This is How People Go Crazy

Step 1: Agree to take a road-trip on a holiday weekend with a 7-week-old baby boy and his two sick sisters.  Wait patiently on the morning-of to ascertain that the 5-year-old will be able to travel without (a) vomiting or (b) crying.  Hit the road.

Step 2: Be sure to forget 3 out of 4 toothbrushes and mom's deodorant.  Remember the snack bag at the expense of proper hygiene.

Step 3: Plan to stop every 55 minutes for either bathroom breaks, bottom-wiggle breaks, baby-nursing breaks, or wrong-turn breaks.

Step 4: Fail to make time adjustments based on gale-force winds and driving rain on the highway.  (But be thankful for the loudly lashing raindrops which help the baby sleep for the first half of the drive.  They help mask the constant cries from the back seat which holds the world's most lovably impatient sisters.)

Step 5: Let the 5-year-old sleep on the floorboards of the car at a rest stop until her headache goes away.  Be worried that you'll never arrive at your destination.

Step 6: Treat the kids to your evil foe: happy meals with zero nutritional redeeming value, and 100% unknown food(ish) substances because you are SURE the Hello Kitty toys will erase the misery of the road-trip.  Watch as both kids refuse most of the nasty food.  Watch as one kid doesn't even open her Hello Kitty toy.  Watch her cry from a returned headache.

Step 7: Enjoy your visit with family.  Laugh and hug and converse.  Say goodbye too soon.

Step 8: Turn around 27 hours after your journey began, and head home.

Step 9: Wonder what that blinking light on your dashboard is indicative of.  Pull out the Nissan owner's manual.  Stop at a gas station to check the tire pressure -- use your magical pressure-reading skillz because you don't own a pressure gauge.

Step 10: Repeat step 3.

Step 11: Be pleased when the baby finally nurses for a good, looong stretch of time because the car is otherwise empty (and peacefully quiet); the big kids are playing on the grass beside a gas station with your good-sport of a husband.  Leave the gas station after a 30 minute layover.

Step 12: As soon as you hit the highway again, wait for your brain to ooze from your ears when your 3-year-old forces an emergency U-turn to the SAME gas station you just vacated.  Clench your jaw because you know she can't help her body's urges.

Step 13: Wait in a line of grumpy women in a 3-stall restroom wherein 2 stalls are made unusable due to lack of toilet paper and one stall is occupied with a long-suffering (and probably embarrassed, poor thing) mother and her young son. 

Step 14: Take your turn in the stall (finally).

Step 15: Lose the jaw-clenching contest when your 3-year-old declares she doesn't, after all, have to go number two.

Step 16: March back to the vehicle.  Switch drivers.

Step 17: Return to the highway.

Step 18: Remember that it's dinner time.

Step 19: Drive immediately to the nearest mental-health facility and check yourself in.  Call grandma to pick up the kids.  Tell her they're hungry.  And they probably have to go number two.

Step 20: Drool.  Care not.

Robin's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  I'm so happy to share Robin's birth story today!  If you've never met her, you must remedy that now; Robin is an outstanding writer and storyteller, a generous and supportive friend, and the best kind of mother.  You NEED Robin in your life -- get started now at her blog, The Not-Ever-Still Life. 



I have two daughters followed by a son, so I'm feeling very simpatico with Sarah right now. My oldest is in kindergarten as well, and my second child is three (and three quarters, she'd insist I add), but my baby boy is 19 months old, and the allure of birth stories is something I haven't considered in a while. My boy's birth was my most tense, a dramatic one following freak blizzards and week-long power outages, but I've already written that one before. This is the birth story of my eldest, the story that took me from person to mama.

I had an enviable pregnancy. I know this because my girlfriends mocked me. "Are you sure you're even pregnant?" I had a few symptoms: my breasts were sore. I fell asleep typing, twice. At work. In the middle of a busy office. No biggie. But I never threw up and my ankles didn't swell and my skin looked great and my fine hair grew thick and I never had to wear those beach ball maternity underpants. I just more or less went about my regular life in my low-rise jeans for almost the whole thing.

My blood pressure was low and my weight gain was unremarkable and my body chemistry never went wonky, so I had the 20-week ultrasound to confirm that she existed (she did), and then we measured my belly and laughed at hiccups in my pelvis and bought pink onesies and a new house and our first video camera and assembled a crib and I kept working. I was making my (childless) supervisor nervous, he told me more than once, but I felt fine! I kept working. I kept working and had minimal medical supervision.

At 40 weeks and 5 days, that moment happened - you know the one - the one where the fake contractions and the weird sensations and the warm-up maneuvers prove themselves all to have been just for show, because good grief SOMETHING IS HAPPENING down there and YOU'RE ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY!!??

My moment happened at the gas station. I was a mile from home, and I stopped to get gas. Stopping to get gas was fine. Standing up out of my car to pump it, though -- totally different story.

I stood up and something uncorked, although my water didn't break, but I swear to you some..thing...unattached itself inside. It felt like when you pretend that you know how to use a yoyo so you unleash it once, fine, you feel good about it so you do it again, and that pretty sparkly circle comes right back up to your hand all nice and obedient, and you get cocky and thrust it down with a sparkle in your eye and it drops - thud - straight to the ground and looks up at you; no, GLARES at you - I'm not moving. I like it down here and down here is where I'm staying and if you want me ever to come back up you're going to have to wind me up yourself.

My baby, or my uterus, or the very last ligament that held my center of gravity up at a reasonable height on my not-so-tall body - it pulled a sullen yoyo on me. I knew our daughter was ready to be born.

I got gas and drove home, because that's what you do when you've already driven to the gas station, and I changed into comfy pants and waited for my husband, because even though I knew, I still didn't believe that I knew-knew. My every instinct was screaming "go time!" by my brain was saying second-guess brain things like "but you feel so not-different..."

My internal monologue tends to argue with itself under the calmest of circumstances, and these were not those circumstances.

But that's okay, because my husband did no better! He came home and changed out of his suit and got on the computer and I said something tragically sitcom-cliche-ish like, "honey, it's time to go to the hospital" and he said "okay," and kept typing whatever he was typing. And then I had to say with faux-annoyance, even though I wasn't really annoyed at all, just amused because we're such live-in-our-heads types, both of us, that of course we'd forget to go to the hospital: "BABE."

And then he looked up, finally, and said: "oh. Oh!"

And then I insisted he wait for me while I take a shower.

We went the the hospital eventually, and just like my pregnancy, I had a really uninteresting labor. I did pretty great, I must say. Around 5am the nurses offered to check me again, which you know is just code for seeing how many fingers they can squeeze inside you, and declared that I was there! Ten centimeters! Lookin' good! And then the nurse spoke the fateful words that I will never, ever forget.

If I tell you that on the eve of delivering my first child, a nurse spoke some fateful words, are you imagining "congratulations, you're going to be a mama" or something prosaic like "it's time to push!" or something encouraging like "you can do this?" Maybe that's how it happens sometimes. But in my story, you're imagining wrong.

Instead:

"Hang on. I think I see your baby's butt hole. Don't push. I'm running to get the doctor."

And she ran, and I felt the need to push, and was told not to do that.

So it turned out that in my low-intervention pregnancy, we had had no late-stage ultrasounds, and my skinny baby's scrawny butt felt enough like softish newborn head that no manual check had ever provided that information, either. Suddenly we were concerned about her oxygen levels and her cord placement and five minutes after "I see your baby's butt hole," I was in surgery.

Oh, was that not how I had planned for this birth to happen. But I will tell you this: she was born at 6:01am on the 26th of January, and as the doctor lifted her out of me and we heard her indignant screams, he declared "that's the loudest baby I delivered all month." At the time, we thought he was just congratulating us by way of letting us know that strong screams mean a healthy baby. In time, though, as we looked back at my pregnancy and her birth, we've come to decide that he was neither exaggerating nor speaking reassuringly; rather, she truly is the loudest creature we know, prone to speak her mind, wear her heart on her sleeve and in her vocal cords, and make us remember each and every day that just like when she was born, she will do things HER way at HER pace when SHE is ready. And we should accept her as she is, and love her all the more for it.

And having made us learn that lesson from the get-go, I think she prepared us for parenthood in the most effective way possible.

Dear Sarah,

Truly the world didn't have enough of your flavor of Heavenly yet - thank you for fixing that for us. We're all so happy for you. Also, of all the things I've written online, one of my very favorite pieces is a pep talk at Simple Mom for becoming a third-time mama. I want you to read it because you're going to be so great at being outnumbered. Much love and happiness to your new family of five.

Robin

Practicing Gratitude

Patience is not my strongest trait. 

Compassion, sure.  Being routine- oriented, definitely.  Helpfulness, hopefully.  And I think all of those are valuable parts of my life as a parent.  Sadly, I suspect that if a few extra doses of patience were added to my repertoire, I might be unstoppable.  A virtual super-mom, with my cape billowing behind me as I zoom from task to task, from loving moment to loving moment.

Instead, I often feel like the evil villain.  Scouring the house for reasons to be stressed or irritated.  I can spend hours feeling angry that my children won’t stop being wild long enough to listen.  I might wallow in doubt for days because I fear that I’m doing everything wrong – can my kids ever turn out right when I’m so plagued by worry?

Someone recently reminded me of a saying that helped snap everything back into focus: It’s impossible to be angry (impatient, worried, frustrated) while giving thanks.

And isn’t that the truth?  When gratitude is at the center of our actions, how can we possibly be anything less than calm?

As parents, expressing and showing our gratitude is essential.  Our children can approach the world with anxious frustration or with peaceful acceptance, all because of their parents’ attitudes.  And parents who are in a habit of thankfulness, either internally or with lots of outward expression, have the ability to influence their children profoundly.

The practice of gratitude can change a stressed-out (impatient, irritable) parent into something else entirely.

And I do believe that gratitude is a practice.  After all, thankfulness is sometimes hard to come by.  To make it work, we must choose it.  We must practice it.  Daily and hourly and – sometimes – by the second; it just depends upon the type of day we’re having. 

Today, on Thanksgiving, it’s probably easier than it would be on any other random Thursday to practice gratitude. 

But how about the regular Thursday that sees a tantrum in the middle of a grocery store?  What about the normal day that includes an overturned tub of finger paint on the living room rug?  On those days, it can be hard to find anything for which to give thanks.

And our little ones are watching on those days.  So we have to dig deep.

Constant gratitude might look like taking deep breaths after being confronted with a toddler dancing on the kitchen table.  Instead of panicking and yelling, it’s okay to be thankful for a child who is strong and healthy enough to get into such trouble.  It’s okay to be thankful for their energy.  And once our fear or anger is under control through the practice of gratitude, it becomes much easier to resolve the issue at hand. 

Practiced thankfulness may be choosing to laugh when an entire bookshelf is emptied of its contents instead of barking orders and placing blame.  We can be thankful that our kids have plenty of ways to explore within their own home, and opportunities to learn about picking up after themselves.

It may mean making a conscious decision to not be irritated by a preschooler’s begging for attention in all the wrong ways.  We can be grateful that our child has a family she can trust to take care of her and love her, even during the most frustrating of behavior. 

And when practiced regularly, gratitude can become instinctive, changing our impatient reactions into peaceful results.

Changing us all into thankful super-parents; billowing capes optional.

[Originally published here.]

Tiddly Bits

:::  Oh, Thanksgiving.  It went like this: baking all morning while the baby napped restlessly, joining the extended family for late lunch and elbowing each other through the food line to hurry up!, partying our way through the annual ping-pong tournament, holding a (still) restless baby (and finally downloading a white-noise app to my phone to help him take a tiny nap,) trying one bite of every dessert...twice, congratulating my ping-pong winning husband, rolling home in a food-and-fun stupor, and falling into bed. 

There was a lot of thankfulness twisted into each piece of our day; I was utterly, perfectly, exhaustedly happy.



::: Do you ever read Sarah at The Unwrapping?  I don't know how to explain...but...she kind of blows my mind.  I leave there feeling intimidated by her perfectly gorgeous writing, and thinking I should just stop writing altogether if there are people out there like her...  I vow not to return too often because my heart can't take the ache of knowing how my words compare to hers.  And then I think: why is there a comparison?  We're different.  That's okay.  She's lovely.  I'm...different.  Stop fretting.

So I go back again and again because she pulls me there, and now I need to take you with me.  You should read this.  And this.  Go!  Shoo!  (I mean, as soon as you're done here!)



::: Now, for something a bit more serious.

If you've tried to call my house lately and I haven't answered the phone, don't feel bad:

You're not alone.  I don't answer the phone these days.  And since this 19 has been flashing on our screen for over a week now, I assume the memory is full and the elderly messages are all, now, obsolete.  I'll delete them eventually so more can take their place...

Don't call here, I guess. I'd hate to disturb the thick layer of dust that's coating our telephone. 


::: Hello, handsome.

::: Now, since all THREE of my children are currently in the closed-eye position (due, no doubt, to an overindulgent and looooong Thanksgiving yesterday -- hooray for holidays!), I think I'll take up the pose as well.  G'night. 

Er, G'day.

Whatever.....zzzzzzz.....

6 Months Later, In Hopes

Today marks the six-month anniversary of that horrible, no-good, dirty F5 tornado.  Its memory is so sharp that I almost feel like it needs a name, like a hurricane would have, to designate it from any other tornado.  But we don't really need an official name for it.  We already have several that will do in a pinch.  Most of which aren't safe to use in polite company...

I thought today's anniversary would be the perfect time to have a discussion with you that's being sponsored by American Home Shield.  Though the post is sponsored by them, all thoughts within -- as always -- are my own.



I drove almost the entire route of the tornado's path yesterday. 

The sky was low -- so low that it pressed heavily against us on the ground.  Grey and soft and complete, it covered us like a downy blanket.  From one end of Joplin to the other, we were enfogged. 

It wasn't an unpleasant feeling to be driving through the tornado zone like this.  It felt protected somehow.  There are parts of town -- many, many parts -- that are still hard to look at, with their mangled trees and abandoned buildings, but with the low sky resting on them, even they felt protected.  Beloved.

And I know that they are; we are.  Joplin, as a whole, has become beloved to us all in a way that we've not known before.  On each destroyed lot, we notice as a foundation is layed.  We sigh in relief as the bare bones of a house are raised. 

We smile and even tear-up as the roof and bricks are placed.  We notice new grass, new flowers, new trees. 

Joplin has a distinct scent now.  It smells like fresh lumber and dark shingles.  It smells of sawdust.  Of hope.

We love it.  Each new growth of home or business or park is exciting and welcome, and we gather around it like we're getting our first glimpse of a long-expected newborn child.  We remark upon its beauty and relax into getting a feel for its permanence. 

But that's the thing --

We all have a different feel of permanence now. 

My home was not affected in the storm.  It stands, strong and complete as ever.  It's not the home that has changed in any way, it's my perception of the home.

I no longer feel like it's a guarantee.  It's only here right now, in this very moment.  It can be trespassed upon or broken or scattered, and nothing I can do will change those possibilities.

Inside its walls, there are things that make my life feel whole.  Comforting things and forgotten things and keepsake things.  There's a rocking chair in which my grandma spent hours reading and doing crosswords and snuggling babies.  There's a table hand-crafted by my husband's grandfather nearly 80 years ago.  There are blankies and photo albums and porcelain tea cups.

And since the tornado, I'm not only more appreciative of the structure itself, but of those tiny comforts and memories it houses.  The floorboards even hold significance: they were where my babies learned to sit, to crawl, to walk. 

All over town, people have mourned the loss of those things when the tornado destroyed their physical evidence.  All over town, new structures are being built, new neighborhoods are being reconstructed.

I think it's safe to say that with all of Joplin's new hope and feelings of being beloved, we've also embarked upon a new sensation of home.  The sensation of taking home with us wherever we land.

So driving through a broken but healing city that's enshrouded in low, thick clouds feels comforting.  It feels like we're about to have the grey blanket lifted off to reveal a new, shining home when the sun comes out again.


How does your definition of 'home' change in the face of joy or disaster?  Is home really 'where the heart is' for you, or will it forever be the place; the structure; the things?  And how do you create home wherever you land?


This conversation was sponsored by American Home Shield, provider of Home Warranty Services to help with the inevitable breakdown of major home appliances and components. I have been compensated for beginning this conversation.

Amber's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today's story is from Amber at Making the Moments Count.  Amber is never afraid to share her heart, during either joy or sadness.  Be sure to make her feel welcome!

To Emily: Your Arrival

Though I was a week late on my period, I refused to take a test.  At least until I could surprise Ben.  Naturally, as soon as he heard the test wrapper--at 4 am--he couldn't resist tumbling into the bathroom.  Since it wasn't a secret anymore, he sat with me as we waited for the results.

And there they were: two pink lines.  A perfect gift to your father on his birthday.

At exactly 22 weeks, while I was sitting in my morning class, I felt the first kick.  I had waited, somewhat impatiently, to feel those movements.  The location of my placenta--directly in front (behind?) of my belly button, insulated my skin from feeling your movements sooner.  Anyway, I felt the first movement and immediately stopped paying attention to the lecture.  I could hardly wait until I could call your father.

Two weeks later, I had an appendectomy.  It was a terrifying experience.  I am extremely glad nothing happened to you.

Finally, things settled down.  I eagerly awaited, and prepared, for your birth.

At 38 weeks, 10 days before your official due date, I took castor oil to get things going.  Within hours, I was having regular contractions.  Per the birth training I had used (hypnobirthing), I breathed through them.  They were intense, but I did not feel any pain.  By midnight, your father convinced me to pack our bags and head to the hospital.

Once there, we settled in for the hour wait to see if we would be admitted.  While I continued to breathe through the contractions--the peaks continued growing while the time between was shrinking--your father watched the Olympics.  At that time of night, the only event on was speed walking.  Talk about thrilling.

Though I had not progressed too far, the nurse convinced my midwife to admit me because clearly my contractions were not going to slow down.

The nurse wheeled me to our room and Ben turned on calm music.  I used a variety of breathing techniques to keep my body relaxed and felt as comfortable as I could.  Between contractions (which were happening every 30 seconds), I dozed.

Although I should have felt exhausted, I could not wipe the smile off my face; nor rid my body of the adrenaline.  I was to meet my little girl soon!  I would be seeing the face I had pictured so perfectly for the last 9 months.  I was ready.

As with most first pregnancies, the labor was slow and intense.  I was admitted in the hospital at 1 am.  By 7 am, I had progressed to a 6 and the midwife encouraged me to have my membranes ruptured.  I was too exhausted to argue, so she went ahead. Though things had progressed calmly, once my membranes were ruptured, the pain rocked through my body.  Sending me into spasms.  I tried everything.  I went to the bath, walked around (the hospital's strict policy of constant fetal monitoring did not ease my sufferings), and had Ben massage my back.  I breathed.  I pictured calm images.  Nothing worked.  At 9 am, a different midwife (one who I did not like) looked in, checked me, and insisted I start on a Pitocin drip.  Her reasoning was I had slowed down.  Since I was clearly in pain, and not in a condition to respond rationally, I agreed only after requesting an epidural.  My plan of natural birth went out the window, and I was okay with that.  And so was Ben.

I hunkered down, waiting for the anesthesiologist.  When he arrived, he asked that I stay still.  Since my contractions were still overlapping, with only a few seconds break in between, I knew this request would be utterly impossible.  With Ben's stabling hand, I held still long enough for the doctor to insert the needle.

Once the anesthesia spread through my blood, my body relaxed.  I was able to breathe slowly again and finally able to rest.  After a few hours, the nurse checked me and, much to my surprise, announced I had progressed to a ten.  She called the midwife and everyone else who is involved with the birthing part (I don't even remember who was in there, I just remember it was a big group of people).

Unfortunately, the midwife was not patient and holistic like she had learned in training.  After only one push, she said she would need to perform an episiotomy.  I refused.  Each push she would say the same thing and I would vehemently disagree. I knew I didn't need one.  I held her off long enough to push you out.  By that time, only 15-30 minutes had passed and I had pushed maybe 5 times.  When I felt your head and feet come out, heard your cries, and saw your face, I had a rush of emotions.

The silly midwife did not give you directly to me.  Instead, she handed you off to the nurses for your first bath as she sewed my few tears up.  Your daddy and I had to wait until almost 10-15 minutes after your arrival to hold you.  Everything felt surreal.  I couldn't quite grasp that you were really mine; that I was your mom and Ben was your dad.  I held you and, between exhaustion and fear, felt disconnected from the moment.

When I finally sat down to nurse you, it was both beautiful and incredibly painful.  I bore the pain and successfully managed to nurse you almost the entire time in the hospital. (It took 4 months for the pain to finally subside, but I grew to really love it and have never regretted sticking with it.)

There were many things I felt angry about with your birth.  As time progresses, the pain, anxiety, and fear of those first negative experiences fade.  I now look fondly on the labor and birth.  You were the first; as such, there are many special moments that are incomparable.

That first night, Ben held you.  I was physically and emotionally spent and needed some sleep.  You were awake that entire night, just looking at everything around you, exploring your new world.  As I woke up sporadically throughout the night, I would see you and your father gazing at each other.  You with curiosity, your daddy with amazement, and I fell in love with you and your father (again).  I knew those moments he had were moments that would be repeated--with both of us--over our lifetime.

There are many moments that I worry I have let you down.  As I grow more confident, I feel I am growing into being your mother. From birth to now, I still feel this sweet connection with you.  I love to hug, kiss, and snuggle you.  Thank you for loving me despite my many imperfections.

I remember our small family then.  You were--still are--the center of our attention.

Even though you share our time with your brother, my love for your has never divided.  Instead, it has multiplied the more I come to know you, your nuances, and your amazing personality.  I love you to pieces, now until forever.

Love, Momma

Speaking So They'll Hear

The scene is a familiar one: I stand at the kitchen counter, slicing and dicing ingredients for a meal, or cleaning up leftover dishes.  My hands are full and my purpose is intentional.  The kids are watching something on TV in the other room, when I suddenly remember an instruction that needs to be given.

“It’s time to go clean your bedroom before bath time,” I might call out over my shoulder.  Or “Please find all the library books so we can leave soon.” 

But no matter the topic or instruction, the reaction I get is this:

Silence.

Conditioned by their irresponsive reaction, I’ll probably try shouting louder next time.  I may even look in their direction.  And by the time they hear me, I’ll have called out so often and with such force, that I’ll become angry at their lack of attention.  My voice will be exasperated, and the kids will wonder what went wrong.  They’ll get defensive and argumentative.  Everyone will tumble into despair.  The house will be fraught with moodiness of disastrous proportions.  Time-outs and demands will be enforced.  We’ll all hate each other forever.

End scene.

The drama might be a bit over the top, but the truth is there: I become irritated when my kids don’t listen, and they become resentful of my demanding tone.

There has to be a better way to actually get their attention than to make ourselves into angry, yelling parents.  Because yes, that will eventually get their attention, but goodness, it’s exhausting.

In order to speak so that they’ll actually listen, I have to take a second to step away from my own tasks.  If I’m cleaning out a closet (such a rare occurrence that it seems to require unbroken attention) and need to say something important, I either need to step away in order to make sure my kids are listening, or understand that the conversation will have to wait until I’m done.

Eye contact is also becoming increasingly important when it comes to making sure my children are hearing me.  They’re at an age now that has proven to be highly self-consumed.  Their imaginations are all over the place, and if they’re busy with a game, it’s as if they’ve turned off all outside influences that might hinder their fun.  An instruction-wielding parent definitely falls into that category.

I can try for all the eye contact I want, but if those eyes are trained upon a screen, I might as well be merely pretending to speak.  So listen closely, because this is my secret weapon:

If I have something really important to say, I’ve started switching the TV off first.  It’s purely amazing to watch my children’s eyes come back into focus and see them pay attention to my voice.  They can actually respond to questions and interact willingly – as long as the screen isn’t flashing colors and sound at their lifeless forms.

We don’t allow a ton of television time in our family, but the realization that they truthfully can’t hear me when it’s on has morphed my frustration into understanding.  And understanding has become relief. 

Now, when I need to say something important, there doesn’t need to be constant repeating and raised voices.  There doesn’t need to be despair or doom.  There just needs to be eye contact and an obliterated screen.  When those two ingredients come together, magic happens: my kids listen.

What tricks do you use to make sure your kids can hear you?  Wear a clown suit, perhaps?  Trap them in their carseats for a long, discussion-fueled drive?  Does it work?

The Deterioration of a Tummy Time

Going...

Going...

Gone.

(And mom is mean enough to STILL snap photos while his irritation grows...)

Bigger Picture Moment: Thankful for The Pause

This is the loveliest time of the whole year.  Maybe even the loveliest day of the whole year. 

The sky is full of wispy white clouds that blend invisibly into the endless blue, and the wind falls down in gusts.  Nothing is standing still; everything shudders and rattles to the thrill of autumn’s rhythm.

On the blacktop road lies every color of leaf.  They are, allegedly, dead.  But to be alive with such color makes up for a shortcoming as insurmountable as death.  Even the brown leaves, dull when still clinging to a branch, are infused with brilliance as they mingle with golden ochre, ginger, and ruby on the ground. 

A burst of air kicks up a cluster of leaves where they rest.  But they don’t simply scatter away with incoherence; they move in tandem.  Maybe one or two started it, and the others in close proximity joined in the swirl.  They become a whirlwind.  A cyclone.  A burnt and crumbling rainbow of color, marking a path of what might be destruction.  Chaos, perhaps. 

But the circularity of their dance seems too inevitable for chaos.  It has to swirl.  It has to gain momentum.  What choice does it have?  The wind is its only master, and nothing can stop the wind once its mind has been made up.

Except a brick wall.  Or a parked car on the roadside.  Or even, innocently, a child’s foot, placed within the circumference of the windy swirl. 

Then suddenly, everything stops.  The cyclone melts away into a carpet of leaves once more.  Gusts may disturb them again, but never will the same group of neighbors make up that exact whirlwind.  It’s disbanded. 

The leaves can rest.

------------

I'm bounding through the house in past-our-bedtime mode:

Pick out pajamas, gather tomorrow’s clothes, pick up those toys, the baby’s crying, the girls are being too loud in the bath tub, my eyes are burning, what time is it?, find the blankie, grab some towels, he’ll need a diaper, the phone is ringing, I forgot the laundry, Mia’s backpack!, ‘I’ll be right there’, the baby’s still crying, OUCH! (I stubbed my toe), please hurry, let’s go let’s go let’s go.

Then, in the hallway, my husband blocks my path.  He stares down at me without saying a word.  I try to move past him into the bedroom where there are things that need to be done before bedtime can happen, but he stretches one arm out to the wall, and I’m pinned.  I can feel the momentum building inside my chest – I have to move because I’m tired and the baby’s crying and the girls are up too late.  I need to keep going.  It’s a compulsion that I can’t control.  To slow down or (good Lord – don’t even think it -) stop my forward motion is almost painful. 

I sigh and raise my brow with irritation.  “What?”

But I already know what he’ll say, and he knows that I know.  So he says nothing.  Instead, he pulls me to his chest – trapped – and forces me to pause. 

I’m angry.  I hate it when he does this.  It’s a brick wall that I cannot escape.  A foot in my whirlwind, messing up my perfect circle of purpose.

But I turn my head and rest it on his heart.  He drops his face to my hair and I go limp inside, wrapping my restless arms around his waist.  I breathe in the scent of his skin; even under his shirt, even after a long day, even with the smell of soap and chaos still swirling around us, even then – the scent of his skin is enough to make me calm.

My eyes close.

The baby is still crying.  Someone is splashing with too much gusto in the bath tub.  Tomorrow’s clothes are still unchosen.

But I am still.  I have paused.  He has made me pause. 

When we move away from one another, towards our mutual but separate tasks, the carpet of necessary work is still under our feet.  There are still gusts of disturbance and motion, but I know – I promise –

that I will not become a whirlwind again.  Not tonight.  I will rest.  Things will get done. 

They always do.

And this might be the loveliest time of our whole lives.  Maybe even the loveliest day of our whole lives. 

So while our family shudders and rattles to the thrill of this season’s rhythm, I’m thankful for the chance to experience it.

I’m thankful for the pause.

Bigger Picture Moments this month are all about Gratitude. What simple things -- big or small -- are you thankful for? Write about them -- photograph them -- poeticize them -- list them -- and share them with us at Alita's place today. Grab the button and enjoy this time of thanksgiving as we encourage each other to experience life's blessings!

Dwija's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today, Dwija of House Unseen writes about her crazy-wild speed race of a delivery.  After reading this, you HAVE to stop by her place and get to know her better; she's a wonderful writer with a heart of gold.



If you’ve never been in labor in the front seat of a mini-van that’s dodging traffic, then you haven’t lived.

Paul Anthony Borobia arrived on Friday, August 24th at 8:27 am, weighing 7lbs, 6oz and measuring 19 inches long. I had not planned on an unmedicated delivery, but plans have a tendency to go awry when we’re bringing an actual human into the world.

But the whole thing starts with an email, so let's start there, with a paste of an actual email I sent at the beginning of that fateful day...

"As you may notice, it is, like 3:30 am. I got up around 2:30 just to go potty (and was thankful I had slept all night until then), smashed into the foot board, tripped over a pillow, stubbed my toe on the stupid baby bathtub in the bathroom, said bad words, woke up Tommy, and proceeded to start having contractions....again. Dangit! So I got back in bed hoping to go back to sleep, but I can't sleep through them, so I drink some water, start choking on it, get mad at the water, purposely exclaim loudly about how evil the water is so as to wake Tommy from his peaceful slumber (hey, if I'm not sleeping, neither is he!), then grumble grouchily when he is able to immediately go back to sleep. So I don't bother timing the stupid, evil contractions (can you tell I'm totally over this whole thing?) and decide that I need to eat some toast. But then they got stronger while I'm getting out the jelly and I decided that fine, I might as well at least note the time-

3:18

3:28

3:35

3:43


Hmmmmm, looks promising ( but that's pretty normal these days!) so we'll see what happens from here... "

So I wrote the rest of the email, and while writing, inserted contraction times: 3:51, 3:58, 4:05...

At that point I was pretty confident that it was the real thing, but I didn't want to have Tommy call in to work, have his brother/sister/mom/whomever get up and drive to our house, just to have them stop, or to arrive at the hospital only to have them tell me to walk around. Or worse- sit and wait.

But by the time Tommy's alarm went off at 5 am, I had decided he was staying home. I wasn't quite at an urgent place psychologically, though (although apparently I should have been!), so we waited and chatted. Finally, at 6:30, he called his sister and his brother, so that at least one of them would be ready to come and watch the girls. Please keep in mind that we just moved the previous Saturday, so instead of being 2 blocks from the hospital, we are several exits down the highway. This small difference ends up almost being a big, huge problem...

Tommy's brother John lived the closest at the time, so he decided to come first. But "Oh, there's no rush" we say and "Take your time" we say. So he believes us and takes a shower and gets ready at a leisurely pace.

Uh oh- now it's 7 and I am beyond discomfort. The girls are up and starting to get nervous- my sweet Katie is 6 and little Lizzy just 5. They're excited and trying to comfort me. If you've ever had a baby, you'll know that "comfort" is not really the first word that comes to your mind when a five year-old climbs on top of you while you're laying on the couch trying to find some small moment of peace.

At this point, Tommy is preparing an elaborate and delicious breakfast for all of us and asks calmly "Honey, are you even going to want any of this?"- at 7:30 am. One hour before delivering my child. "Noooooooooooo....I can't do this......we have to leave now.....I'm going to have this baby in the car.....where's John?!?!?!?".

Oh thank god, he's pulling in right now. The phone is now ringing off the hook. I'm trying to call my OB and the hospital. Yes, myself. It was not easy. John comes in, I kiss my girls and we make it into the van between contractions. Now I'm like one of those women in the movies, moaning like a fool in the front seat of her vehicle, praying for green lights and no traffic.

Tommy busts out his emergency vehicle driving techniques on the highway, a holdover from his days as an Oceanside police officer. It would have been way more awesome if we weren't in a Toyota Sienna.

Now he's weaving between cars and rolling stops through intersections.

I'm freaking out in the passenger seat.

We're stuck now behind a semi-truck on the 2 lane road leading from the highway to the hospital. The windy, long, 2-way road mocks me the entire way.

I look at the clock- 8:07. "Won't it be great if Paul thinks it's funny to be born at 8:24 on 8/24?" I ask. And by "great" I mean "totally awful", thinking of course that I have at least a little bit of time and that 8:24 really is a joke. Because they say if you can still tell jokes then the baby is not about to be born. So maybe I should tell some jokes so I don't have this baby in my vehicle. See how logical I am?

Then finally...

hospital-

wheel chair-

O.B. racing down the hall, scrubs clutched in her hand-

nurses scrambling to get my room ready-

"Just put this gown on..." Holy crap, a gown? You have GOT to be kidding me...

Doctor checks me, for the very first time in my labor and I hear this: "She's complete, at plus 2 station. I need a tray please. Okay Dwija, on the next contraction, just wait, but then after that, we're gonna start pushing."

Pushing!?!?!? No! I'm not ready! I want my epidural! I want some water. I want anything. I want someone to turn off QVC that's on the t.v. in the room. I want more time, that's all...just a little more time.

Sorry, no can do. And now it's time to push. 1 contraction down and I realize that the hard part's over. This pushing business is nothing compared to what I was feeling in the van. Okay, I can do this. And the fastest way for it to be over is for me to have this baby, so we're just gonna make this happen.

2nd contraction and they're counting to 10. Screw 10! I'm gonna have this baby. I have great lung capacity and strong abs for a pregnant woman and he is coming out. Tommy could tell. "C'mon honey" he whispers in my ear "he's right there. Don't stop, don't stop!".

8:27.

He's here! Wait a second- unwrap the cord from his neck and here comes the rest of him. Relief.

Now I hear a voice, my voice- "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed are you amongst women, blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus..."

And just like that the panic turns to joy. The confusion to gratitude. I bask in the glory of a miracle.

We love you, Paul! Thank you for being a part of our family.

How to Take the Family Out to Dinner

Taking the entire family out to a restaurant is nothing if not an adventure.  No matter how well-behaved your children usually are, there’s always some element of the unknown to be contended with.  Will someone refuse their pricey meal?  What if the order takes longer than expected to arrive?  Will a drink be spilled?  (If your kids are anything like my own, the answer to that will be: yes.  Without a doubt.)

Despite the unknowns, there are plenty of ways to make sure your dining experience is enjoyable for both you and your neighboring restaurant patrons.  After all, nobody wants to be THAT table: the one with unruly, disruptive kids and flustered, scowling parents. 

Here are some tips to help your next restaurant adventure feel less daunting and more relaxing.

·         Have a conversation ahead of time.  Remind kids of restaurant rules that are simple and easy to remember: speak quietly, stay seated, don’t stare at the other clientele as they try to enjoy their privacy, and by all means, if you need to use the restroom, don’t shout specifics across the table. 

·         Arrive prepared.  One small toy per child – like a figurine or matchbox car – can alleviate the tedium of waiting to be seated.  Many family-friendly restaurants provide a few crayons and activity sheet, but it doesn’t hurt to have your own collection of crayons and a notepad just in case.  Anything that will help keep the kids busy while waiting for either seats or food.

·         Request a table with actual chairs, instead of a booth.  Kids love the couch-like comfort of booths, it’s true, but they also love to writhe and lay and bounce.  Chairs provide an easier way to keep the kids seated properly while bringing them close enough to the table-top to reach their food with a minimum of messes. 

·         If possible, choose a familiar venue.  Knowing the menu in advance will make it easier to order your children’s meals right as you’re seated so they can receive their food more quickly.  Ask the server to bring the kids’ meals as soon as they’re ready, instead of waiting for the entire table’s order to be served at the same time.  Many kids will take longer to eat anyway, so letting them have a head start will solve both the pre-meal boredom and the post-meal scramble.

·         Provide sweets.  There are few incentives for little ones to stay quiet and eat well that will work as effectively as the promise of dessert.  But when families eat out together, the cost of extra plates of sweets may be prohibitive.  Find a few favorites that travel well in small portions, and let the kids dig in when they’ve finished their meal.  This is also a perfect way to let the adults have a few more minutes of relaxation before heading home.

·         Keep practicing.  No group of small children will be perfectly behaved in public situations every time.  If you’re nervous about attempting a nice dinner out, start small.  Go to restaurants that are overtly family-friendly to give yourselves a chance for practice.  It takes time for kids (and their hopeful parents) to learn the ropes in new situations.  Understand that learning curve, accept it, and learn as you go. 

Soon you’ll have your own stash of tips and tricks that work well for your family, and going out to eat will only ever be cause for excitement.

[Originally published here.]

Bigger Picture Moment: Thankful for 'Unconditional'

Dust flirted with carpet fibers and cracker crumbs in multiple locations on our floor.  Diapers and hair accessories and colored pencils and yesterday's worksheet and a novel and batteries competed for space on the coffee table.  The scent of spit-up milk permeated the air thanks to a cast-off and forgotten burp cloth slung over the back of the couch. 

Nothing was perfect.

My five-year-old was also slung across a couch.  One long leg, wrapped in three-day-old jeans and a favorite, dirty tennis-shoe, was swinging with more than latent energy.  It kicked and pumped as if she were trying to swing the couch up into the gray and dull skies above our rooftop.  One hand with delicate, slender fingers dipped into a cup of snacks absently as she hummed to herself.  I'm certain she wasn't even aware of the sounds she was making.

My three-year-old was sprawled on the carpet, arms and legs at odd angles.  Because if there is a way to arrange oneself on the floor artfully, she will find it.  Her waist folded sideways on itself and her hips wiggled.  From the side, her round cheek -- smooth as marble, but soft as satin -- formed new shapes of its own as she moved her face to match her cartoon-watching emotions.  There was apparently much need for consternation, surprise, and amusement to be expressed in turns.

My one-month old hugged me belly to belly.  His lips splayed confidently around my skin as he suckled and gulped -- greedy and frantic at first, calm and satisfied in the end.  His eyes were wide.  The only thing in his line of newborn vision was my face, and I could imagine its appearance.  Tired, unwashed, and smiling into his expectant eyes.  One clenched fist bumped against my chest methodically.  Like he was keeping rhythm.  Without warning, he unlatched and reared his head back against my arm.  He made a wet, pursed o with his lips before breaking into a huge grin, cooing and gasping at the sound of his own voice.

I met the eyes of my oldest as she heard her brother.  We smiled together. 

And none of them mind that I'm not perfectly groomed or sweet-smelling on this day.  None of them mind that we've watched far too much tv in the past month.  None of them mind that we've been off-schedule and on-edge and messy and disordered. 

None of them mind the crazy.

The feeling of being unconditionally loved and accepted saturated me.  Sopping and soothing my tired and ragged edges with warmth that was both undeserved and unbegged. 

I am thankful for being loved unconditionally.  And for the knowledge that I love these children

in exactly

the same

way.

Bigger Picture Moments this month are all about Gratitude. What simple things -- big or small -- are you thankful for? Write about them -- photograph them -- poeticize them -- list them -- and share them with us here today. Grab the button and enjoy this time of thanksgiving as we encourage each other to experience life's blessings!

'Sleep When The Baby Sleeps' and Other Stupid Stuff

It's probably meant to be a helpful tip from experienced parents to newbies.  They offer it with knowing nods and smiles, helping those below them on the parenting ladder with this crucial advice: Sleep when the baby sleeps, they say. 

Once, I acknowledged this with wide, doe-eyes and a tremulous heart.  Oh, of COURSE!  THANK you for your help! 

Now, though, I know better.  When experienced parents tell this to their first-time counterparts, they're really issuing a warning as frightening as any apocalyptic prophesy.  They're saying (with their heads spinning maniacally, mouths foaming, and eyes rolling heavenward) YOU'LL ONLY EVER SLEEP AGAIN IF IT'S WHEN THE BABY ALLOWS THE STARS TO ALIGN AND HIS OWN GASSY EMISSIONS TO BRIEFLY HALT THEIR IRRITATING MINISTRATIONS ON YOUR BEHALF.  YOU. HAVE. BEEN. WARNED.

Really, the better advice would be to learn how to survive on no sleep at all.  Now THAT would be worthwhile knowledge!  Because no matter how sleepy a child is, the instant you lay his head down on a surface that is anything other than human skin, he may feign sleep momentarily.  You may be lulled into thinking he will persist in rest.  You may even tiptoe to the nearest bed or couch or unforgiving kitchen floor to lay down your own head. 

But.

As soon as you breathe that single, exultant exhalation and reach for a blanket or pillow with which to celebrate your victory....

The baby will awaken. 

It has been foretold.  It has been passed down from generation to exhausted generation, and the method of its transmission is this seemingly benign advice. 

If you so happen to be on the receiving end of Sleep when the baby sleeps, you can retain your tenuous grip on sanity by remembering the truth behind the words.  The threat behind them. 

And you can answer with a kind-hearted and effusively gracious:

No thanks.  I think I'll shower/eat/stare into the ether/contemplate the demise of Kris Humphries/write an unintelligible blog post instead. 

It just makes sense.

(Maybe.)

Brook's Birth Story

While I'm basking in my new baby's sweetness, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today's story is from Brook of Redhead Reverie.  She's honest and kind and funny -- be sure to visit her blog and get to know her!



It was April, and spring had sprung in Iowa. I was getting closer to my due date. Baby boy number two would be making his appearance at the end of May, first part of June. We had plenty of time to get the nursery ready, wash onesies, unpack the breast pump (oh joy). Or so I thought…

With spring came blooming trees, grass, weeds and other allergy-inducing greenery so of course I immediately attributed my itchy hands and feet to spring hayfever. As I was rubbing my bare feet on the floor under my desk, I quickly emailed my OB to inquire whether I could take Benadryl for allergies. I needed something to STOP the itching and help me sleep.

Her response, “I need to see you TODAY.”

What? Well, ok …

I sauntered into her office later that day without a care in the world - other than the extra twenty pounds I was carrying and a foot in my ribcage. When I saw her face I knew something was up.

She said she thought I had Cholestasis, a condition in which the normal flow of bile in the gallbladder is affected by the high amounts of pregnancy hormones. It may increase the risks for fetal distress, and is common in people of Swedish decent (that’s me!). Then the clincher – I would need to be induced three weeks early.

Boom! There went our plan.
Amidst the chaos, there was a plus side - NSTs (Non Stress Tests). Twice a week I sat in a recliner crunching on ice chips while watching trash TV with a heart rate monitor on the baby. With everything going on, it was nice to turn the world off for a bit.

Then we received the news about my dad. He was coming back to the UI Hospitals because his infection was getting worse. Before he was transferred I told him I'd visit him at the hospital the next day after my NST.

It was a nightmare trying to find the ICU the next day. I just kept waddling around the hospital and finally after 20 minutes I found him. Unfortunately, I was two minutes too late because they had already intubated him. I’m not sure if he knew I was there or not, but I left him a note and told the nurses to read it to him.

That was a Tuesday and on Thursday he passed away.

Immediately I thought. “We just needed two more weeks…just two and he could have met his second grandson.”

In the days following, B2 was painting, moving furniture and setting up the crib. Meanwhile I was on the phone with my family and the pastor making funeral arrangements.

I went to Target in an attempt to find a black maternity dress and an outfit for E to wear to the funeral. There was nothing. No black. I started hyperventilating in the store and left thinking “screw it. Dad won’t care what we wear.”

Before we traveled three hours to the visitation and the funeral I had to OK it with my OB. She said I would be fine and not to worry...um…yeah she doesn’t know me very well.

I remember every moment of those two days.

Once we returned home life kept going. E went to preschool. I went to work. We even had our maternity photos taken. The rooms were done, and things were coming along. But…I was scared. More scared than I was when I had E.

I heard horror stories about being induced; long painful labor, emergency c-sections plus the risks of delivering three weeks early.

We arrived at the hospital on the morning of May 12 before the sun even came up. Our birth suite overlooked the football stadium. Had I been thinking I would have taken a picture, instead B2 and I watched movies and episodes of Chuck.

It was around lunchtime when they broke my water. Thinking it would be a while B2 headed to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. Ten minutes after he left my contractions increased and I felt like an alien baby was trying to escape. “Epidural please!”

I called B2 and he arrived two minutes before the Anesthesiologist. I hunched over holding B2 hands waiting for the prick and the pressure (wait isn’t that what got me here). Then there were issues getting it in … Really! About this time seeing all the wires and tubes, made me think about dad and I started to panic and get sad. Then it was in and done…freak out averted.

Back to watching TV, snoozing, visiting with my delivery nurse. Whose name was Rachel the same as my OB, and the OB resident, which proved quite confusing so we numbered them.
It was getting close to 5 p.m. and I wanted to make sure my OB would be able to deliver the babe. (FYI … that’s one of the MAJOR benefits of being induced).

“Are you ready to have a baby?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said smiling.

I pushed, and then chatted with the doctor and delivery nurse. I pushed harder, chatted some more. According to the monitor I was having one long contraction, but thanks to the epidural I had no clue.

I pushed again.  “He has red hair,” exclaimed the OB.

“What? Wait. Where was I nine months ago,” joked B2.

I laughed one of those belly laughs and then boom little G popped out.

I cried. I laughed. B2 snapped pictures.

They weighed him and much to our astonishment he weighed an ounce shy of nine pounds. Imagine how big he would have been had he cooked three more weeks? YIKES!

G snuggled into my chest as tears filled m eyes. Then they asked what his name was. I told them G and his middle name is Benjamin after my dad.

And the sadness of the past month was erased by our little redheaded bundle of joy.

Grandmother Knows Best

In the backyard where we sat reclining in lawn chairs, the shade speckled the grass.  The weather was so perfect and serene that it was hard to reconcile the moody children around us with the sun-drenched sky.

If there was something to be argued about that morning, my daughters were on top of it.  They bickered over tiny disagreements, and to say the least, I was irritated. 

My mom, however, exuded peace.  Perhaps the act of watching me receive my just rewards was highly enjoyable, or maybe grandparents simply understand the triviality of these moments.  Whatever the case, I envied her calm presence.

As I helped settle yet another disagreement, she ventured inside, returning moments later with a tray of cool drinks.  She’d filled small cups with icy lemonade for the girls, and set the tray down near our chairs.  Immediately, my daughters were captivated.  A tray!  How fancy!  And could they please carry this beautiful tray over to the gazebo where they would play house with it?

“Sure,” I said.  “But I’ll carry it for you so it doesn’t spill.”

Of course, this wasn’t acceptable.  It ruined their fun in balancing and carrying such a delightful treat across the yard.  It also provided another bickering opportunity. 

Quietly, my mom offered some advice before I pressed forward with my insistence upon not letting them carry the tray. 

“Why shouldn’t they try it?” she asked.

I laughed.  “Really?  The five-year-old and the three-year-old with a tray of spillable drinks?  It would be lost before they got halfway there!  Then we’d have to refill the cups, creating more work in the long run.”

“So what?” she countered.  “We’re outside; the mess won’t matter.  And I don’t mind refilling the cups if it means they’re playing happily.  Learning a bit of independence…”

And there it was: independence.  The trait I wish for my girls to possess even as I block their path with my own worries.  I want them to learn how to do things on their own, without my express permission or guidance as they grow, but it seems so daunting to actually let that process happen.  What if they spill or break or hurt or fail? 

What if?

The fact is, when they fail, they learn.  When they see cause and effect through their own actions, a new path of understanding is forged within their minds.  If they try to mix all the colors of paint on their palettes into one, indistinguishable brown, they’ll remember that outcome.   If they try to stack a pillow on top of a box on top of a chair in order to reach the cookies on the counter, they’ll learn about instability.  If they try to carry drinks across a knobby, grassy lawn, they’ll either learn how slowly they need to walk to avoid disaster, or how sticky they become when lemonade drips down their legs. 

And those lessons will remain intact, even as the verbal lectures they receive – trying to impart the same wisdom – will dance right out of their heads.  Physical memory teaches so much more than lectures ever can.

So, my girls carried the tray across the grass.  They balanced it onto a precariously leaning table, and the drinks spilled.  My mom smiled and shrugged.  It wasn’t a problem.  Because they’d learned a piece of a life-lesson. 

And I began to understand a grandmother’s peaceful demeanor: let the children learn their own lessons and life will eventually become a lot more simplified.

[Originally published here.]