Getting It Right

There are many days in the life of a parent when you feel like you got it all wrong. The baby is screaming for the third time on an hour; the toddler is upset because you put her socks on the wrong foot; your young child is mad because you actually enforced the no tv before homework rule. These are the times that grate at the soul, the times when your patience takes a cigarette break and your confidence takes a mental health day. Unfortunately, I feel like these days come all to often for me lately. But the good thing about kids is they are flexible and forgiving of the small stuff. All it takes is one shining moment to put you back in their good graces. And this one time, when it really counted, I think I got it right.

Our family is grieving a loss right now. Muffin's grandmother passed away after battling different ailments the last few years. We knew when we moved here it would happen, although it all happened much faster than we expected. I have lost quite a lot of sleep over how to approach the issue of life and death, here and eternity, with Bug especially since she is quite cavalier about the subject of death these days. She likes to play the villain and killing this toy or making this person die is often a plot point in her play lines. It’s a taboo subject that gives this parent quite a lot of mental turmoil.

I wish I could say we have a strong faith to fall back on. While Christianity is the base of most of our values, we have not exposed our kids to a church community so we don’t have a guide to help us navigate these serious subjects. With a serious loss in the family, Bug is bound to witness her family member’s grieving and 3-year old's are not known for sensitivity. Also, JR was very close to Grandma. He saw her weekly and my heart goes out to a little boy learning a big lesson in the world.

The night of the viewing, I offered to stay behind with the kids. A funeral parlor isn’t exactly the best place for two young kids wanting to play chase. JR happened to ask me about Grandma that night, “Does her body look like this?” he asked while freezing his body in like a frozen seizure patient. I’m sure he saw something like it in a video game or on a cartoon. 

“No,” I answered. “She looks like she is sleeping.”

“How do you know?” He pressed me. 

“I’ve seen her.” 

He stared at me dumbfounded. I was obviously lying to him. “You can’t see her, she is DEAD!”

“Yes, her body is dead and her spirit is in heaven. After someone dies, the family has a funeral for the body to say goodbye. They get together and sing songs, say nice words, cry, and take one last look at the body. The body is just lying down asleep since there is no spirit in it anymore. You can still see the body. In fact, your mom and dad are there right now.”

“I want to see my Grandma.” I took them to the mortuary and he continued to ask questions steeped in popular culture themes about death. “Is she in a vampire box?” “Are her hands like this or like that?” But when we stepped in the doors, his attitude became somber and sad.

The whole family flocked to him, sort of smothering him in grief. We all walked in quietly and holding hands. JR didn’t say anything, he just kept his hands up to his mouth and soaked it all in. Grandpa was crying and JR moved over to be held by him. Bug was holding my hand like a big girl and asked me if she could see Great-Grandma. I picked her up to the casket. Without hesitation she said, “Goodbye Gweat-Gwandma’s body. We miss you. OK, Mommy, put me down now pleeze.”  

I picked up JR and he looked at Grandma's face. "If you want to say something to her," I whispered in his ear, "I won't tell anyone what you said." He shook his head and clung to me silently. After a few minutes we left together as a family and went our separate ways for the night.

When we got home it was late and time for bed. We put on our jammies and Bug and I lied together in her bed snuggling and talking about our day as we do every night. We always talk about our “wishes” or things we hope will happen tomorrow. It’s sort of our way of praying for the next day. Her wishes were all about what her heaven would be like. "My spiwit loves ice cweam so I want ice cweam in my heaven!" My heaven had butterflies. She mused that great-grandma’s heaven had yellow kitties. Then we planned for what to expect at the funeral.

I could not have been more proud of my big girl during the funeral. She did not leave JR’s side that whole day. She held his hand, she rubbed his back, she told him it was ok to cry if he missed her. Anything she saw me do to comfort Muffin or my brother-in-law, she mimicked to support her cousin. She was certainly a kind girl. I was also very proud of JR. He was well behaved and sensitive after seeing the body.

Bug may not have many memories of her Great-Grandmother, but I think in death she taught Bug important lasting life lessons. Life is precious and death is inevitable. This will be one topic that she cannot avoid and I’m glad that in her first experience with death the adults around her were honest and mature. I think it was a growing experience for all of us. And I like to believe that this one time, on this one topic, maybe I got it right.

My Choice

One of the great things about MIL’s house is the location. It’s in a cul-de-sac and the back fence runs right up against a park. It is a kid’s dream really. Ry and Bug wanted to go to the park the other afternoon and I agreed to talk them after I fed Bit. Ry being a typical 5-year old girl wanted to help me feed her. I explained that I needed to nurse Bit so she couldn’t really help me. Ry’s big blue eyes furroughed in deep thought, “what is nurse?”

Here it was. One of those awkward, innocent kid questions that put adults on the spot, except it wasn’t my kid. When posed with a potentially taboo or serious question from a kid, my philosophy is that honesty is best according to age. To determine where to draw the line between saying to much and age appropriate, you really have to listen to the kid. If they are engaged in the discussion rather than being lectured, they will take the pressure off the adult and get their question answered.

I had to quickly think how to answer this question. What did her parents call breasts? Has she ever encountered breastfeeding before? “Well, nursing is a nice way of saying breastfeeding. I need to breastfeed Bit before we leave so that she will have her milk and be happy at the park.”

Ry’s cheek twitched in utter bewilderment. “How… why… why would milk be… there?”

Ball was back in my court. “Have you ever seen a mommy dog feed her puppies? Or a cow or an elephant? After mommies have a baby they make milk to feed their babies.”

Apparently, I was completely, totally crazy. “People are like animals?” Ry gave me that crusty look that basically said I was losing any and all credibility here. “GOD made people,” she stated with every ounce of confidence in her little body.

Here it was; this was my in. I now knew exactly what to say and how to explain it to her without stepping on toes or crossing the line. “Yes, He did. When God puts a baby in a mommy’s tummy, her body takes care of it while it grows until it is ready to be born. After the baby is born, her body makes milk so she can still take care of it and still help it grow.”

“Oh. But I’ve never seen anyone do it before.”

“Mommies make lots of choices when they have a baby. Some mommies choose to feed their babies with a bottle. Some mommies choose to nurse their babies. I chose to nurse Bit.”

“WHY would you ever CHOOOSE THAT?” Ry had pretty much innocently asked the question that a breastfeeding mom encounters at least once. And to be fair, bottle-feeding moms probably have to justify their choice once or twice as well.

Again, I opted for the honest answer. “Mommy milk is the healthiest milk a person can drink. I like snuggling with her while she eats, and it is free.”

By this time, Bug was finished sharing her friend with me and stepped in. She wanted to play outside until I was ready to go and Ry needed to get with her program. She didn’t ask anything else and seemed to have moved on with Bug to ideas of the park. I told her grandma later about our discussion just in case Ry asks more follow up questions later.  She was pleased with my summation and happy I simply called it a choice. But in reality, isn’t all we ever really do as parents, as individuals living moment to moment, isn’t all we ever really do making a choice? Brown or black belt? Cream or milk? Make a lunch or eat out? In the grand scheme of things, if I am ok justifying my choice to a 5-year old then it was the right one. If only all choices in this world were that easy.

New Mom on the Block

Dear Neighborhood Children:

There is a new Mom on the block. I don’t care what street rules existed before. I don’t care how things used to be. This is a new day and a new reality. If you want to play with my kids or my kids’ things, you will play by my rules. Challenge me if you like to lose. Thanks.

Signed: Meany McGee in #3

Ok, I jest, sort of. One of the benefits of living with the Moms-in-law (MIL) is that her house is in a cul-de-sac: extra yard space, safer outdoor play for kids and friendly neighbors. There are three young kids already living in The Sac, two of which are a brother and sister ages 7 and 5. The Boy is a good friend our little cousin JR and every Saturday they pal around playing war while the sister (Ry) follows begging for some sort of acknowledgment. Ry is estatic to have Bug here and have another girl who wants to play hopscotch and princesses instead of guns and bad guys. I am happy for Bug to have these friends too. I’m hoping the peer interaction will break her out of her 3-yr-old whiney streak. But while these kids are accessible they are also, well honestly, rude.

When I was a kid, I played at my neighbor’s house everyday. We were up their trees, over their fence and in their dirt every free moment of the day. But I rarely every went into their house. When it was time to eat, we went back home. If I needed to use the bathroom, I went home. If it rained we separated until the sun came out again. I don’t remember anyone ever setting down the rules, we just quietly knew that our own space was right there and the house was sort of off limits.

Maybe that’s why I just don’t get The Boy. When he was 3 and still cute and babbling, he would cross the driveway and knock on MIL’s door. They would sit and have “coffee” together and he would ask how she was doing and talk her up. It was ridiculously adorable. So add the easy access to MIL’s with the fact that his grandparents also live in The Sac and after a few years he pretty much thinks he runs the neighborhood. He comes in on Saturday’s when JR is here and raids the refrigerator, demands drinks, rarely says please or thank you, and is constantly coming in and out, in and out of the house. Mind you, he plays GREAT with JR but he is a pill. Now that I live here, I refuse to feed a child who lives twenty feet away and demands with little appreciation.

The first week we were here, he broke Bug’s fishing pole, got into old paint and painted himself, sister and the garage, and purposely stabbed holes into Bug’s cardboard play house. He demanded that my monkey dog NOT be out in the front because so-and-so is allergic, our cat not be outside because no one likes cat poo in their yard and that I wasn’t allowed to make plans that took JR away from the house on Saturday because that was their time together.

This became an all-consuming problem for me. As a personal rule, I try not to be passive aggressive. As an A-D-U-L-T I remind myself that I can handle confrontation with grown ups in a mature and assertive way without slighting someone else or causing more friction. But that doesn’t mean it comes easy. I always need a pep talk and have to prepare myself for the action. How do you confront a 7-year old about rudeness? How do you correct someone else’s child?

I swallowed my own attitude for a few days to absorb how his parents and grandparents handle him. They are very sweet people and terrific neighbors so I want to tread lightly on the issue of The Boy. Grubbing for snacks, using manners and respecting adults is a big deal to them to, so after a few days and a formal invitation to “do what I feel is necessary at the time if I have a problem” I grounded The Boy from our house. It just happened to be Spring Break. It just happened to include a Saturday. We just happened to put up our swing set. I’m sure it was not easy for him to stay away while his sister was welcome.

Five days into the banishment, he sincerely apologized for stabbing holes into Bug’s house (the infraction that finally turned me into an enforcer.) Yesterday was his first day back at the house. I volunteered to make popcorn and sliced apples as a snack. He asked for licorice he could see on the counter. I said, “No.” It came easily. I didn’t fret or silently worry what he would think about that or if I was sounding too mean. He barely ate his snack and ninety minutes later (near dinner time) found me outside to ask if he could have his bowl of popcorn that I had already cleaned up. His grandparents heard and said, “no.” He let himself in to MIL’s house fifteen minutes later to find the bowl himself and left again empty handed with a reminder that he needs to knock and MIL sternly shooing him out of her house and blatantly calling him out for his rudeness.

I feel good about learning to say “no.” It doesn’t come easily to me for whatever reason. But, motherhood teaches you that being tough in a loving way is imperative to maintaining balance in the day. Candy all day = sore belly/no dinner later. And, honestly, I do like The Boy. He is still charming and he manages the younger kids in the neighborhood in a sweet and energetic way. He is charismatic and a leader and, dare I say, he reminds me a lot of myself. Hopefully we can come to an agreement of what is acceptable behavior before the summer hits and we are in each other’s faces all day every day.  We shall see…

Marching on with a Roar

In like a lion, out like a lamb. April showers bring May flowers. In my brief and humble experience, New England is the place these charming observances of spring weather started. There are four seasons of weather in the Northeast: Snow, Rain, Humidity, and gorgeous. For us, March began with a roar. It was cold and rainy making for exhausting combinations of snow/rain/ice mixes that settled on the ground layered like sandstone rock formations. And even though I wasn’t there for the end of the month, it sounds like another round of the Winter/Spring mix roared through again. Meek little lambs were scarce, and our lives have been no different over the last 30 days.

I can’t categorize the move as a disaster because we are all together and all the really important things I truly care about made it (although the cat almost got left behind somewhere in Western Pennsylvania.) All the things I NEEDED and my personal treasures made it to Colorado safely. In the end, that is all that ever really matters. We did leave hundreds of dollars worth of things behind and thanks to the wicked weather we couldn’t have a garage sale. And while the frugal Jennifer voices inside me are irked at the losses, in my heart I know they are just things. It was just stuff, and likely stuff that was cluttering up my life anyway.

Yes, this move should have been handled much differently.  In my head, everything was going to be great and smooth sailing. And the first half of packing and loading was quite organized and managed well. Then came the first tooth. Naturally, three days before the girls and I flew out the first pearly white terror gnashed its way through Bit’s gums and took a bite out of any hope I had of having hands free to work steadily at the move. Seventeen days later, there are now four of the buggers with a fifth blistering on the verge of release. Thanks to this and the chaos of being surrounded by newness everywhere, Bit now HATES any of her jumpers, exersaucers, and play mats. Flexibility does not seem to be a natural trait for her, at least not in the month of March.

When the girls and I got off the plane, we walked nearly immediately into a hospital room. Muffin still has all four of his grandparents alive and one of his grandmothers took a nasty spill. With her fall and another two beginning to show signs of dementia, it seems that mortality will suddenly be a theme we can no longer avoid.

So between the roar of teething babies, the mauled mess of boxes begging to be unloaded, and time marching on without concern for our hectic lives, I have been reminded of the one thing that brings peace when life becomes a circus: gratitude. I am thankful that we all made it to be together again. I am thankful for this day and the chance I have to make it special for my girls. I am thankful they can get to know their extended family better. I am grateful for a roof over my head and the chance to fret about stuff because that means I am fortunate to have it. And I am certainly grateful that unpacking is the last step!

The Great Thaw

Mother Nature finally seems to be working in my favor as the rain has helped break down the ice for us. Now my POD can be delivered without completely blocking off our access to the garage. Apparently the snowfall amounts this year were the most in 15 years. Radio stations began measuring it in Shaq’s rather than feet. All in all, NH has gotten an average of 77 inches of snow since December 27^th. OK… we’re no Shaq (84in) but we did make a full Michael Jordan and I am still going to have to dig the swing set out in order to move it to CO.

We seem to be getting a few hints that Spring is on the way. I hear birds singing outside often now and while the precipitation hasn’t stopped, rain is now the most common form of moisture with some snow mixed in for good driving measure. I even finally have some green spots poking through the more stomped down places in the yard.

I hope as progress finally seems to be made on the move and as the temperatures finally seem to rise, so will my general overall demeanor. This winter has been the toughest ever for me, and my moods have been all over the place. Along with the lovely digestive and tooth pains, I have been a major grumpus. I am moody and irritable. Most days my emotional forecast starts out partly cloudy and nearly everyone is at risk for some thunder. I do think I have a touch of seasonal affective depression, and with the way we got hammered, I would be surprised if everyone in the state doesn’t.  I'm sure there is more than a lack of Vitamin D for me since I'm still nursing and still waiting for my, um, system, to normalize after having a baby seven-plus months ago. As much as I am looking forward to feeling the sun on my skin again, as much as I want to get Lil Bit outside to feel grass for the first time, I am mostly hoping the cloud over my own head melts away soon. The thaw can't come soon enough!

Moving at a Glacial Pace

 I apologize for the lack of musings... it's not for lack of goings on but more for a lack of wanting to be known as a public whiner. 2011 has not been my friend as far as general health goes. New Years Day a filling broke and even after the repair and a crown on a different suspect tooth I still can't chew on the right side of my mouth without pain. I'll be going in for the fourth time (and last thanks to the move) to see what my dentist can do to get me chewing smoothly again. Most of January and early February I was in some sort of digestive turmoil that is still just a big fat question mark of WTF? The thing I can't stand about digestive distress is that by the time you can get in to see someone it is generally after the fact and experts in the field are few and far between. Bit has also had two trips into the doc and one to the ER so between her and I, our family deductible will probably be met soon for the year.


The move is of course the big looming issue here. Bug is ridiculously excited to move. She cannot wait to get back to a Grandma. I'm not sure she understands completely that she won't be coming back to her yellow house, but her excitement is better than frustration on top of chaos so I'll take it. I have packed 1 box of toys, 2 totes of pictures and 7 boxes of books and office stuff. I absolutely LOVE totes for moving, especially for items that need protecting. I know that a tote won't cave under the weight of other things, will stay ok if water gets to it, and stacks oh so nicely in a storage unit. I bought about 8 in January and looked quite the fool driving my cart through the store with a baby in her car seat, three-yr old hanging onto the side and dragging my tower of totes to the front. But at least I can drag the totes into the POD myself if I need to without worrying about structural integrity.

So far, the move is much further along in my head then it is in real life. POD= check. Storage unit= check. Tickets for me and girls=check. Dolly to tow car= Muffin's job. The walls are cleared of pictures and my box labels are color coordinated and ready to load. Unfortunately, in order for my pod to get dropped for loading, it needs a clear, flat space to sit. And thanks to the artic vomit that has been winter of 2011 here in New England, I have about six parking spaces worth of four inch ice to break up and remove before my unit can be dropped. And, thanks to the weather channel, I have temps on the 30's and four days with strong chance for rain between now and my prospective drop date.

I have spent three solid afternoon nap periods out banging on ice these last few days. Muffin bought a salt that is supposed to be the napalm of ice (and grass or other natural things I'm sure) and a really great ice breaker that is basically an ice scraper with a long handle and sharp blade. The salt gets laid on the morning, then I go out in the afternoon to slice away at the great Allds street glacier. The biggest block is honestly about 2x3ft and 4 inches thick. Muffin and I actually measured the thickest slab at 5 inches. It never SHOULD have gotten this bad but when you get 9 ft of snow in 6 weeks and have 2 young children, clearing every inch of snow from under your massive Ram mega-cab tends to get overlooked in the daily to-do list. Muffin and I were lucky to get to the driveway in a timely fashion. Even our poor mailman has gotten into the habit of bringing my recycling bins up to the house because he knows I can't get to it myself.

My hands are throbbing from the repetition of driving the ice breaker down over and over into what is basically ice thick enough to be an ice rink. If it was completely flat, I could likely charge usage fees and buy a Zamboni. But like a mound of leaves to rake or a wall to paint at least I can look around and measure my progress one shovel of ice at a time. At least, that's how it feels when I'm focused on the work, at night I just feel tingling in my hands and forearms. Hopefully the weather and the round of rain we have coming through will be more friend then foe on this project and I can focus more efforts on actually packing up the house.

HELLP... I Need Somebody - Part I The Patient

 My second pregnancy was cut short by a rare pregnancy complication known as HELLP Syndrome. It is related to eclampsia and the only cure is delivery. I haven't found a lot of personal testimonies about HELLP out on the internet, so I want to share our experience on the chance that it can help a mom in a hospital bed or a dad pacing nervously feel more prepared for the situation. This is a two-part series split up between my experience as a patient and then as a parent tending to Bit in NICU.

Diagnosis

I arrived at the hospital exhausted. The heartburn started 21 hours before and settled like a hot coal. My right shoulder ached and throbbed from hunching over to coddle the pain. I hadn’t slept more than an hour and midwife wanted me to come in and get a prescription grade antacid. We signed in at the ER, 33 weeks and 6 days along in our pregnancy.

It was Muffin who insisted I go in. I had called the midwives twice and taken a sordid alkaline cocktail over the day: Tums, Pepcid, Mylanta, straight vinegar, raw potato, milk, ginger drinks. Nothing stopped the stabbing in the center of chest and when he got home he found me hunched down in my umpteenth shower of the day trying to get any of my muscles to loosen up. Seeing me curled over my belly, arms limp, face twinged in agony, he made the third call and demanded I be seen immediately. I threw on an ill-fitting sports bra, comfortable pants and a March of Dimes tee shirt from a 5K walk we had done in May. Oh, the irony.

The day before we had attempted a garage sale. It was blazing hot outside and fortunately we had an air-conditioned garage to set up shop in. Being indoors hid us from customers who didn’t read our signs so business was slow and we were finished by 3 and on our way to a minor league baseball game in Massachusetts to see an old college friend (young by our ages) pitch. What do you have at a baseball game? Hot dogs, nachos, ice cream and between that and the heat I was sure my pains were from dehydration and possibly food contamination.

I got settled in my room with an IV and belly full of monitors. Lil Bit seemed perfectly content and when a pregnant mom is in pain, there is nothing more relaxing and reassuring than a regular tick-tick-tick or line spike-spike-spike to let you know baby is free from your torment. After taking some blood work and settling in, Muffin ran out to get me something to eat since I hadn’t had anything all day. The IV medications weren’t really helping much but I was desperate for something substantial. He brought me a salad and I told him to take Bug home and get some sleep because I was sure I was just dehydrated and needed fluids and rest. I would be headed home tomorrow.

The midwife on call was Mrs. S; of my three attending midwives she is the most matter-of-fact. In hindsight I couldn’t have asked for things to happen during a better rotation shift. The woman I had with me through each set of circumstances was perfect. Just thirty minutes after I sent Muffin and Bug home, Mrs. S appeared at the foot of my bed, her face looking serious. “Good news,” she said. “We know what you have.” “Bad news,” I finished for her, “you have to take the baby.”

My blood work confirmed that I had developed HELLP Syndrome, a pregnancy-induced liver complication similar and related to Eclampsia. My heart rate and liver enzymes were elevated, blood platelets low. HELLP develops quickly and with little to no warning a health pregnancy like mine can turn critical as the liver fails. The physical pains I felt were actually my liver screaming. The only treatment is delivery.

Mrs. S and I discussed the plan of action. There was no emotion from either of us; it was just a talk about what would happen, when, and what could come of it all. In critical situations I go into work mode and what I needed was a strategy and information, not coddling. I called our wonderful friend Miz Brandy first as she had offered to help with Bug if we went into labor before my Mom could make it up. Then I called Muffin to finalize babysitting arrangements and then my Mommy.

They gave me a steroid shot at midnight to help Bit’s lungs. I was told that statistically, premature girls are significantly stronger than boys and there was a good chance she would be perfectly fine. But, if she wasn’t, the hospital less than a mile away had a great NICU and she would be transferred there after tests. They also put a medication in place to begin softening the cervix. All I needed to do in the immediate time was sleep. Has anyone ever slept in a hospital with vital sign checks every 45 minutes, a pending premature delivery, and toddler being shuffled off to someone else’s house without giving you a hug first? I don’t think so.

 Birth

Mrs. S came in a few more times that night to discuss strategy before she was off duty and switched duties to her midwife partner, Barbara. I wish I could say I remember everything she said. I wish I could say I hung on her every word and paid strict attention. Truthfully, I was paying attention to my daughter. While my medical professional was laying out the details of my urgent situation, the face of my 2-year old hovered over her shoulder. There was my Bug: her blue-gray eyes, her pink berry cheeks, her flaxen-waved curls done up with a bow. While Mrs. S blah-blah-blahed, I promised my Bug that I would get through it for her, I would make whatever medical choices I needed to ensure I was home reading her bedtime stories as soon as possible.

At the moment of diagnosis, my original birth plan went out the window. I had planned to have a natural hypnosis birth like I did the first time around. I had planned on demanding a quiet, serene environment with my mom as my birth coach and limited medical intervention. I had planned on never using an epidural and letting my body do what it needed to do. But I was only 34 weeks along and had only been practicing my hypnosis for a week or two. My heart rate was already elevated from the HELLP and I was already exhausted from a night writhing in pain. My mom wasn’t there to read my face and direct my attitude if it needed adjusting. From the time of the diagnosis, I knew I would be getting an epidural this time around to keep my body as calm as I could so that I could get through it and meet Bug with a hug on the other side.

We got off and on hospital sleep that night and by about noon they began the formal induction. I wasn’t really dilating yet so I was only about 1 when they first checked me. The first few hours went by fine with me and Muffin killing time and standing up walking the room and trying to get gravity to help us out. One check, then another and I wasn’t really progressing much farther than 3. After five hours and getting no farther than 3 I started to wonder if all this was really necessary. Was I really so bad off that my baby had to come out at 34 weeks? There was no way to get her another week? Another three days?

By 7pm I was more frustrated than I was in pain, so with Bug in my mind I called for the epi. It took a long time for them to process it and get it to me for some reason. It wasn’t until 9 that they were ready to go. It was in the epidural process that Muffin showed his full potential for being a birth partner. He held my hands, he said the right things, he counted, he relayed messages, he demanded eye contact. It is one of the highlights of our partnership for me and I am so proud of how he stood by us that night. By 9:30ish I was finally finished and ready to get my much needed rest. Midwife Barbara still hadn’t broke my water through all of this yet because she was assisting on another delivery and didn’t want me to progress too fast for the staff.

I curled up to sleep and Muffin left to go three miles home and let the dog out. At about 10:35pm, the nurse woke me up taking my vitals and told me that Barbara was going to break my water. I couldn’t believe when I looked at the clock that I had only been asleep for an hour! Wasn’t the whole point of the epidural so that I could sleep? I called Muffin to tell him they were breaking my water and he said he would start getting ready to head back to the hospital. She checked me; I was only a 5 and then broke my water.

Barbara no longer got the gloves off her hands when I told her I either needed to get up to go to the bathroom or was going to go all over her. She scrambled to check me again and I had gone from 5 to 10 in about 45 seconds. I called Muffin again, this time ordering him to get back to the hospital right this second in the sort of tone only a woman in labor can use properly. He walked in the door fifteen minutes later, I pushed four times and out came our tiny 4lb 10oz rock star. They laid her on me and we had that moment, that perfect moment that cements your heart as a mother to a child. They took her, checked her, wrapped her up and she was mine for an hour. A perfect hour. She didn’t cough, squeal or whine. She just snuggled up to me knowing she was mine forever. “Look at this Lil Bit,” I said, and that is how she got her name.

During all of this there was the tugging and the pulling to get the after stuffs out. I began shaking compulsively. I thought I was going to bite my tongue off I could not contain my shivers. I was told that sometimes epidurals have that effect on people and in hindsight; I would take my non-med birth over the epi-birth any day! I could tell something was wrong because Barbara was pulling and whispering to the nurses but trying to not be too loud. I knew they were murmuring about my blood loss and how to stop it. The placenta came out and seemed to be intact. Before I could go to the post-delivery room I had to be more stable. I still had the urgent feeling that I had to go to the bathroom so I asked for help to get up and go. The steps were strong, I felt my legs, I felt my feet. I sat.  Then the world lost its edge and the doorway blurred into the tiled walls. That chill of faint rolled up my spine and into my arms. I vaguely remember the nurses grabbing my arms and urgently forcing themselves against me. As the world jerked askew and contrast faded into cloudiness all I remember thinking was Wow, maybe I AM sick.

 Surgery

A birth is a miraculous thing. The baby and the emotional experience is always the highlight of the big show, so no one remembers the little details after the climax. If you’ve never done it before, the saga after the birth is usually the hardest. Think about it, there is this gorgeous new person in the world that you created, but you can’t be reunited with them again until after your bleeding is contained, you’ve urinated, or they have pushed and prodded all your sore parts to be sure you won’t turn septic. Phoebe Buffet said it best after she delivered her first triplet on Friends, “I already had a baby. Leave me alone!”

After our blissful hour together, Bit was wheeled off to the nursery for tests. Muffin went with her so she wouldn’t be alone, but under our unexpected medical circumstances, that meant I was alone. After I fainted in the bathroom, I was put back on my bed. That chill was still taking over my body; head to toe waves of awareness and numbness from a being in shock. Each undulation was a defensive scan, Uterus to Brain: Baby is out! Brain to Immune System: Fix us! Fight, fight, fight! Consciously I was basically praying for an out of body experience. I didn’t want to die, but I definitely just wanted to go to sleep and wake up when it was finished. One of the complications of HELLP Syndrome is that palette levels get low and therefore blood clotting becomes compromised. I was a textbook case and they could not manage the bleeding.

The urgent, focused whispers recommenced and the prodding intensified. Barbara started pushing in on my stomach to feel for pieces of placenta that may have been left behind. Imagine getting hit by a baseball in the thick part of your leg and then having a bully push in on it over and over and over again. She asked me not to flex and fight the examination but I just wanted to curl up and protect myself. I reached up and grabbed her arm, “Please, I know this is important and you have to do it so I don’t die. Just knock me out and do what you have to do. I am too tired to help you anymore.” She nodded and the scrubbed shirts scattered in every direction.

Operating rooms are spooky; the sterility of the steel and white, the hinged lights, the echoing voices of a new staff. I found it hysterical that the OR nurses introduced themselves to me. My sense of humor came back long enough to crack a joke about appreciating the formality but if I remembered who they were after this was over I wouldn’t be very happy. In my own head I was pretty grossed out about this new group of four strange men about to be elbow deep in my business. The anesthesiologist came in, I made it to 79 counting backwards to 100 before going black and the D & C began.

A D & C, or dilation and curettage, is a common procedure to check uterine bleeding. They expand the uterus slightly then scrape it out to remove blood or particles (placenta in my case) and hopefully spot places where fresh blood is coming from for treatment. They removed some suspicious tissue for testing and placed what they called a balloon in my uterus. They essential used a medical bag (like an IV bag) to create a vacuum in my uterus. The pressure of air from the vacuum acted like putting pressure on a wound to encourage clotting. I actually woke up during the procedure! I came to, opened my eyes and saw where I was, then shut them tight again and prayed Go back to sleep! Don’t move! Go back to sleep!

I came to at about 5am. I actually felt a little better since the shaking had stopped and I was able to get about 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep, albeit drugged sleep. A minute or so after I woke up, a tank of an incubator rolled into my room. Behind the thick glass laid a tiny head with tiny arms and tiny legs tangled in a web of wires. While I was in surgery, our lil Bit had exhausted her umbilical blood oxygen supply and was trying her best to use her lungs in this cruel new world. It wasn’t going so well. I reached a kiss to the glass and watched her roll away headed for the NICU at a separate hospital about a mile away.

 Recovery

In a cruel twist of architectural genius, the post delivery ward of my hospital sits on the same side as the rising sun with nothing but tinted glass and a veiled shade. So, between the glaring dawn and hourly vital checks, my “rest” time continued that first morning. While I slept, Muffin gathered Bug from Miz Brandy and drove into Boston to pick up my mom at the airport. They rushed to the NICU, took pictures of Bit strapped under a bili-light and oxygen igloo and ate. It was roughly noon before I finally saw them.

As sad of a state as I was in, I felt bad for the rest of them too. Bug was confused about why she couldn’t climb all over me and asked a zillion questions about the IV and catheter tubes. My mom has zero tolerance for helplessness. Seeing her eldest lying in bed and making it to her bedside after the fact was wearing away at her the moment I saw her. She hugged me, held me, and vowed that all was well at my house. Bug and Muffin would eat warm meals and the floors would be clean! Muffin finally let his worry and the wear of the last two days show on his face.

He gave me an update on Bit’s health. He assured me that the nurses at the other hospital seemed capable, knowledgeable and qualified. Then he confessed her condition. When she took a breath, her chest inverted. The chest goes concave because the lungs haven’t filled up and muscles haven’t developed to hold them outward. Seeing his tiny daughter, her arms and leg no thicker than his thumbs, falling in on herself while gasping for air made him ache. Now, I already feel sorry for fathers during childbirth. Yes, moms are doing the work, but we can feel what we feel, describe what is happening and be active in the moments. Husbands and fathers are bystanders with everything and everyone to lose. My muffin sat there torn between his wife and his innocent new baby in two different hospitals. He was tired and worried and near breaking. I was so glad my mom was there to help him.

I did spend a lot of time alone in the hospital. Mom was there for Bug, Muffin was there for Bit and all I could do was rest, build up my iron and platelet levels, and pump. I know I mentioned this previously, but the sounds of a new baby ward are like thundering trumpets when you have no baby in your room. I could hear my neighbors welcoming visitors, squeaky newborns cries at night, and sweet nothings of new parents adorning their babes. My room was painfully silent except for IV drips and the sound of the pump.

By Day 3 I was bound and determined to crawl the mile down the road to Bit’s hospital. My blood levels were slowly improving but my doctors and I agreed they weren’t going fast enough. I requested a blood transfusion and the doctors consented. After another night of hospital sleep I was ready for my first shower since the whole ordeal started and discharge. I was still probably weaker than they would have liked, but they knew every second a new mom and baby are separated from one another is a second too long and they signed the forms and sent me back out into the sun.

My Invisible Friends

My baby sister had an imaginary friend growing up. Her name was Jenga and Jenga had everything. When we went to the store Jenga had every toy on the shelf. When we were driving down the road Jenga had cows and horses and playgrounds. Jenga was fun and smart and just the best friend a girl could ever ask for at three years old, and if I may editorialize here, the girl was spoiled rotten. But this girl was also an integral part of our daily lives for about two years until my sister started Kindergarten. I’m sure we teased her about it, but I don’t think we really ever just told her Jenga wasn’t real. We went along with it because Jenga was real to her and it wouldn’t be fair to tear down this person she created just because we couldn’t see it too.

Fifteen years later, I now have invisible friends. I’m a fully functioning, contributing member of society and I admit that I have invisible friends. If you are reading this, there is a good chance you are one of them. The Internet has brought people into my life I would have never known otherwise. People of common interests or similar situations that I just haven’t had to opportunity to shake hands with in person. Many of these friends know intimate details about my life and my children that I don’t share with my “real” friends because it just wouldn’t be proper. I mean, who tells people they really know about their hormones?

I am so thankful for my invisible friends. I think about you daily. When Bug and I sit down to watch “Signing Time” I think about how fun it will be for Bug to talk to Kari and her son in HIS language when we get together in Colorado one of these days. When Bug is chattering non-stop and Bit is crying I close my eyes and think of Heidi with 5 boys demanding her time at once and I know I can get through it. When Bug is about to throw a fit, I wonder “What would Wendy Do?” and consider giving a hug instead of time out. When I see the easel in the corner of the room or a plot of dirt begging for digging, I think about Nicole homeschooling and homesteading out in Alaska. When I see a cardboard paper towel holder I think of Max and Tiff playing pirates or superheroes on a boat dock in some tropical oasis. I think of Amanda, Victoria, Heather, Christy and Alisa living as examples of faith and witnessing the principles of God’s love. I think of Melisa and Mandi sharing their strength through medical ordeals and Amy and Kelly working to help people through them. I think of Nancy, Alison, Lynette, Jo, Johna, Lindsay, Lisa all working toward healthy lifestyles, running in crazy barefeet or training for marathons, and teaching good habits to their kids about food and exercise.

Before tearing into the basement for moving today, I told Muffin I had to take an hour to come upstairs and write. It makes me a better, more focused mom and wife to have my thoughts cleared from my mind to the paper. But the last few weeks I haven’t been demanding that time for myself. Thanks to the chatter of my invisible friends this week I made that time today. Even if I can’t buy you a coffee or a drink or go for a hike or watch your kids for a few hours, you are always in my head. You have shared so much with me and made me a better grown up. Our intimate chats and inside jokes have made very real impressions on me. Thank you to my invisible friends for being so real and having all the cool things a 31-year old could ever want!

A Comment and a Fresh Start

In true Jennifer fashion I have been putting off and putting off writing after the hurry and scurry of these last few weeks. I was pleasantly surprised by my parents dropping in from 750 miles away for Christmas and they shared in Bug’s beginning love for all that is the holidays. Bit also impressed them with her three months of constant growth. She is certainly not a preemie anymore. Then the New Year came in with the girls promptly getting sick and my teeth suddenly falling apart. Oh, and Bit’s baby dust count is officially up to 22 now. During a quick iPhone scan of the blog to remind me of what I really should be doing with myself, I discovered a comment on one of my postings. Let me tell you, Kari, THAT was motivating!

Speaking of January, yes, it is a New Year and a new start, but that is not the fresh start the title of this piece refers to. I am not opposed to resolutions, but I do have a tendency to use the milestone for a reason to procrastinate beginning behavior changes I should just start today. I also use my birthday as a resolution start date for any number of goals.

No, this fresh start is the announcement of another move. Like any modern day nomad I find a move full of infinite possibilities for a new life free from clutter, free from bad habits and free from the weight of worry. Oh, the perfect life awaiting me in a new destination! Only this move isn’t to a new and exciting place, this is a move home. We are finally getting back to Colorado, which means all my HGTV watching will culminate in a home purchase and the eventual home decorating spree I have been plotting for a decade or more or more or more because we won’t be buying right away.

It seems that Balanced Rock will take a turn toward a common social trend occurring thanks to tougher economic times. This move will have us moving in to my mother-in-law’s (MIL) basement while we pay off debt and look for the right house in the right place. This choice was actually an easy one to make and while it is easy to joke about being a boomerang child, we don’t exactly fit the mold of modern boomerang kids. It makes a lot of sense for us and we are lucky that we don’t have to move and feel forced to settle when we buy for the first time because we don’t have anywhere to go.

The basement we speak of is about 1000 sq feet with two large bedrooms and a full bathroom. This is plenty of transitional space for a family of four to have to themselves, especially since our current rental is only about 1400 sq ft. There will still be room for the desk, the beds, the cribs, the TV and the play things without being under foot of the current homeowner. The shared space will the be kitchen and the laundry and my MIL is thrilled to have a wife and two kids ready to greet her with home cooked dinners and a full table when she comes home from work. The backyard is enormous and connected to a city park ready for baseball games and climbing walls.  After putting the girls to bed Muffin and I can slip into the hot tub with a glass of wine escape for some actual adult conversation time rather than zoning to the TV. My MIL is a very CLEAN person, so the guilt I feel messing up her house will likely force my cluttering habits to straighten up quickly. In fact, we may never move out and just take over her house.

Of course, I jest about never moving out. We will find our plot of land in the mountain shadow and set up shop eventually. But before that can happen I have to do what has become one of my strongest skills in the last 8 years or so, planning a move. Going back to my discipline question from a month or so ago, a quick solution to my discipline problem is having a deadline. There is nothing like a deadline to whip me into shape and sharpen my scattered edges into razor precision. It’s the producer in me, or ass prod as I love to call it. Need a story written fifteen minutes before air, ON IT. Need to rearrange the rundown to accommodate for an error in video, ON IT. Have six weeks to clear out an entire house, twiddle thumbs then ON IT.

Not this time. No, THIS TIME it will all be done in advance. All the boxes will be easily labeled for storage unit or house. We will sort through all the stuff we don’t need to clear it away instead of just moving it with us again. The storage unit will be packed with aisles so we can easily access kitchen stuff or books or what-have-you’s. Oh, yes, THIS TIME the move will be a well-oiled machine fine-tuned to pristine Virgo perfection just as it is in my head. And THIS TIME, when the results match the vision, it will be the spark I have needed to wake up the disciplined side of me. THIS TIME the fresh start will balance the id with the ego and life will match the fantasy. All the bad habits I have slipped into here, all the ways I have modeled and taught for wasting time and energy, all the junk that has piled up will stay here and I get a clean slate. Ah, the fresh start in a familiar place. Now that’s exciting!