Saturday, September 29, 2012

The Power of a Name

Names are powerful.

Just ask Madonna/Esther, Stefani/Lady Gaga, Prince Michael Jackson II, known as Blanket, or the guy shown below.
Tafkap
(The artist formerly known as Prince, but unrelated to the Prince known as Blanket...)

One of the more eye-opening lessons I've learned in 2012 is just how powerful a name can be.

The day after we found out that Peanut was on his way, STBX and I drove to his brother's home for a family birthday party.  Since I had just received my new Mailbox magazine, I brought it for some light browsing on the 70 minute trip.  While looking at bulletin board designs I started rattling names listed on the bulletin board picture to STBX.  On a whim, I added one of my favorite names, Jonah.

He nodded, then grinned. "It reminds me of Sleepless in Seattle," he responded. "I like it." 

We had a short list of possible names for a long time, but Jonah held its place at the top.  I started identifying Peanut as Jonah when we were alone. I even talked to him using his "name" on occasion.  Even so, I didn't want to announce a baby name in case Peanut came out looking nothing like a Jonah.  

After the life shattering news of STBX's crazy "relationship" with his 16-year-old student broke, I felt lost in lots of ways while being required to make lots of important decisions alone.  The decision to name Peanut would now be solely mine, and I didn't just have to choose his first and middle name, anymore.


For 2 solid months I was regularly asked what I was going to name the baby.  Each time someone asked, my anxiety level would rise and my brain would go into overdrive.  It was a trigger question for me.  

I asked several friends for their opinions, and all of them thought that Peanut should only have my maiden name as his last name, especially since I would be returning to it after the divorce was final.  My lawyer recommended hyphenating, stating that STBX could bring this issue before a judge, and this would most likely be the judge's decision. 

I wavered for a long time, but in the end, decided to hyphenate for a few reasons.
1) STBX's dad and step-mom are incredible and have been so amazing throughout these challenges.  I wanted to honor them.
2) It was what the judge would have probably ruled.  To me this means that it is the unemotional choice. (Unemotional? Me? Genau.)
3)  If I ever get brave enough to remarry, I want Peanut to share a name with members of his biological family, like my parents.

Once his last name was chosen, it was important to start deciding his first and middle.  

I knew I wanted to name Peanut after men with integrity who possessed a close relationship with Jesus.  I started by looking through the Bible, and then on to names of family and friends.  I was telling two friends from abroad about my name dilemma and telling them some of the names in the running.  When I mentioned using the names of my grandfathers, one of them shared that she liked that idea because in her religion there is a verse about living up to the names of those before you. (Or something of that sort...)

It felt right. 

If Peanut was named after two incredible men, he would have a lot to live up to.  Both of my grandpas are/were incredibly loving, kind, funny, intelligent, hard-working, generous men who put their families second only to Christ.

E. Parker West and lots of his family on Christmas circa 1985.
(My cousin, Jamie, and I are sitting on his lap and I think he is dressed entirely in green.)

Leon Reser Jr. and his lovely Annie on Christmas morning 2009.

What an honor it will be to parent Leon Parker in a way that will help him develop his character in the same way.  

Books


I love books. Always have.

When I was in elementary school and had to clean my room, I would always start with my bookshelves. I'd start by pulling every book off the shelves, dust the bookcase, and the books and then methodically replace the books keeping the series in number order and then focusing on height so that my books could be best displayed and I could find the correct reread simply by height and spine color.

Reading is still one of my passions, and having the opportunity to pass on my joy in it to my students and Peanut is an honor.

In order to expose my students to engaging and quality literature I am a proud member of Scholastic book clubs. Monthly, I send home flyers with students so that they can fill their lives with books, and so my classroom can be filled with new books for us to enjoy and learn from.

Remember getting these flyers and circling books like crazy?

Well, it used to be for my students.

Now, it seems to be for my Peanut.

My September book order total was $104.17. Fifty-eight dollars of that total were books I bought. My classroom got 15 new books from that total. Peanut got 22.

Each day since my order came in, I've been taking home one or two books each day. A few days ago I brought home these two.


I had never read either book, but was won over by the glowing reviews online and reasonable prices of the discount flyer. While reading these to Leo after a delicious dinner of pureed squash and rice cereal (him) and a PBB sandwich (me), I sobbed. Yes, both books made me cry.

The book, Count Your Blessings, is a 1-10 book where a baby bear counts the things he is grateful for. One, he is thankful for his home. Then, BAM, out of an illustrator's imagination comes a sucker punch. The little bear is thankful for his parents.


Yes, Peanut has two parents. Yes, they love him. Still, the picture above brought me to tears. I had a beautiful and blessed childhood where my parents loved each other. It was evident all of the time in our house. I realized when looking at this page, Peanut won't have these images in his mind. Will he ever have a picture with him and both of his parents? Perhaps not.

We didn't take one of the three of us at the hospital when Peanut was born. I felt like doing so might make me sick and thankfully no one mentioned it. How sad, though. On this beautiful day that Peanut was born, his mother felt ill at the thought of being near his father.

I've packed up the pictures of STBX and myself, including our wedding photos in a box for Peanut someday. I want him to know that there was a time when we loved one another and that he is a product of love.

Yet, children's books that show happy families all together make me sad. I wanted my baby to have that joy of a mommy and daddy who love one another. Most of the time I know P and I are better off without the tension of needing to tiptoe around a scary temper, but sometimes I remember the good times and wish that those good times could have been our family's everyday life.

The second book brought me to tears too, but for an entirely different reason. Mommy Hugs is a counting book about 10 different hugs mommy and baby share during the day. It felt so sweet to read to Peanut about wake-up hugs, going-down-the-slide hugs, and owie hugs.


This book looked like our family. Mama, Peanut, and Wolfie. (The cat is like a cousin who visits occasionally and demands to be fed.)

This family has love in abundance.  

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

"In a word? Moisture."

People often ask me, "What's the difference between couplehood and babyhood?" 
In a word? Moisture. 
Everything in my life is now more moist. Between your spittle, your diapers, your spit-up and drool, you got your baby food, your wipes, your formula, your leaky bottles, sweaty baby backs, and numerous other untraceable sources--all creating an ever-present moistness in my life, which heretofore was mainly dry. 
- Paul Reiser

After Thomas Jefferson, Mother Theresa, Haim Ginott, Erma Bombeck, and Missy Elliott (fo' shizzle), I think Paul Reiser speaks the most truth. (No, he isn't related to me.  Yes, I know my dad told you otherwise...) Today, I had an experience that supports his honest brilliance.

It was recess.  It was rainy.  There were 36 4th graders in one room.  And, it was the first rainy recess of the 2012-2013 school year.

As any teacher will agree, this is bad news horrid a recipe for disaster not a situation to be coveted.

We discussed expectations. Recess began and(YIPPEE!) the kids were doing a great job! They were drawing! They were talking quietly!  They were playing board games with the standard rules!  They were (gasp!) doing their homework IN ADVANCE!

With everyone safe and accounted for, I took the opportunity to look over my lesson plan for the reading mini lesson immediately following recess.  As I flipped through my plan book, my eye caught the image of my adorable Peanut.  I smiled like a teenager in love.


Admit it, you smiled when you looked at him too!

And then, my body betrayed me.

Nope.  Not like this entry...

My arm felt moist. 

Now, as any parent of an infant would admit, noticing moist spots on your body is a common event.  Did baby wet through his diaper?  Spit up?  Cry?  Unfortunately, Peanut was having a good time with his (incredible) caretaker, and could not be responsible for the wet spot on my forearm.  

I think my body knew before my brain because I spun to the wall and glanced down before really knowing what I was looking for.

There it was, a wet spot worthy of La Leche League's Top 10.

La Leche League Salute

I saluted tightly and hustled to the hallway watching for my co-teacher to return from her errand. I think the look on my face was panicked because as I pulled one arm from my body and showed her the evidence she waved her hand at me, telling me that she had everything under control while pointing at the office.  

Down the hallway I hustled.  While hurtling toward the office I saw glory hanging from a coat hook.  I stepped into our guidance counselor's office and said, "I need your help!"  

She quickly turned to me and I pulled away my arm while blurting, "Can I please borrow your white shrug?"

"Of course!" she responded while handing it to me.

Relief.

Lesson learned: Keep an extra top in the car because babies aren't the only ones who leak.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Artistry

(Written over the course of several days in May)

How?

How did this happen?

How did I let this happen in my life?

One of the most challenging questions I dwell on is 'How did I let him make me believe that I was less than I am?'

Finally one night I asked the question out loud and rather than try to answer it, get upset or become angry- I was still and silent.

He was a sculptor. He took the piece, flawed, but whole, and began by sanding the edges. There were new grooves and fuzzier corners, but the piece remained easily distinguishable. Hammer to scalpel, he slowly removed splintered chinks, one by one. Where there once was a unique flaw, a void remained after his handiwork, but the actions to get there were so minute it was difficult to see the changes from day to day. After many months, the piece was small and insignificant.

I was small and insignificant.

My confidence was gone and I thought I was alone. I thought I was trapped. I feared I would live for years among the put-downs, the yelling, the silent-treatment, the raging temper, the secrecy, the isolation and the manipulations. I took my vows seriously and that I was living in the "for worse" portion of those vows. It meant "for better" was attainable. I wanted the "for better."

I thought I was dealing with someone in a valley of mental illness. I thought he was self-medicating. I thought his self-medication was interfering with a prescription. I thought he wanted to get better. To be better.

I thought wrong.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Starbucks Holiday Cups, Church Signs, and the Zingbot

I love Starbucks.

Really, I do.  I cried when I saw them building a Starbucks in Danville and knew I was moving away.  The Starbucks on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Kochstrasse in Berlin knew my order when I walked in and would bring it to me, rather than make me wait in line with the tourists.  I've been known to leave my house 40 minutes early to drive to Marysville for a Starbucks confection and return to Bellefontaine for work before 7:30am.  I especially love the delightful fall and winter holiday drinks. (Tell me that the words "Pumpkin Spice Latte" don't cause you to salivate.  What, Pavlov's dog?  Exactly.)

What I don't love is the preachy Starbucks cup.


I just don't need my coffee with a side of "I told you so." 

Like the Starbucks cup, there is a church on my morning commute with outstanding and smart, but preachy signs. It is a church and therefore permitted to be preachy at me. 

Usually, I can chuckle at the sign or take a moment to consider the thoughtfulness of the words or the interesting plays on phrases they make.  This week, though, the sign knew.  

It knew me.


Sometimes I want so badly to call out the people who have hurt or are continuing to hurt my family and me.  I just want to fire off a list of grievances. Take that! And that! And THAT! 

I want to tell them and others all of the ways they have wronged us and I, like the Zingbot 3000, want it to be bitingly painful. I want them to feel at least half of the pain they have inflicted.  (And I hate that I want to hurt their feelings, but it is true.  Sometimes I do.)


So, I was driving down Ludlow Rd., making internal lists of things I wish everyone knew about a few, select people, when the sign reached out and punched me in the throat.

"Don't let the littleness in others
bring out the littleness in you."
-Preachy Sign 2012

I was letting it happen. I was letting their smallness bring out the evil in me. I was allowing myself to be controlled by their hate.  I was brimming with hate and vengefulness and spending my time imagining retaliation.  None of it was worth my time or energy.  None of it was worth sacrificing my character.  

So, as much as I want to write and post a blog entry about the wrongs that have been committed and the wrongs that still seem to be coming at me from a few individuals, I refuse to let hate control me. 

God is love, so I choose to be fueled by love. (With a side of fair trade coffee...)

Friday, August 17, 2012

Back to School


I don't want to go back to school.
There. I said it.

I love my job. No, really. I LOVE IT.

It's just... I love my days with Peanut more.

Just the thought of spending my days away from him tightens my chest and encourages sneaky, lurking tears to make an appearance. I'm so jealous of mothers who can spend each day, all day raising their children. Although I love my job and having the opportunity to spend time with other incredible children, I want to be with mine. (Stomps foot.)

I've never felt bummed about the start of the school year and it weirds me out, to be honest.

Usually I'm eagerly doodling bulletin boards and researching new ways to teach inferencing by July 15th. When August first hits I've knocked off at least 6 professional books and have bought out the majority of Staples. My classroom is generally ready to go one week before school starts.

Not this year.

I'm trying to soak up everysinglesecond of Peanut time I can. I pause while walking the hallway to smell his neck, ignore phone calls to enjoy his coos, and have super simple meals to spend more time singing The Wheels on the Bus. It is amazing how my world has shifted and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'd love to say that "I have to go to work," but the truth is that I choose to go to work. I suppose I could quit my job and be at home with Peanut all day. I just don't like the consequences of that, including losing my house and being unable to support my child. (Note: August is Child Support Awareness month. As I learn the ins and outs of this system- which currently feels entirely ineffective- I hope you'll take a moment to read the stats provided here.)

When you get down to it there are SO many things I'm looking forward to this school year. I'll have a new group of students, get to implement The Leader in Me with the Western staff and be a member of the Lighthouse Team, truly co-teach with 36ish 4th graders, 2 teachers, and 1 room, continue to develop a rigorous and engaging reading/language arts curriculum with a great team, and much, much more.

It would be just peachy-perfect if I could do this while baby-wearing...

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Grey's Anatomy Is Good Medicine for a Pity Party (See what I did there?)

When I really get down about all of the restmüll (German reference) in my life, I turn to Grey's Anatomy. No matter what else is going on, the characters at Seattle Grace can really put life into perspective. Let me tell you some of the ways their lives suck more than mine.

1) I'm not sharing a pole through my spine with another man and the only way to save him is for me to be slid off the pole and die before my fiance can get to the hospital and we can say goodbye.

2) I didn't cut the LVAD wire on my fiance's heart device in order to put him higher on the transplant list (which worked, bt-dub) but then watched him die of a stroke. To make matters worse, he was a millionaire and left 8.7 million to me and I'm paralyzed with grief and can't use it.

3) I don't have the syph via Alex Karev via a nurse.

4) I don't have a lesbian lover who got pregnant via a mutual friend while we were broken up and I was in Africa. Then, when I asked her to marry me got into a car accident and I nearly lost said baby and said fiance.

5) I'm not a world famous surgeon with a secret hand tremor.

6) I don't have my hand on an unexploded bomb inside a man's chest.

7) I wasn't in labor while my husband's brain was exposed on the operating table after he got in a car crash rushing to the hospital.

8) My mom wasn't a world class surgeon who developed Alzheimers and asked me to keep her secret. Oh, and she had an affair with my boss's boss's boss while I was growing up.


And, even though their lives clearly suck MUCH more than mine, sometimes they say things that hit home.

Addison: I never thought I'd end up alone.

Callie: You have not ended up anywhere.

Addison: Yeah, you're right. I know. It's just that... um... sometimes it feels that way. This is one of those weeks it feels that way.


Yuppers, Addison. I totally feel you, girl. And it sucks.

The other day I was having dinner with a friend and she commented, "How will you ever trust someone again?" She is absolutely right. I don't feel like I could ever let anyone else into Peanut and my life. I don't want to think about dating, much less remarriage. I've already given Peanut one crummy male role model, what if I do it again? (In the same breath, will I let STBX steal romantic love from me? Forever?  That seems, well, uncool.)

Being alone is easier than risking love again. Because, that is the truth. I absolutely, unequivocally, whole-heartedly loved my husband. I loved who I thought he was and I believed he loved me that way too. He wasn't who he portrayed himself to be, and I can't afford to be wrong twice.

Meredith Grey: At some point, you have to make a decision. Boundaries don’t keep other people out. They fence you in. Life is messy. That’s how we’re made. So, you can waste your lives drawing lines. Or you can live your life crossing them. But there are some lines… that are way too dangerous to cross.

Risking love seems too dangerous. At least, for now. 
(Though not as dangerous as having my hand inside a stranger's chest touching an unexploded bomb, so that's something.)

Saturday, August 11, 2012

"I Just Don't Know What to Say!"

Countless times I've encountered someone in crisis and not know what to say or how to say it.  Usually I refer to my honest stand-by "I'm praying for you/your family,"  but there have been occasions where I've done the Wal-Mart turn around.

You know it. You see someone coming down the aisle at you and rather than have to deal with a difficult situation you either become engrossed in the varieties of chicken stock and make your decision with the weightiness of deciding whether Luda or Coolio is the greatest hip hop/rap artist since Tupac or turn your cart around with a sudden desire to return to the pet food aisle. Perhaps the 28 lb. bag will be insufficient.

Having been the recipient of many Wal-Mart turnarounds, I want to share what I've learned. (And if you said anything on the negative lists to me, do NOT feel bad. I know you had the best intention, and I love you for trying.  I'm posting this because I think we can better help others in crisis.)

Things to say when someone is in crisis:
I'm sorry.
You don't deserve this.
Whatever decisions you make are the right ones.
You don't have to make any decisions right now.
Life will get better.
You are bigger than this.
You are special.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm praying for you.
I'm here for you.
We can talk about what is going on if you want, but don't feel like you need to.
I want to help you. I will... (bring food, take your child to the park, clean your bathroom, rake your leaves, change your light bulbs, walk your dog, bring you copious amounts of chocolate...) and I won't take no for an answer.
How do you want me to feel?
I went through something similar.  If you want, we could talk about it.
Ask any concrete question about life.
One friend made it her mission to make me laugh. It was wonderful to hear funny stories and receive her daily text messages of affirmation. How can you be desolate when you have a stuffed dog shaking his hips to Sir Mix-a-Lot's best hit, "I Like Big Butts."

Things not to say:
I know exactly how you feel. 
You need to pray for the strength to forgive.
What are you going to do?
How can I help?
God has His reasons for this.
How are you doing? (Followed by sympathetic head tilt.)

The worst:
Say nothing.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

My Secret Shame


From March 22, 2012

I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to make a pregnant woman pee in a cup on a weekly basis, but I'll bet all the impulse buys in Target that it wasn't a woman in her 3rd trimester.

You see, as the rate of doctor visits increases, the circumference of belly increases, and the volume of liquid reduces due the frequent need to release said liquid due to baby's increasing size and strength of kicks. This creates the opportunity for a perfect storm in the OBGYN's tiny water closet.

For those of you who are male or have yet to enjoy the privilege of carrying a 39 week fetus, I have a little experiment for you to try.

Supplies
Twelve ounces of drinkable water
One available toilet
One Dixie cup
One blindfold
Two extra large pillows
One roll of duct tape
One XL bag of white flour

Procedure
Step 1: Drink water.
Step 2: Lie on floor . Place bag of flour on your stomach below your navel. Place extra large pillows on top of flour. Duct tape pillows and flour to your person in a belt-like fashion. Make it tight. Tighter.
Step 3: Stand. Waddle the floor for 15 minutes.
Step 4: Head to the toilet with a dixie cup and blindfold. (See where we're going?)
Step 5: Tie on blind fold.
Step 6: Eliminate waste into Dixie cup. (Note: This may take a fair amount of Cirque du Soleil-ing.)

Did you have success?

Yeah, me neither. Every week I am weighed (thankyouverymuchfortheextraslidetotheright, nurse), handed a little cup, and marched into my own version of urine misery. Not only is it nearly impossible to aim, it is definitely impossible to see the stream, and incredibly difficult to manage the volume of product.

If too much product makes it into the cup I feel embarrassed about my output and generally pour the superfluous liquid into the toilet. Sometimes then, too much is poured out and I feel the need to refill, increasing the likelihood of splashing. On other occasions, I struggle to eliminate anything, much less allow it to make it into the cup. This is far worse, as I then apologize profusely to the nurse as she tips the cup angularly to check my hCG level.

After a few mortifying sessions (yep, I'm the cautionary tale person who dropped the plastic cup into the porcelain), I imagined bringing a funnel to assist. Its true. I'm a problem solver.

And, it worked.
(Now, you know my secret shame. And, because I know you're wondering... I threw the funnel away at the doctor's office. My freezer jam is safe to enjoy.)

Happy? Un-niversary


Three Years Ago

Three years ago, today, I vowed before God, my family, and my friends to love honor and cherish my husband. I gleefully and whole-heartedly promised to love him and to be faithful to him. My heart was light with joy and soppy-full of happyhope. I thought that 8/8/09 was the beginning of my happily ever after. Just over 30 months later I signed papers filing for divorce. I felt (and sometimes still feel) like a failure.

Going to a Christian counselor was one of the best decisions I made these past 6 months and he has really helped me handle this feeling, "I am a failure." Basically, he explained that just like it takes two to tango, it takes two committed people to make a marriage. When one person refused to be committed and actively chose to break vows repeatedly, the other cannot make a marriage alone. It just isn't possible. Even so, I regularly have to talk myself through his example to keep from getting down on myself.

I'm not sure how to celebrate this 'un-niversary.' Technically, today I have been married for 3 years. Do I cry about the loss of the marriage I thought I had? Do I hide out in my living room order to spare anyone the uncomfortable situation of seeing me today? Do I go on as though life is normal? Does Hallmark even have a card for this? (If not, I bet someecards.com does...)

(And, they did!)

I feel some sadness at the loss of those dreams I imagined. On our wedding day, I could picture being surrounded by family and friends 10, 25, and 50 years down the road. I never visualized that exactly three years later I would be alone listening to the deep breathing of our sleeping son and he would be serving jail time. Who could have forseen this?

I don't miss STBX (soon to be ex- which is the nicest acronym I can come up with) and don't want him back. (Ever. Evereverevereverever.) I don't want my marriage back. I'm so much less lonely now than I was living with him.

Even so, today I'm mourning. This should have been a day marked with celebration, or at least happy acknowledgment, but instead it commemorates a lost dream.

Time to dream a new dream.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

He Doesn't Owe Me Squat


May 8, 2012

In the days between January 25th (the afternoon I found out about STBX's- Soon T Be eX- infidelities) and April 2nd (when Peanut was born) I worried. A lot. To those of you who know me or read this blog, it should come as no surprise that I worried.

Throughout those weeks, I was so fearful about life. I felt certain that something would be wrong with my little Peanut. Colic. Birth defects. Stillbirth.

My brilliant therapist said it best, "If I were driving my car along a road and it felt a little off, I would think, 'No big deal. I'll stop by a mechanic's shop and have the engine looked at. This is a problem I can fix." Then, while driving to the mechanic's out of nowhere a MAC TRUCK plows into me. I would then think that life was unpredictable and scary." (Metaphorical genius, he is.)

That was exactly how I felt about life.

When I shared my concerns with many others they assured me, "Your baby will be just fine. He will be born healthy, happy, and beautiful. God wouldn't add any more difficulties to your life. He knows just how much you're dealing with."

And then, I would feel better. 'Of course. God loves me. He doesn't want hardship to come to me. He will protect Peanut. He wouldn't give me more to handle right now.' I would be smug and comforted by the thought until the fears would return.

One day I shared my fears with one of the most faith-filled women I know, who also happened to be a colleague. She looked me in the eye and told me that my worries could be true. Peanut might not be healthy. She shared, "God doesn't owe you anything, Ashley. You owe him everything, and for everything he gives you, you should rejoice and be thankful."

Owie.

Her words stung, but the more I thought about and prayed about them, the more I knew she was right. God doesn't owe anyone anything. He loves us and wants the best for us, sure.* But it is in hardship that many find faith or deepen their relationship with Him. Isn't that a blessing in itself?

It was only through her words that I gained true relief. Whatever happened to Peanut and me would be okay because we had a powerful, loving God who gave his son for us (and you). He doesn't owe me anything, so I should give thanks for everything.

Everything.

*I assume and hope based on the experiences of my faith journey. It seems awfully cocky to say I know what God is thinking.   

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Sleep Training Isn't for Sissies or In Which I Get Belligerent with a Book


Mommy hearts aren't meant to let their sweet babies cry. As I sit here in the overstuffed armchair my dad reclaims on every visit to my home, all I want to do is go rescue my adorable son from his loneliness. You see, we are sleep training. He is in his Rock'n'Play. Alone. I am in the living room. Alone. The dog is pacing the hallway, clearly unsure of why I am letting his little brother cry (evidenced by the way he nudges my hand or knee every three laps.)

Peanut is sad. I am sad. We are sad. (Je vous en prie, repete, "Peanut est desole. Je suis desole. Nous sommes desole.")

(Aside: That French was probably VERY inaccurate. Since studying French I've attempted German and Russian. Truthfully, I stink at them all. Sorry Madame Hodge, Keeta, and Maike.)

I could fix our saddies SO easily. Walk into the room. Pick up Peanut. Cuddle. Problem fixed.
Yay! Mommy fixed the saddies!

For now.

Unfortunately, I want Peanut to learn to self-soothe. For a few nights I've attempted to put him to bed awake, but drowsy after our nighttime routine. Every night except last night he fell asleep before I put him down. Last night he was drowsy and whimpered for a few minutes before crashing.

Tonight he was drowsy, but has now worked himself into a frenzy equal to the crowd waiting in line for deep fried Oreos at the Ohio state fair. 

In an effort to keep my tush in this chair I am reading and rereading Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth. My belligerance with this author is increasing. Example:

HSHHC: This may be the first time you will ignore your child's protests.

Me: No shit, Sherlock. Baby cries. Mommy fixes. Repeat. I want him to know that he can rely on me. Always. Leo+Mommy=Rainbows, push up pops, and cherry kool-aid happiness
See how happy cherry kool-aid can make one?

HSHHC: When your child is crying and he is not hungry, say to yourself, "My baby is crying because he loves me so much he wants my company, but he needs to sleep."

Me: Precisely! I will cuddle him as he sleeps. Agreed! (Begins to get up from chair as the next sentence catches her eye.)

HSHHC: I know the value of good sleep...

Me: (Warily agreeing) Yes...

HSHHC: ... and I love my baby so much that I am going to let him sleep.

Me: Damn you, Weissy. (Internal dilemna) Now if I go get him, The Weisster will accuse me of not loving him enough to give him quality sleep. Grr. (Booty resumes imprinting on chair.)

HSHHC: At some future point you will teach other health habits such as hand washing or tooth brushing... Later still, you're not going to risk brain damage by letting him ride his bike without a helmet.

Me: You're seriously equating picking up my crying, lonely 4 month infant with potential brain damage!? If I refill his disposable water bottle at socer practice when he is four, I suppose I'd be supporting cancer too, huh.

HSHCC: Starting early and being consistent are the keys to establishing good habits.

Me: Grrrr. Every once in awhile I agree with your drivel, and there you go, hitting my beginning of the school year theory perfectly. Rats. 

Hey... Leo is silent... Thanks, Dr. Weissbluth. (Until tomorrow, you blizzard-hating sadist.)

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Soldier On


I'm totally overwhelmed by the response to this blog.

April 19, 2012

When I found out that my husband made choices which caused him to lose his job via resignation and deeply threatened the fiber of our marriage, I got out of bed. Despite the fact that I was 32 weeks pregnant, I got out of bed. Even though all I wanted to do was hide in bed with my dog and a box of Puffs Plus Lotion or do a full-out Jimi Hendrix on my kitchen floor, I got up.

Why?

Simple. I didn't have a choice.

I had a mortgage. I had a classroom of twenty-eight 4th graders who were in the middle of writing personal narratives. I had a car payment, a credit card bill, and utilities to pay. There were pets to feed. I had a baby on the way and a life to make for him.

I'd love to say it was my faith, or my family, or my friends, or my own determination that gave me the power to go on with day-to-day life, but the truth is starkly clear. I had no choice.

My life was falling apart all around me. If I laid in bed it would only continue to collapse, and I felt like I was dealing with enough problems for the moment. Someone had to step up and use the initial bits of duct tape and WD40 to begin to repair my life. That someone, by default, was me.

So, if you wondered how I went to work, or the grocery store, or to the doctor those days immediately following January 25th, now you know. I didn't have a choice.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

woManning Up


From July 24, 2012

While revising and editing another blog entry I felt my spine tingle and then a trickle of wiggling snaked from my right shoulder to my left and back.

Was is a poignant observation?
A moment of foreboding?
A tickle of woman's intuition?

Nope. It was a bug. A shiny, jadeblack, six-legged creature. On my person.

Twelve months ago I might have shrieked and called in back-ups to kill it. I would have wiggled and itched and been creeped out simply by sitting in the same chair.

Not any more. When I reached around to scratch the wiggly spot and felt the bug move between my fingers I grabbed and threw that sucker to the ground in surprise. Then, I grabbed a paper towel and tracked down the invading creature, determine to destroy (or perhaps trap under a glass and release in the wild) the cretin.

I found. I smooshed. I flushed.

Victory.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Do You Think God Uses Microsoft Publisher?


How do you know when you've really, truly, waydowninthedepthsofyourheart forgiven? Is it when you don't feel angry, sad, or lost at the mention of their name? Is it when you can calmly occupy the same space? Is it when you can pray that good things will come to them?

I'm still not sure.

Beginning in May I began giving real effort to forgiving those people who hurt me. I prayed for peace in my heart. During May, June, and the early part of July I cried every time I said the Lord's Prayer.

What kind of a hypocrite was I? Daily, I would ask God to forgive me as I forgave those who trespassed against me (or whatever language you use- debtors, sinners...) yet I was holding on to pain and anger and not forgiving.

I told myself that I had to do it, even though they weren't asking for forgiveness. I wasn't forgiving them for their sake, I was forgiving them for my sake. Finally I talked about this with my counselor. I wanted to know how I would know that I had really forgiven. I think I asked about a certificate signed and dated by God with a shiny foil seal. (Maybe stamped with a cross or a Jesusfish...) He laughed and then mentioned that perhaps it wasn't them I was failing to forgive.

It was me.

I couldn't forgive myself for not giving my sweet Peanut an intact, loving, two-parent family. When I got married I did it believing I was choosing the best father for my children- a real man who would provide spiritually, emotionally, financially, and physically. A man who would put his family before himself. I come from a long line of men who have done this and Peanut was named for two of the greatest examples I've known of what it means to be an upstanding, loving man.

I chose... poorly. (Indiana Jones reference intended.)

I couldn't forgive my inaccurate assessment and the way my choice in a partner would affect Peanut's life forever.

Now, I think I'm closer than ever to forgiving myself. The grief is not as stinging and comes at less frequent intervals. Above all, it took the two of us to make the one amazing little Peanut. I would go through the hardships of the past 8-10 months one million more times just to have him again.

So when it happens, I'd really like a Microsoft Publisher certificate acknowledging my achievement.

Beginning with the End in Mind


I loved being pregnant. Every day felt like an opportunity to give my sweet baby the best start that I and life had to offer. In spite of the weight gain, bad skin, lack of red wine, and morning sickness (one of the best kept pregnancy secrets is that puking can't tell time...), I felt like I held the most glee-filled, chocolate doughnutty, confetti tossing secret ever. I was making a person. A bone fide eyelashes, spleen, and toenail possessing b-a-b-y.

Despite my love of pregnancy, life at home wasn't good. I'm sure I'll share more details about life during those months as I continue to blog, but in short, I was spending a lot of extra time at school. I felt capable and respected there. I didn't have to tiptoe to maintain peace or fudge the truth to make others believe that all was well. Neither I, nor any of my family members, nor any friend knew all of what was lurking beneath the surface of my well-manicured life.

I mentioned here that I was using my blog as an escape. It wasn't that I lied in my blog, but I made the decision to look for the most silverypink moments in my life, take the time to document them, and be grateful for the beauty God was giving me.

Please accept my apology for keeping many truths from you. This blog will be different. It is a place for me to heal, to find humor in life with a growing (far too quickly for my liking) baby boy, to help others in crisis, and to regain the heart I nearly lost. 


Gratitude List
Coffee at Sweet Aromas with mom and Peanut
A 40 minute late morning nap
Getting two 'prep for school' tasks finished
Watching G-Mac improvise an awesome dino story for Peanut
Safe travels for the 'Six Pack'
Wolfie was fine after taking a tumble in the backyard
Dinner and HP1 with Robbie
Blogging while snacking on one of Margie's chocolate chippers

Monday, July 30, 2012

DIY

7.16.12

Time to come clean.

Today I used a serrated knife and a glass cutting board to cut a roll of paper towels in half. Then, I made my own baby wipes.

The appeal of saving money was too great for me resist any longer. I am becoming a granola-mama.

I baby-wear. I breastfeed exclusively. I carefully considered buying a bracelet made of teething beads. I google baby food recipes. I grew food in my own garden to use in the baby-food-making endeavor. I don't even like the outside, so how in the world did I become mother-earth?

Pinterest.

As soon as I heard of Pinterest last summer I knew it would be trouble. Crafts? Recipes? Cleaning tips? Classroom ideas? Dream home decorating and baby picture taking? I love all of those things. I knew Pinterest would be my kryptonite. (Second only to absinthe-kryptonite... Long story involving a Russian train, a lighter, honey beer, a toothbrush, and an embarrassingly nice train attendant. Maybe I'll tell about it later.)

I held out as friends, family members, and acquaintances invited me to join their craft cult for 11 months. Then, I gave in. It's no big deal, I told myself. Maybe you can just look...

They were making the cutest crafts, the most delicious desserts, to do lists from frames, chicken wire, staples, dryer lint, and spit, not to mention they now knew 101 ways to make their windows shine. It was like MacGyver hooked up with Martha Stewart (pre-prison) and I needed in on their craft baby. Now, I limit my Pinterest time to 1 nursing session per day (okay, 2 single-sides...) Also, I promised myself that I must accomplish 2 things on my boards each week. So far, success.

And so, tonight I made my own baby wipes. They smell like lovely, clean baby tush. I'm totally doing it again.

And then, I'll chop down a sapling to create a teething toy.

Gratitude list from 7/16/2012
Listening to Leo's baby snores while blogging
Swimming with mom, Leo, Aunt Jill and her girls today
Catching up with Shanel at the grocery store
Good weigh-in session with Saundra, the lactation consultant at MRH
Getting to repin "DIY Diaper Wipes" on the "Did It" board

One Year

Exactly one year ago I found out that I would become a mommy. At the time I tried to imagine what my life would be like in a year, and I saw so many changes in my future like strollers, mommy and me groups, dirty diapers and toothless grins. I saw a little trio crowding a hospital bed, at the baptismal font, and pushing a stroller to the board office on a walk around the park. I saw pumpkin carving, Christmas family photos in red and green clothes, and blowing out the candles on a first birthday cake. I thought, "Next year, my life will be SO different than it is now."

I could have never imagined exactly how true this sentiment would prove to be.

I never imagined I would be getting divorced.
I never imagined how overwhelming childbirth could be or how loving hospital nurses could be.
I never imagined so many living things would depend on me alone.
I never imagined I would worry so much about finances or the fear of breaking a bone (How would I carry a diaper bag and a car seat?) or the fear of someone breaking into my home.
I never imagined the fortitude and faith of my family.
I never imagined the people who betrayed, manipulated, and lied to me.
I never imagined the friendships that reconnected.
I never imagined that I would accept blame I didn't deserve and abuse I shouldn't have received.
I never imagined the depth of relationship with Jesus I could have.
I never imagined the number of friends and family who came to my aid the moment I needed them and stayed involved in my life despite my desire to grieve alone.
I never imagined I would have a lawyer and a therapist on my speed dial.
I never imagined exactly how much I would need my parents, brother, and sister-in-law and how those relationships were tightly woven.
I never imagined the strength of the community that surrounded me and my Peanut with love and prayers.
Most of all, I never imagined the fierce, all-encompassing love I would have for my beautiful, strong baby boy.

I never imagined exactly how much better my life would be, but one year later here we are. Rising.


Photo Courtesy of Kodi Moser (Memories for a Lifetime)