because of his knee injury from the car accident, but watched and waved to us behind the railing), driving to volleyball games, volunteering for school fundraisers, putt-putting, etc. At any hour of the day, Dad was just a phone call and 10-minute car ride away; he came to kill spiders, play Uno, or drink Root Beer floats in the garage while it rained. I'll always remember the sounds of dripping rain in the dark garage, sipping at our floats in lawn chairs.

Now, after the 2004 seizures (and recurring ones), Dad can't do much. I am thankful he remembers me and his grandchildren, but I miss his joy in doing things. He spends most days in his "office," a rental apartment that his brother owns, reading Greek translation books. It's almost funny that while Dad can't keep up with a Nancy Drew book, he still manages his Greek. He does two half-hour sessions on his exercise bike, reads those books, makes lunch, takes a shower, watches TV...and that's about it. Remembering his life before, this routine depresses me, but I have to remember that he is content with the routine. He clearly knows his life is supposed to be more than this, but he needs the repetition, the stability.

On Saturday, I thought how much pre-2004 Dad would have loved to come to the party. I can just picture him walking to the playground, carrying a tower of wrapped presents for Isaac.

Like most people, I didn't realize how great of a Dad I had. His love and generosity were too often overshadowed by his head injury and the possible "tantrums." He no longer enjoys large parties, but used to. I'll always remember him coming to Pizza Hut after volleyball games, surprising the large table by paying the whole bill. He loved people and loved being generous. I wish he could be here, playing with Isaac and holding Esther. If that same Dad were here today, I could see him packing up his apartment and moving down to Greenville in a U-haul truck, spending every day with his grandchildren and treating us all to frozen yogurt.

I can't bring "either" Dad back. But I can pass on his legacy by enjoying doing things with my own children and giving all of my heart to them. My sister and I were Dad's world; Isaac and Esther are now mine.

Currently, we don't have a garage, but when it rains, maybe we'll set up lawn chairs in front of the window and drink Root Beer floats.

Checking IN

Dissociating. To separate or disconnect.

This is a concept ingrained into my psyche. It's more than just daydreaming or not paying attention. "Checking out" is probably the best description. For as long as I can remember, I've checked out as a coping mechanism. Basically, if my mind is somewhere else, somewhere "safe," then nothing can hurt me. Of course, this is all subconscious and appears in many ways.

Reading. YouTube binges. Doodling. Staring at a wall.

Normally, it's fairly harmless, but when you have two children, one of whom is a very energetic and loving little boy, you need to be present and you need to PLAY. Why is this so difficult at times? Because it requires my mind to be engaged constantly with another mind. There's little time to "check out" and be in my "safe place" when there's such a constant demand for my mental presence.

When two little hands are grabbing for me and a little voice demanding my attention, I hate it when I feel myself withdrawing into myself. I hate that I want those little hands and that little voice to let me check out. How can a loving mother want that? That's why I'm glad I've recognized this fault of mine.

And it's gotten better over the last two years. Sure, it's easy when your babies are tiny and don't notice whether your mind is present or not. All they need is cuddles, milk, and de-pooping. But, slowly, they develop and need deeper attention. They need someone to build blocks with them, someone to chase them in the yard, someone to pretend that the Tickle Monster is out for vengeance. Really, these things require little to no effort, but when you're used to decades of having the mental freedom to check out, it becomes yet another brick wall to break down.

Yesterday, I played with my son in the backyard and saw the pure joy on his face when I reached my hands through the playset slats to grab him, I heard the bubbling giggles as I chased him from one fence to the other, I saw the glow in his eyes when he figured out how to blow leaves out of his hands...these are the moments that make a childhood. Years from now, I don't want my babies remembering that they had to coerce me into playing or drag me away from a book. It's a work in progress, but there IS progress.

Babies

I'm actually a little glad that my labor and recovery with Isaac was so rough because it makes me feel less apologetic for how easily Esther came into the world. Since I was chilling at five cm. for over a week, when the doctor said, "When you feel any consistent contractions, JUST GO," we took her literally. Especially because I wanted plenty of time to get that epidural.

A friend kindly told me, during our church's small group, not to feel badly about wanting an epidural.

"I don't feel bad that I want one," I said, "but I do feel bad for how MUCH I want one."

Somehow, a truly loving mother should at least feel some reservation about getting an epidural, right? Nope. I adore the thought of going "all natural," but after Isaac and the death-torture-straight-from-the-bowels-of-hell contractions, I wanted that needle in my back, plunging my body into sweet, blissful ignorance.

So, around 1 a.m. on Thursday morning, I had two big contractions, woke up Ryan and my mom (who was staying in our guest room), and off we went to the hospital. Isaac was conveniently snoozing at our friends' house where we left him that night because I was pretty sure I was having some small contractions and, again, after the doctor's "JUST GO!", I was glad to let him stay for his first sleepover.

It was a weird feeling, driving through the dark and down a very empty I-385. So different from Isaac when we drove in the afternoon, me convinced that every other driver was looking over in horror every time I felt those death-torture-straight-from-the-bowels-of-hell contractions. Although, when I'm in that much pain, I don't show it much...I probably just looked like I needed to poop. But THIS time was actually fun. I wasn't in much pain yet, was pretty sure I'd get an epidural in time, and was actually feeling very happy.

That didn't change. The whole labor and delivery was delightful. Seriously. Who knew it could be FUN? One of the best reasons for going without an epidural is wanting to be fully alert and present to the delivery process. For me, I was able to enjoy so much more with the drugs. So. Much. More. Esther took her time in coming, but that was fine. In the hours before she came, I played Words with Friends, felt my belly as the contractions intensified which was fun because I felt nothing, joked with Ryan and the nurses, ate cherry Popsicles, and even napped.

Right before Esther was born, I felt some of the really intense contractions even through the epidural. It hurt, but it was a good hurt. I was glad to feel some of the pain. The doctor and nurses came in soon, said, "Looks like you're ready to push," and I was like, "Ok, I'll just put my phone away..." And, 10 minutes later. Esther's sweet, little (VERY little) head came poking out. Ryan brought a small mirror so I could see everything this time and I'm so glad for that. It was weird and marvelous to see Esther born into the world.

While I've felt sadder and more irritable this past week, I'm doing well. Almost suspiciously well. I say "suspiciously" because I always have this suspicion that anything good can't last. Even as I watch Isaac's precious face as he sleeps or nurse Esther and cherish that little hand curled around my finger, I sense the loss of them growing up, becoming independent, leaving the nest...I wonder if I've ever truly lived in the moment as an adult.

However, that fear of loss at least helps me enjoy these little moments while I have them. I can't freeze Esther in time or preserve her cuddly newborn-ness, but I can treasure this baby while she's a baby. Just like I couldn't (and can't) freeze Isaac, and now see a VERY active toddler who loves climbing and getting into everything, I know I've properly treasured each stage of his life so far.

But still, I so wish they could stay babies just a little longer!

I Will Still...

When I was younger, I would furiously write about how I felt when I was in the middle of tumultuous emotions. My mom says that she would often walk by my room and hear a mad assault of pen on paper. Somehow, I've lost this healthy habit and am resurrecting it now. The clicking of keys isn't as satisfying as scrawling on paper, but it's much faster!

And I need to get my thoughts out. I've never been so hurt and saddened and afraid by an election outcome. I'm overwhelmed by what I deem as ignorance, injustice, and basic foolishness in electing a man who is so clearly inept, disgusting, and ridiculous. I felt the beginnings of a panic attack last night when I realized Trump was going to win and literally forced myself to stop refreshing poll results so that I could go to sleep. I had a dream that I punched someone in the face for patting my baby bump too hard. Somehow it's related.

I don't understand how this happened. But it did. And we are all in it together, whether we voted for this crazy guy or not. I refuse to crumple and give into panic, which is so tempting to do because all I see right now is a vague future of angry shouting, blind refusal to accept facts, and a general disregard for the value of every person's life. I hate that I have to listen to that man's stupid face for at least four more years. I hate that he represents our country.

BUT, while this fear and anger swirls around my thoughts, I again refuse to let it keep me from joy. I've overcome too much in my personal life to let some arrogant billionaire who will never know my name rob me of what I've worked so hard to get: joy. I can't help but think: what if we become a modern version of Nazi Germany? Am I being extreme? Probably, but I think it's possible that we could become at least a fraction of that, at least in terms of intolerance and hatred.

Even if that happened, if all Muslims were banned from the U.S. and immigrants were rounded up like criminals, I promise to do my part in history and stand up for them. I'm not conceited enough to think that I alone would change the world, but I would change a small droplet of it. I would protest. I would house people who needed it. I would try to protect my family while also trying to protect those who need it. I'll stand up to bullies and racists and sexists and everything-ists, and teach my little babies to do the same.

I will still live my life. I will still be happy. I will still laugh. I will still be Isaac's mommy. I will still be Ryan's wife. I will still do improv and sketch comedy. I will still own at Ticket to Ride. I will still read good books and drink tea and have a beautiful baby girl. I will still teach my children to be courageous and intelligent in an impossibly stubborn and illogical world. I will still travel. I will still watch every College Humor sketch. I will still hold an everlasting internal debate whether to keep my hair long or to chop it off. I will still do Sunday LA Times crosswords.

Most importantly, I will still love God and I will still love people. And that's the power of God's Word...nothing can defeat him or his followers: no nation, no president, no dictator, no war, no legislation. Humanity has endured every form of evil and yet good still exists. That alone is a testament to God's endurance. I don't know why He doesn't just wipe out the crazy evil people, but I do know that light continues to triumph over darkness.

The Effort of Doing Things

In my composition class today, we talked about procrastination and a student suggested this Ted Talk, which we watched. I'm so glad she suggested it because in the short video, the speaker addressed the issue of procrastinating on things that "have no deadlines." This is one of my biggest daily struggles: doing things. Not even important things, but THINGS.

For example, I've had pounds of these apples sitting on my counter since last week. I have every intention of making applesauce, apple butter, and apple jam out of them. I even have the equipment pulled down from the cabinets...and, yet, I can't seem to get to the point of cutting the apples up and DOING all this. It's not hard. I have the time. But. I. Just. Don't. Do. It.

This is just one example of constant THINGS that I don't do...like blogging, or exercising, or laundry, or cleaning...and I know a lot of kind people will say, "Oh, you do plenty. You're raising a toddler with one on the way. You teach. Give yourself a break. We all need to slow down."

Mostly true. I AM raising a toddler and growing a new one...but the rest, not so much. Sure, I teach, but it's for a few hours two mornings a week...and I give myself wayyyyy too many breaks. Just yesterday, I was laying down during Isaac's nap, not even wanting to lie down, but feeling like the effort of moving was too much work. It was a gross feeling. I'm thankful Isaac sleeps so well and I get more than enough sleep (if he didn't sleep well, I'd probably throw a dart at someone writing this same blog..."waaaaahhh...I get too much rest!").

However, I need to keep myself moving, even just reading or cleaning. I feel so much better when I've gotten some things done, even if no one will ever notice the effort. Who cares if I ever make applesauce? Who cares if I vacuum under the couch? Who cares if I go for a walk? None of these things will change the world, but they'll change my day. They'll break away the cobwebs in my brain. They'll give my body a need for rest at the end of the day.

 I want Isaac and Danfrieda to see me as an "active mommy," someone who plays and creates. There's nothing to do about all this, but to keep working on doing things. Of course, it's unhelpful to beat myself up over it, but I should at least keep myself motivated by reminding myself why I want to be active.

Bucket List

What I want to do before I die, in no particular order:

- Visit Antarctica, Ireland, Machu Picchu, Greece, and Turkey

- Go hang-gliding

- Win one of those restaurant hamburger challenges

- Have a legitimate reason to see an old friend and say, "I thought you were dead!"
- Have an old friend see ME and have a legitimate reason to say, "I thought you were dead!"

- Run with the bulls in Spain

- Go on a cross-country bicycle trip

- Sit in an SNL audience...or be ON the show

- Go to a ball in a fancy gown

- Teach a creative writing class

- Catch a fish

- Do the ghost pepper challenge

- Celebrate a 75th wedding anniversary with Ryan
- Hear Isaac call me "my ladyship" without prompting
- Go snow skiing
- Parasail with grandkids

Ridding Myself of THIS

The love Ryan and I have for each other is completely unlike what I expected when I was younger. Up until the end of college, I had some pretty ridiculous expectations for love...basically, I expected love to be a never-ending thrill ride of daring adventures and emotional thrills. I wanted passion and drama. I wanted mummies and pirates and whatever other obstacles that would end in some climactic kiss at the end. Basically, never-ending excitement.

Now, I'm so glad I don't have that Hollywood version of love. How exhausting would it be to constantly be thrown into near-death experiences? We would be racking up so much debt in therapy bills. Real life has turned out to be much better.

For example, this past year I confessed something to Ryan I had hid from him for our entire relationship. For the sake of this blog (and my pride, honestly), it's not important what this thing was. We'll just call it "THIS." THIS was yet another way in which I sabotaged myself to try and pacify my ever-present anxieties. Basically, I'm an anxious person and have a history of relieving that anxiety in less than great ways.

THIS was something that I struggled with on and off for a long time. Each time I did THIS, I would think, "Ok, that was stupid, but now I'm done with THIS. That's the last time. I'm done and no one has to know about it." I've done that before, convinced myself that I don't need to tell anyone about self-destructive behavior because "this was the last time."

Well, when THIS happened again, I knew it wasn't going away without accountability. I think I've always known that, but finally decided THIS needed to die. And, as I've learned from admitting previous dumb things I've done, I knew the only way for THIS to die was to tell Ryan. I reached this conviction during a church meeting, of all cliche places. Throughout the meeting, I slowly felt the terrorizing peace that only God's convictions can bring. During a break, I told Ryan I needed to talk with him. He clearly wanted to stay for the rest of the meeting, but I said it was important. Because he's better than any Hollywood man, he immediately grabbed his stuff and we picked up Isaac and left. In the car, with Isaac making adorable cooing noises in the backseat, I told Ryan about THIS. Guh, it sucked, but even as I was saying it all, I knew I was shattering the last remaining division between us. Ok, maybe not the last, because no marriage is perfect, but it was definitely the last LARGE remaining division.

And, without questioning why I did THIS or why I hadn't told him sooner, Ryan kissed me on the forehead and said he was proud of me for being so brave.

While we were still dating, I had confessed another big mistake I had consistently made. My counselor at the time said that by bringing this secret out into the light, I had robbed it of its power. And now I've robbed THIS of its power. The frustrating thing, though, is there's always something I have to keep bringing into the light, something I keep having to force from my secret, evil dungeons. I know that's just part of the importance of God's grace, that we're never "good enough" on our own, but it seems like at a certain point I should be able to get rid of all the "really bad" stuff.

But God's healed me in so many ways that I have hope there's a place where this junk will finally be refused entrance into my mind and body. I can't say I have pure, unshakable faith that this place actually exists or that it's always a comfort to think of such a place, but the hope is there and that's something.

Mother's Day: Travel Edition

Mother's Day is a great holiday, but I think there needs to be a bonus day for Mothers Who Were Mothers During Trauma Day...or something a little more Hallmark-sounding. For real, though, my mom raised my sister and me better that most do in good situations.

A large part of The Big Red Boat is a tribute to my mom's parenting. Each year  I like to compile a list of ways that my mom is exceptionally-deserving of Mother's Day appreciation and this year, I'm making a special travel edition. Along with being a great mother at home, Mom was hilarious on vacations:

5. Mom is not afraid of strangers. For example, in 1999 we went to Frutigen, Switzerland. We were trying to navigate the town with a cab driver who didn't speak English. We were trying to find a cemetery because, you know, who doesn't look up dead ancestors on vacation? The driver had no idea what "cemetery" meant, so my mom tried "graveyard" and "tomb" and "death," but nothing was ringing a bell. I think Kristin even pretended to shoot someone. Laughing, mom mimed wrapping a noose around her neck, then dropped her head with a croaking sound. That worked.

4. Along with not being afraid of strangers, Mom isn't that afraid of being embarrassed by them. In high school she took my sister and me to Europe again, this time to Paris and Austria. We were traveling from Paris by train to Vienna. Now, I mentioned in my book how my mom had this demon suitcase she insisted on taking even though the wheels were broken and it weighed 500 pounds. So, we had gotten on the wrong bus and were barely on time for the train. There was an escalator up to our train platform, but of course it was broken and my mom couldn't carry the demon suitcase. Kristin and I dragged it up the stairs, somehow still at the top before my mom, screaming at her to hurry. Turns out we still had another 10 minutes, so we didn't need to create that whole scene after all. On the train, though, we couldn't find our cabin and were so grumpy that we just commandeered an empty one, hoping no one would care. Well, halfway into the train ride, we learned from an attendant that the train was splitting at the next stop, half was going to Germany, the other half to Austria. Awesome. So we started getting our bags to get to the other side of the train, but just then the train started slowing down. Losing our minds, we tore through the aisles, which was slow going because of mom's demon suitcase. We weren't going to make it. So we hopped off the train and RAAAANNNN down the platform to the other end. The doors were closed on the other end and we were banging on them and screaming. Now, it takes a while for trains to separate so we still had plenty of time. The doors opened with a press of a button, so again we were glad to create another unnecessary scene. On the train, gasping and on edge, we finally find our cabin. A few others were in there, calmly reading, when my mom (who was still nervous from all the freaking out we had just accomplished), SCREAMS at one guy, "I will give you a million dollars if you PICK UP MY BAG!" I wish I could express how mortified I was, and how funny I now find it.

3. One of my favorite trip-planning memories was after a Hawaiian cruise. We were in San Francisco on a trolley, bummed that the trip was almost over. "Where are we going next summer?" Kristin asked. "Egypt!" I said, not actually thinking we'd go because mom had been saying for years it was too dangerous. To our surprise, Mom said, "Um...yeah. Let's do it. But only if we do a Holy Lands tour, too, in Israel." Yeah. We were okay with that.

2. On The Big Red Boat, our first big trip, Mom and Kristin sang karaoke to "These Boots Were Made For Walking." I hadn't seen Kristin laugh that hard before.

1. Never having driven on the left side of the road, Mom rented a car in England and just "figured it out." Granted, we got a flat tire after hitting a curb too hard, but still, once it was fixed she did really well! This was also the first time any of us had used (or even knew of) a GPS. We named the voice "Margo."

Basically, my mom is awesome. Not just for taking us on ridiculously awesome trips, but for being adventurous in the first place. That adventurousness allowed me to have the confidence to travel on my own and explore opportunities in my regular life. Thank you, Mom, for helping me be who I am.

Transgender Thoughts

My goal for this blog was to be transparent, to the point where people might *gasp* not like what I say. It has been awhile since I've felt the need to update this blog, but yesterday I read an article that made me think a whole lot. Most have heard about the public school protest over a boy wanting to use the girls' locker room because he identifies as a girl. The first thing I read was this New York Times article.

When I read it I was angered at the close-mindedness of the protesters, but then the composition teacher in me came out. I realized that, while the article was not biased and presented the protest by simply stating facts, there were no quotes from any of the protesters. As the reader, I didn't get any of the students' reasons for protesting.

So I read some more articles and this Washington Post article gave more balanced quotes, although was much more biased towards Lila Perry, the transgender student. I realized that while I hate that Perry is bullied and shamed, I completely side with the protesters. “The way I was raised, I have no problem with a transgender, but he shouldn’t be in the women’s locker room until he has the surgery,” one parent said. If you are still a male in terms of anatomy, it makes sense that you would use the mens' locker room.

This made me wonder how many other people think it's wrong to let a biological male use a woman's locker room, but are so swayed by media and "politically correct guilt" that they convince themselves otherwise. We're told that if we disagree with the mainstream, then we're "on the wrong side of history." Well, many times history is wrong. History is written by the winners, so isn't it possible that people are wrong even when they are considered right by the majority?

I'm glad the female students protested. At the very least, it will hopefully put a policy in place for bathroom use. I just hope that the policy is "on the wrong side of history." Personally, I don't care much who sees me in a locker room, but women (and men) have the right to feel uncomfortable about changes to their privacy.

Sure, there's the argument that a person like Perry is, at heart, a woman so other women should simply see him as a fellow woman. Really, it's sad that this is even an argument. It's sad that any person has to change their body to "be who they are." This raises the question, "If Perry or Jenner or any transgender person was raised in a less wealthy country without access to cosmetic surgery, are they then forever doomed not to be 'who they are'?"

That's a sad thought. There are potential future medical advances that may allow for uterus transplants (Sauk Valley), but that is currently just for women with a damaged uterus. Currently, men can't have children and aren't biologically women with transgender operations. I don't think men can become women or vice versa. I say "I don't think" because here I am confused. There ARE babies born with both genitalia and it's the parents' decision which gender they choose the baby to have. However, even if a man or a woman can become a different gender, that doesn't make it a good thing.

So, I'll say it: I don't think people should try to change their genders. Now, the unfortunate thing is that many people reading this will label me as a hater, a judge, a close-minded jerk...and they would be right about the judge part. I'm making a judgment, but when did that automatically become a bad thing? So, it's a compliment to have good judgment, but an insult to make judgments? Some of this is just semantics, but I think I'm making a good point that we're too afraid of having genuine convictions.

Does that make me hate transgenders? Frickin' NO. It's almost impossible for me to hate anyone. I'm simply sad for anyone who thinks they have to change their bodies to become "who they are."

All that said, stop bullying people, whether they want to be a different gender or are gay or whatever. Disagree if you want, protest if you want, but do these things in loving ways. Hate never changes things for the better.

Out of Control

If anyone hurts Isaac, I'll buy a gun and shoot them. If a random act of nature hurts Isaac, I'll buy a gun and shoot it...tornado, tsunami, whatever.

I like saying and thinking these things because it makes me feel more in control. But, really, the more years I tack onto my life, the less control I have. I can't protect Isaac from everything, just like I can't protect Ryan or my sister or my mom or anyone else from everything.

Focusing on these fears is the exact opposite of freedom and joy, which are the two things I crave the most in life. And what if I do protect Isaac from every psychopath and killer whale, but fail to show him how to enjoy life? His little baby face expresses so much potential joy.

Fear sucks. Or, much more poetically spoken...

"Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much."

That quote is from one of my favorite books, "Cry, the Beloved Country" by Alan Paton. The narrator is speaking of the pain and suffering of South Africa, but it translates beautifully for any situation ruled by fear. I don't want Isaac to inherit my fears, the main ones being that the people I love will be hurt in some way (What if Isaac gets hit in the head really hard with a baseball and is brain injured?) and that there is no life after this one.

Then, of course, there is the endless stream of "what if?" fears. This stream is so ever-flowing that it's impossible to know where one fear ends and one begins.

But when I see Isaac's face brighten when he sees me pick him up in his crib, I don't want to rob him of his natural joy. Yes, I have to teach him that the world can be dangerous and how he can be safe in it, but I also want him to see mountains and think, "Yeah, I can climb that." I want him to know that while there is pain and loss, there is no reason not to love or be loved.

To The "Frothers" in My Life

* By "frother," I mean "friend mother." There are some women that I'm acknowledging in this post and I see them all as friends, but they have also had a nurturing and loving impact on my life. *

I've always felt for the women who either couldn't have children or have lost a mother when we all celebrate Mother's Day. Today, I heard a message at church...you don't have to have a child to be a mother. Anyone can be a "mother," if you define "mothering" as "nurturing."

I like this inclusive perspective because there are many women who are unable to be biological mothers, but still impact others' lives in similar ways. Although, too many women who can't have or adopt children are told, "Oh, you're still like a mother...look at all the young people you've influenced."

While there's some truth in that, it's not the same. Once, I was at Starbucks and overheard a conversation between two strangers: a woman, who had three young daughters, was trying to convince another woman that she was a mother even though she physically couldn't conceive.

The first woman said, "You babysit those children five days a week. You are a mom! You're shaping them and teaching them life lessons."

The second woman said, "It's not the same. I know what you're trying to say and I appreciate it, but it's not the same. None of those kids will take care of me or visit me in a nursing home when I'm old."

This is like when I hear how God is our "father" and if you don't have an earthly father, you have a heavenly one. Hearing that always irks me because, like those women who can't have or adoption children, it's not the same. I don't think a lot of people really believe it's the same, but say that because it's easier than saying, "Hey, you got screwed out of a lot of love and security simply because a semi driver swerved into oncoming traffic and your dad ran into the side of the truck. That sucks."

And, really, I'd much rather hear someone say, "That sucks," than try to explain away the pain and loss. While I didn't lose my dad physically, I lost him through the brain injury that resulted in his accident.

Here's where I slightly contradict myself because I do believe there are strong similarities between literal mothers and nurturing women. Some people have abusive mothers and another person has taken on the "role" of mother in their life. Sometimes this love is as strong a bond as one between a mother and her biological or adopted child.

However, I like "friend mother" instead. While the bond between me and my mother can't be replaced (and I don't want it to be!), there are a lot of women who have helped shape me.

~ Brenda:
     When I first visited my mother-in-law while dating Ryan, I knew I wanted to be part of his family. Well, by that point, I knew Ryan and I were getting married (Ryan didn't know it yet...), so it was great to have an instant good relationship with his mother. Brenda's positivity knew no bounds, which I learned the first time I came for Thanksgiving. I had brought a "Gingerbread-Making Kit" and Brenda said, "Oh, that's so fun! You're so creative and thoughtful. I can't wait to put it together."
     She continues to be a source of encouragement in every area of life. And I mean every. She remembers every big or small event in Ryan's and my life, including times when I had a big test for grad school or started my first day teaching for the semester. Often, I'll get a text or voicemail from her on days like these, simply to say that she's thinking of me and knows how well I'll do. Whenever she visits or we visit her, I feel uplifted and energized, as well as reminded of my good qualities (because she keeps reminding me of them!). I get down on myself too often and she's always willing to remind me how I'm creative, loving, and intelligent.
     The hardest part of moving to South Carolina is being so far away from family, but Brenda is a mother despite any distance. She truly lives to serve others. When she came for my baby shower last February, she immediately jumped in wherever we needed help. Seeing her filling up water pitchers for the tables and clearing off a table to make room for extra guests, I knew I had a uniquely amazing mother-in-law.
     She also motivates me physically. We walked a half-marathon together two years ago and even though the race was hard for her (and me!), she didn't once complain. Instead, we motivated each other. Recently, Brenda motivated me to make more stirfry by buying me a rice cooker. It wasn't for any particular reason...she just thought I'd like it. The cooker is awesome and reminds me of how Brenda loves me, even in something as small as making rice.

~ Orianna:
     I started taking weekly walks with Orianna in the summer of 2010. I remember this date because it was the summer I lost my mind and addressed a ton of unresolved wounds from growing up with a brain-injured father. For all of June, I could barely eat or drink, and could only sleep about 1-2 hours a night. It. Was. Awful. Ryan suggested I meet up with Orianna and when I called her, she asked me to join her on her daily walk through Shoaff Park.
    And a "mentorship" was born. I don't like to call Orianna my mentor, though, because that sounds too rigid. She's a friend and inspiration. For several years, we took weekly walks together and caught up on our weeks. We often just talked through regular life, but it was helpful to have those walks and connect through books or travel stories or whatever else we happened to discuss. Her dog, Eiffel, always came on the walks and I'll always cherish the times we walked the same trail, with Eiffel running just ahead or beside us.
     I've known Orianna since I was in junior high, I think. She's seen me through a lot of stages in my life, including what I call my "super bitter, mean phase." This was mostly late high school, early college when my humor was especially dark and my comments were really biting. I'm glad that she's known me through that and can see how I've changed, softening and strengthening at the same time. She has "mothered" me through her continued support, advice, and encouragement. I love getting letters from her in the mail, including a packet of Downton Abbey tea. It's the small things in life that make for a great "mother," and one of them is taking the time for a simple, yet thoughtful gift.

~ Ruthanne:
    I was so excited to start college because that meant I got to join Ruthanne's "college group." My sister had been a part of it and I loved the people who went. The more I got to know Ruthanne, the more I enjoyed her. She was honest and super friendly, AND made amazing desserts! (plug: check out her crazy-awesome baking blog at easybaked.net).
    Her "mothering" extends far beyond the delicious treats she made every week (yes, even beyond her famous chocolate chip cookies). We've also trained for a mini-marathon together and I still treasure those times when we met up with a few others to walk the 11 miles from Johnny Appleseed to Swinney and back. She is consistently loving and encouraging through hard times and bad. I've been able to come to her with so many things and she's always willing to take time to listen. To really listen.
    Before Ryan asked me out, I often turned to Ruthanne for encouragement because I didn't know if he would ever like me. Like a mother, Ruthanne not only listened, but felt for me. I remember sitting in her car one night, talking about the "Ryan problem" and analyzing conversations I'd had with him. As many women do, we were dissecting every possible moment when Ryan might have shown some interest in me. This was different than talking with just a regular friend, though, because Ruthanne was someone who dedicated a huge part of her life to the college-age people at our church and modeled her life in a way that I wanted to follow.

~ Renee:
     In junior high, I started going to another group, which was Renee's "D Group" - a collection of girls my age from church. My best friend, Jacqueline, was going and so I came, too. I didn't know until years later how much Renee dedicated to this group, but appreciated the group so much at the time. I was used to going to a large church where it was easy to fall between the cracks. After a month of coming to this group, we all took a trip to Higher Grounds, a coffee shop near the church. In the snowy parking lot, someone made a comment about me being in the group.
     Again, used to a large church, I didn't realize I WAS a part of the group. I didn't realize that these people were already my friends.
     "Oh, I thought I had to come for a longer time before I was actually in the group," I said. "Don't I have to sign something?"
     Renee knelt and drew in the snow: "HEATHER IS A PART OF D GROUP."
     I didn't sign the snow, but felt a happiness in my chest. This was the first time I felt connected to a church group and in a way that was natural, without effort.
     As the years went by, Renee was a "mother" to me by encouraging my creativity and just loving me. I saw a creativity in her, too, that I wanted to emulate. She led many small groups that I was in, including one in high school. It was a REALLY small group, usually about four or five girls, but I enjoyed the closeness. Me and most of the other girls went to the same school and Renee often listened to our frustrations with the school, offering advice at the same time. Unfortunately, me and these girls often didn't think how we excluded one or two others who didn't go to our school. Renee tried hard to get this to sink in, but it was several years later when I realized how this "school talk" excluded the others.
     Anyway, Renee is a gifted teacher in every way.


Through these relationships, I've learned more how to be a good mother myself. I want to be a good mother by:
1. LISTENING - it is so important to actually hear what someone is saying and to acknowledge that what they have to say matters.
2. Encouraging creativity
3. Knowing when to offer advice or when to just nod and say, "Yeah, that sucks. I'm sorry."
4. Just living life together and enjoying each moment

So, a giant THANK YOU to all the "frothers" in my life. There are many others. I have become the person I am through so many relationships and am blessed with supportive, loving women in my life.

The Small Things

I want to enjoy the small things in life. Well, the small and the big things. Too often I look forward to the next thing that has to get done or worry about possible problems in the future. Then I miss out on what actually matters. Because, really, my life is great and I waste too much of it with worrying about something happening to make it not great. What's the point in that?

There are so many small victories in everyone's life. It's impossible to cherish and remember them all...like finding the perfect words to describe how you feel, writing and mailing a real letter to someone, or finding that Lowe's coupon.

So here is my list of small victories from this week:

- Finding that Lowe's coupon
- Getting back to the gym and doing 20 minutes on the elliptical
- Taking my car in to have the AC fixed...again
- Working more on my book, which I've procrastinated on for 18 MONTHS now
- Figuring out how to work my rice cooker (thanks, Brenda!)
- Finding more friends to meet up with during the weekdays
- Keeping a baby clean, fed, and alive
- Managing to sleep and complete basic chores despite the constant demands for keeping a baby clean, fed, and alive (soooo many diapers)
- Spending time with Ryan who doesn't have to work this week. Yay, paternity leave!
- Making stir-fry
- Finishing a 2,000-piece puzzle
- Hooking up the baby monitor
- Finally finishing two sketches for Alchemy
- Eating an apple instead of another pound of Honey Bunches of Oats
- Making a smoothie

What are some of your small victories?

Postpartum Recovery

Isaac is a whole 19 days old today. Wednesday was his first pediatrician appointment. He was about eight ounces above his birth weight and had grown over two inches. That's. Insane. He's still tiny, but no wonder he's been eating like a racehorse.

So, I'm doing much better since first coming home from the hospital. It was such a fun, terrifying, joyful, painful time. Packing up Isaac and the mountain of diapers, pads, and Vaseline tubes from the hospital room, we simply drove off with a new, super little person. Some guy took me down to the lobby in a wheelchair. Ryan's parents had pulled up the Jeep and, after two days of constant care and supervision, we just left. No tests for our ability to keep this baby alive, no signed papers promising to be conscientious providers of love and support, and definitely no more hospital employees to bring me hot tea whenever I asked (although, they often forgot to actually bring the tea, but I believe they fully intended to).

Driving back on 385 to our house, the familiar roads and signs comforted me. After just two days of hospital beds, IVs, blood pressure cuffs, and reams of papers to sign, driving in the warm and sunny outdoors felt renewing. Ryan and I stopped at Bi-Lo to drop off my blood pressure medication prescription.

Wanting to feel like a real person again, I walked into the store myself while Ryan stayed in the car with Isaac. This was no small feat. Still sore and feeling mutilated, people seemed to stare at me as I inched my way to the pharmacy counter. I have way more respect for my grandma who gets her own groceries and has to use the motorized shopping cart. Normally, I'm a fast walker, but the stacks of canned soup seemed to walk faster than me.

Anyway, when we got home, a few neighbors were outside and cooed over the pretty baby. We don't know our neighbors that well, but an hour later, a couple that lives diagonal from us brought fried chicken and green beans. That reminds me how I need to be more thoughtful when others have babies or any other big life changes. I've been amazed how generous and kind so many have been to us, not just after the birth, but throughout our whole lives.

Being home felt great, especially since Ryan's parents were staying for an extra day and my mom would be there another three weeks. I took Isaac to the nursery and fed him. We rocked in the glider chair and I stared at Isaac's perfect head of hair. In that moment, I felt like I had the world. I stroked Isaac's head, telling him how blessed we were and how much we would grow to love each other.

And that was the last positive thought I had for the next two days.

Okay, that's an exaggeration, but not by much. As I mentioned in the last post, I barely slept at the hospital, but wasn't too worried since I figured I'd sleep well in my own bed without beeping machines and IV drips. I tried to take a nap that afternoon, but was too wired and took a shower instead. I tried to sleep again a few hours later, but my mind wouldn't turn off and I just laid in bed, thinking about everything.

How many people were in the delivery room? There was the nurse, that other nurse, the anesthesiologist, mom, Ryan...was there another person? Well, Isaac, of course. But wasn't there some other lady? I should send dad a picture of the baby. It would be great if he could come visit, but it would probably overwhelm him to make the trip. How long have I been laying here? Guh, over an hour. I should just get up and talk with Ryan and his parents in the living room. It's pointless to just lie here, doing nothing. What if something happens to Ryan and I have to raise Isaac by myself? Oh, God, don't let that happen. I couldn't raise children by myself nearly as well as mom raised me and Kristin. I should set up an appointment to get Isaac's pictures taken. Maybe I should do it myself, but my camera won't be nearly as good as somewhere professional....

Have I mentioned that I have anxiety? The thoughts ranged from trivial to crazy depressing. Finally, I got up and asked Ryan and his parents to pray that I would be able to sleep. They did and I felt better, but slept for maybe an hour that night. Ryan and his dad went to Bi-Lo to pick up my prescription and I decided I just needed to cry. I rarely cry, but it was surprisingly easy to start. When Ryan got back home, I just cried with him in bed for a long time. He is great at listening to my repeated fears.

I didn't consider making a bottle of breast milk and having someone else feed the baby since I'd heard I should wait a month before using bottles or pacifiers. So I spent most of the night in the nursery, rocking and feeding.

By morning, I was a hot mess and still crying all over the place. We had an appointment with a breastfeeding center that Wednesday morning. At the center, the workers asked basic questions about how breastfeeding was going. I said it was going well...and immediately started crying when I asked them how I could sleep when Isaac wakes up every hour or two to feed, not to mention when I'm unable to turn my head off.

"I've slept maybe five hours since giving birth," I cried.

"That's not okay. You have to get more sleep," Ms. Obvious said, way too positively. "Just make time for yourself."

"I know. I just can't. My body just won't shut down."

"Yes, it's hard these first few weeks. When you get home, just let your mom and husband take care of the baby and get a really good nap."

"Um, yeah, I've tried that. I just lay awake in bed and my head won't turn off," I said, still crying.

"Well, when the baby sleeps, just ignore the chores and any other responsibilities. Focus on getting rest..."

Finally, the consultant understood that my problem wasn't making time to sleep, but truly being unable to. She gave me a number for some place that could give advice on medication to help, but I ended up just calling my OB that night.

"Well, the doctor doesn't want to prescribe anything heavy yet, but if you're still unable to sleep by Friday, give us a call," the on-call nurse said.

I didn't think I could make it another day and a half without sleeping, so the nurse gave the okay for Melatonin and/or Tylenol PM. I pumped a bunch of milk into a bottle, handed off Isaac to Ryan and my mom, and for the next 12 HOURS, did all I could to sleep. I took both the Melatonin and Tylenol, which made me groggy and for a few blissful minutes, I thought my mind would slide into happy dreamland...

But then my mind sprouted gnarled, decaying hands that clawed their way back to consciousness.

"Noooo..." a voice cackled. "You're not getting off that easy. We've still got some gloom and despair for you. Heh heh heh...double, double toil and trouble..."

I've suffered insomnia before and each time I feel like I'm going crazy. Sometime during those 12 hours of trying to sleep, Ryan laid with me again and listened to my fears and crying...again. He doesn't sing much, but sang Our God is an Awesome God and prayed.

Note to all spouses: you don't always have to fix a situation. Sometimes, just being there and listening is enough.

He and my mom took turns watching Isaac that night. Ryan even slept in a sleeping bag in the nursery because I thought it might help me sleep to have our room to myself.

By Thursday morning, I was shaking and knew I was about an inch from the end of my rope. When I can't sleep like that, I also can't eat very well. That's definitely not how you want to shed some post-pregnancy pounds.

I called my OB the second they opened (literally...I kept checking the clock and called right when it turned 8:30). The nurse probably heard the notes of crazed panic in my voice, so said to come right in.

Yeah, this chick's gonna do something crazy, the nurse probably thought. Maybe not hurt her baby or anything, but something like drive to Costco and buy all the white-out for no reason.

Ryan and I drove to the doctor while my mom stayed with Isaac. That was the first time we'd both been away from him. I met with one of the doctors who stopped by my hospital room a few days earlier and while I'm not crazy about her intensely peppy bedside manner, she was fabulous that day.

"I've tried everything: Melatonin, Tylenol PM, chamomile tea, nothing short of hitting myself in the head with a hammer," I said.

Waving her hand, the doctor said, "Oh, girl, none of those ever work. Let's try this. I'm going to start you on some Ativan. It's perfect for breastfeeding. It'll knock you clear out."

So, that night I took an Ativan and got drowsy, but then those claws inside my brain twitched and, once more, overpowered the drowsiness. Frustrated, I took one more Ativan and then, about two hours later, walked into the nursery where Ryan was watching Isaac.

"Did you sleep?" he asked (Ryan, that is. If Isaac talked, I'd just start screaming and probably never stop).

Confused and disheveled, I said, "I...don't know. I got sleepy and...I don't know if I slept or not."

"Well, I came to check on you once and you seemed asleep."

"Maybe I did sleep...but I could have just been half-awake...I don't know."

I took one more Ativan and the same thing happened.

A few hours later, I came to the living room and told Ryan, "Um...I think I slept again, but it's hard to tell. I feel like I did, but maybe I was just laying in bed the whole time...I can't tell!"

It was super weird, but apparently I was sleeping and slowly got back to normal sleep. At least, as normal as it can be when you have to keep a little person alive throughout the night. I'm just taking one Ativan a night and can sleeeeeeep. I should only need it for a few more weeks, but we'll see. Whatever, I'm just glad for the sleep I'm getting. Believe me, if you've never suffered from insomnia, being given back the gift of rest after days or weeks of anxious wakefulness makes everything more bearable.

I'm doing well now that I'm sleeping. Sure, I could use more sleep, but then again, I'm a "heroic sleeper," as my brother-in-law brilliantly coined me, my mom, and my sister. It's true...we can sleep forever if given the chance.

So, all of this said, I've written more about the troubling parts than the good ones. There are a lot of good times, but it's helpful to write out the really hard parts. I'm actually enjoying a lot of the baby-ness. I still get really sad around 4 or 5 pm and cry for about an hour, just about the overwhelming realities of motherhood and my already-present anxieties of something happening to Ryan. Who knows why it's always at these times, but considering it's the only time of day I feel low, I'm not worried about it. With another three weeks of postpartum healing, these crying jags seem pretty minimal. Besides, sometimes it just feels good to cry.

Right now, I'm snuggling with Isaac again. When he's fed, relatively clean in his diaper (it's impossible to keep that butt clean...apparently newborns soil diapers faster than...I can't even think of an analogy. It's just intense), and asleep in my arms or in one of the several places we have set up for him to sleep, I feel like a good mom.

And I do love this baby. It's taking awhile to feel that mother-son bond, but we're getting there. I'm at least used to Isaac's little face and the cute pucker he makes during feedings. He's started focusing a little bit on faces and his little thighs are getting a small amount of chub around them. I've always wanted a chubby baby, but it makes me a little sad that he's already getting older. Ridiculous, I know, since he's not even three weeks yet, but I love this little baby curled up on my chest. Someday, he won't need me nearly as much as he does now, so I want to savor these days.

"You Can Endure Anything for 10 Seconds"

DISCLAIMER: I'm not super graphic in this post, but I'm writing about my labor and delivery. So, if you're squeamish about this sort of thing, watch this instead: Cute Kittens Compilation.

***********************

My friend, Kelsey, brought on my labor. Totally true. She called at 3 pm Sunday afternoon (March 29) and during the call, I started feeling contractions. Throughout the next 15 minutes, they got stronger and came every few minutes. There was no need to wait for that 5-7 minute benchmark. So, if you want to have a super fast (yet still painful) labor, give Kelsey a call near your due date.

"Holy crap, you're totally having your baby!" Kelsey said over the phone each time a contraction came. 

I wasn't quite convinced, but six hours later, Isaac was born. Six. Hours. Did I mention that Kelsey brings on SUPER FAST labor? 

Before anyone who has suffered through 30-40 hour labors punches me in the face, at least know it was intensely painful. Everyone knows contractions hurt, but nothing truly prepares you. My goal all along was to try to deliver naturally, without pain relief. I wasn't set on going natural, which was a good thing since I decided to get an epidural on the ride to the hospital.

Around 3:20 pm (I know almost exact times because of the text my mom and Ryan sent to Ryan's parents who were driving from Indiana to come as close to the birth as possible), my mom started timing the contractions. They were already 1-2 minutes apart and HUUUUUUURT. They definitely weren't those false contractions. 

Ryan was mowing in the backyard and by 3:40, my mom waved him inside. I thought of some movie I'd seen where the husband is plowing a field and some friend comes running out to him, saying they should call for the doctor. I couldn't imagine already being ready to go to the hospital, so I said we had time and Ryan took 10 minutes to finish mowing. In-between contractions, I tried adding last minute things to my suitcase, but by the time one contraction ended and I got up to add one or two things, another started.

By 4:15, the on-call nurse from the OB's office said to head to the hospital, so off we went. It must have been clear where we were going, as Ryan and my mom threw bags in the car, because one neighbor shouted, "Good luck!" when Ryan got into the Jeep. It was about a half-hour ride and, thinking I'd be in labor for 20-plus hours (they don't let you eat while in labor), I ate about five pounds worth of peanut butter crackers. Belvita biscuits, yogurt, and anything else grabbed from the kitchen.

The food was also a mini-distraction from the PAIN. Each contraction felt like a searing knife in my abdomen. Even without the pain, the contractions felt like panic attacks and that really freaked me out. If you haven't had a panic attack, imagine the hollowest, sinking feeling in your chest combined with the inability to breathe and then add on top of that the certainty that the world is going to end. 

The abdomen stabbing was bad enough, but I was thinking, "How can I go through labor while having panic attacks????" Really, they weren't panic attacks because in-between contractions, the feeling went away and I felt fairly normal. Ryan made a few jokes and I could still laugh.

Ok, I'm good. I can do this. Surely that last contractions wasn't THAT bad, I thought, eating another biscuit.

CONTRACTION

The knife started stabbing, all the light in the world vanished, and there was nothing but me, pain, and panic. 

Noooo, I can't breathe. My chest is hollow and this knife is twisting so deeply. How can I deliver without an epidural? Slowly, the pain eased and my optimism came back.

Ok, that was bad, but the worst of it lasts only a minute. I can ride it out. Lalalala, sun in shining, everything is beautiful, my life is together...

CONTRACTION

Noooooo, darkness. Decay. Ruin. Life is ending as I know it.....

And so on. When we got to the hospital, we parked in front of the entrance and, as I was still able to walk and didn't want to wait on a wheelchair, I powered toward the front doors like it was the only shelter in a hurricane. Everyone smiled knowingly as Ryan and I got on the elevator and it stopped...

At. Every. Single. Floor.

Granted, my water hadn't broken yet and even though I knew by then I wasn't going to be in labor long, I wasn't too worried. Just what are the odds?

Mom drove behind us, so we registered while she was parking, which was weird. How do you fill out a simple form when a universe-ending contraction hits and you can't process anything other than a searing knife of doom in your abdomen? Well, I managed to get my name, birth date, etc., written down and they hooked me up to a bunch of straps to confirm I was in labor.

Uh, pretty sure that wasn't in question, although I guess it made sense that they wanted to see how the contractions were looking. By 5:30 pm, I was 6-7 cm. dilated and my water broke. They took me to the delivery room right on the way and a super-comforting conversation took place between two nurses as they wheeled me through the halls.

"I just don't want to wait too long for anesthesia. There might not be time. It's not going to be long and I'm not sure about her Harrington rods."

"We'll just have to get anesthesia down here fast and see if we can get around them."

I had back surgery for scoliosis in 1999 and my OB said the titanium rods might interfere with an epidural. While I knew this, at the time the OB had seemed confident they wouldn't be a problem. So, the thought of not getting an epidural sounded like torture.

"Are you okay with a morphine drip if they can't get the epidural running?" one of the nurses asked when we got into the delivery room.

"YEEEEEESSSSS."

Fortunately, the anesthesiologist came soon, but it took him almost an hour to get the epidural to work. In the meantime, I got a morphine drip. An angel in the shape of a nurse explained the drip to me and guided me through the contractions. Basically, with morphine they can't keep a continual drip and only start the pain relief when a contraction starts, so that the baby is exposed to as little as possible. Angel Nurse told me that once a contraction started, the morphine would work in 10 seconds. Those 10 seconds were hell, but Angel Nurse had me sit at the edge of the bed and put my hands on her shoulders while she did the same to me.

Each contraction, Angel Nurse counted down from 10 with me until the morphine took away the agonizing, stabbing pain and the feeling of a panic attack. I wish I could explain in words how much those contractions hurt. Not that I have exclusive rights to this kind of pain...I just like being able to explain things. The only other description that comes close is that it felt like I was being torn apart and sewn back together, only to be ripped apart again.

"You can endure anything for 10 seconds," Angel Nurse said after the morphine overpowered one of my contractions.

Even in that moment, I loved how much that logic applies to everything in life. 

Because of the pain, even though it was only 10 seconds at a time, I didn't pay much attention to the anesthesiologist who was working hard to get the epidural past my back rods. He and another nurse talked and poked and prodded. By 6:40 pm, the anesthesiologist got the epidural in. It hurt to have the needle poking around my spine, but I didn't care as long as it would get the even stabbing to go away.

No one told me at the time (rightfully so), but most women with Harrington rods can't get an epidural. Later, one of the nurses said I was only the second person with these back rods she'd seen who got an epidural to work. I didn't know if I should feel glad or empathetic for the "other women." I guess I was both.

Although, it wouldn't have been the end of the world if I had to stick with the morphine drip. Once the epidural got through, though, life was peachy. My body literally slackened and I felt my muscles unclench. I only had to suffer the contractions for a few hours, but it felt like an eternity.

I was 9.5 cm. dilated by 7 p.m. and the nurse said I probably would have delivered within the next half-hour if not for the epidural. I was fine waiting a little longer without the pain! Since I still felt alert enough, I didn't mind giving up on my "all natural" goal so early on. By 8:10 pm, I started pushing and I felt nothing.

Am I even pushing hard? I wondered most of the next hour. There was a nurse next to me the whole time, telling me if I was pushing the right way.

Ok, I'm pushing as hard as I can, but I feel nothing. Can I get a baby out of me if I can't even feel if I'm pushing hard or not? Everyone was saying I was doing great, but everyone says that, don't they? Who's going to say to a woman in labor, "Sweetie, that push was pathetic. Next time, do better or you'll hurt the baby."

I pushed for the next 45 minutes and at one point my mom held up her pocket mirror so that I could see Isaac's head. His dark hair poked out and there was even a lock falling out. Since I really wanted a baby with lots of dark hair, this was by far the most exciting part of labor. 

By 8:55 p.m. the doctor asked if I was okay with an episiotomy because the baby wasn't tolerating the birth canal well. He didn't say that last part at the time, but I figured the doctor knew what he was doing and thought, "Well, my body's already been shredded, reassembled, and reshredded multiple times. Why not add something else?"

Then, just 10 minutes later, Isaac Edward Detzner's head popped out. One push later, a body fortunately came along with the head. Ryan cut the umbilical cord, which I saw, and the doctor showed me the placenta (I asked beforehand to see it because I'm weird and just wanted to know what mine looked like). In about two seconds, the nurses cleaned Isaac and put ointment over his eyes (helps with infection). Then Isaac was put on my chest. 

I didn't cry like women do in the movies...maybe I was too numb from the epidural to feel much of anything. But I was alert and in shock that this was my baby. About 20 minutes after delivery, someone came in to see if Isaac would latch for breast milk and if ever I'm going to brag about my baby, it's to say that he's an awesome latcher. After all the emotional and physical roller-coaster rides from that day, I could have cried from relief if I wasn't so numbed from the epidural. 

I don't remember many other specifics during the following "magic hour" when the doctor and nurses left us alone with Isaac. However, the delivery my body didn't feel at the time caught up with me. Thinking I was having a seizure or something, I started shaking and wondered why no one was worried.

"Oh, that's just from the pain," a nurse explained after the magic hour.

Riiiight. I didn't feel anything at the time, but my body totally freaked out in delivering a baby. It's not like you get an epidural and...BAM...everything's normal again. All night and through the next morning, I shook and only slept for two hours. Well, it wasn't really sleep - more of a foggy haze that I floated in.

I was taken to a special recovery room that night because my blood pressure decide to go freakishly high during delivery. Otherwise, Isaac and I were doing well. People checked on us throughout the night and Ryan slept on a couch next to me. Isaac stayed in a bassinet next to me the whole time. 

At one point, I stupidly put Isaac in bed with me and fell asleep. Even at the time, I knew I wasn't supposed to do that, but wasn't thinking clearly and was freaked out having him a whole foot away. Around three in the morning, a nurse found me in probably the most unglorified state ever...I was in the fog version of sleep and had slid to the very end of the bed (which was incredibly long). I'd tried to breastfeed Isaac and couldn't figure out how to cover myself back up with the hospital gown, so gave up and was practically naked, twisted in a sheet. Basically, I was a hot mess, drugged and probably crazy-looking. Isaac was next to me, at least blocked from the edge of the bed with a pillow. Later, I was relieved I at least had enough sense to put the pillow there.

Needless to say, the nurse had some cleaning up to do. Once I was redressed, at a normal position on the bed with Isaac safely in his bassinet and my bedding changed, I just stared around the room until about 4 a.m. when Tim and Brenda, Ryan's parents, arrived from their mad flight from Indiana. Seriously, they're awesome. They had their van ready to go and literally left as soon as they could. Even through my hazy fog, it was wonderful to see them and have them hold Isaac. They didn't stay long, since it was so late, but at least got to hold Isaac so soon after birth.

I might have dozed off after that; I just don't remember. Around 7 a.m., the pediatrician and a woman who talked REALLY fast came in to say they had to take Isaac to the nursery to "warm him up."

"Sometimesbabiesjustgettoocoldatnightespeciallywhenit'slessthanadaysincetheyweredeliveredbutitwon'ttakelongtobringuphistemperatureokayweshouldtakehimnow...."

Ryan woke up right away and we, of course, asked a billion questions. What do you mean, "warm him up"? How long? What?

Once we were more awake ourselves, pediatrician and fast-talker explained that Isaac's temperature was down to 93 degrees, which can be normal just after birth, but the baby has to be put under a heat lamp and on a heating pad for about a half-hour to warm back up. So they wheeled Isaac away and, sure enough, he came back, warm and asleep.

That next day involved a lot of cuddling and a constant flow of doctors, nurses, birth certificate people, nutrition and lactation consultants, and plenty of others I forget. I was moved to a new room around noon, but still had to stay in bed because I was hooked up to a magnesium drip to control my blood pressure. Apparently, magnesium has awful side effects, but fortunately I didn't notice anything.

Oh, and I was peeing...a LOT. I had a catheter, which was good because I wasn't up for going to the bathroom every five minutes. Basically, the nurses said they weren't concerned about my kidneys since they had to dump the "bladder box" every few hours. No one knew exactly where all the fluid was coming from, but it was probably a combination of the magnesium, my own water intake, and water I had retained during the last month of pregnancy. 

Whatever the case, I was irrationally proud of my kidneys.

I wasn't proud of my blood pressure, though.

A machine read my blood pressure every half-hour and it ranged from 135/85 to 187/97. The magnesium seemed to help, but not enough. In the meantime, I just chilled in bed and enjoyed having Ryan, my mom, Tim, and Brenda around all day. 

Isaac slept the whole day, which was kind of nice because I could just look at him and start to process that this is my SON. I MADE this little person. With no conscious effort other than eating and exercising, my body created LIFE. This little baby with the cone-shaped head that would soon round out is a PERSON and I'm a MOTHER. There's no way to prepare for those thoughts. The fear, the joy, and more fear.

What if I fail? What if I can't handle it all? What if he grows up and hates me? What if I drop him? What if he spits up in his sleep and drowns because he can't move his head? Can that even happen? What if he gets sick? Okay, obviously he's going to get sick! But what if he gets REALLY sick? What if I don't like him? His face looks kind of weird. No, it doesn't. Well, kind of. There's something about his lips that's creeping me out. But that hair. Oh, I love his hair. No, he's cute. Okay, I can do this. I do love him...but what if I fail?

And so the thoughts ran and ran all day. Now that it's been over a week, I feel some semblance of normality and I have no doubt that I love this little baby who snorts when he's hungry and coos in his sleep. I still have plenty of freaked-out moments, but nothing as severe as when I was in the hospital or those few days after coming home.

Besides, I had and have awesome support, which makes the world of difference.

That Monday night, the nutrition people brought me and Ryan our "celebration  meal." I actually loved the hospital food, and thought the meal was awesome...grilled chicken, baked sweet potato, apple pie, and sparkling grape juice. I'm not sure what you call them, but Ryan had brought little pom-pom party decorations to stick in the glasses and in my chicken. He did that because when I first heard we got a "celebration meal," my first mental picture was lit sparklers in a hamburger. That idea sounded super fun, but obviously a hospital wouldn't allow for sparklers, so Ryan surprised me with fake ones. He's awesome.

A friend, Justina, came by to visit, and she was a nice reminder of the outside world. Since I hadn't slept much (or deeply), I felt like I'd been in the hospital for a week instead of a day.

That night, I started getting really overwhelmed with the thoughts of raising a baby and life being forever, always, and everlastingly different. From this point on, Ryan and I were parents. We'll never not be parents. We'll be other things, sure, and still have our former identities, but this is the biggest responsibility we've ever taken and ever will take.

Basically, I was freaked. My mom held Isaac until about 11 and I think I drifted off, but woke about an hour later because Isaac was finally awake and rightfully hungry. After that, I couldn't sleep and didn't sleep more than an hour or two for the next three days. I'll get to that in a later post.

During the night, Ryan slept and I tried, but I was too wired and had to feed Isaac every hour or two anyway. We'd been struggling to swaddle Isaac correctly and he seems to sleep well only when swaddled (he flails his arms and they wake him up, which is cute, but a problem when he needs to sleep most of the day). Anyway, at one point, I had changed his diaper, which was no small feat since I was still sore from labor and couldn't get out of the bed because of the magnesium drip and blood pressure cuff constantly strapped to my arm.

Anyway, once I had him fed and wearing a clean diaper, I held him in front of me and just stared. It was dark and the middle of the night; I hadn't really slept since Saturday night. Those small, but important details help explain why I got royally terrified. I was staring at Isaac, who looked like a little Amish baby from the 1800s (which sounds cute, but at the time creeped me out). I just sat in bed, terrified as I looked at him.

I have to raise him. I have to be a mom all the time. He needs me like no one has needed me before. Is this baby really mine?

There were some other thoughts that can't even be put into words, but I just sat like a statue, staring at this weird little baby. I was too afraid to even blink, and probably looked like a wide-eyed statue with a baby held with outstretched arms. Finally, I numbly laid Isaac back in his bassinet and...he spit up. Nothing unusual, but in my current mindset, this was the equivalent of seeing an alien's head explode. Right at that moment, the blood pressure machine decided to take a reading and it started beeping because I was at 187/109. Apparently, fear doesn't lower blood pressure. Good to know.

Shaking, I wiped away the spit-up and hit the button for the nurse, knowing I was losing my mind and just needed someone to tell me the baby wasn't an alien.

Sure enough, Isaac wasn't an alien. Phew.

The nurse swaddled Isaac perfectly, which I still can't do, but don't have to because of the genius who invented Swaddle Sacks. He went back to sleep and I laid in a daze until morning came.

The next morning, the nurse unhooked the magnesium drip and blood pressure cuff. I slowly went to the bathroom and took a long shower. That shower was great, washing off the hours and hours of fear, pain, and emotional upheaval. My body looked like a weight-loss patient's, my stomach hanging loosely and legs drooping from the lost fluid. By now, I feel like I have most of my body back - breast feeding apparently helps with that. But that first shower was surreal, as if I was becoming a human again.

Anyway, we left for home around 1 p.m. that Tuesday and I'll write later about the crazy spell I had over the next few days. In the meantime, I should change Isaac's diaper because he's been sleeping on my chest as I've written this last part and I'm pretty sure he wet himself.

Prego Thoughts

With just a month to go, I don't have much to complain about. Perhaps my only legitimate complaint is that I don't have any fun cravings stories. I really wanted a crazy craving story. During the first trimester, I mostly just ate a crap-ton of stuff I already liked. The first day when I knew I was pregnant, it was either hormones or the power of suggestion, but I ate an entire loaf of bread. At one go. To be fair, it was a delicious cinnamon loaf my in-laws had brought from Harvest Bread Co. And during the first 6 weeks, about once a week I would furiously desire a burger and fries, launching some fun trips to Culvers. I guess that's a craving story after all...just not an exciting one. Oh, and during that time I didn't want tea. That was weird.

I could complain about being tired/grumpy/sad for the first 6 weeks, but considering I was still able to teach without any students noticing or asking, "What's up with this chick?" it wasn't too bad. I just came home after class and watched Seinfeld for six hours straight.

And I only have one or two stories of unsolicited/weird baby advice. I've seen more people on the other extreme of not wanting to say ANYthing offensive, which is funny in itself. "Oh, you're breastfeeding? Good for you. I only did it for a few months, but for YOU that's awesome. I didn't mess with cloth diapers, but that's great you're trying it. Not that there's anything wrong with doing cloth. To each her own. Do your thing. You're going to let your baby cry for hours on end and only feed him twice a day? Um...that could be risky, but don't let ME tell you what to do. Wait, um, you're going to leave him alone in a bathtub next to a plugged-in hairdryer and recently opened package of razors? I...uh...maybe not the best...idea...but, um, don't let me tell you what to do...er..."

Obviously, the last four sentences are jokes and I love that most everyone is thoughtful in not forcing their opinions. Although, it's totally fair to disagree on stuff, so no one should be afraid to defend an opinion in the right setting. Like, if we're talking about baby stuff and diapers come up, tell me all about how you did diapers. That's cool. But if I just met you and am talking to someone ELSE about breastfeeding, I don't need to know about your granddaughter whose baby developed a lactose allergy, causing the granddaughter to stop drinking milk for nine months. Not that it's terrible information to know about...just a weird situation to bring it up.

Sure, some of the jokes get old, but I don't mind much. I like my big belly and I'm sure I say the same jokes to other pregnant women without realizing it. I could do without the stretchmarks, but also don't mind those much. It wasn't worth it to me to buy fancy lotions to try to prevent them. Besides, when there are weeks when I'm POSITIVE this little baby grows five feet, I don't see how any lotion can prevent stretchmarks. And how often does anyone SEE them anyway? I rarely go swimming and Ryan doesn't care. It's beautiful and sad at the same time how I care 100 times more about how I look than Ryan ever will.

Me: "Waaaaaa, I gained two pounds this week!"
Ryan: "Good job."

That's pretty much his response every time I whine on the scale and I love him for it. I'm not even that worried about my weight, but still want the validation every week or so that I'm not fat, just pregnant. I'm trying to stop commenting at all on my weight, though, because it's stupid. How many people have commented that I don't look like I'm 8 months along? So, I can't even blame media/society because it is SO clear how supportive people are of pregnant women and their changing bodies. Well, ok, I can at least partly blame companies like Target for hiring nursing bra models who clearly have not just had children. Oh, really, Target? I'm going to have a flat, six-pack stomach within the first year? Good to know.

So, in efforts to actually stop commenting on my weight, I'll shut up about it now. I'm done. See? I'm not talking about it anymore. Yay me!

However, I will talk about the body changing I like. I love my belly. It's creepy how big it gets, but I love it. Also, I never actually minded being small-chested before, but the extra two cup sizes are a fun change. I even like the pre-contractions. I can say that because they don't hurt much yet. They're just proof that the baby will be here soon!

The closer the due date comes, the more I feel ready, which is a nice change. Historically, anything I can't control sent me into panic/anxiety mode and for perhaps the first time in my life, I'm welcoming the changes. Sure, I already miss the freedom of taking off wherever and whenever I like, having Ryan all to myself, sleeping whenever I want, etc. But I'm so freaking ready to have this little baby curl up and fall asleep on my chest, preferably with a mop of curly hair. I wish we could have an ultrasound to see if he has hair or not, but it's fun to have that be a surprise at his birth.

I'm even excited about labor. There, I said it. I hesitate to say it because of the inevitable flood of comments like, "Come to me and say that in four weeks," or "We'll see if that's true when you're in hour eight of labor." Whatever, I know it's welcoming the haters, but I really AM excited about birth. It's like life's ultimate challenge and I want to see how I do with it.

Will it hurt like hell? Uh, duh. Will I want it to end before it's even close to over? Obviously. Is it terrifying because there's no way to know if everything will go smoothly? Do I worry that the baby or I will be hurt? Wouldn't it suck if I have to have a C-section and can't even try to do it naturally? Yes, yes, and again yes.

But I'm still excited about giving birth. Because of the years and years of anxiety over things I can't control, I welcome this excitement. It's not like I'm at the end of my seat, but there's a warm feeling of peace and anticipation. I'll take it.

Dear Baby

Dear Mr. or Ms. Baby,

Four-and-a-half months remain until we meet, yet I'm intimidated by you on every level. The babies and toddlers at church and in stores are all super cute, but I don't want to raise any of them. What if I feel the same way about you? What if we just don't like each other? Really, the day of your birth will be like a first date - exciting, awkward, and with the great potential for a lot of tears.

We know nothing about each other. Will you hate fruit? If so, that's a pretty big deal, I'll have you know. Will you have a closeted fear of television static? If so, I totally understand and we can bond over the evil of white noise. Will you love reality shows? Please, above all things, prefer well-written shows with deep character development and, if possible, subtle metaphors that help everyone view life more completely.

So, I guess we'll have to learn about each other. Everyone says we'll bond, even if it doesn't happen right away. Just promise that you'll like me, despite the inevitability that I'll let you down in some way, whether it involves my eating your special cereal when you're a toddler or you catching me in a lie when you're in high school. Just as you aren't perfect, neither am I, but I'll sure try to love you well.

And that's where I'm scared the most: what if I'm just not a good mom? I like sleeping. Like...a LOT. What are the chances that you'll have a natural love of naps? Baby, of all the gifts you can give me on our "first date," loving naps would be at the top of the list (along with never getting into major accidents or contracting a serious illness).

One thing you don't know about me yet: it's really hard for me to play baby games for long periods of time. It's fun for about 20 minutes and then I want to go read or do anything other than Peek-a-Boo. Maybe I'll want to play more with you, though, since you're MY baby. Speaking of being my baby, how are you inside me right now? And why won't you kick already? We're at 20 weeks, baby. It's time to strengthen those muscles already. Sheesh.

20 weeks. Wow. Up until last July, my body was a purely selfish organism, functioning for my own benefit. Now, everything I put in it has to be evaluated for your sake...

That tuna or cold meat sample at Costco? No can do; the mercury and potential Listeria might hurt you.  Open bar at three separate weddings? Ask the bartender, "Hey, make me something super pretty without alcohol." Large bag of leftover Halloween candy? You lose, baby, because I'm totally eating these mini-Snickers. Okay, maybe just three since I don't want you to have diabetes at the age of three.

Really, the diet and alcohol abstinence don't bother me, but the fact that all of these changes are because you're forming inside my uterus is quite frightening. Don't get me wrong; I love being your mother/hybrid for this brief time. At no other time in our lives will you depend upon me so completely. You literally can't survive without me, baby. Ha, who's in charge NOW?

I haven't even touched on my other fears...me going stir-crazy while staying at home more and working less, having you grow up to resent me for whatever reason, you one day dating/marrying a meth addict (if you're a girl, stay away from that Jessie Pinkman - if you're a boy, stay away from that Jane Margolis)...

Mostly, I'm just afraid that I won't be enough for you, that I'll fail you in some way. And there are SO MANY WAYS TO FAIL A BABY...health, exercise, nutrition, sleep habits, mental development, oral hygiene, car safety, safety in general, vision, hearing...

Let's at least agree that I'll also find many ways to love you, baby. If you grow up and tell some therapist, "My mom was a cold, distant woman and never once said she loved me," then you are not only deaf, but blind and immune to the sense of touch. Don't think for a second that I won't hug-attack you every day of your childhood or that I have any qualms about continuing hug-attacks into your adulthood.

Since you'll be a full-fledged baby soon, the most important thing for you to know is that I will...and I mean WILL...poke you. A lot. On the cheeks, on your arms, on your belly. Mostly, your belly. It's your fault, too, for being a baby with an automatically-adorable belly. And so...many...kisses. You'll wonder why this world is full of Kiss Monsters and how the government hasn't done something about them.

So, you terrify me, baby, but I'm glad we'll meet each other soon. While our "first date" won't include a multiple-course dinner with red wine, we can get to know each other over my breast milk and your poopy diapers.